Title: The Whole Catastrophe (Chapters 1-9)
Author: diehard and dryad
Rating: NC-17
Classification: Case file/MSR, WIP, Humor (hopefully), 
Alternate Universe...people are actually happy here...
well, some of them 
Spoilers: Everything through the first third of Season 7, 
the story taking place in the universe set forth in 
Absolute Beginners I, Absolute Beginners II--
Better With Practice, and Absolute Beginners III--
Comes The Morning---available on Ephemeral, Whispers 
of X, Fran's Fanfic Addiction, and The Grove. 
(It'll help to read 'em, honest!)


Keywords: Be careful what you wish for. Character 
death...not who you think. Necromancy. Santeria.
Marriage Proposal.


Summary: This story takes place late in the year 2000. 
In the early Spring of the same year, Mulder and Scully 
finally got off the dime (after a false start, angst, 
guilt and a nightmare or two) and did the dirty deed. 
After a weekend of 'solidifying their relationship', 
they are pulled of the X-Files, but managed 
to find at least one way to console each other. 
Fast forward about six months--and you'll be right 
we begin, dear reader.


Disclaimers: You know, they're not ours. They're 
Chris Carter's. Just using them for the fun, no money 
involved.Archive: Yes, anywhere. Just keep it intact.
Feedback: Yes, please. you can contact me: 
alvaradomccain@earthlink.net

Folks, this is my first attempt at collaboration, fueled 
byall the insightful and supportive feedback I've received. 
(Some of which has come from dryad, so she gets part of the 
blame for me getting so nervy.) Much, much thanks to
Alicia K., and Nikki B for their beta wisdom, general support 
and encouragement of this fledgling author. Thanks to 
Judith Weugel and the folks at Fran's FanficAddiction. 
Judith wrote me a great e-mail that got me stoked to write 
more. Also, thanks to my teachers--writers like Bonetree, 
fialka, revely and jessemie's evil twin. 
What you do with words!

Most of all, thanks to David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson 
for almost a decade of complicated, passionate, subtle 
portrayals of our favorite fighters against the 
apocalypse--Mulder and Scully.


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

After a long six months doing background checks, the X-Files 
are reopened, our heroes are called to investigate a series 
of vigilante style murders, but all is not what it seems. 
Oh, and by the way, M&S are involved, living together, 
actually having quite a bit of sex and it's not an an 
angst-ridden mess...well...mostly not.

The Whole Catastrophe 

Prologue--October 1999---after work--early in the week. 

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X

In a just a few months what was once her organized, unused 
and uninhabited apartment was now relaxed and generally 
showed signs of life. 

Just like the two of them. 

His black leather sofa was now the centerpiece of the living 
room, and she'd bought two rust colored overstuffed chairs, 
kept the end tables, bookshelves and the lamps, gotten rid 
of the dining room set and turned the dining room into his 
workspace. Her computer and desk were still in one corner 
of the living room and the bathroom had become a sanctuary 
of music--he'd surprised her with a sound system after the 
first month. Candles of all shapes and sized dotted the 
bedroom and the bathroom, it had been one of his Saturday 
afternoon projects. 

As for the kitchen, it was actually used now since he 
cooked, and they ate at the kitchen table or on the sofa. 
Strategically placed stacks of magazines and newspapers 
dotted the apartment, and much to someone's relief Scully 
did not melt down. She'd added to them on a regular basis, 
telling him he'd have to come up with a filing system. 

One night while they were putting away groceries, he'd 
told her it looked like the apartment of two university 
professors. Two really attractive professors researching 
human sexual response, was actually how he framed it. 
Mulder's take on it notwithstanding, it did, sort of. 
She just had to overlook the briefcase full of firearms 
in the closet, (minus the strategically hidden SIGs and 
Colt 1911's) the anti-surveillance hardware and the high 
security locks on all the doors and windows. 

They did have their first skirmish one night after work about 
six weeks into this new arrangement, when she'd tried to hide 
his basketball after he'd left it on the kitchen table. After 
catching her trying to shove it under the bed, he swooped 
down to retrieve it, only to knock her on her round little ass. 
He'd hovered over her as she'd sat there with her hair a mess, 
skirt hitched up, and he had every intention of helping her up 
when she asked, 'Is that all you've got, Milk?' Five minutes 
later, with Mulder's mouth hotly latched onto that soft spot 
at the hollow of her throat and his hand firmly inching 
up her thigh, she had proof that he had plenty of game. 

It was Tuesday night, which meant that she'd be wooed 
with an evening of his dazzling domestic skills and dancing, 
usually selections from his oddly eclectic dietary and 
musical favorites. He plied her with home cooking and 
wheedled her into shaking her proverbial groove thing 
with him once a week, every week since they'd moved 
in together. 

The first time was after a surprisingly good combination of 
red beans and rice, bock beer and cherry popsicles, 
Once he drew her into slow-dancing to Al Green and Bonnie 
Raitt, her enthusiastic late-night response was all the motivation 
he needed to keep it up. And as for Scully, she'd come
to eagerly anticipate all this wooing, even if it was his own 
off-center variety. 


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X


Mulder crept through their inhabited kingdom, hoping to sneak 
up on the love of his life, who'd perched herself on the edge 
of that aforementioned black leather sofa. She was bent 
over her partially disassembled service revolver which she'd
spread across the coffee table. Unfortunately, a niggling 
question was causing her concentration to waiver.
Inquiring minds wanted to know whether he'd be hauling 
his gluteus maximus out of the kitchen any time in the near 
future. If so, she was prepared do a little exploration 
of the up-close and personal kind. 

As she polished the grip of her SIG with a tack cloth,
she heard his footfalls approaching. That's it, get a little 
closer and I'll be glad to rub something else, she mused.

The tips of his size 12 Nikes appeared in her peripheral 
vision, and she was about to stop what she was doing--
cleaning and oiling the barrel of her SIG, when a hand 
gripping a ladle of steaming, fragrant liquid paused just 
under her nose. 

"Close your eyes, Scully...Taste."

"Shouldn't you be telling me to open my mouth?"

"I thought that part was obvious."

"And why should I close my eyes...is that some secret 
sampling technique I'm not aware of?"

"It'll taste better...I promise." He leaned a little closer, 
pursed his lips together and blew across the hot liquid. 

"Must be why I close my eyes when I kiss...Mmmmm....Ummmm." 
The banter was ended when the edge of the ladle grazed 
her lips and she got a mouthful of Mulder's latest 
culinary achievement. "Chicken soup...good." It was 
rich, delicious, savory. Chunks of chicken, carrot, 
celery. Redolent with fresh dill, rosemary and basil. 
Definitely not Campbell's

"Not just good. This is manna from heaven, a cure for what 
ails you...Gey gezhundt, meine shayna maidel." 

"Since when did you become 'meine yiddische Mulder?' " 

"I'm channeling here, have some respect." Wiping a drop of 
soup from the corner of her mouth, he let his index finger 
skim the curve of her lower lip.

"Unless you're planning on telling me about your new career 
as a Borscht Belt comedian, I think I'd rather sit in the 
kitchen while you dish up tonight's dinner."

"Wow. You just want a man all hot and sweaty in front 
of the stove, don't you?"

"You don't have to be in front of the stove, actually."

"You suggest some interesting possibilities, Scully." 
The ladle was dropped unceremoniously on the coffee table, 
Mulder slid onto the sofa and hoisted her onto his lap. 
She hadn't let go of her SIG, though. "It's a little hard 
to focus while you're still holding your weapon, 
partner." His hands eased away from her waist, 
burrowing under her shirt, and he stroked her ribs, 
a slow, feathery drag up and down, up and down.

The cloth and the pistol found their way to the floor. 
Moving from sitting across his lap to straddling him, 
she pressed tight against his hips and wreathed her arms 
around his neck. She rocked slowly against him and felt an 
enormous sense of satisfaction as one of his better 
parts snapped to attention. When he started making that 
whiskey rumble in his throat, she felt herself slicken 
and her whole body thrum. 

"Better, Mulder?" She felt his hands sweep across to her 
breasts, where he captured each nipple between a thumb and 
forefinger and teased them slowly to hardness.

"You tell me." Now his thumbs traced figure eights, 
and his eyes followed the line of her throat as she 
swallowed hard and a shuddery breath escaped slightly 
parted lips. 

"Later...quit talking and kiss me." Her eyelids drifted 
shut, and she eased her arms from around his neck. 
Steadying herself with strong, supple hands, 
she gripped the tops of his thighs and wriggled against 
his tightening groin.

She was most definitely rubbing him the right way, and 
part of him really wanted to do what she said but she'd 
left herself open for a smart-ass remark, 
"Can't resist telling me what to do, can you? "

At that comment, she leaned in and licked the side 
of his jaw, savoring the rasp of his stubble against her 
tongue, the smell of his aftershave, and the taste of his 
skin. Then, with her usual deftness, she worked her 
way along his chin, and finished up by nipping at the corner 
of his mouth. "Not when you're so good at it," she 
murmured.

"Think so?...Well, as long as you insist ... " He turned 
his head to make contact and his tongue swam toward hers, 
making sure he gave her plenty of evidence to back up 
her assertion.

He leisurely stroked the inside of that sweet mouth, and 
was almost regretful when he managed to pull away, the very 
tip of his tongue tracing the edge of her smile. The mole 
on her upper lip got the same treatment, then there was a 
shower of tiny pecks on the bridge of her nose, ending with 
warm brushes of his lips against her cheek. After a momentary 
pause, he captured an earlobe and softly bit down to the 
sound of Scully's 'Mmmmm......my marvelous Mulder.' 
He couldn't help chuckling at that and it made him relinquish 
the lobe, and besides, he'd heard her laugh, too. 

Leaning back on the sofa, he cupped her chin in his hand, 
"Ready for the main course?" 

"I could eat a little something...More of this later?" 
She started to right herself, although she wasn't yet 
ready to get off his lap.

"I think I could manage that...But first you will dine 
on a delicious home-cooked meal, prepared with a skill 
bordering on genius, by none other than yours truly."

"I see..." Her mouth quirked in a grin which he matched 
with one of his own. "Is that all?"

He'd put on his negotiator's face, which bore an uncanny 
resemblance to his panic face. She doubled down, too. 
After all, they were at a critical juncture.
"Oh, no...there's dancing with me until the witching hour, 
during which there will be hours of foreplay...a subtle, 
but intense crescendo of sensual contact." 

The eyebrow went up at that one. " 'Subtle, but intense 
crescendo', Mulder? And here all I wanted was to make out 
in the living room."

"I'm spinning metaphor here, work with me, Scully."

"I see...And just what else happens after this whole 
'crescendo' of yours peaks?"

"I will, of course, make love to you for a prolonged period 
of time." The bargaining face still held, although his eyes 
glinted wicked green. 

"You drive a hard bargain, Agent. But if those are your 
conditions..."

"They are."

She shook her head, huffed out a huge sigh, and slumped her 
shoulders in mock resignation, "Well, you leave me no choice, 
then...I agree." 

"Not so fast, there's one last thing."

She slapped a hand to her head in an impression of wonder 
and disbelief, "And what on earth could that be...?"

"You'll have to fuck me senseless. And that may take all 
night." Now he arched an eyebrow.

With the barest hint of a smile, she cupped his balls with 
one hand and with the other, caressed him with long, slow 
strokes. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

She'd almost derailed him with that move. But he didn't 
want to take a pass on the rest of the evening, the ritual 
of it, the way it made him feel he hadn't forgotten how 
to get it right. "Miss Scully, release my testes and dinner 
will be served."

She did, and extricated herself from his lap. As he pulled 
himself to an upright and standing position, Mulder teased, 
"Thought you had me there, huh?" He snatched the fallen 
cooking utensil from the coffee table, turned on his heels, 
and gingerly strode into the kitchen with an odd hitch in 
his step.

"Once again, you proved me wrong," She nodded in 
self-congratulation though, as he walked away from her 
very, very slowly.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~

As they set the table, Mulder waxed theoretical on the 
significance of the 'Matrix', its place in pop culture's 
post-digital paranoia, and Keanu's Reeves' classic 
understated acting as a postmodern messiah. Setting a tureen 
of soup in the middle of the table, he tapped the ladle on 
its side to emphasize his point. This clever segue also gave 
him the opportunity to slow things down and prolong 
tonight's pleasure. He'd discovered yet another way his 
experience in delayed gratification was finally going 
to pay off...

When she turned her back to get the rest of the silverware, 
he watched the way she skimmed happily across the floor 
in her stocking feet, jean-clad, white shirt rolled up 
to the elbows. Leaning against the table, he watched 
her, breath hitching and fluttering in his chest. 
Here was Scully, branched DNA and battle scar survivor, 
healer and warrior, and his heart broke open once again 
just from the sight of her. There'd never be any 
way to fully explain how visceral her hold on him was,
a basic construct of his reality, She was larger than life, 
a universal invariant, she was all of eternity he would 
ever understand.

Scully sauntered back with a hand on one hip and spoons 
in the other and caught him with some kind of otherworldly 
look on his face. She was just about to ask what was up 
when what looked like an epiphany evaporated and the rant 
resumed. 

"Brilliant, subversive movie making...all from two 
working-class Polish guys from Chicago. It's the definitive 
statement on Everyman's ambivalence toward a technologic
universe, and the hardrive plutocrats it creates." 

She snorted as she fussed with the place settings, 
"You're so full of crap, Mulder. What you love about that 
movie is the super-attenuated kung-fu on the part of the 
principals, especially the paybacks administered by 
women in PVC."

"And your point would be?"

Laughing, she shook her head and sat herself in the closest 
kitchen chair, "That you're a whoop-ass-loving, testosterone-
driven connossieur of popular culture...A sex-crazed man 
of letters, with an unnatural affinity toward John Woo 
and the Wachowsky Brothers."

"And that's a bad thing?" He served up the soup, and passed 
her some dark rye heaped with butter.

"You'll get no complaints here."

He slid his chair next to hers and plopped himself down. 
"Be nice to me and later I'll spell some really interesting
words with those letters." 

"I'll remember to ask you about that." She broke off the end 
of her slice of bread, and popped it into his mouth.

In a slightly garbled, but still intelligible voice, 
"I take it we should just eat now." Then he leaned over 
and poured them both a glass of the white wine she'd opened. 

Smiling, she nodded and shot him the thumbs up, and 
proceeded to start in on her soup with a relish.

This was one of parts he loved, eating in the kitchen 
in the hush and the quiet that settled around them, like 
some an old married couple; it made him feel blessedly 
ordinary, normal. Contrary to what motivated him for the 
majority of his life, the pull of the unknown no longer 
remained his driving wheel. It was this--the everyday sacred, 
salvaged from the wreckage of both their lives. He would do
what he had to, when it was time, and so would Scully. 
All the rest of it would come and there would be these 
shards of normalcy, nights like this that they could both 
hold onto, nights that they would fight the good fight 
to have again. He was thinking about the past imperfect 
and the future unknowable, when she snapped him back into 
the present by leaning in to steal a kiss.

"Soup's that good, huh?" 

"No. You are." Scully hadn't been watching him, but felt 
the spell of this silence and simple things, and she knew 
he'd meant it for her. For them. 

"I..don't know what to say." He startled as if someone 
had awoken him from a dream.

"Say, 'thank you Scully'." She'd peered up her from her bowl 
of soup, at first bemused. What she saw, she was completely 
unprepared for. He looked astonished, embarrassed. She 
carefully laid down her spoon and placed her hand on top 
of his.

"Thank you, Scully." His eyes shone bright as he blinked 
away some unexpected tears.

"Thank you, Mulder. And now that's makes us even." 
She leaned in and kissed him again with tenderness and
deliberate care, anchoring both of them once more 
to the quiet of their kitchen and their semblance 
of an ordinary life. 

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~

She'd just about finished the dishes, wringing out the 
sponge while the soapy water glugged its way down the drain. 
She was enjoying a pleasantly warm buzz from her share of Pinot 
Grigio, when it hit her. Something was amiss. 

Where was the man with the dishtowel, and why wasn't he 
drying the dishes? She twisted away from the sink, only to see 
Mulder rapidly approaching, waving the towel in one hand and 
clutching the CD player's remote in the other.

"Boys will be girls and girls will be boys! Gender will be 
bent tonight, Scully. It's Bowie, you know him, you love him." 
Throwing the towel onto the dish rack, he grabbed her by 
the wrist and spun her toward him. Apparently she wasn't 
the only one working off a slight buzz.

"Wait, Mulder! We're not...Whoa!" Scully slid in her 
stockinged feet and collided with him. Bumping up against his 
pelvis, she laughed as he got purchase on her around the waist 
with his free arm. "You're not going to dry the dishes 
are you?"

"It will give you scientific proof that water does in fact, 
evaporate from solid surfaces. With that, he punched in a 
track on the remote and flung it on the counter. 
"This first song was picked with you mind, Special Agent 
Doctor, D.K.Scully...."

Guitars ripped and growled, and Bowie belted, 'Let's dance. 
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues... ' 

He shimmied her across the kitchen floor, their hips pressed 
together, pivoting back and forth to the beat. One hand 
curled around the curve of her waist and the other slowly 
combed through her hair and teased its way to the nape 
of her neck. 

'Let's sway, while color lights up your face.' They circled 
their way out of the kitchen and into the living room. 
He bent his forehead to hers and she could sense him smile. 

Mulder's fingers pressed tiny circles just above her 
shoulders, "Hours of foreplay, Scully." Driving her wild 
with need was too delightful to rush the process. Then 
softly, almost imperceptibly, he brushed his lips against 
hers in a slow slide, once, twice, three times. She tasted 
the wine, and the spark of excitement was almost palpable 
on his lips. 

Yes, indeed, hours and hours, she thought. She felt flushed, 
but instead of backing away embarrassed, she wriggled her 
hips with a little more enthusiasm. The sound of his 
'Mmmmmm" underneath the music was all the encouragement 
she needed.

Bowie pleaded, 'Let's dance for fear tonight is all...
Let's sway, you could look into my eyes.'

She was radiant, tossing her head back and leaning into 
his touch. Both of his hands were in her hair now and 
he gazed at her for a hot, silvery moment. His heart was 
beating staccato, but he wasn't going to yield. He craved 
more of this, wanted to bring her slowly to the midnight hour. 

Leaning in to kiss her deeply, he felt time speeding up and 
slowing, flowing into the feel of his mouth on hers, savoring 
the stroke of his tongue between her parted lips. Bowie was 
just about to reveal the reason Mulder chose this cut in the 
first place. As the music ribboned all around them, he pulled 
away and pressed his lips to her ear and whispered along. 

"If you say run, I'll run with you." Mulder's voice was 
raspy, his breath warm, "If you say hide, we'll hide. 
Because my love for you would break my heart in two." 
His strong arm captured her waist, and he eased her backwards, 
bending her like a willow. "If you should fall into my arms, 
and tremble like a flower." 

She shifted in his arms and leaned up to kiss him, still 
moving to the music, and now brushed her warm lips against 
his, once, twice, three times. "Hours of foreplay, 
you said?" 

"Hours and hours, Scully...I'm a man of my word." And he 
closed the centimeter's distance between them, made contact, 
and they stopped listening to music for a minute or two.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X


Crooning about serious moonlight had faded away, the two 
of them, however, were still seriously wrapped around 
each other. Diamond Dogs barked in the background, and 
Mulder rose to the occasion when her fingers grazed the 
waistband of his jeans. He countered with a move of his 
own, starting the slow descent down her neck, biting down 
where it sloped into her shoulder. Shoulder, shudder, 
bow-wow-wow, her panting and his growl--it was all making 
him lightheaded, which is why he didn't notice right away. 
Out of nowhere she'd started laughing, that deep, throaty 
one that always pushed him over the edge. This time was no 
different, a realization later and he was rock hard. 

A staccato Bowie howled, "Aaah-oooh...aah-ooh...Woof...
Woof.'

One of her hands began to move away and he was about to 
grab it and put it back where it belonged, but it was too 
late. She'd steadied herself and pushed against him and 
then they were upright.

"You're laughing, Scully. Tell me it's for the right 
reasons."

"Like I'm really, really, happy and really, really, 
turned on? Because I am." 

"Glad to hear it. I, for one, can offer ample proof 
that you're not without your charms."

"There does seem to be a preponderance of physical 
evidence..." She chewed at her bottom lip, nodded 
appreciatively at the bulge under his fly . "I'd let you 
have your way with me, but now it's my turn."

"Your turn?" He closed his eyes and held himself very, 
very, still. Do your worst, he hoped. Or your best. 
Either. Both. He held his breath.

She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, all smoke 
and 12 year-old Scotch, "Yeah...It's my turn to pick 
the music."

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~

'Ground control to Major Tom...Take your protein pills 
and put your helmet on,' a voice from beyond droned.

He was still glued to the spot where'd she left him, but 
now he was smirking, and when she tapped him on the arm, 
his eyes opened and his hand flew up and caught hers by 
the wrist. "You're funny."

'Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven..." The music was
steadily building.

"What?" She tried hauling out her 'Good-Catholic-Girl-Who-Me?' 
face, but she could see he wasn't buying. 

"Space Oddity? Really, I'm crushed." He didn't really 
look all that devastated.

"Parts of you still seem pretty buoyant." Her blood was 
still buzzing with arousal, just ratcheted a few notches 
down.

'Check ignition and may God's love be with you,' and the 
guitars zoomed out into the stratosphere.

A sight adjustment of his jeans revealed that all systems 
were still go. "I'll show you buoyant...C'mere." 
With that, he snaked himself around her and pulled her 
flush against him. He cupped her chin in his palm, and 
pinned her with a look that managed to be both devilish 
and tender. "But you'll have to wait, Miss Scully, 
I've got other plans for you."

She followed his lead with subtle, almost imperceptible 
touches as they drifted in a slow waltz across the floor. 
He held her the old-fashioned way, one arm clasped loosely 
around the waist, the other holding her arm aloft, holding 
hands, fingers entwined. Her thumb stroked his wrist 
as his circled the skin above the snake at the small of her 
back. Their movements flowed seamlessly, like syrup 
spilling over the edge of a spoon. 

As they drifted around the living room, they caught a 
glimpse of themselves in the window. Gliding together, 
elegant, fitted to each other. They watched their joint 
reflection and both wondered if somehow it could be 
etched into the glass. 

That window must have held some magick, because after 
one last trip around the room, they found themselves slow 
dancing in front of it again. It was raining, hard enough 
for the light from the street lamps to streak like fireworks 
against the inky shadows of the street and the night all 
around.

'And the stars look very different today...' 

They'd begun to slow and finally still, leaving them 
standing pressed to the windowpane, looking down at the 
motionless street below. Scully leaned back, fitting 
herself snugly to his chest. He wrapped his arms around 
her, and dipped his head to whisper in her ear. "Happy?"

"Very...and you?" Her smile beamed at him from her 
reflection.

"More than you'll ever know. But maybe I could try to 
show you... " Now his image in the glass was sultry, 
almost giving off reflected heat.

"Is this the part where you make love to me for...
what was it now?"

His hand swept across her chest and cradled a breast.
"...for a prolonged period of time, I believe."

"Hmmm...that seems right." Now both his hands stroked 
her breasts. "Mmmmmmm." 

'Can you hear me, Major Tom?"

A low burr coming from the direction of phone on the 
end table.

'Can you hear me, Major Tom?'

"Mulder, I think we should answer the phone."

The burr persisted unabated.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He sighed as he 
felt her extricate herself.

"Go answer the phone, and I'll stay right here and hold 
your place." She'd turned around and gave him a rueful 
smile that definitely telegraphed frustration.

"Right. Be right back." He spanned the gap in three huge 
strides, picked up the phone and grunted, "Mulder. What?" 
She'd gone over to the CD player and turned it off. 
There was a pregnant pause, during which Mulder tried to 
regroup. A look of surprise flitted across his face, 
"A.D. Skinner. Sorry, sir...I was in the middle of a 
conversation with Agent Scully when you called..."

Hearing Walter Skinner's name got her over to Mulder's 
side ASAP. Hovering nearby, she bit her lip anxiously 
as her mental gears started to turn. Skinner. What did 
he want? Every piece of godawful paperwork they signed 
off on had been checked and rechecked, why couldn't he wait 
to tell them whatever it was until the morning?

Mulder had been silent, taking in what Skinner was saying, 
and it was several long minutes before he responded. He 
motioned to her and slipped an arm around her waist, 
pulling her close enough to eavesdrop. 

"Let me get this straight, sir. There's been a series of 
unexplained murders in Chicago, and the local P.D. is at a 
loss due to the unexplained, bizarre aspects of the killings. 
The local SAC mentioned us to the mayor, the mayor has 
friends in the DOJ, who in turn have friends in the 
Director's Office, who in turn have now informed you that 
our valuable skills are now required in the ongoing 
investigation."

Scully could hear Skinner's growl, "Agent Mulder, the 
X-Files have been reopened, and I believe I've made the 
circumstances of the case clear. Don't make me repeat myself. 
Rest assured a sufficient amount of grease has been applied
by parties more than experienced with high level reach-arounds. 
It's my job to tell you and get you flown out to Chicago. 
It's your job and Agent Scully's to go there and apply your 
expertise to assist fellow law enforcement officers. Be 
in my office at at 0-600 hours for a briefing. 
You're already booked on a 9 am flight into O'Hare." 

"0-600 hours? Very military of you, sir." Mulder could 
see Scully mouthing 'Don't piss him off' in his peripheral 
vision.

"Mulder, I suggest you refrain from sticking your dick 
in a departmental vice for at least forty-eight hours. 
Can the salient observations about military protocol, 
and just get your ass in here on time. I'll assume you'll 
make Agent Scully aware of her change of assignment."

'Yes, sir."

"Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Welcome back." 

They moved apart so that he could hang up the phone. 
The atmosphere had definitely been drained of its earlier 
playful charge, and they stood by the end table, not speaking 
until Mulder ruptured the silence.

"You heard it all, right?" He made his voice as neutral 
as possible.

"Looks like we're suddenly popular again. This is good, Mulder. 
You don't belongin the bullpen shoveling papers, and neither 
do I. Although I would've thought you'd be doing handstands 
after hearing you finally got a reprieve." She managed a wan 
smile. "Let's start packing partner, we've got a big day 
ahead of us tomorrow."

And right before his eyes she'd changed from laughing and 
flirting to squared shoulders, and mental prep lists. He 
stood riveted to his spot while she went over to the sofa 
and sat down to finish reassembling her service weapon. 

She fitted piece to piece, checking alignment and trying 
desperately to shore up the part of her soul that felt 
cheated, threatened. He need her to be on point, to be 
Special Agent Scully, ready for whatever they would throw 
at them. She tried to organize her thoughts--check weapons, 
evidence kit, medical bag--pack the laptops and enough clothes 
for at least a week. It was 10 o'clock now, with any luck they'd 
be done and in bed by midnight. Looking up to tell him he'd better 
start packing, she saw that old, familiar look painfully grieve 
his features. She rested her SIG on her lap, "You're happy 
about this, aren't you?" 

The rush of a sadness he hadn't felt in months hit him,
and he made himself quickly push it away, hoping she hadn't 
caught it. "Are you?"

"I asked you first." Now she was trying to be equally 
opaque.

He shrugged, and stared down at the floor, "Happy that 
we're going to do what we have the talent and the insight 
to do. Not so happy that we'll be under scrutiny again, 
that our..." He struggled for the right words, but she 
finished it for him.

"...honeymoon is over...You think things are going to be 
like they were before. That's it, isn't it?"

"You don't seem to be having a problem hopping back in 
the saddle. I mean, you're getting ready with a vengeance." 
He shrugged again, steeling himself for the rift his worst 
instincts told him was not far away. He saw she'd already 
pushed away any thoughts of intimacy, tamped them down to 
get on to the business at hand. He wasn't sure he could 
reach her, and didn't think he could deal with being severed 
from all they'd built over the last six months. "Be honest, 
Scully. We have very different, ingrained ways of working.
Our approaches have always counterbalanced each other, 
and that's made us a successful team. Don't get me wrong, 
I've always valued it, needed it. But it kept us apart, Scully.
Seven long years apart, until we broke through it..." His 
voice trailed off and his green eyes clouded with his need 
for reassurance. 

"Just tell me it won't happen again, Scully...tell me 
and I'll believe it."

She looked up at up him and for all her effort to suit up, 
she couldn't halt the tear that escaped and trailed down 
her cheek, "Is that what you think?" He brushed away 
that wet line, wishing he could erase it from her memory. 

She sighed at the touch of his large, warm hand against
her damp, cool skin. "Listen to me. If you think I plan on 
acting the way I used to, trying to hold on to some kind of 
emotional distance...I can't, I won't...We can't go back, Mulder, 
only forward." Her blue eyes were lit with a fire he recognized, 
she wasn't retreating. But underneath that fire he sensed 
her inner turmoil. 

The fact of the matter was that neither one of them had the 
vaguest idea as to how balance the changes in personal lives 
and the demands of the X-Files. The bullshit assignment that 
Kersh had engineered allowed them to hide in plain sight, 
saving all their energy for the pair-bonding of new lovers. 
Now the rubber was hitting the road, and Mulder noted ruefully 
that they had, in fact, both slipped into familiar patterns. 
She'd stepped up the plate, trying to cover his back and he 
embraced his own neuroses without hesitation.

"Sure you want to keep putting up with me?" Now he 
knelt at her side, hand still resting against her face.

She moved closer and whispered in his ear, "If you say run,
I'll run with you...If you say hide, we'll hide." Her voice
roughened with the knowledge that they still had so much to 
prove to each other. 

He eased away and cradled her face with both hands, gazing 
at her with a look hot enough to singe off her clothes. 
"Let me make love to you...I know we should be packing, 
that Skinner expects us at 6 am, and that we're going to 
have to make up the rest of this as we go along...I'm glad 
we're reinstated, Scully, I am... But there is nothing, 
nothing that I want or need more than you." 

The mundane details of daily living or end-of-the-world
theatrics didn't matter in the end, only that. "You know 
that promise I made earlier? It's time I kept it." 
In a flash, he'd taken her gun and set it on the table, 
had her up on her feet, and was marching her to the bedroom. 
He steered her from behind, hands firmly grasping her 
shoulders, planning on a quickly arrival at the desired 
destination, but somehow she'd found away to to slow their 
progress.

"Mulder?"

"Yes, Scully?"

"What about packing?" She tried not to let the tease show 
in her voice.

"I'll set the clock for 4." He was on to her, but played 
along anyway.

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes, Scully, I'm sure. I'm also sure if I don't get you 
in bed soon, I'm gonna throw you down take you on the 
dining room floor.

"Maybe some other time." She did file that one away 
for future reference. 

"What about the evidence kit?"

"You'll call that guy Jake in the lab once we get to 
the the Bureau, and tell him we need a fresh one 
in Skinner's office by 7 am." 

"Medical bag?" She was rapidly running out of roadblocks 
as they crossed the bedroom's threshold. 

"In seven years, I've never known you to be short of any 
of the necessities."

"Mulder..." She'd started that laugh again...

He picked her up by the waist and set her on the bed and 
set the alarm. He snatched off his T-shirt, popped open 
his fly, hurriedly shoved his way out of his jeans and 
the rest of his clothes. "No more talking shop, Scully."

The outline of his strong, smooth body, the rise of his 
cock as it stood taut and waiting for her touch did indeed 
end that conversation. She started to unbutton her blouse, 
but was stopped by his hands covering hers and easing her 
down against the bedding. "No, don't...I want undress you." 

He undid each flat disk, kissing and licking each spot of
exposed flesh while her shirt fell away. She kept watching 
him move slowly, almost too slowly, feeling the sharp twist 
of pleasure, the wet, slick burn between her legs. He palmed 
each breast, undid the wisps of lace that held them, pushed 
them away and bent his head to suck each nipple. She moaned 
his name as he roughed them with his teeth and sighed when
he soothed them with the flat of his tongue.

His talented mouth trailed streaks of heat down her stomach, 
nipping the flesh just above the waistband of her jeans. 
Instead of undoing those, he rose up and covered her with 
his body, parting her lips and kissing her hungrily, kissing 
her very breath away. She arched underneath him, finding his 
hand, guiding it between her legs. "Don't make me wait," 
her voice wanton and pleading, barely audible.

He drew the zipper down and in one drag pulled the rest 
of her clothing away, then pulled himself up to straddle 
her. Her hands trailed up and down his breastbone, coming 
to rest against his heart. 

In the ribbons of light coming from the rain-drenched 
window, her face shimmered, her hair flickered like fire 
across the pillow. Bringing his knuckle to her clit, 
he pressed soft, feathery circles again and again. 
She was astonishing, in this way most of all, her flesh 
tightening and swelling under his touch, yet liquid, 
molten. When Mulder drew his index finger against 
that clit in a slow pull upward, she cupped his free 
hand to the side of her face. In the depths of her eyes 
he found everything he'd ever want, every promise. 
His gaze never wavered from hers, neither one of them 
spoke as her legs fell open for him. 

Trembling as her hand wrapped around the base of his 
cock, she slid him inch by inch until he was completely 
inside her. He took her hands and laced his fingers in 
hers, then bowed her arms above her head, his own arms 
arching, holding himself steady. Drawing her toward 
orgasm, he covered her like a canopy, angling himself 
forward so the base of his shaft stroked her as he 
thrust back and forth, the pace slow and sinuous. 
Agonizing, torturous and exquisite, it was 
the closest he could come to the merging he 
really wanted, becoming one indestructible element.

He groaned uncontrollably as she tensed and shuddered 
all around him, her feet rubbing the backs of his 
calves. It was hitting her, a helix of pleasure 
unraveling deep inside her body--he could feel it, 
pushing him closer to the edge. 

Mulder watched her fall beautifully apart, felt himself 
begin to slip, the tight, sweet heat closing in on him. 
He wanted to come when she did, wanted to drown, wanted 
to disappear in her, become her, never leave her. 
Her hands seemed to fly across his back, his sides, her 
nails rasping the tender places, sending shivers that 
drove him fast to the brink. Panting and shuddering, 
he still had to know, "Tell me...we'll have this...
tomorrow." 

"....Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow..." Her voice 
faded away, there was nothing else to say, the world 
was too small to hold them, they were larger than the 
universe. 

He fell toward her, and like always, she caught him. 
Their soft lips pressed together and sealed their 
covenant, and then it was still, so very still. 

Sleep steered them toward uncharted territory, they'd 
make their way in that world when morning came.


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~

Two weeks Earlier

Alex prayed for strength. The cemetery frightened her. 
Maybe it was because of what she was about to do, even 
though it was the right thing, maybe it was because she 
couldn't get away from the feeling that got under her
skin of so many eggun scrutinizing her, waiting for 
their chance. Most of all, it was the quiet that set 
her on edge. How could it be so quiet in the middle of 
the city, even at this time of the night? It was 11:30, 
just enough time, but she had to stay focused, release 
her fears, do what she came to do. It would have to be 
finished by midnight.

She'd practically ran to her car after her class, cutting 
off the questions of eager students, students hoping to 
curry favor, students for which she had nothing but 
contempt. They were only interested grades and post-doc 
positions, not knowledge, and certainly, not wisdom. 
She fervently hoped she'd acquired both, threading bits 
and pieces of the truth together. She could not fail, 
she would not fail. She'd risked so much to learn the 
things she did know,now it was time to see how apt a 
pupil she herself had become.

Scaling the fence had been ridiculously easy, proving 
the rightness of her actions. Obatala was surely guiding 
her, even as Oya prepared the way. She needed no moon 
nor flashlight, for gravestones led her to the newest 
section of the cemetery. Here the monuments were of thick, 
polished granite, rough-hewn on the top if not set flush 
with the ground. There were no fancy pillars with 
cloth-draped urns, no 19th century statues of winged 
ngels asking blessings from God, no columned mausoleums 
inscribed with Latin, allthose were at the front where 
the rich had succumbed in ages past. She left the main 
road and headed down the 15th row, only the slight swish 
of grass against the soles of her shoes audible.

When she arrived at his grave, she removed her backpack 
and withdrew a change of clothing. Everything she needed, 
and a few things she wasn't sure of, was in the pack. 
Preparing for the ceremony had taken most of the past
two weeks. A ritual bath every day for nine days. 
Meditation before bedtime. Buying twelve tiny bottles, 
filling three with white rum, Holy Water, and Florida 
Water, one with black coffee, the rest with spring water. 
She had a black and white photo of Florinda, and 
another of Nat when theyhad gone to the Bahamas, his sly 
grin a prelude to the first time they'd made love. No one 
had ever touched her that way, no one had ever given her 
that much pleasure. He'd told her that he loved her, 
that it was forever, and sealed his promise over and 
over all through the night. This was the man she came for, 
it was all for him, these talismans, this ritual. Nine 
votive candles smelling of white jasmine, and nine white 
carnations, plus a white, fringed silk scarf to lay it 
all out on.

She almost removed the photo of Florinda. 
Her nanny. Alex knew that she would never approve of 
the risk involved. When Alex was about 15, she found 
out that Florinda was a priestess of her own House, 
strong with Oshun. She'd eavesdropped on a conversation 
between her beloved Flori and a visitor who'd come 
and left tribute for an intercession. When she'd asked 
about it, Florinda bluntly told her that this was not 
for her to know and that to ever speak of it would 
enrage her parents. But Alex prodded until Flori told 
her about the House, her pledge to Oshun, even her true 
name, Iyalosha. Then with tears welling in her eyes, 
she begged the young girl to be accept her own path, 
the life her parents had made for her, and to trust
that Flori was doing what she was meant to do as well. 
When she came to ask for help in bringing Nat back to 
her, the older woman quietly said, 'Do not ask me, 
mi'ja. Do not do this. There can be no good end in 
it.' Still, Alex could not bring herself to remove 
the photo, telling herself it was good luck, 
a blessing.

She changed from her pearl gray, tailored suit into 
the white tunic and flowing skirt of an acolyte. She 
removed all her jewelry, her shoes, and stood barefoot 
on the cold, damp ground. As the final step she piled 
her thick, dark hair on top of her head and wrapped it 
with white cloth, to show her respect, her complete 
devotion. She must be humble, do everything to seem 
worthy of the gift. She didn't know why the eggungun 
sought her out, but they had, she was sure of it. What 
had been intellectual curiosity, became passionate 
interest, and now was the faith of a zealot. They would 
all be horrified to learn she'd started following the 
old ways, that her whole career had become an excuse 
to learn the ways of Santeria. 

Cultural anthropology. Dr. Ruiz-Cardenas. That was 
respectable. If they only knew. It had been a doorway, 
one that led her over the the last year to seek The Seven 
Powers. No babalawo, no madrina, not even Flori 
would teach her or make an asiento for her, so she was 
never really touched by the gods, as all true children. 
She was never fully accepted by any House, but she'd come 
to believe, and hoped someday she'd have the way to prove 
her devotion. At least she was able to use her position 
to dig, to research, to glean from arcane texts and the 
occasional fallen believer, pieces of the mystery that 
she wove together. Nat had laughed when he found out, 
telling her she must have cast a spell on him.

Kneeling next to the headstone, it was clear that the dirt 
on his grave was still fresh. Eighteen days gone. 
From the moment they lowered his coffin into the ground, 
she swore she would make things right. She withdrew from 
her family, her friends, only went to the university when 
absolutely necessary. They all thought it was grief, a normal 
response to such a heart-shattering loss, the horror she'd
seen. They had no idea she was searching for the truth 
beyond truth, his death, the catalyst pushing her from their 
world into the one they foolishly ignored--the one that held 
what she so desperately sought.

Her fingers caressed the letters carved into the cool 
marble, Naftali Rene Gonzalez, beloved son, 
a warrior in this life and the next--1965-2000. 
Spreading the scarf over the burial mound, she arranged 
the bottles, the photos, the flowers, the votives in what 
she desperately hoped was the right constellation. 
"Alafia. The beginning is important in all things, I begin 
with a pure heart. Hear me, eggungun. I come to ask for what 
is mine. Ashe." Her voice trembled even as the night air 
carried it into the trees. "Seek Her out for me, beg Her to 
show Herself . Ashe. I call for Her three times three. 
Oya. Oya. Oya." She sprinkled the contents of the bottles
around the scarf. "Oya. Oya. Oya. Hear you daughter." 
She took the flowers and draped them around the photo of 
the two of them. "I beg you, Mother of the Cemetery, 
Guardian of the Other World, bring him back to me. Ashe."

She lit the votives and bent at the waist, touching her 
forehead to edge of the scarf. "Oya. Oya. Oya. 
Do not deny me. I beg you, make yourself known and answer 
this humble one who would be a yawo." 

She had to close her eyes against the white flash of 
lightening, the crash of thunder made the ground shake 
beneath her. It was happening. Oya was coming. 
She held herself completely still, barely breathing 
for several long minutes, then she hears the voice. 
"Child, rise and face me. Listen to me, I have much to say."

Alex somehow found the courage the stand, despite the fear 
twisting her heart in on itself. Looming before her was a 
woman, tall, elegantly dressed from head to toe in dark 
purple robes. Black hair blew away from her face like a 
dark corona, and her wrists and feet were circled with 
copper bands glinting in the wan moonlight. The night air 
blew and twisted around them. But Her face was obscured 
in shadows, Alex knew Oya always hid her face in 
shadows or wore a mask. She was a warrior as well as 
guardian, able to take on any guise in battle. The sword 
she carried was further proof of that, it had the power 
to kill, to drive someone to insanity, to open the Gates 
of the Dead.

"Foolish child. What are you doing, little rabbit? 
Be thankful you have so many ancestors interceding on your 
behalf." She made the wind blow hard around the grave.

Alex tried to draw herself up into her full height, to 
seem sure, confident. But she was trembling uncontrollably 
in the front of The Queen of the Dead.

" I...Yansa...Mami...You know what I came here for," 
she pleaded. "I have prepared, I have done what is 
required to..."

"Silence! You have threads of the whole and understand 
nothing. Your colors, these feeble talismans, do not 
please me. Where is the red wine, the grapes, the purple 
silk, the eggplant?"

"But you came! Tell me you'll give me what I seek, 
I beg you."

This foolish little girl was trying Her patience, but 
Something in Her warrior's heart felt pity for this 
Lost One. "Do not force my hand. You are not of my House, 
you do not observe my Ways...and I will tell you only 
once, little girl...you cannot have what you ask for. 
No mortal can. It is forbidden.

"Yansa! No! Oh, please ...No! ..." Alex's voice was 
choked with grief, scalding tears bean to streak down her 
face. All this work, all this suffering for nothing. 
How could this be happening? She felt herself sink to the 
ground, onto the grave, and she lay there prostrate, 
helpless, sobbing. "Naftali...I won't leave you...
I won't."

Oya's voice swirled above her, the wind gusted stronger, 
as if a storm was moving in. "Go home, little rabbit. 
Live the life that was meant for you. Leave this life 
to those who are able. You will be with him in the next 
world." Thunder roared in the heavens. "Go now...do not 
disobey me."

A flash of lightening so close that Alex flew back in 
shock, half-sitting, half-kneeling, only to see that Oya 
was gone, leaving scorched earth where she'd stood. 
Drenched with tears, she moans Naftali's name over and over.
In her mind's eye she sees him, across the street from
where she sits at their favorite restaurant, walking towards
her. She sees the car, the slow motion parade after that.
The car window. The hand. The gun. The bullet.
And Nat falling, falling, falling to the ground. 
She sees the blood blooming under his head like a flower.

It is too much.

Somehow she steadies herself and finds her belongings.
Her watch. 11:55. There is one thing left to try.
She knows it is wrong, that it may damn her to eternal 
pain but there is no pain greater than the one she has, 
she tells herself. It is too much. She moves fast as 
she can, but she feels weak, clumsy. Fumbling in the 
bag, she pulls out a bone-handled knife. 11:59 
Kneeling above the grave, she cuts her left hand, once, 
twice, smears the blood over her heart, cuts again and 
lets the blood drip onto the grave dirt.

"Ellegua," she whispers. "Do for me what no one else
will do."

Everything around her stops. The wind stops blowing,
the moon is covered with a cloud, the cloud itself 
holds fast in the sky. No birds, no animals move. 
This is the one minute that is not governed by the 
other gods It belongs to Ellegua, The Trickster, to 
do what he will. Most times he does what the other 
gods will not. He loves chaos and conflict, and will 
use any chance to remind both man and The Seven 
Powers he is not someone to ignore.

11:59. Much suffering has been born in this 
minute.

She starts as a hand clasps her shoulder from behind.
Whipping around, she finds a filthy, old man, with 
ragged clothes and a gold tooth. Grinning and smelling 
of rum, he's a beggar, maybe a thief. No, she knows 
this is. Ellegua.

"Bonita, you ask, and I came. Ellegua will make you
happy." He pulls her to her feet, takes her hand
and kisses her bloody palm. "Tell me what this old
man can do for you." Licking his lips, he savors
the taste of copper, the taste of desperation. 

"Fulfill my heart's desire. Give me what
I want most of all and what he wanted at the end."

"As you say, Bonita. It shall be done. Rise up
and stand away." For a minute Alex think she sees
something unbearably cold and cruel in those
fathomless, dark eyes, but she tells herself she
must be wrong. It is too late for fear or doubt.

Ellegua straddles the the top of the grave, spits
on it three times, "I call you, I unbind you!
Naftali Gonzales come forth and do what you will."
Then with a cackling laugh, he stumbles off to one
side, fishes in his tattered overcoat for a half-pint
bottle, gulps a huge mouthful, then another, and
spitsa last time on the grave. "There! It is done!"
He walks over to Alex, caresses her face with
a greasy hand. "Bonita, don't forget to thank me."
He waves his hands above his head and the world
moves again.

"Never, Ellegua. I will always be grateful."
Alex's heart is pounding in her chest, she feels 
the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades, 
even in the chill.

"So you say...so do they all. Gratitude for Ellegua's 
help is a fleeting thing, Bonita." He looks her up 
and down the way a hungry wolf eyes fresh meat. 
"Naftali is a lucky man. Do this to keep him by your 
side. Make sure you take a handful of his dirt with 
you. Every third night, do what you did tonight. 
And make sure no one disturbs his grave." 
Another cackle, and The Trickster flaps his 
overcoat and is gone.

She closes her eyes, standing still for what seems like
an eternity. Then a hand touches her cheek, a hand
whose feel is as familiar as her own name.

"Alex, it's me." It is him, but not him---tall,
strong, beautiful. He's dusky-looking, dark, almost 
giving off negative light. Dressed in a black suit, 
black shirt and long black overcoat. His brown eyes burn,
but not with joy or lust. It is something far more feral 
than that. But she doesn't notice or doesn't
care. Naftali. Nat. Home. He's home now.

He kisses her, and even though she wraps her warm
body around him, his body stays cold, his lips are cold,
but she's sure that will change later on. He tells 
her that he'll stay with her forever, just like he 
promised, but no one else will ever see him and he can 
only come to her late at night.

"It doesn't matter Nat", she murmurs, "I want
want you, no matter what."

As they make their way out of the cemetery,
Ellegua laughs again, "We'll see, Bonita, we'll see."
Chapter 1

5:15 am, Wednesday, October 15th.

He'd almost finished dressing--charcoal gray suit, 
blue dress shirt, managed to find his shoes, and was 
slapping on his holster and service weapon when he 
heard Scully's pleas from the living room to hurry up. 

"'Mom! Help me, or I'll be late for school!" Mulder
knew that would get her in the bedroom pronto.

"Mulder...What kind of Oedipal stalling tactic is this?" 
Scully'd marched in there only to find him grinning, 
and dangling a dark maroon tie in his hand.

"C'mon Scully, do me."

" 'Do' you?"

"The necktie Scully, help me with my tie, and we'll get 
going. Unless you think we can skip meeting with Walter." 
He made sure he threw in the obligatory leer. Anything 
to shore them up,make it seem less like they were on 
foreign ground. Maybe banter and innuendo would hold 
them until they could figure out how in the hell they 
were going to hold on to both personal lives and the 
X-Files.

"Give it here." She strode purposefully to the target, 
grabbed the proffered tie and slipped it around his neck. 
She didn't want to be amused, but he'd gotten around her 
brisk flurry of making ready and she let her guard down. 
Against her better judgment, her fingertips traveled 
the nape of his neck once the silk was set under his collar. 
He started to say something and she snapped right back to 
attention, all business, her hands moving away, finishing 
the task in front of her.

"Scully...I don't know how to do this."

"...Get dressed all by yourself?"

After she straightened out the knot, her hands rested 
on his shoulders and she looked up to find him watching 
her--serious, maybe even a little worried.

She was trying to parry his usual thrusts, but even she 
couldn't keep up with this quicksilver change of mood.
Trying to be 'normal' with a vengeance was wearing on her. 
She looked her usual self, with her black suit, heels, 
tailored, white blouse and perfectly applied make-up, 
but she felt miserably off-center. She wished it was 
all mapped out, she wished her game face was firmly in 
place, she wished she had the time to reassure him, 
reassure herself. But the way things were and what she 
wished for were two different things. 

"No...I know...I'd like to tell you how we're going 
to handle this, Mulder. But I can't...we can't figure 
it all out right now. We have to go, Skinner's 
expecting us in a half hour."

She started to move away, and he grabbed one of her 
hands, lacing his fingers through hers. "Wait. What 
about tonight, Scully? We'll be in the field, and I 
assume we'll have adjoining rooms...I don't want to be 
alone in some hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, I've 
had a lifetime of that." 

"Mulder..." She was past worrying about regulations 
and damage to their reputations, appearances and 
professional respect. Their relationship had been grist 
for the mill for years. No one had seemed shocked that 
they were living together, it'd had been assumed they'd 
been lovers long before it'd become a reality. But for 
the last six months they'd been nothing more than two 
extra grunts in the bullpen, and now the stakes were 
higher. They had a chance to do work that mattered, 
and she'd be damned if they were going to make it easy 
for the powers-that-be to snatch it away again by 
obviously consorting while on assignment. Scullly felt 
a lump forming in her throat at the thought of him 
anywhere else but in her bed.

"I want what you want. But we've got to think this 
through, and we've got to be smart about how we handle 
ourselves in the field. We'll have some time 
on the plane to talk."


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X


The thing was, most of the time they managed to sit 
together, usually alone, not only because they had a 
tendency to review casefiles, but also because 
people's eyes tended to glaze over once Mulder turned 
on the charm. He said she had a lot of charm, too, 
but Scully didn't believe it for a minute. 

Unlike him, she had no illusions about her ability 
to deal with people in a pleasant manner when they 
were in her way. And the man wedged in the seat 
betweenthem was definitely in the way. She was stuck 
in the window seat, and their companion's droning 
wasn't helping the fact they weren't going to be able 
to talk about much of anything, and frankly, the 
predatory look he was giving her partner was just icing 
on the cake. 

"So, I just told Ms. Thing to mind her own business, 
y'know?"

Scully ripped open her tiny snack bag of 'Krunchy Kreme 
Krackers', which sounded like something Queequeg should 
have eaten, and wondered if she could casually give Tim 
'but you can call me anything you want, sugah' McMinn a
fatal brain aneuryism by murderous thoughts alone.

"Oh, you should come to Provincetown, it's on the very 
tippy toe of Cape Cod, y'know, in Massachusetts? You'd 
be the hit of the summer, and I mean that in a good way, 
y'know?"

Don't say it, Mulder.

"I've been to P-town, Mr. McMinn."

Ignore this idiot, Scully silently pleaded. She chewed 
absently on a kracker before turning the foil packet over 
to read the ingredients. Strangely, cardboard and matzo 
meal were not included.

"Ooh! Maybe I've seen you around, y'know, at the 
Glory Hole, or maybe The Dungeon?"

"I think your gaydar's a little off, I'm afraid."

"Oh, what a pity."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McMinn grab 
Mulder's left hand and turn it over.

"But there's no ring, and I can't believe a such handsome 
boy would be on his lonesome. . ."

Mulder retrieved his hand, but said nothing.

"So, not married - girlfriend?"

"Partner."

"Ah, never married, then."

There was a short silence.

"Once...but she was able to commute her sentence. 
My partner won't be so lucky..."

Scully blinked. What the hell did he mean by that? 
And why was he telling this to a complete stranger? 
She knew he'd been married. It'd been a late night 
confession about two months ago. In what was now a rare 
recurrence of his insomnia, she'd found him sitting at 
the kitchen table in the dark. She'd knelt at his side, 
her voice a soothing whisper, asking him what was wrong. 
Two words. Rebecca Tate. 

She'd pressed him, and he told her about a marriage that 
he thought would normalize his otherwise screwed-up life 
and please everyone else involved. He was still in BSU then, 
but the nightmares had started, and he'd started using time 
on the job to gather data on alien abductions. He'd been 
sleeping with Rebecca for about six months--she was on the 
DOJ fast track, a smart prosecutor and she liked the idea 
that he was a profiling wunderkind with a well-connected family. 

Apparently much more than she actually liked him. Four 
months into the whole thing, she left, mailed him the 
rings and left him a note mentioning a psychiatrist he 
might want to see.

As shocked as she was, all Scully could ask was, 
'Why, Mulder? Why settle for something like that?'

'Because I didn't know I'd meet you.' 

After hearing that, she took him by the hand and brought 
him back to bed and erased that woman's name with her 
hands and her mouth on his naked skin.

Fast forward to the present---here she was with Mulder, 
Tim McMinn and his question, and what now seemed like 
a surreal conversation. Married. She never really 
thought about him being married, even after that. 
Mulder. Someone's husband. It just didn't fit. 
Dana Scully. Someone's wife. As she tried to clear 
her head, it was unsettling to realize she didn't think 
of herself in that way any more. At least not in any 
familiar sense of the word. 

McMinn nodded sagely and leaned into his handsome 
companion. "Careful, dear. Once a woman gets her claws 
into you, professional or private life, it's all over. 
Doesn't matter if they're dykes or not, they're all the 
same. No offense, sweetie," he turned and reached over, 
patting Scully's arm. She grimaced and pulled away. 
Was that obscure remark about her not being lucky enough 
to commute her sentence some kind of hint, some typically 
whacked out, indirect, Mulder statement of intention?
God. Mulder proposing. Marriage. Traditional, 
or modern? Jewish or Justice of the Peace? Think of 
something else, Dana, like the case they weren't 
discussing. Or better yet, shrink the universe to the 
ridiculously small, the inane, the manageable. Who was 
going to win the Pennant next year. Why Mulder found it 
impossible to put his socks in the laundry basket. 
He could get them on top of it, around it, but never in it. 
And why were most men seemingly incapable of such a small 
thing?


Propping her blanket up, she leaned against the shaded 
window, closed hereyes and tried to get a little more rest.


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X

"Bring me a beer!" Vinnie yelled, scratching his balls 
with one hand. What the fuck had she given him? His luck,
she gave him the clap from whoever she'd been screwing. 
A guy spends a few months behind bars and his old lady 
thinks she can hook up with someone else behind his back? 
Sure, Ashleen had a great ass and legs that wouldn't quit, 
but increasingly, he was thinking about dumping her in 
favor of that little girl who worked behind the counter 
at Benny's, the one with the big tits. She always
served him extra fries.

"Ashleen!" He felt for the remote among the couch 
cushions, tired of Dr. Phil and all of that Oprah crap. 
Same for Sally and Montel and Ricki. Had to watch that 
shit every damned day when he was in the slammer because 
those were Hank's favorite shows, and what Hank wanted, 
everyone wanted. 

Asshole.

Days of Our Lives, All My Children, some talk show on PBS. 
Wheel of Fortune. Basic cable sucked. ESPN and all the 
other sports channels only came with the Standard Package, 
and neither of them had the cash for that right now.
Once Ashleen got some regular clients they'd be in Fat City 
once again. They'd have to lay low for awhile, of 
course, until the news stories died down, but he figured 
it wouldn't take long before some other poor saps took all 
of their interest.

Ashleen slowly stepped out of the kitchen, a little knife 
in one hand, two sweating brown bottles in the other, 
a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She was pretty
loaded, so she kept her mouth shut, not wanting
to slur her words. He hated that, even bitch-slapped her 
the last time her tongue got tied in the middle of some 
mangled rant.

"'Bout fucking time," he muttered, reaching for more beer. 
"Didn't I tell you to stop wearing that apron? Flowers 
on some cock-sucking apron do not make you Suzie-fucking-
homemaker. Christ, you look like something out of Roseanne."

Vinnie took a good swig, nearly spat it out again. 
He looked at the lable. "Tuborg? Horse-piss would taste 
better! This shit cos' what, four bucks a case?"

She said nothing, moving behind the couch. He glanced 
over his shoulder to see where she stood, having learned 
the dangers of not knowing where everyone in a room was 
at all times in jail. He was a really woozy, at the tail end of 
his first drunk of the day. "I wanna a sandwich. Run down
to Benny's and get me something to go, a sub, yeah, 
an Eye-talian sub. Lots of onion, hot pickles, extra 
provolone, extra muenster, and plenty of real mayo. 
Tell'em to go easy on the green pepper and tomato. 
And chips, don't forget the chips. While you're at it, 
gimme decent beer, Heineken or MGD or something, 
I can't drink any more of this crap." They'd killed a case 
between them, drinking since they'd stumbled out
of bed a couple of hours ago. This was normal for them,
they'd get their drink on, then they could stand each
other until they one of them felt like fucking. Who was he
kidding? He was so loaded he couldn't get it up even
if she sucked him like a vacuum cleaner. 

Hearing a floorboard creak, he turned his attention back 
to Pat and Vanna. He shook his head. Why couldn't he get 
a woman like that, a smart blonde who turned letters on 
a game show for a living? "It's E, you idiot!" he shouted 
at the contestant. If he were ever on Wheel of Fortune, 
he sure as hell wouldn't be buying any fuckin' E's. Drunk
on his ass, even he remembered it was the most popular 
vowel in the English language, and he'd barely finished 
his junior year at Roosevelt High.

There was a flash of movement from the corner of his eye, 
and then the floor came up and smacked him in the face. 
Stunned, he blinked slowly, wondering why he was no longer
on the couch. On tv the audience clapped wildly as Pat
Sajak said, "Spin the wheel!"

"'sleen, heb me," he slurred, watching her form divide 
and then triple. "Shi. . ."

She came closer, wiping the bottom edge of her bottle 
on the apron before chugging back half the contents. 
Pulling the coffee table in front of him, she sat down 
and took a few puffs on her cigarette.

"Heb m'up, 'slee," Vinnie rolled onto his back 
and touched his head, gazed at the dark smear on his 
palm. "I'b hur! Beed'n!"

Ignoring his plea for help, Ashleen drank the rest 
of her beer. Then she held down his leg with her foot 
and snubbed out her cigarette behind hisknee.

He screamed and kicked out, hit her square in the chest. 
She flew back against the edge of the couch with an 
ominous snap. Sobbing from the burning pain, he pushed
himself onto his side and slowly sat up. Sour saliva 
immediately filled his mouth, and he vomited up beer 
andhalf-digested peanuts. Got to get up, got to get 
to the kitchen.

Ignoring his soon-to-be-ex lover, Vinnie managed to get 
to his feet. Walking was incredibly difficult with the
room swaying like a ship in a gale, 20/20 vision coming
and going with logic he didn't understand, but he made it 
to the doorway before he was forced to balance against 
the jamb. Where the fuck were the plastic bags?

And then he was staring at filthy yellowed linoleum, 
unable to breathe forthe hot liquid clogging his throat. 
Something nudged his hip, flipped him over onto his back 
forcefully. His focus returned and he saw Ashleen
straddling him, a large spray of new red flowerbuds 
arcing across her apron. Her upper body was oddly canted
to one side, as if a chest-wide fault-line had slipped 
under too much pressure. Her mouth was slack, he couldn't 
see it, but there was spittle and blood trailing from her 
mouth.

He shivered as her figure began to fade. 
"'Slee, wha's doin'? I'b col."

Her hand twitched, light glinting off the knife.

Just before sight faded entirely, he heard a voice say,
"You're both such goddamned cliches."


Chapter Two

Kris ruffled through the stack of folders to no avail.
Shinoda's file was nowhere to be found. If the day could 
get any worse, she didn't know how. God, she needed 
more coffee. She needed a caffeine drip. Failing that, 
she'd live with a luke-warm Mountain Dew and an apple 
fritter.

Allen Ostrowski ambled over from the snack station, Coke in
one hand, coconut-covered donut in the other.
"You look terrible."

Kris glanced at him with smile she knew didn't reach her eyes.
"Been that kind of a day."

"And it's only," he checked his watch. "the crack of noon.
Must be hard with the Feebs coming in."

She nodded and pushed her hair out of her eyes. 
"Any advice?"

"They buy the donuts," Then he leaned forward and 
whispered,

"Lazarov?"

"Unfortunately."

He shook his head. "Better you than me. Sorry."

"Not half as much as I am," she replied, looking over the
nearest desks to see if the file had magically shown up there
instead. After a second she put her hand up to her forehead. 
"This can't be my life."

Allen patted her arm as he started to walk away. "You'll be all
right. I've heard rumours Lazarov has a good side, so let me 
know if you find it, 'kay?"

"Ha ha," she muttered, brushing toasted coconut off of her
shoulder. Where was the freaking file? Lazarov was 
going tohave her ass if she didn't find the damned thing. 
Then Captain Small would ream her a new one, and so on 
and so forth until she cried mercy. She'd heard of make or 
break cases, but in all honesty had never expected to find one 
given to her. Rising up the ranks of thepolice force had never 
been one of her goals, she was pretty content as a detective. 
Long hours...sure. Good pay, could be better. Higher rank, with 
more responsibility, plus departmental politics...no way in hell. 
Besides, she only had an associate's degree, she'd been lucky 
to make detective at all. Nowadays you needed a bachelor's 
just to walk the beat.

"Yo, Jorgensen! Heads Up!" Cassius Morgan called from 
behind his desk at the doorway of the bullpen.

"What?" she yelled back, irritated with herself and already
anticipating the look of glee on Lazarov's face as he 
bitched her out.

"Got some guests for ya!"

And thank you for letting the entire bullpen know. The
'guests' were a tall man and a petite, red-headed woman, both 
wearing the stereotypical trenchcoats over expensive-looking 
suits. Right, time to get the show on the road. Ignoring 
the smirks of her fellow officers, she approached the pair, 
reaching out to shake hands. "Hi, I'm Detective Jorgensen."

"I'm Agent Scully," the woman motioned towards her companion, 
"and this is Agent Mulder."

"Pleased to meet you," Kris said, leading them back towards 
her desk and the two chairs in front of it. "I apologize for the 
seating. I've requested an office for this investigation, but I 
haven't heard back from anyone yet. So, we're all stuck around 
my desk in the meantime."

Agent Scully gave her an understanding half-smile and sat on
the left, while Agent Mulder took the right.

Be bold. Be strong. Focus on what's happening right now, 
not what happened at breakfast this morning when she'd figured 
it all out. "There are a few things you need to know before we 
start. First, if you value your stomach lining, do not drink 
the coffee. The bagged tea's pretty safe, and there's a Starbucks 
blocks over in Printer's Row. The Women's toilet is one floor up, 
to the left of the elevators. My Thai, Jimmy Z's, and Berghoff's 
make the best ethnic food in the area and they won't cost you an 
arm and a leg. They're a little ways away, but worth it, though. 
Al Sahara makes great vegetarian and vegan lunches, and if you want 
basic American for a little extra money, you can't beat the cafe 
across the street from the Art Institute."

They were staring at her as if she'd sprouted a third arm, but
both seemed more amused than anything else. Okay, looked like she
had half a chance not to completely fuck this up. "Have you had a 
chance to go over the case in-depth?"

"Briefly," Agent Mulder answered. "Five murders, the victims
all criminals who were released from trial due to technicalities.
Each victim killed according to how they killed their own victims. 
The investigator who worked on all of these cases was recently 
murdered in a drive-by shooting."

"Nat was a very good man, Agent Mulder, a good cop..."

He frowned, shook his head. "Just Mulder, please."

Kris nodded once. "Mulder. All of the trials were well
publicized, so it would have been very easy for someone to kill 
them in the same manner as their victims. The problem is many 
specific details of the original crimes were never mentioned in 
court because the trials never got that far. Either there's a 
leak in the DA's office, and I don't want to be around for that 
discussion, or none of the deceased had anything to do with 
original crimes in the first place, 
which can't be true according to the forensic evidence."

"Did Det. Gonzales' death have anything to do with this case?"

"Hard to say. One of the criminals was Dakota Roberts. 
He's a real distant cousin of the Maloney family, they're small 
potatoes compared to some of the other families and syndicates," 
Kris slipped the top five folders off the stack and pushed it 
towards Mulder, who promptly pushed it towards Agent Scully. 
She flipped open the top and began to skim. "We do have a suspect 
in custody, Hector Dean Shinoda, but we've can only hold him for 
another fifteen hours."

"I'd like to interview him," Mulder said.

"No problem. Y'know, if you really think Nat's death was part
of this whole thing, you should talk to his partner, Alex. 
She was there when he was killed."

"Then we'll talk to her too," Mulder shuffled through the
folders. "Is Shinoda's file in here?"

She felt her cheeks heat. "Uh, no, I... "

"Excuse me," Lazarov's basso profundo voice boomed from 
behind her. "are you the FBI agents?"

Mulder stood, Scully too, so Kris got to her feet as well.

"I'm Sgt. Lazarov, your liason for this case. Sorry I wasn't
here earlier, Jorgensen should have called me when you arrived."

Kris gritted her teeth. Only a prick like him would try to
push that kind of shit in front of the Feds. She wasn't his
goddamned secretary. To their credit, neither Mulder or Scully
showed any surprise at the dichotomy that was Dan Lazarov. 
Maybe they were used to meeting big black men with tightly 
curled hair, pale gray eyes, and Russian names.

"I assume you want to begin with Shinoda?" asked Lazarov. 
"I've got his file in my office."

The fucking bastard had stolen it right off her desk, that was
why she hadn't been able to find it earlier. It was official, her
luck had finally gone the way of the Dodo.

"Actually, while Agent Mulder conducts the interview, I'd like
to do a cursory re-examination of the bodies," Scully said.

FBI Agents did that sort of thing? Scully must have seen the
look on her face, for she continued on.

"I'm also a Forensic Pathologist."

Kris was impressed. Scully couldn't be more than a year or two 
older than herself, and to fit med school in before she had FBI 
training showed one hell of a sharp mind. She wished she had
had that kind of opportunity. Then again, maybe she might have 
had Hannah not come along. Now Hannah wasn't in the same 
damned situation, with the same damned choice to make.

"I see," Lazarov said. He gave Kris his 'dead-eye' look, the
one that on any other person would have been a nasty grin. 
"Det. Jorgensen will go with you. I don't think she's had any 
experience with pathology, have you?"

"No, I haven't," she mumbled. And she didn't really want it,
either. Scully regarded her quietly, then glanced at her partner. 
He didn't do anything so far as Kris could see, but she could 
practically feel the communication passing between the two 
of them.

"Fine," Scully said.

And that was that. Mulder and Lazarov took off, and as she 
was putting her pea jacket on, she caught a glimpse of the clock 
above Lt. Caplan's office door.

12:17 PM. Eight more hours before she went off-shift and 
had to try and salvage what was left of her daughter's life.

Some days, the crimes just never seemed to end.


Chapter 3

Note: lyrics taken from DJ Krush/Only the Strong Survive/
Meiso


Interview rooms always had this particular smell. 
The very seats of the chairs were soaked with acrid
odor of sweat and fear, while the carpets reeked of
stale cigarette smoke. They all looked the same,
too, with beige and tan duo-toned walls, or
institutional green and cream painted cement blocks,
those cheap-ass styrofoam ceiling tiles. The one way
mirror, the tape recorder, the video camera. And,
God, fluourescent lighting making everyone look tired
and worn-out.

The Bureau somehow forgot to mention this when
they recruited him.

Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down, carefully
keeping his tie from dragging on the table. 
He arranged his notepad and pen, then, finally,
gave the suspect the once-over while Lazarov put
a new cassette into the recorder. This was turning
into a day from hell. Today's investigation had
shifted to now include trying to tie a suspect
in Gonzales' murder to the others.

Hector Dean Shinoda was a massive man, still
powerful looking in his late forties. He could have
given any of the Bears' linebackers a run for their
money. His facial features suggested biracial,
epicanthic folds at the eyes, an aquiline nose
that in profile reminded Mulder of a priest in an
Aztec codice. He had that golden tone to his skin,
but there was a reddish cast underlying it.
Japanese, Chicano, perhaps second generation. 
Brown eyes, large and lit with intelligence,
an intelligence he deliberately tried to hide
when addressed by anyone. He'd crammed his tall
and wide body into the too small chair, heavy
muscles straining the fabric of his orange
jumpsuit.

Mulder thought the arrest was a stretch, at best.
Lazarov had told him that there were two links
potentially connecting Shinoda. Witnesses had ID'd
him as someone who'd sold PCP in the recent past
to one of the deceased, La Shawn Michaels. 
The Lieutenant was grasping at straws. There was also
an informant who placed two other victims, Vincent 
Coluko and Ashleen Wienhoft at a club that Shinoda
frequented. He'd suggested that maybe the two of 
them talked Shinoda into somehow offing Gonzales. 
The corollary theory, even less promising, then
connected him to some possible intra-gang warring 
between the Kings and a faction of the Maloney family, 
headed by the recently deceased Dakota Roberts. 
Maybe Shinoda was the trigger and shot Gonzales by
mistake. Then maybe all of them pissed Shinoda off
and he killed them.

He'd spent the morning going over the files,
listening to previous interrogation tapes, reading
Gonzales' reports. The rap sheet told him that the
prisoner was late to the game, without a single
arrest until he was 32. Then he hooked up with
The Latin Kings, primarily though gun-running.
But not a lot, just enough to makehimself useful.
He gradually took on a small turf for dealing,
mostly PCP. Several arrests, one conviction, some
serious plea bargaining and some minimal time done
in Vienna, a downstate work farm. There was some
evidence he was also involved in several gang-related
deaths, but no conclusive evidence ever positively
linked him. Mulder ran the name through the Bureau's
data bases and got an explanation as to where this
man had been prior to all this. 

Northwestern University. The Department of Philosophy,
his thesis,'The Use of Weapons and The Warrior's Mind'.
It didn't fit, it didn't make sense, but it was true,
nonetheless. 

Then there was Gonzales' notes, private notes that never
made it to the report. He'd pulled in Shinoda several
times, in connection with killings that seemed way out
of the league of a low-level hustler and thug. Errant
Mafiosi in the Witness Protection Plan. Rich pedophiles. 
Politicians involved in a drug cartel. Never any real
evidence, never any links, just Gonzales' suspicions.
After the last fruitless interrogation, the last note
contained one word, 'Chameleon.'

Mulder was here ostensibly to get a handle on this guy
and get to the truth. He had a hunch he was going to
get some answers, but none of them would have anything
to do with the questions at hand.

"The time is two twenty-nine pm," Lazarov said, taking
a seat at the end ofthe table. "Sgt. Daniel Lazarov
and Special Agent Fox Mulder interviewing Hector Dean
Shinoda. Also present is Officer John Clark."

Mulder nodded as Lazarov leaned back in his chair. 
"Mr. Shinoda, what can you tell me the death of Det.
Naftali Gonzales?"

"Cops play for medals, killers play for corners, in
the middle are your sons and are your daughters."

Judging by his cadence, the easy way the lyrics flew off
his tongue, Mulder guessed the man knew his rap music,
knew it would antagonize his interrogators and threw
it in their faces like a gauntlet. Somehow, Mulder
couldn't shake the suspicion Shinoda was dropping
hints, and that, combined with the evidence that Shinoda
just liked fucking with the two of them meant they were
in for a long, long day. Now all he had to do was to
decipher lyrics the man in custody tossed at them
like hand grenades. Judging from Lazarov's reaction,
it was obvious the good lieutenant wasn't familiar
with the genre. Frankly, while D.J. Krush was so fresh,
so clean, his own tastes ran to Tupac and Nortorious
B.I.G. He was Old School.

"Cut the crap," Lazarov snapped. "I'm not in the mood
to deal with this shit today."

"The ghetto reacts to warfare, real bullets miss
you by your hair, survival of the fittest. Hell
for three time losers, the prisoners of wartime
manouvers, hold down the fort, cause life is short
enough to get it taken," Shinoda finished with
a smirk.

Well, that was easy enough to understand. But it
didn't answer his question. "Could you be more
specific?"

Lazarov shot him a hard glance and shook his head. 
Mulder wondered how long it would be and what he'd
have to say to begin to crack this one open. Shinoda
was much more than he let on, and this posing was
somehow necessary.

Shinoda eyed him, and wagged his head back and forth,
drumming on the table, "Slip into the world of sheisty
individuals, a troubled man stalked by criminals. He
laughed, a deep rumble that shook him in his chair,
then started drumming on the table again. 
"Orale, carnal, this ain't nothin' but a thang."

Mulder stopped leaning his chair against the wall and
sat forward, "Most people don't find incarceration and
a charges of capital murder all that amusing."

"Make the charges stick, I wanna be a legend."

"Your lack of concern surprises me." He locked eyes
with Shinoda. "I can play chicken, Homestyle."

There was a sharp rap on the door before he could say
another word, and Lazarov and Clark turned away,
distracted.

''Matters of great concern should be treated lightly.
Matters of small concern should be treated seriously.'" 
Hector wondered if he could toy with the FBI agent, there
was something about him that set him apart from his
pedestrian counterparts. 

Something clicked in Mulder's head, something that told
him who Shinoda really was.

A uniform poked his head in. "Sgt. Lazarov...you coming? 
There's a situation -"

"Sgt. Lazarov has left the room," Mulder said to the
recorder. "The time is two forty-one pm, Agent Mulder
speaking. Initial questioning of one Hector Dean
Shinoda. With me, is officer John Clark." He laid out
the thumbnail by rote, "You've got a BS in Physics from
U of C, an MS in Engineering and Applied Mechanics from
Stanford, and a PhD in Ethics and Philosophy from
Berkeley. I'm exceedingly curious as to why such an
educated man did such a 360 degree turn."

"I only tell the story to one person at a time."

Mulder pivoted slightly toward the policeman,
"Officer Clark, could you give us a few minutes? Just tell
Lt. Lazarov I requested it."

Behind Shinoda, Officer Clark's eyes widened. What the
fuck was going on? The genius from D.C. must've slipped
a gear. There was no way in hell this worthless piece
of barrio shit would fit this description. And he didn't
appreciate being shoved aside, either. He could barely
contain his contempt, both with the prisoner and this
pretty-boy profiler from out of town. "Yeah, no problem.
I'm outta here," his voice dripping with sarcasm. He
turned his back on the two of them and stalked out.

To Shinoda, "The Hagakure."

A flash of recognition passed between the two men.

Shinoda sat erect in his chair, his slouch and attitude
transformed. He was serious, and his eyes burned into
Mulder's with the white-hot intelligence he'd been
working so hard to suppress. He dipped his head, in a
quick bow. There is honor in this one, he thought.
Warrior to warrior, he understands the Way. He abruptly
leaned forward. "I didn't kill him I didn't kill them."

"No?"

"No," He motioned towards the door with one finger.
"Lazarov's just desperate to get a conviction and
figures I'm the best candidate for the position."
His speech was impeccable, his voice clear.

"Why?"

Shinoda snorted. "Because he's a careerist, because
convicting me would mean he could get out of the field
and into an office with comfortable furniture and
meeting with the Mayor. Any more questions, Kitsune?"

Whatever deja vu Mulder felt at hearing the word was
well-concealed. He folded his arms. "How'd a university
professor end up as a small time gun-runner and drug
dealer? "

"It serves a purpose."

"That's it? Cryptic. I'm afraid you'll have to do
better that that."

"Turn off the tape recorder."

"What?"

"Turn it off and I'll tell you."

Mulder's hand moved to the tape recorder, and the
button clicked off.

"One must prepare for death every day. The weak,
the corrupt, the false, must be punished. I travel on
my path and Det. Gonzales traveled his. Naftali Gonzales
knew the incorruptability of the Way. He served his
retainer, as do you...This I respected... But the nature 
of my service, Kitsune, is a different matter...I have no 
master, but serve many. But I was never called on to deal
with him. Or the others. Someone else attended to
matters there. Perhaps someone who knew them better
than I."

Mulder honed in on what had just been said.
"But...his suspicions were right? You contract out to
those who have a need you agree with...you execute
'the weak, the corrupt, the false.' "

"My affiliation with the Kings makes many things
possible. No one suspects the dedicated small man capable
of large things. A very old form of camouflage. "

"And you spared Gonzales because he was a brother."

Shinoda gave him a disappointed look. "No. No more than
you are. He was my enemy as much as any other criminal,
but unlike them he was honorable. A samurai - "

"Whereas you're ronin," Mulder interrupted, with memories
of Robert Patrick Modell swirling in the back of his mind.

"Those who understand the Way live and die by that code,
that is the singular truth of things."

" 'It is bad when one thing becomes two.' " Mulder
needed to hear how Shinoda reconciled his life, his
choices, what he'd become.

Shinoda's voice was soft, "My other life was a dream. 
Degrees. The University. All illusion. But slowly,
I began to awaken, and chose the Way. There is no conflict,
Agent Mulder, only a man awakening from a dream. And as
I said, my affiliation with the Kings is no more than a tool." 
He looked at his adversary and saw no acceptance,
but a kind of understanding.

Mulder studied the man across from him, then spoke slowly. 
"You're going to walk on these charges concerning Gonzales."

"More than likely."

"And what you've told me, what we've discussed, is hardly
a confession to other crimes."

"Hardly."

"And if I tried to have you arraigned for a series
of murders..."

"A judge would refuse on the basis of hearsay evidence
and insufficient proof. Besides, which murders would
we be talking about?"

Mulder drummed on the table for a minute with his pen. 
"But you understand I need to finish this interrogation,
don't you?"

"I would expect it, Kitsune. But I know nothing about your
samurai's death."

"Only the deaths of certain lesser men. Men that Gonzales 
tried to link to you...But there's nothing else you're going
to say, is there? Honor forbids it," Mulder leaned
into Shinoda, his eyes locked onto the other man's steady
gaze. There was a long silence, and neither one of the
men moved. He made a last point, " 'As for the things
that we don't understand, there are ways of understanding
them. Furthermore, there are some things we understand
just naturally, and again some that we can't understand
no matter how hard we try. This is very profound. It is
natural that one cannot understand deep and hidden things.
Those things that are easily understood are
rather shallow.' "

"You do understand the Way."


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X


The tape recorder whirred as he hit the on button, 
"Where were you when the murder occurred?"

He was about to answer when, Clark pushed the door open
and strode in puposefully, "Lt. Lazarov says it's back
to standard operating procedures, normal interrogation,"
with special emphasis on the word normal. That meant
he'd be staying for the rest of the interview, and that
they were detectives on the other side of the mirror. 
The other two men both knew what it meant. Mulder blinked,
and in that split second, Shinoda's mask descended.

"Pues, carnal..I got an al-i-bi." Slouch. Scowl. 
All in place.

Clark jumped in, as Mulder he knew would. "Asshole,
just answer the fucking question." 

Mulder grimaced. Brilliant interrogation style.
This man had a career in law enforcement supervision
ahead of him.

"Seeing my girlfriend."

Officer Clark snorted.

Shinoda spit on the floor, "Hey, fuck you, you dickless
wonder."

"And her name?"

"Her name." Clark grabbed a handful of orange jumpsuit,
only to have his arm pushed away by the prisoner as if
he was no more than a pesky fly.

"Vanessa Murasaki."

Mulder raised a questioning eyebrow as he wrote
down the information. "Japanese?"

"Nisei."

"And where does she work?"

"The Genji. It's a club. I was there with her, people
saw me. Big Dog got his party on all night long..."

"She's a dancer?" The wheels in Clark's narrow little
mind started whirring.

Mulder kept taking notes. "The Lady Murasaki, "
he murmured. He shrugged one shoulder, making the point
more for himself than for Clark.

Shinoda looked up at this samurai, this FBI agent.
Vanessa had left the University with him, disappeared
into this universe. A chid prodigy, with her doctorate
in Eastern Literature at age 19. It was unfortunate
she'd never meet this man. He was a worthy adversary,
this would be an excellent tale.

Clark shifted in his chair. "Must be her stripper name."
He wondered how Shinoda had to pay for a lap dance. How
long he waited before going to one of the private rooms
for a trick. The man was fucked in the head if he thought
a 'exotic dancer' actually considered herself his
girlfriend. Besides, in his world, Asian women didn't
date outside of their ranks. On the other hand, times had
changed. And business was business.

"I know what you're thinking," Shinoda said, upper
lip curled into a snarl. "You want to know what is like
to be with a beautiful woman. Too bad, carnal.
No action for you, Ese."

"And the only action you're gonna see, Hector, is when
you become a prison tier bitch. You better tell..."
Clark was red in the face, and had leapt up from his chair.

"Clark, sit down. Try not to be an embarrassment."
Mulder interrupted, turning to see who had opened
the door.

A short, stocky man with a broad face and a well-tailored
suit entered the room, Lazarov hot on his heels. He slung
a leather briefcase onto the table, popped the clasps. 
"Mr. Shinoda will not be answering any more questions
until I've had a chance to speak to him."

"Goddamnit, Gillespie, you can't do this!" Lazarov roared,
slapping his thigh for emphasis.

"Quite to the contrary, Sergeant. By law it is my client's
right to representation, regardless of what you think. 
Now," Gillespie hit the stop button on the recorder and
looked from Lazarov to Mulder and back again. 
"If you'll excuse us?"

Lazarov made an inarticulate sound of fury, then stalked
out of the room. Mulder followed, closing the door behind him.

"Jackson, Dunphy, get the hell out of there," Lazarov
muttered to the two detectives watching the proceedings
from the other side of the one-way mirror.

"Who's Gillespie?" Mulder asked, trailing the man
into his office.

"Big shot attorney," Lazarov sat down heavily, the chair
squealing in protest. He opened a drawer and drew out
a large plastic bottle of white pills, offered it to Mulder,
who declined with a shake of his head. "They say an aspirin
a day keeps heart attacks away, but I don't think it makes
a damned bit of difference when you have to deal with scum
like him."

"Shinoda or his lawyer?"

Lazarov huffed, then dry swallowed two pills, grimacing
at the taste. "Both. Gillespie's already got the machine
in motion. He's got a flunky down at the courthouse,
bailing that piece of crap out as we speak. I knew this
whole thing was a long shot, but fucking Shinoda is
guilty of something. Tell me, Agent Mulder, how the hell
did we ever got here? What kind of society do we live in, 
where gangbangers, drug pushers shove the Constitution
in our face? Where some fuck gets to play executioner
and we get to stand around with our dicks in our hands? 
Where a cop gets killed in a driveby and we keep coming
up with zip?" 

Mulder had no answer for him. But he knew plenty about
a world of shadowy men, and killing above the law, and
assassins who can disappear without a trace. He just
didn't think Lazarov wanted to hear about it.

"That's a question I ask myself more times than you
could imagine."

"Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

Lazarov rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. 
"Whatever you think are my reasons for wanting this case
solved, whatever you've heard, Nat was a good detective.
He deserves some justice. And somebody's got to find our
vigilante and stop him." 

He heaved an enormous sigh and shook his head sadly, 
"I just wish our side would get a easy win for once, 
don't you?"

"All the time, Lieutenant, all the time."



~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x


The two men walked in silence until they reached
the elevator. Lazarov got on, but Mulder stood in the
threshold, tapping himself in the chest, lost deep in
thought .The lieutenant held the doors for his companion,
but soon realized that he'd better say something.

"Give you a lift, buddy?"

"Yes. No. Actually I think I'll just walk over
to Records, it's on this floor, right?"

"Down the hall and to your left." Lazarov's broad
arm gestured in a lazy arc. "Is there something I can
help you with?"

"No, I just want to do an in-depth review the of police
reports on the deceased, then cross check them with
the local coverage on the cases. I'll need access
to a computer, though."

"I'll call from my office and take care of it. You're
looking for something, Agent Mulder. Want to let me in
on what it is?"

"I won't know what it is until I find it." Mulder was
eying the door on the left side at the end of the hall.

"So that's FBI prime investigative technique, huh?"

He wasn't paying attention anymore to Lazarov, focusing
instead on possible search parameters.

"Mulder!" The Lieutenant's voice boomed.

The FBI agent snapped to, "Sorry, occupational hazard.
I get a little preoccupied. "

"So I noticed." Lazarov let the elevator doors close.

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x

They stopped at the hospital cafeteria for something
sweet before heading down to the basement. Kris bought
a brownie and one of those little things of milk, like
she used to have in school. Trying to comfort myself,
she thought.

Agent Scully scrutinized Kris and said, "I confess I'm
a little surprised that you aren't more familiar with
the morgue."

Kris grimaced at the dryness of the brownie and set it
aside, started peeling her napkin apart instead. "I know. 
It's hard to explain. I see dead bodies all the time
on the job, in all sorts of ways, from beheadings to
eviscerations," she looked down, brushed the remaining
shreds of napkin off of her lap.

"I guess it's the fact that once they get here,
they're...just stiffs with a toe tag....body parts. 
As bad as it can be at a crime scene, somehow I'm still
able to see that they were people, that they had lives,
even if some of them were wasted. Does that make any
sense?"

Scully capped her soda and stood. "It does. But Det.
Jorgensen, what science offers here is an explanation as
to how those lives were cut short. An explanation that
needs to be revealed....to victim's families, to ourselves." 
She looked away, remembering it was just a small portion 
of what was owed the dead. What she still owed Emily. 
And Melissa. What she and Mulder owed so many 
loved ones.

And for a split second, she saw a wave of images--
dead men, dead women, dead children swirling in her
mind's eye, freezing her in place. She took a deep
breath, swallowed hard, steadied herself. Dear God,
help me do this, she slilently pleaded, make me
ready to do this. This is how I pay that debt, Lord.
I find the answers hidden in these bodies. She asked
for herself, for Mulder. Strength, give us the
strength to do what needs to be done.

"Agent Scully, is there a problem?" Jorgenson
immediately noticed the abrupt halt in the procedings.

She recovered, professionalism locked into place once 
more. "I'm fine. Not enough caffeine this morning, 
I suppose."

"I'm sure there's plenty in the machine, I'll keep you
stocked. Just let me know when." 

"Good to know. Now let's get started, shall we?"

The morgue was what Kris expected, the nostril-searing
odor of chemicals almost more than she could bear. 
Oddly enough, the overlying sweetly rotten scent of
decay was far more manageable. There were two rows
of perforated steel tables, above which were hanging
scales like the ones you found in the vegetable aisle
at the grocery store. Along one wall were jars filled
with remains and parts of remains, she really didn't
want to get a closer look. Smaller tables held
instruments she could imagine were first used during
the Spanish Inquisition, or maybe the European Witch
Trials. She'd have a hard time putting the image of
the bone saw out of her mind.

Agent Scully walked swiftly into the room, having changed
into oversized blue scrubs and a white lab coat while Kris
waited outside. She had declined when Scully had offered
to find her a pair of scrubs as well -- there was no way
she was going to get any more involved than she absolutely
had to. "Here," Scully handed her a small bundle of cloth.
"Those are booties, a hair net, gloves, and an apron. 
I've got some wintergreen oil if you need it."

She really didn't like the sound of this. She slipped the
gloves on last and followed the other woman into the cold
room. Bodies wrapped in sheets and white plastic bags lay
on tables on both sides of the room. It was enough to give
a person a serious case of nerves. Scully had to open
a few sheets before finding the right body. "Here we are,
one Vincent Coluko."

Kris helped her roll the table into the other room and
watched as sheunwrapped the body. Vincent was not an
attractive sight.

Scully snapped on her latex gloves, "I'll take his head,
you grab his feet. On the count of three we'll lift him
onto the autopsy table, okay?"

Scully nodded, grimacing as she rotely began to probe
at his chilled flesh, surprised to see Det. Jorgensen
utterly focused on the task at hand. Once he was on
the table and under better light, she found things that
caught her attention right away. There were dark yellow
bruises around his chin, andhis nose was off-kilter,
clearly broken. At some point he had bitten through
his bottom lip. His right ear was cut through half-way. 
Another cut was on his throat, barely visible on the left,
obviously cutting through skin and fat to the muscle
beneath on the right. The Y incision was more of a U,
running from one shoulder and underneath the nipples to
the other shoulder, then a line straight down the middle,
to the left of the naval, finishing just above the pubis.

Scully snipped through the neatly stiched incisions with
tiny sewing scissors, glanced up at her curiously. "You
seem to be handling this well." Maybe better than I am, 
she thought. She used her scapel to freshen the cuts,
giving her easier access.

Kris shrugged. "It's...easier than I thought it
would be."

Scully smiled slightly. "Well, you must have heard the
secret, then. We have a saying in Forensics, 'The bigger
the cop, the bigger the drop'. "

"I like it," Kris said, trying to focus as the other
woman exposed Coluko's internal organs. "Should they
look like that?"

"Not ordinarilly, no. Once an autopsy is performed,
all the organs weighed, all necessary tissue samples taken,
everything is then replaced. You could reattach the organs,
but what's the point? Their families aren't interested in
seeing what we've done, only in the results we get."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense," she watched as Scully 
lifted and prodded the various masses of flesh and tissue, 
bits of fat. "What are you doing now?"

"Checking for anything out of the ordinary. Lumps, nodes,
odd smells."

Kris stared intently at each poke. "Right...You'd have to."

"You can tell a lot from smell alone. Did you know that in
Medieval times, physicians would diagnose many causes
of death this way, by examining the odors of everything
from feces to pus?"

"Well, I'm sure you've got that covered..."

Scully eyed her. "Can you smell the alcohol this man was
drinking before he died?" 

Kris gave a cautious sniff, concentrating on what exactly
she was smelling, and there it was. Faint, but becoming
stronger the more she inhaled. She opened her mouth, let
the flavor roll across her tongue. Rancid smell of booze
and cadaver.

"About half of the population can detect the bitter almonds
of cyanide. Unfortunately, because of OSHA regulations,
pathologists are now supposed to wear rebreathers and
metal mesh gloves, which means you don't smell anything
except plastic and recycled air, and you rarely feel
anything of note. Of course the gloves prevent you from
cutting yourself with the scalpel, but I think you lose
more than you gain..." Her voice trailed off as she
realized something, she'd smelled rum on Coluko. There 
was no rum listed in any of the coroner's reports that had 
been turned over to her this morning.

"Det. Jorgensen, I want to run this man's tox screen again.
The autopsy report doesn't list what I think I'm smelling. 
And while we're at it, re-run the screens on the others'."

"I'll take care of it I'm assuming you'll want the
results first thing in the morning."

"I would think so. You were about to ask me something
else?"

Kris made a mental note to call the coroner's assistant,
then shifted gears "Yeah, actually. I did have another
question. What about HIV? Aren't you afraid of exposure
from infected blood?"

Scully shrugged. "It's a calculated risk, and for the most
part, I practice universal precautions. Although, having
said that, I did get hepatitis from my very first autopsy,
when I was in med school."

Kris watched her inspect Coluko's hands, the insides of
his wrists and elbows, his armpit, his feet. With the
organs removed, she helped turn him over onto his stomach. 
Despite the maroon lividity, he had a number of barely
visible spiderweb tattoos on his shoulders, a clock face
without hands, a crying woman. All inked in prison,
judging by the lack of quality. He'd certainly done a lot
of time. "I wonder what kind of life he dreamt about when
he was a little boy."

"Probably not ending up on a morgue table at thirty-five,"
Scully murmured, peering at an impression in Coluko's skin
with a magnifying glass. She hadn't dreamed about slicing
open men with jaihouse tattoos with she was little,
nonetheless, here they were.

"I'd hate my daughter to end up like this," Scully didn't
reply, in fact she did nothing more than continue with
the examination, but Kris felt as if she had crossed some
invisible line. She was debating whether or not to
apologize when Scully straightened and readjusted the
overhead light to geta better look. The woman's
expression was not quite the mask of Federal implacability
she had become used to seeing.

"How old is she?"

Kris sighed. "Fifteen going on forty-seven. Convinced
she knows it all."

Scully smiled again, but it didn't quite reach
her eyes.

"Do you have children, Agent Scully?"

"I did. She died."

"Oh. I'm sorry," she began.

Scully shook her head. "You didn't know."


Silence, apart from the soft and slick sounds of body parts
being moved around, reigned until Kris' cell phone chirped.
With an apologetic glance at Scully, she answered.

"Jorgensen."

"Mom?"

"What's wrong, are you okay?" she asked, lowering her voice
and moving away from the table. Several long seconds later,
No, it's OK, I'll be right there." She sighed, turned off
her cell, "Shit."

"Det. Jorgensen?"

"It's my daughter...she's pregnant...and now there seems to
be a problem. I need to go home, probably take her to an
emergency room."

"Did she tell exactly what her symptoms were?" Scully had
stopped the examination, stripped off the gloves and was
heading toward Jorgensen."

Well...no. But I thought..." It was obvious how unnerved
the call had made her, she was shaking. Almost imperceptably,
but Scully noticed immediately.

"I have a better idea. Let's go over there together, and I'll
do an initial triage, then we'll see what she needs."

Jorgensen let out a ragged breath, closed her eyes, and
patted her chest " I guess this mom needs your help too,
Agent Scully...Thank you."

~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X

"Hannah!" Jorgensen yelled, leading Scully past the stairs
and into the living room. "Could you come down here,
please?" Taking off her coat, she said, "Are you hungry
at all? I think I've got some ham and cheese in the
fridge, if the bottomless pit hasn't already gotten to it."

Scully was starving, actually, but didn't want to stay for
that long. She hated herself for being envious, for not
having the grace to accept her own lack with humility,
for not being able to be happy at the luck of others.
The pregnancies of other women dredged up an ache 
in her that for the most made her feel off kilter, vulnerable,
too vulnerable. And especially on a day like today,
that feeling was a luxury she couldn't afford. 
Once today was enough. Maybe later, maybe while 
she and Mulder lay in the dark, but not now. 

"Thank you, no."

She wasn't sure what she had expected, but the combination
of chintz covered furniture, needlepoint American flag
pillows, dark wallpaper, carpeting in British racing green,
and reproductions of Degas' ballerinas just didn't gel
with who Jorgensen seemed to be. Magazines littered the
coffee table, TV Guide, New Scientist, and Nature competing
for space with YM and Teen People. Two rubber plants
bracketed a bookcase beyond the back of the couch,
reaching for the ceiling with dusty leaves.

Jorgensen picked up a throw crocheted in colors reminiscent
of 1973 and folded it, tossed it over the arm of the couch.
"Would you like something to drink? I've got coffee, decaf,
tea, soda.. ."

"I'm fine," Scully answered, wishing she had suggested
the girl go to the nearest emergency room, instead.

"Mom?" The speaker was tall and skinny, straight, mouse
brown hair falling past her shoulders.

"Hannah, this is Dr. Scully, a colleague of mine. She
agreed to come take a look at you, make sure you weren't
miscarrying or anything like that."

Sullenness, thy name was ever 'teenager'. Scully couldn't
quite work up a smile that reached her eyes, not after
the look of intense dislike thrown at her from Hannah. 
God, she hoped she had never treated the guests of her
parents in the same manner. No, that would've never
happened. "We could do this in private, if you prefer."

Hannah looked nervously at her mother, then nodded
her head.

"Okay. I'm not an obstetrician, so this is at most
just a preliminary checkup to make sure you're not on
the verge of a miscarriage. You'll need to see your own
doctor as soon as possible, and by that I mean within
the next day or so, okay?"

"Listen, I'm going to go make a few calls, see if I can
get an appointment as soon as possible," Jorgensen said,
already heading out of the room.

Scully took a deep breath and began the examination. 
She did what physical checking she could, given the lack
of equipement, asked questions and received enough terse
answers from the girl to ascertain that neither she, nor
the baby were in any immanent danger. She knew she wasn't
a patient person, even though it was obvious that this girl
felt embarrassed about the whole situation. This was the
reason she preferred the dead over the living. The dead
never lied, didn't try to sway a person towards one answer
or another, didn't need coaxing and prodding. There was
always a clear cut answer with the dead, once you asked
the right question, the whole story was revealed.
Hannah on the other hand, revealed just enough, not an
iota more.

She finished, repeated her recommendations, and watched
Hannah scurry off to her room. Good deed for the day
all done, she only wanted to get back to the hotel
and take a nap. She just needed some time for herself,
to not think of what she couldn't give him, what she
couldn't have. She'd let Mulder soothe the rest of it
out of her tonight, including this morning's fear and 
hesitation. He'd gotten quite good at finding the hurts 
and making them go away, and she'd gotten
better at letting him.

A wave of self-pity lapped at her, so she distracted
herself by wandering over to the bookcase to see what
Jorgensen liked to read. There was the usual panoply
of general knowledge books, atlases and dictionaries
and a well-thumbed Roget's International Thesaurus.
Jorgensen had some of the same texts as Mulder -
the Crime Classification Manual, the Death
Investigator's Handbook, Sexual Homicide: Patterns
and Motives. Oddly enough, she also had several True
Crime books, which Scully would have thought Jorgensen
would avoid, considering her day job. Then again, even
she herself had a few titles stuck somewhere in the back
of her closet.

"Agent Scully?" Kris was standing in the doorway, anxiety
writ large on her features, "How's my girl?"

"It looks like some minimal spotting, no abdominal
pains, so I think we're in the clear. But she needs
to see an OB/GYN as soon as she can."

"I've got her got an appointment with my doctor at
Illinois Masonic, 11 am tomorrow. I'm on duty, but my
best friend Rachel will take her." Scully's response
had smoothed out the tension in her face, and she sighed
with relief. "Excuse me for a sec, I need to inform my
darling daughter of her upcoming itinerary."

Scully wanted to get going, she'd pulled herself together
again, but was sure it would last long if she had to be
part of a mother and child reunion. Her cell phone
trilled in her pocket, "Scully."

"Miss me?" Mulder's innuendo was just what she
needed to hear.

"I'd say it's you who misses me. You're the one calling,
after all."

"Busted. We'll, I do have another reason for interrupting
your busy day at the morgue."

"I'm not at the morgue. Jorgensen's daughter need a
medical evaluation and so the good Detective and I are
at her house."

"Anything serious?"

"Well, the daughter's pregnant and there was a possibilty
of miscarriage...everybody's good, though.

"Including you?" He knew something like that would weigh
heavy on her.

She waited a beat, "Yeah, I'm OK. What was the reason
you called?"

"The interrogation was a washout. I did meet somone who's
guilty of several murders, but not the one's we're
investigating. And just as a parenthetical aside, he didn't
leave enough evidence for anyone to do anything about
the killings he's actually responsible for. I spent the
rest of the afternoon doing a little record diving. 
And you, Agent Scully? You come across anything tasty?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly call it tasty, but one of the
deceased smelled of alcohol. Rum, I think. I asked for
all the tox screens to be run again, since this
particular man's autopsy report didn't show anything
but trace amounts of beer, peanuts and possible residual
use of PCP."

"Why all the tox screens? Sounds like you're making 
a leap here, Scully."

She could hear the amusement in his voice. "You're right,
the end of civilization must be at hand. Seriously, I just
want to be sure nothing else got missed. What about you,
did you come up with anything?"

"Well , for one thing, facts in the police reports and
the local papers pretty much mirror each other. The
killings were so well publicized, coverage so detailed,
that we could have anyone of a number of copy cat killers
at work here. One thing stands out, though. Since the murders
started about two weeks ago, they've occurred every three
days. So we're due soon for another, if the pattern holds."

"That's the good news?"

"That's the news. I tracked down Gonzales' girlfriend
at home, and it's probably a good idea we talk to her.
Alex Ruiz-Cardenas was a witness to his shooting. Maybe
she can help us to connect Gonzales and the other deaths,
maybe give some idea where to look for suspects. She's
at 424 Diversey Parkway. At least it's near the lake,
Scully. "

She looked up to see Kris back in the room, motioning
that she was ready to go. "I'll have Jorgensen drop
me off...424 Diversey Parkway? I should be there..." 
Jorgensen mouthed 'thirty'. "In a half hour."

"Good. I'll be in the lobby. Hey, Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"I need a house call, Dr. Dana...I 've got this condition..."

"Good bye, Mulder." She hit the off button, but there
was just the wisp of a smile at the corner of her mouth.


~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X~x~X
Chapter 4

They could see the north end of Lincoln Park as they
rode in the glass-walled elevator, dotted with the red
orange stands of trees saluting the peak of Midwest autumn. 
Directly across from them, Lake Michigan shimmered
burnished gold as the edges of the sun's fading western
light dappled its waves. Looking down, Alexander Hamiliton's
bronze countenance pointed the way toward the running path,
with its after-work joggers, and the black, wrought-iron
entrance to the zoo was just visible at the far end.

Cardenas was waiting for them in her 26th floor penthouse.

It was Scully who spoke first, "Well, I'd say you won that
pissing match." There was a slight smirk caressing her
lovely face.

He was rocking back and forth on his heels, feeling flush
with victory. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Neither one of them looked at each other, but they could
see their wavering images in the glass.

"You know damn well what I mean. I realize that our
thick-necked friend at the desk was being a tad too gung-ho
in his zealousness to protect the tenants."

"Extremely rude, I thought."

"OK. But when he asked you what our business was, I
believe your response, 'F. B. I. Business. Business that
doesn't concern you', accompanied by brandishing your badge
close enough to his face to give him whiplash,...That was
very... Alpha male of you."

"Well, I suppose I could've been silent and just let you
shoot him. You do seem to be able to fire on a man in order
to make a point."

"And I can do it again, don't forget."

"So you admit I'm not the only one with aggressive
tendencies, eh, Scully?" He turned and leaned in
toward her.

She tilted her head in his general direction, "You know,
Mulder, other couples seem to be able to flirt with each
other without mentioning gunplay. One of us seems to always
bring it up."

"That's what makes us special, Scully. By the way, is that
what we're doing here, flirting? I thought you were
reproaching me for unseemly conduct. We're still on
the clock, partner..."

As the elevator slowed and stopped, the doors opened just
in time to save him from her retort.

The first things they saw were a small hallway with mauve
colored walls, a gilt framed oil of what Mulder recognized
as Old Habana in its heyday, and an enormous ginko in a
planter. Walking toward them with her outstretched right
hand was tall, elegant figure of Dr. Alejandra Ruiz-
Cardenas. Her other hand was kept behind her back. 
She was what used to be his type, tall, with a curvy
figure beneath white jeans and a loose white sweater. 
She wore no jewelry, save an expensive wristwatch---
nothing gilded her heavy-on-the-cream cafe-au-lait skin.

"Agent Mulder? Elliot told me you were on your way up.
I'm Alex." She'd given him the full wattage of her
perfect smile. Even, white, beautiful teeth. It would've
been lovely except Mulder couldn't help but notice
that her smile never reached her eyes.

Looking at his companion with something less than
delight, she drawled, "And this must be your...
assistant?"

"I'm Special Agent Mulder," he dryly replied as they
shook hands, "and this is my partner, Special Agent
Scully." He made sure there was just a hint of extra
emphasis on the word 'partner.'

"Ah, I see..." Turning to the other woman, Cardenas
made a show of seeming apologetic. "Please forgive
me, Agent." Again, the outretched hand.

"We appreciate you making time to see us." Scully replied,
her smile now just as dazzling. Interestingly, her smile
never made it to her eyes either. The handshake was
phenomenally lukewarm.

Alex eased her hand away and looked at the two of them, 
"Where are my manners? Please come into my home, we can
talk there." She turned on her heels and walked back
into the open door just a small distance away. As she did,
both agents noticed her left hand was wrapped
in a bandage.

Mulder and Scully's eyes were set on scan as they followed
Gonzales' former girlfriend into the huge suite, as she
led down a long foyer. Almost simultaneously, they noticed
an oil painting of St. Peter next to the door, which Mulder
would guess was 17th century Spanish. Otherwise devoid
of decor, the only other items were a small marble-topped
table that held a faience vase of Bird of Paradise. 
By contrast, the painting was glaringly out of place with
its ornate, colonial-style gold leaf frame.

The foyer opened up into the living room and the rest of
the penthouse. It too, was starkly furnished, very
Bauhaus, white rugs, black leather and shades of gray
as accents, chrome tables and lamps. One whole side was
wall to ceiling glass, with a spectacular view of
the lake. An oil portrait of Our Lady of Mercy, in an
elaborate wrought iron frame hung in counterpoint to all
the simplicity on the far wall. The bedroom, kitchen,
and study all clearly visible, coming off the main room
like the spokes of a wheel. The living room was by far
the largest room, but the others were by no means small. 

Alex turned to her guests, "Please feel free to look around.
Let me make you both un cafecito. I'll just be a moment."

Scully replied, "Really it's not necessary."

"Oh, but it is, Agent Scully." Alex pulled her jet black
hair to one side, draping it over her shoulder. "I'd never
live with myself if I didn't offer you something." With that,
she moved into the kitchen. In a few seconds they could hear
the hiss of an espresso machine. Cardenas' back was to them
as she busied herself at a workstation.

The rest of the suite was furnished in the same spartan
elegance. Black lacquer funiture in the bedroom, chrome
in the study. Luxurious and simple at the same time, but
there was something cold about it. Virtually no personal
effects to be seen, save photos in the living room of
Alex and what both agents assumed were her parents,
and one of Cardenas and Gonzales apparently on vacation,
which rested on a nightstand near the bed. Judging from
the first photo, the attire of two older adults and the
sumptuous surroundings would indicate that Alex came
from a wealthy family. How Alejandra Ruiz-Cardenas
was able to afford an apartment overlooking Lake Michigan
on a professor's salary was beginning to make sense to both
of them.

They continued their self-conducted tour as the hissing
of the espresso machine grew louder, accompanied by the
sporadic clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen.

"Rich girl." Mulder said over his shoulder.

"Very rich girl from the looks of things." Scully opined.

"Very rich girl with old money form Cuba, who would seem
to be a little bit of a control freak." Mulder drew close
enough to whisper in Scully's ear.

"You think?"

Even the study was ordered to the extreme, even though it
held a huge amount of artifacts. They were all neatly
labeled and placed on stands or display tables. Mulder
noticed though no strictly religious or ceremonial
artifacts, only those that held functional value or were
objects of personal adornment. There was also a small, rough
looking chest with a padlock and with an oblong cedarwood
box resting on top. It didn't go with the rest of the room.
Scully winced a little as they looked over the perfectly
organized work area, files, computer station. Mulder caught
her pained expression.

"What?"

"Was I that bad, Mulder?"

"I think that's one of those questions like 'Does this make
me look fat?' "

"Thanks." Her lips quirked in a grin.

"Don't mention it." He brought the tips of his fingers to
the small of her back for just a second, and what about to
say soomething else, when a oil paintng of St. Teresa in
a bronze die-cast frame stopped them both in their tracks.
Mulder moved away to more closely inspect the piece.
Touching his elbow, Scully caught his eye and his solemn
nod told her he'd made some connection.

Now the kitchen noise had been replaced with music.
It was clearly Latin, melodic and slowly rhythmic. 

Ruiz-Cardenas emerged from the far side of modern kitchen,
and strode leisurely back toward the living room, passing
gray granite worktops, a professional grade stove, and a huge
stainless steel Sub-Zero refrigerator. She reminded herself
she'd have to start interviewing someone to do the cooking
soon, the last girl was a nightmare.

Mulder strolled to the window, ostensibly to check out the
twilight skyline and the boats on the water, but really
he wanted to watch Ruiz-Cardenas' reflection unobserved.
From what Jorgensen had initially told them Nat Gonzales
was a good man, intelligent, a hard worker, but not someone
who moved it the same circles as his girlfriend. Personally,
he figured that anyone who gained the respect of someone
like Hector Dean Shinoda had to fall on the extra side of
ordinary. He had some idea why this woman would be attracted
to a man so far outside her universe.

The two women were at the breakfast bar, which was situated 
just outside the main work area of the kitchen, bracketing
the main layout of the living room. Scully was on a stool
on one side, and Alex on the other, laying out an expesso
pot, demitasses, cream, sugar.

Scully said, "Professor Cardenas..."

"Alex, please." Her tone just barely avoided being
patronizing. It was the way one might invite a long-term
employee to useyour first name.

"Alex, I'm really sorry we have to ask you all these
questions again."

"Don't concern yourself. I know it's necessary in order
to arrest Naftali's murderer." 

Her expression was one of detachment, an odd one for the 
still grieiving lover, Mulder noted, as he turned and walked
toward them, taking a seat next to Scully. 

Ruiz-Cardenas gave a close-lipped smile, pulling a leather
covered stool around with her unbandaged hand and easing
herself down. "Allow me a small boast," she requested
as she poured, "Cafe cubano. The only way to drink coffee."

He didn't respond.

"Thank you, for all this effort...especially when you've
been injured." Scully said. Now she was the one with
the slight tone in her voice. It was the voice of Dr.Scully,
and Mulder always enjoyed watching her zero in. "What
happened to your hand?"

Ruiz-Cardenas turned away from them and reached down
into the bar. Jet black hair now spilled down her back,
evenly cut right beneath her shoulderblades. She pulled
out some demitasse spoons and set the on the counter. 
"Yes...well it's somewhat embarrassing...when I heard
what had happened. I lost it...threw a glass against the 
wall...and cut myself trying to clean it up." Mulder
watched her intently, her expression didn't match what
she was saying. She didn't seem all that embarrassed
to be telling two strangers a story of an supposed
emotional outburst. As a matter of fact, she seemed calm,
too calm, she could've been reviewing her syllabus with
some graduate students.

"So, that was about two weeks ago?"

"Yes, ridiculous thing to do, wasn't it?

"Grief can make someone do things they wouldn't do
ordinarily." It was Mulder's voice now.

"Yes. Yes it can." A momentary shift, in which both
Mulder and Scully could see something a little wild
in Alex's eyes, something that quickly was banished
and replaced with smooth calm and a practiced diffidence.
She poured them all cofee, very deliberate
in what she did, with great economy of movement. Mulder
guessed that being a cultural anthropologist would make a
person hyperaware of what they were doing at all times. 
The point was to observe, not be observed. In a way,
psychology was the same thing, only on the micro-linear
scale. And it was his turn to observe Cardenas, observe
and draw the right conclusions.

"But you need me to tell you about that night, don't you?" 
Alex was clearly giving the signal that the line of
questioning about her hand was over. "I was already
waiting at the restaurant. I was early. The guest lecturer
for one of my classes cancelled due to illness, so I popped
home and told Naftali I'd meet him there. Our table is right
next to the front window. We like to watch people as
we eat," she smiled briefly. "I had a glass of white
wine. . .spied him stepping off the curb, walking towards
me with that big grin that always means he's had a good day. 
A car slowed to let him cross, and I see the window rolling
down, which I thought was odd, because although it's not
winter yet, it was a cold day. There was a flash of light
from the car window, but not from the window itself. 
I think it was light from the restaurant glinting off
of the gun. Anyway, the next thing I see is a bright
flash, then he's on the pavement."

Scully hadn't touched her espresso. Ruiz-Cardenas went
into her solititous host routine, "Our cafecitos are an
acquired taste. Perhaps you'd prefer some tea, Agent
Scully...I know how the Irish love their 'tay.'

Mulder finished his and fought a grin as he imagined
the look on Scully's face. No eyebrow, not even a twitch
of the lip, just a straight-on, dead glare that said 
'And the horse you rode in on, too'. Ruiz-Cardenas would
learn.

"You didn't recognize the car or the driver?" asked Scully,
icily ignoring that cultural swipe.

"No. All my attention was on Naftali. I could have cared less
what the driver looked like. But I've already told the
police all of this, is it really necessary to go back over
it