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     This author's email address has changed to: Joseechung@aol.com

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Subject:Tempest (1/15) by Missy Pennington
From:	josiechung@aol.com (JosieChung)
Date:	21 Oct 1997 05:49:00 GMT

Tempest
by Missy Pennington (josiechung@aol.com)

Classification:  X/S/MSR

Rated:  Strong R for adult language and situations

Summary:  Mulder and Scully survive a plane crash to find 
themselves injured and stranded in the Appalachian wilderness.

Disclaimer: All characters which have been seen or mentioned on 
the X-FILES belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the
FOX network, and are used without permission.  All other characters
are my own imaginings.  I mean no infringement.

This story has been a work in progress for almost a year, and it would
never have gotten finished without the unfailing support and
discerning eyes of some wonderful friends and editors.  My most
heartfelt thanks are extended to Paula Graves, Jenn Francis,
JulietttXF, Paul Leone, Deb Bennett, Alanna Baker, Shari Long, Chris
McNickel, and Andrea Rouleau.

Special thanks to L.C. Brown for loaning me the concept of the 
"Your Fault" game, which she used so charmingly in the story
"Blizzard."


TEMPEST

Character is nurtured midst the tempests of the world.
 -- Goethe


 Hartsfield-Atlanta International Airport
 Monday, April 30
 11:17 A.M.


Dana Scully mindlessly twisted her wrists back and forth inside
the steel handcuffs that bound her, wincing as the unforgiving
metal made yet another scraping pass on her already sensitive
skin.  She hadn't expected it to take so long.  A private plane,
a quick takeoff -- that was what they had promised.  That was
what she had counted on.  It wasn't their fault, she knew. 
Nobody could have foreseen the fog that had rolled in before
dawn.  No one could have predicted the two-hour runway delay. 
But it hadn't been two hours for Scully -- it had been a
lifetime.

She hated being afraid.  Hated it with a passion.  The anxiety of
knowing that everything -- even her own safety -- was too far out of
her own hands.  It made her feel small and vulnerable --
characteristics she'd profaned even as a child.  She had always
preferred to be in control, always chose to take the initiative.
Passivity, her father had told her, only bred dependence and fear, and
like him, she had no use for either.  But she wasn't in control, not
this time.  She had given up that right, agreed to let them call the
shots.  She had willingly made herself a victim.  And God help her,
she was afraid.

Don't think about it, Dana.  Don't think about it....

She settled into the soft seat with a nonchalance she didn't
feel, and picked up a magazine from the pocket in front of her. 
The pages blurred together as she turned them mindlessly.  She
couldn't concentrate on anything except the cold steel of the
handcuffs that bit into her wrists.   

It's all out of your hands, Dana.  It's not in your control....

She gave up -- slapped the magazine closed and tossed it into the
empty seat beside her.  This is ridiculous, she chided herself. You
might as well get over it, Dana.  You've gone too far to stop it now
anyway.  It'll be okay.  It'll have to be okay...

She craned her neck toward the cockpit of the plane, catching a
glimpse of Special Agent Fox Mulder's head over the seat back in
front of her.  Her partner was still engrossed in conversation
with the captain.  He hadn't said a word to her in over an hour,
and that in itself was telling -- testimony to how seriously he
was taking this case.  They rarely passed time in close quarters
without some semblance of small talk, some feeble attempt, at
least, to distract each other from the nightmare of field work
and public transportation.

Desperate for that distraction now, Scully considered calling him back
into the cabin.  Conversation would be a welcome relief for them both,
she knew, but something in his stance kept her from asking.  He was
tense.  Alert.  Standing guard.  He was playing his part as watchdog;
and since he was playing it on her behalf, she kept her silence. 

She sighed and continued to fidget in the wide leather seat,
unable to get comfortable.  A trickle of sweat ran down the back
of her neck.  God, she was hot.  The air vents had been off for
as long as they'd been idling on the runway, nearly two hours
now.  The stillness of the air in the confined space was growing
more uncomfortable by the minute, but it was pointless to
complain -- she couldn't take her jacket off over the handcuffs,
and no one was around to commiserate. 

You're helpless, Dana.  Completely dependent.  

She dropped her head heavily against the seat back, causing an
errant strand of blond hair to fall across her eyes.  Without
thinking, she raised her right hand to tuck it back into
position, wincing as the left hand followed it up automatically
within the confines of the handcuffs.  

The absurdity of the situation hit her all at once.  Blond. 
Handcuffed.  In a confined space.  It sounded like half of
Mulder's apocryphal video library.  She felt a laugh
bubbling in the back of her throat and momentarily considered
giving into the release of nervous tension.  But the sound of a
shot from outside the plane sobered her instantly.

She was completely unarmed.  Heart pounding, she bent forward,
covering her head instinctively.  Hunched over in the small seat, she
listened intently for any sign of approach from outside the plane. 
She heard nothing but silence. 

In a matter of seconds, Mulder was in the cabin.  "Luggage
transport backfired," he told her as he knelt down in the aisle
beside her.  "We're okay, Scully."

She sat up, heart pounding wildly.  For a moment, she couldn't
find her voice to answer him.

"Scully?"  He placed his hand on top of hers, shaking her gently.

"It's okay."  It's not okay.  I hate this.  I don't want to do
this, Mulder.  I want my gun back.  The words spun endlessly in
her mind, but remained unspoken.

Finally, she gave him a feeble smile.  "I'm fine, Mulder."

Of course he didn't believe her.  But his gaze held hers long
enough to search for the truth in her eyes, giving her the
benefit of the doubt.  Finally he nodded and rose, unconvinced,
she knew, but obviously  willing to concede.  When he returned to the
cockpit, leaving her isolated in the cabin once more, she felt utterly
alone in the world. 

But she wasn't alone, and that was the problem.  Somewhere
outside that plane, they were looking for her.

Watching.  

Waiting.  

Making plans.

Scully looked at the handcuffs on her wrists and willed the plane to
start moving.  She hated being afraid.

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

She hadn't been fine, and he knew it.  Hadn't been even remotely
convincing telling him she was.  And still he had walked away
without a backwards glance, bowing to her spoken words rather
than argue about the unspoken ones.  The end result would have
been the same, even if he had chosen to push it.  After four
years of practice, Scully was too good at the argument.

"I'm fine, Mulder."   The words echoed through him.  She'd
uttered the phrase so often, he had no doubt that she believed
it, but to him the words were hollow.  Just one more in a long
line of automated responses that had become habit.  She wasn't
fine -- she was terrified, and that was why he'd given in so
easily.  The uncharacteristic fear in Scully's wide blue eyes had been
just the wellspring of strength that he needed to rise and head back
to the cockpit to resume his watch.  He couldn't protect her in the
cabin. 

He could have distracted her, taken her mind off the fact that
half the world seemed to have a gun pointed at her small blond
head, but distraction was a luxury they couldn't afford.  Every
second they sat on the ground, the noose tightened just a bit. 
Anonymity wouldn't cover them for long; they hadn't taken
precautions against this type of delay.  One observant bystander
was all it would take.  One observant bystander in one of the
busiest airports in the country.  

The clock was running.  He knew it and Scully knew it.  And so
she lied -- and told him she was fine.  And he lied back -- and
acted as though he believed her.  

The irony of it all was not lost on Fox Mulder.  As he walked
away, leaving his partner alone and handcuffed in the cabin, he
couldn't help but wonder how a man who spent his days in pursuit
of the truth had gotten so damn good at blinding himself to it
when he had to.

He stopped at the door of the cockpit, looking through the window over
the shoulder of Captain Daniel Davis.  The young pilot looked up at
Mulder as he returned.

"Agent Scully okay?"

"She's fine," he lied.  There was nothing Davis could do about
it.

"Good.  We should be cleared any minute now."

Mulder watched as one plane after another made it's way into the
clouds.  He nodded in silent agreement.  It had to be their turn
soon.  

"Cessna Citation NS84, you are cleared for takeoff."

Mulder jumped at the announcement, feeling a strange mixture of
relief and anxiety.  Out with the old trauma, in with the new, he
thought.  But nothing was worse than the waiting game.  Once they were
airborne, they could begin to answer some questions.  They could lay
out a game plan.  They could do something to make themselves feel more
in control.

Davis gave Mulder a brief nod, reaching across the agent for the
handset.  "That's us, Agent Mulder.  Go strap yourself in, and
let's get this thing in the air."

Mulder began to back out of the cockpit, then hesitated.  "Where
are we going, Davis?"

The young pilot flushed.  "You know I can't tell you that, Sir. 
Not until we've leveled off."  He looked away, obviously
uncomfortable at having to deny the more experienced special
agent.  

"Bureaucratic bullshit," Mulder said with a small, tight smile. 
"I know it well."

"Yes sir."  Davis grinned an apology.

Mulder was struck once again by the DEA agent's youthful
appearance.  God help us, he thought.  We've put our lives in the
hands of McCauly Culkin.  He eased out of the cockpit, leaving the
young pilot to maneuver the small jet out of Atlanta and toward more
unanswered questions.  

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully was already prepared for takeoff when he returned to the
plush interior of the cabin.  Her trademark professionalism was
back in place.  She seemed perfectly calm.  

She looked up at him as he made his way toward her.  "We're
going?"

"Yeah.  Any minute now."

He sat down in the seat across the aisle from her, still unable
after 6 hours to keep from smiling at the sight of Special Agent
Dana Scully as a bleached blond.  The makeup didn't help.  Her
large blue eyes, usually so professionally colored with subtle,
natural shades were now rimmed with heavy black eyeliner.  Her
bowed lips were sticky with lipgloss.

She glared at him, obviously irritated by his amusement.  "One
word and you're a dead man, Mulder."

He held up his hands in protest.  "I didn't say a thing."  Though God
knows I deserve a medal for restraint, he added mentally.

"Yes you did," she grumbled.  

Mulder chuckled, and fastened his seatbelt, listening to the
increasing drone of the engines as the plane rolled slowly out
toward the runway.  He tried several times to maneuver his long
legs into a more comfortable position, but there wasn't one to be
found, and he gave up finally with a grunt of frustration.  Small
private planes, he decided, were obviously not made for tall people.  

He felt, rather than saw, Scully's gaze upon him and looked over
at his petite partner, who seemed to be swimming in leg room.

"Comfy?" she asked innocently.

"Hardly."

"Well then we're even." She held out her hands to him.  "Come on,
Mulder, I'm tired of being 'in custody.'  Get me out of these things."

He shook his head ruefully, acknowledging her plight.  "Can't
risk it.  Not until we're in the air.  You know the drill."

She huffed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and glared at
him.  "You don't have to sound so happy about it."  

His answering grin only seemed to darken her mood.

As if on cue, the plane began to make its way down the runway,
launching itself into the air with amazingly quiet grace.  Within a
matter of seconds it seemed, they were well within the clouds. 

Wondering at the silence that had fallen between them since
takeoff, Mulder ventured a sideways look across the aisle. 
Scully's eyes were closed, hands clenched together in agitation. It
was obvious she would have been gripping the armrests if the handcuffs
weren't preventing it.  Scully hated to fly, and between the takeoff
and the handcuffs, she had somehow managed to adapt a look that could
only be described at totally disgruntled fear.

Still, Mulder knew it wasn't the flight that was foremost on his
partner's mind.  She had that all-business, let's-examine-this-
from-every-angle look on her face.  She was thinking about
Escabedo.  About the safehouse.  About what would happened next.

What will happen next, he wondered?  God, do I even want to know?

Dreading the conversation they would soon have to start, he
sighed heavily, the sound catching Scully's attention.  

"Did Davis tell you where we're going?"  The plane began to
slowly level out and she raised her hands to him again, her eyes
hopeful.

Okay, enough torture, Mulder thought, as he unfastened his
seatbelt and rose, digging for the key to the handcuffs in his
jacket pocket.  "No.  He won't tell us until we're leveled off. 
I'll head up there in a minute."  He crouched down in the aisle
and took her hands, manipulating the metal cuffs so he could find the
lock.  

When she winced, he stopped instantly. 

"Scully?"  He looked down, seeing for the first time the raw skin
underneath the metal brackets.  His own casual words came rushing back
at him.  *Not until we're in the air.  You know the drill.*

Mulder, you're an asshole.  You didn't even look....

"It's nothing, Mulder."

Another Scully favorite, he thought.  He didn't allow himself to
be appeased this time.  "You should have said something, Scully. I
could have loosened them, at least"

"It's really not that bad, Mulder.  Just some chaffing. 
Handcuffs have a tendency to do that, you know."  She favored him with
a mischievous smile.  "What do you usually do for that?"

He choked at the unexpected question, causing her to laugh out
loud.  He was thoroughly charmed by the moment.  Scully didn't
laugh enough.

Okay, Scully, he thought.  You want to play?  Never let it be
said that Fox Mulder passed up an obvious challenge.  He leaned
in as he inserted the key in the lock, purposefully invading her
personal space.  "So tell me," he began, affecting his best
'what's-your-sign' tone of voice.  "Is it true what they say?  Do
blondes have more fun?"

The handcuffs slipped away and he pocketed them, as Scully rubbed her
wrists gingerly.  She ran slender fingers through her hair, and
hastily removed the brassy blond wig to reveal the soft copper tresses
beneath.  "You're welcome to find out," she replied, unceremoniously
tossing the lifeless hairpiece at him.

He caught it easily.  "Well it's really not my style," he told
her, twisting to drop it into the empty seat behind him.  "But I
must say I'm surprised."

She raised an eyebrow.  "Why?"

He clucked his tongue in exaggerated disapproval.  "Dr. Dana
Scully giving up the chance to irrefutably prove a scientific
theory of this magnitude?"  He turned at started back toward the
cockpit.  "What's the world coming to?"

Her voice followed him up the aisle.  "Mulder, if blond hair or
handcuffs are supposed to be fun, I'm obviously doing both of
them wrong."

So we'll practice--

The words were almost out of his mouth before he caught himself. That
kind of comment wouldn't take them anywhere they needed to go right
now.  They had enough to think about.


 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Mulder entered the cockpit to find Davis grinning at him.

"Eighty seven seconds, Agent Mulder.  What took you so long?"

Mulder chuckled.. "I got delayed by the weather."   He sat down
in the empty co-pilot's seat, taking in the array of gauges and
meters in front of him.  His eyes fell upon the compass reading. "So
we're heading north.  How far north?"

The pilot's hands moved over the controls, casually flipping
switches as he navigated the plane through the cloud coverage.  
He handed Mulder the flight plan.  "Ever been to New Jersey?  I
hear it's lovely this time of year."

Mulder glanced at the paper and affected a horror-stricken look.
"We're going to Tuckerton, New Jersey?  Hell, Davis, what'd we ever do
to you?"

The young agent laughed.  "I don't pick 'em, Agent Mulder -- I'm
just the delivery man."  His smile faded as he looked earnestly
at the FBI agent beside him.  "The team waiting for you in Jersey is
top notch.  Agent Scully couldn't be in better hands--"  He broke off
abruptly.  "Did you hear that?"  His head tilted slightly as he
listened intently, concentrating on the hum of the engines.

"I don't hear anythi--"  Mulder started.

Davis help up a cautionary hand, silencing him.

Mulder looked at him anxiously.  God, that was all they needed --
mechanical problems.

After a tense moment, Davis waved it off.  "Shit, now you've got
*me* paranoid."

Mulder looked at him, warily.  "You sure?"

Davis nodded.  "Yeah.  Everything's fine.   No problem."

Mulder rose from the seat and reached for the door handle. 
"That's what you think."  He opened the door, then leaned back in
toward Davis, his voice low and threatening.  "Wait until I tell
Scully you're taking us to New Jersey."

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully looked at the array of paperwork spread out before her and
wondered, not for the first time, why she was even involved in this
case.  It was a DEA case all the way; she and Mulder were completely
out of their element.  But the photograph in her hand had sparked more
than mild curiosity, and once she had seen it, there had been no way
to refuse.

She stared at the young woman in the picture.  Lindsey Carrol was
young and blond.  Superficial, but pretty.  Her small, heart-shaped
face was framed by a platinum, shoulder length bob, her large green
eyes rimmed with too much dark makeup.  But somehow, rather than
giving her a hard, streetwise look, it only seem to emphasize her
youthful features.  If anything, it made her look younger than her
twenty-seven years, like a young girl playing dress up.  Certainly not
like a woman about to turn state's evidence against her Columbian
drug-lord boyfriend.

It was only in the depth of those eyes, that her past was
evident.  A glint of cynicism, a silent edge that spoke volumes
about he living she'd done, the things she'd seen.  It wasn't
evident to the casual observer; Lindsey Carrol would never stand
out in a crowd.  In fact, the overall picture she presented was
more girl next door than lifetime criminal.  But it wasn't the
ivory soap image of the young woman that caused Scully's
head to swim with questions.  It was the fact that beneath the
makeup, softly framed by highlighted strands of blond hair, was
the face of Dana Scully.

End of Part 1



Subject: Tempest (2/15) by Missy Pennington

*  *  *  *  *  *  *


"You okay?" Mulder's voice broke Scully's concentration, and she
jumped.  

"Sorry.  I didn't mean to startle you."  

"No, it's okay.  I'm jumpy today."

"Well, that's understandable."  He reached down and took the
picture from her hand, shaking his head in wonder as he
scrutinized the unsettling familiarity of the stranger in the
photograph.  "It's still fascinating, isn't it?"   

She nodded.

He handed the picture back to her.  "Does it bother you?"

She took the photograph, contemplating the question for a moment.
"Honestly, Mulder?  I don't know.  I think..." her voice trailed of as
she searched for the right words.  Did it bother her, this stranger
with her face?  It was hard to explain to someone who had never come
face-to-face with his own countenance.

Mulder didn't press the question, letting her find her way to the
words she needed.  Instead, he moved to his seat across from her and
sat down, reaching behind his back, as a puzzled frown creased his
forehead.  He shifted his weight and withdrew the blond wig from his
seat, dangling it on his index finger in front of her.  "I believe
this is yours."

She smiled and took it, stuffing it haphazardly into the carry-on bag
between her feet.  "It's not the resemblance that bothers me," she
told him at last, as she straightened to look at him. "Uncanny
resemblance is something you can write off to a quirk of nature." 

He was quiet, waiting for her to continue.

"It's that....." she paused for a moment, thought some more. 
"it's like looking into a mirror and seeing my life as
interpreted by someone else.  I mean, I look at this woman, and
she looks *just* like me, Mulder."  She pointed to the woman in
the photograph.  "That's my face right there -- this could *be*
me.  And knowing what I do about Lindsey Carrol's life, I have
this overwhelming sense of 'there but for the grace of God....'" 

She laid the picture down on the folder and looked up at Mulder,
surprised by the utter solemnity on his face.

"Is that why you agreed to all this, Scully?" he asked.  "Out of
some unfounded sense of guilt?  Because I have to tell you, when
Agent Westbrook suggested this whole decoy thing, I was pretty
sure you wouldn't want any part of it. I mean this..."   He
gestured around them, indicating the plane.  ".... is not what we do. 
It's not what we're about.  And yes, Lindsey Carrol looks amazingly
like you, but any number of female agents could have put on a wig and
gotten on this plane.  So why are we here?"

She lifted her chin ever so slightly, unwilling to let him know
she'd been stung by his words.  "WE didn't have to be here,
Mulder; I was the one they approached."  She opened the folder in her
lap and began rifling through the papers.  "It's only four days until
Lindsey's called to testify.  If I can divert attention away from her
until then and help put away one of the biggest drug czars to ever see
a trial in this country, why in the world wouldn't you think I'd be
willing to do that?"

He pressed on, completely disregarding her attempt at
indignation.  "Because there are four dead agents awaiting burial
right now in Atlanta.  And if Escabedo manages to find us in
Tuckerton, New Jersey -- the way he found the last three safehouses
they've had her in -- you and I could very well be numbers five and
six."  His voice softened.  "I just want to know why, Scully.  Why did
you agree to this?  We've never worked outside the FBI before, and
given that even with your uncanny resemblance, they've still got you
disguised in a wig and heavy makeup, there's no reason why somebody
else couldn't be doing this now.  Your involvement wasn't necessary."

Scully bit back the retort that sprang to mind and forced her
breathing to a slow, steady rate.  She didn't look at him; she
didn't trust herself to.  If she looked at him, she would want to hit
him.  

Her involvement wasn't necessary?  Woo hoo.  Big fat surprise
there, she thought.  Wasn't that just everything in a nutshell? 
She didn't want to tell him how close his casual remark was to
the truth.  For all his talk about it, Mulder wasn't one to
revere the truth when it didn't serve his purpose.  Mulder's 
truths, Scully thought,  were elusive and idealistic.  He had no
use for the truths that cut to the quick -- the truths she
sometimes ached to slap down in front of him.  There were too
many of them to count, these undesirable truths.  And the one she
wanted to fling at him this moment was that she was sick and goddamned
tired of being made to feel her half of this partnership was
unnecessary.  

Scully swallowed and took a deep breath, finally looking up at
Mulder's inquisitive expression.  He really, honestly didn't have a
clue how useless he made her feel sometimes.  She wanted out of this
conversation fast, before she said something she'd regret.  

She placed the picture of Lindsey Carrol in the file and closed
it quietly, calmly.  Only when she was certain she had her anger
in check, did she lift her head to look at him.  "I don't know
why, Mulder," she lied.  "I just wanted to help."

He looked doubtful.

She pasted on a smile she hoped looked more genuine than it felt.
"Everyone talks about the war on drugs, but no one does anything about
it.  Well.... I'm doing my part.  I'm helping the real Lindsey Carrol
stay alive long enough to put her ex-boyfriend away for life."

Satisfied or not, Mulder finally gave up the inquisition, leaning back
against the seat with a sigh.  He rolled his head to the side to look
at her again.  "Well, I hope it's worth it in the end.  I'd hate to
think we went to New Jersey for nothing."

She smiled for real this time, relieved at the passing tension. 
"New Jersey, huh?"

"Yep."

She grimaced for effect.  "Charming."

He chuckled and closed his eyes.  "Wake me when we get there."


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"Come on, do your business, I thought you had to go."

She sighed impatiently as the Pomeranian pranced back and forth
at the end of his leash, obviously in no hurry, nosing around,
sniffing each blade of grass, his canine senses honing in on a
scent only he could discern.  He suddenly bristled, the small
fox-like head snapped up, black eyes focused straight ahead.  His
shrill bark shattered the silence.

She shook her head.  "Queequeg, we're not gonna go into the
woods."

The barking persisted. 

She was uneasy, suddenly aware of the fact that she was alone,
surrounded only by the smothering blackness of a moonless country
night.  A thousand stars glistened overhead, but their dancing light
was an illusion.  Only the tiny, worthless beam of a cheap flashlight
kept the darkness from being complete.  She looked toward the woods
and saw nothing.

She listened anxiously, hearing only silence.  Only solitude. 
And yet...

Queequeg lunged.  The leash dropped from Scully's hand and
disappeared into the darkness as the small dog made for the
woods.

She ran after him, flashlight in hand, trying to keep the yellow
handle of the leash in her sight.

"Queequeg!  Where're you going?"

The dog ran at a frenzied pace, dragging the leash behind him. 
He tore through the brush, and she stumbled behind him,
oblivious to the branches that pulled at her hair and clothes.

"Queequeg..."

Determined, she followed the yellow plastic handle deeper and
deeper into the woods until it came to an abrupt stop, caught by
the branches of a rotted log.  Out of breath, she bent down to
retrieve it, flipping a small lever to retract the excess line.

Then she heard it.  The pitiful cry of an animal in distress. 
The yappy little bark she had been following with such irritation
ended abruptly in an agonized whimper that turned her stomach.

"Queequeg?" she whispered, looking desperately for the dog as the
leash continued to retract.

>From somewhere close by came the scream of a small animal in
pain, then nothing.  The only sound she heard was the pulley
leash, winding the rope that Queequeg had extended.

Heart pounding wildly, she scanned the darkness, seeing nothing
from the thin beam of her flashlight.  She began to hear the
faint jingle of Queequeg's dog tags as they traveled over the
rough terrain, but the sound didn't comfort her.  It sounded
wrong.  It was travelling too fast, too smoothly; there was no
resistance. 

And then she saw why.

She felt herself start to sway, and she looked in shock and
horror as the pulley leash retracted the last bit of line.  The
tattered remains of Queequeg's collar dangled sickly from the end of
it, broken...and empty....

Scully woke with a start, the sound of her racing heart pounding
furiously in her ears.  She placed a hand over her chest
instinctively, feeling the surge of the quick beats underneath
her fingers.  She looked at her partner, hoping he hadn't seen
her startle from the dream, but his eyes were closed, his
breathing steady.  

She was relieved.  She didn't want to talk about it -- not with
Mulder.  It was Mulder's fault she'd even had the dream.  She
only had it when she was upset.  No, that wasn't true -- she only had
it when she was angry at him.  It was her own little subconscious
blanket of guilt that she threw over him at will. Queequeg had just
been another one of her little life traumas that Mulder couldn't be
bothered to deal with.  Someday she was going to tell him as much.  

Someday.

She got up and stretched, shaking her legs to loosen the knots
that had formed while she dozed.  She looked at her watch --
they'd only been in the air little over an hour.  Obviously the
stress was showing on all of them.  She glanced at Mulder's still form
across the aisle and the last remnants of her bad mood faded.  He
looked completely different when he slept, wistful and vulnerable. 
She allowed herself to scrutinize his face, something she'd never been
able to do while he was awake, and was overcome suddenly by the
complexity of her feelings for this man.

One minute she wanted to throttle him, the next minute she was
overwhelmed by the need to protect him somehow, although she knew the
impulse was ridiculous.  He didn't need her protection.  He certainly
didn't want it.  

Still, she thought, taking in the uncommon peacefulness on her
partner's face, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.  With all
the emotional baggage they had between them at this point, what
was one more guilty little secret?  She didn't need his
permission to feel the way she felt.  She might want to kill him
half the time he was awake, but if she wanted to protect him
while he slept, by God, then who was he or anyone else, for that
matter, to tell her she couldn't?  She brushed one stray lock of hair
off his forehead, and he sighed in his sleep, his contentment obvious.
 

Damn straight, she thought.

Smiling, she walked to the cockpit, knocking on the door even as
she pulled it open.

Daniel Davis beamed when he saw her.  "Agent Scully.  Come on
in."

She smiled at him.  He's so cute, she thought.  Why can't I just
find some nice guy like this and fall madly in love, she
wondered.     

Because you don't want someone like this.  

She pushed the thought away.  "How's it going up here?"  She sat
down in the empty copilot seat.

"We're pretty much on schedule, factoring in the weather delay. 
I did have a little problem with some gauges, but I raised some
ATCs in Chattanooga, and they helped me out.  Our ETA is about
three hours, twenty minutes."

She nodded, looking around the cockpit at the various controls. 
How did anyone ever know what it all meant?  She didn't like to
think about it.  She could only distract herself from one anxiety at a
time.

Davis wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a gesture
that seemed to stem from anxiety more than heat.  "I have to tell you
Agent Scully, I'll be relieved to have this one over.  I didn't have a
good feeling about all that time we spent on the runway."

Scully nodded.  "The waiting game always--"   

"Sucks?" he supplied.

She laughed.  "Yeah.  That."  She traced her fingers over a few
of the controls.  "So what kind of problem are we having with the
gauges?" 

"No biggie, really."  He shook his head for emphasis.  "I think
we're safe.  If your cover had been blown, they would have gone
for something much more significant.  Subtlety isn't high on
Escabedo's list."

Catching her reflection in the cockpit window, Scully smiled. 
"Judging from the amount of makeup on my face, I'd say it's not
too high on Lindsey Carrol's list either."

Davis laughed appreciatively.  "Obviously not."  

The plane shuddered, and Scully scanned Davis' face to gage his
reaction.  He seemed perfectly calm.  "You might want to strap
in, Agent Scully.  We're about to hit some turbulence."

Wonderful, she thought.  I was feeling positively bereft without
it.  Wouldn't want to deprive ourselves of one of the best perks
of air travel, would we?  

But she only smiled at the young pilot.  "Okay.  I have some more
reading to do, anyway."  She rose and reached for the door.  "Let us
know if we hit any more snags, okay?"

"Will do."  He gave her a casual salute.  "But I'm sure we're be
fine."

Scully nodded as she left the cabin.  "I hope so."

She closed the door behind her and was almost to her seat when
the plane began to shudder and jerk.  Robbed of her balance, she
stumbled to the left, almost recovering her equilibrium when her
foot struck the carry-on bag she had placed beside her seat. 
Without a word, Dana Scully committed the single most ungraceful
act of her adult life, falling forward in a tangle of flailing
limbs, right into the arms of a sleeping Fox Mulder.

"Ooph."

She was absolutely mortified, feeling the heat of embarrassment
flood her cheeks instantly.  She was face down on top of him, her face
pressed up against his tie, one hand over his shoulder, the other
pinned between them.  Her entire weight rested heavily upon him;
neither of her feet were on the floor.  For a moment, she was afraid
she'd hurt him, then she felt the shaking of his body underneath her
and realized he was laughing.  

Reluctantly, she lifted her face to him.  Her mouth opened and
closed several times without sound. "Sorry," she managed finally.

She pushed herself up using the back of his chair as leverage,
and began to disentangle herself from him. 

He was still grinning as she climbed back into her own seat,
buckling her seatbelt as the plane continued to shimmy through
the turbulence.  "Smooth moves, Agent Scully."

"I'm so glad I amuse you," she told him dryly.

"Oh come on.  Where's your sense of humor?  You gotta admit, that was
funny."

She looked at him without smiling, but her eyes twinkled with
mischief.  "That's not exactly what a woman wants to hear when
she throws herself at a man, Mulder."

They looked at each other in silence, sizing up the moment,
recognizing the fork in the road.  Neither was sure which path to
travel.  It was Mulder who finally chose one.

"Hand me that file on Lindsey Carrol, would you, Scully?  I need
to look it over before we land."  

She let her breath out, surprised to find she'd been holding it. She
pulled the folder from her bag and handed it across the aisle to him,
her heart catching just a bit when she realized he had put on his
glasses.

Mulder had no idea how much she relished the times he wore his
glasses.  The all-too-infrequent sight never failed to make her
heart beat just a little faster than usual.  He had been wearing
them the day they met.  She had reluctantly walked into that
small basement office to find herself facing a man who greeted
her with a mixture of thinly veiled hostility and obvious
distrust.  And even then, her only coherent thought for a good
two minutes had been, "God, he looks good in glasses."

Someday, Dana told herself.  Someday I'll tell him how much I
love those frames.  

She slid deeper into the reverie.  Someday, she mused, there's no
telling *what* I might tell him.

She pulled her own glasses out of her bag and put them on,
joining her partner in the case-related reading.  Gradually, even
their silence fell into quiet natural rhythm, letting her know that,
even without words, they were working in tandem.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

12:50 P.M.

Scully startled into consciousness, surprised to find she had
been dozing.  She didn't know what had roused her, only that she
should have been working and wasn't.  She turned to look at
Mulder, expecting to find him grinning at her embarrassment.  He
wasn't grinning.  He was grim and tense.

"Mulder?"

If he answered, his reply was drowned out by a mechanical whine
from outside the window.  It ended abruptly, replaced by a
sputtering that could only be a sign of worse things to come.

Scully felt the blood drain from her face.  "Oh my God."

The sputtering stopped and the plane shuddered violently in
response.  She raised the shade closest to her and looked out. 
There was nothing unusual in what she could see, but what she
could hear scared the hell out of her.

Silence.

The engine outside her window had completely shut down.

She stared at her partner, as the electronic whining from
Mulder's side of the plane started again.  Within a matter of
seconds, it too gave way to silence, and the plane began to fall.

Mulder was halfway to the cockpit when Davis' voice reached them
from the cockpit.

"Strap in and brace yourselves!  We're going down."

Mulder turned and wobbled back toward Scully yelling as he neared his
seat.  "What the hell is going on, Davis?  What happened?"

"I don't know!  I don't know!"  Davis' voice was thick with fear. "We
were fine and then we weren't.  It's like someone set off a goddamned
timer."

The plane's nose dropped sharply, and Mulder's face smacked the
seatback in front on him as he fumbled with his seatbelt.

"What the damage?" Mulder yelled.

Davis didn't buffer the news.  "The engines are gone - our
landing gear's not operational.  I'm gonna try to glide through
the peaks, but we're definitely going down.  I can't stop it."

Scully stared straight ahead at the cockpit door, as though she
were looking at Davis himself.  Her brain would not absorb the
words.  "Through the peaks?" she repeated softly.

As if he had heard her, Davis continued.  "We're directly over
the Appalachians.  I'm trying to raise the ranger station there
at the national park, but I haven't gotten anyone."

Mulder looked at Scully and back toward Davis.  "What can we do?" he
called to the pilot.

Davis' voice was grim.  "There's nothing any of us can do but
pray." 


End of Part 2



Tempest, part 3


Scully tightened her seatbelt, adrenaline surging through her
body as the plane lost altitude with amazing speed.  She had the
grotesque sensation of free-falling sideways.  It was a feeling
of utter insignificance, as though the plane itself was no more
than a dead leaf, blown hurriedly across the sky.  Her shaking
fingers reached for the tiny gold cross dangling from her neck,
and she clutched it tightly, looking out the plane's window as
the mountainside spiraled closer and closer.

A million thoughts raced through her mind.  Mulder, Queequeg, her
apartment, her mother.  Oh, God.  Her mother.  She wouldn't be
able to stand it, not again.  Too much loss, too much pain.  A
husband, two daughters....

It wasn't fair, Scully thought frantically.  Why should such a
kind, loving woman have to live with so much grief?  Who would it
be, she wondered.  Who would be the one to tell her mother that
she had lost another child?

The mental image of her mother receiving the news hit Scully
hard.  She really was going to die -- she knew it with certainty.

Strangely, accepting the inevitability of it seemed to calm her. 
The pounding heartbeat that had been resounding in her ears began
to fade, and a quiet peacefulness overtook her.  The world slowed
down to half time, and she realized, with a wondrous sense of
detachment, that she was probably as ready now as she would ever
be to die.  There was never a perfect time to go.

She spared a sideways look at Mulder, feeling vaguely reassured
by the sight of him close to her.  His hand crept across the
aisle toward hers, and upon finding her fingers he laced them
with his own. It was, in the face of death, the most intimate of
gestures; his way, perhaps, of telling her that whatever was
about to happen in this world or the next, they would face it
together.  

She marvelled at his calm.  No matter what life threw at Mulder,
he always seemed to roll with the punches.  While she struggled
daily to make sense of the world around her, he went about the
business of living with all the guileless enthusiasm and wonder
of a child.  If he was sometimes too quick to believe, it only
complemented the fact that she was sometimes too slow to accept. 
Complements, that's what they were, Scully realized, offering up
a short prayer of thanks for the time she'd had with him.

The plane began to shudder violently, and the evil silence of
their quick descent gave way to an even more ominous humming that
seemed to resonate from every seam and crack in the plane.  It
grew louder and more frenetic with each passing second as the
small craft struggled to hold itself together against the
tremendous force of gravity.

Scully looked at her hand, still linked with Mulder's.  Her
stomach dropped as the plane lost altitude, and she tightened her
hold on his hand.  God, she wanted to tell him...tell him what? 
What was there to say?  The silence between them was more than
fear, she knew; it was a silence of futility.  Too much had gone
unsaid for too long.  They had both felt it at one time or
another and blinded themselves to it willingly.  It was so much
easier to ignore it than to deal with it, she mused.  But then
she met his gaze, saw in his eyes the same regret, and she was
lost.  

"Mulder..." she started, her voice barely a whisper above the
noise of the plane.

The aircraft dipped violently to the right and then seemed to
nosedive.  Scully's eyes widened, her words stopped in panic of
the now impending crash.  

Mulder shook his head as she tried again to get the words out.  
"I know, Scully."  He squeezed her hand reassuringly.  "Me too." 

He looked out his own window, then back at her, his eyes
unreadable.  Then he raised their clasped fingers to his lips and
brushed a kiss across the back of her hand before releasing it
slowly.  

The plane dipped sharply again, and Scully had the absurd impulse
to run, as if she could somehow distance herself from the plane
before it crashed.  She looked at Mulder, trying one last time to
get the words out, but her mind had already closed down.  She
stared at him blankly as he bent forward in a crash position,
motioning for her to do the same. 

He grinned at her sideways, a smile that didn't quite reach his
eyes. "We'll talk about it later."

His words were inaudible, but she understood.  She returned his
smile weakly, and glanced one last time out the window at the now
sickeningly close landscape.  It's only a matter of seconds, she
thought numbly, looking through detached eyes at the
fast-approaching mountain.  Already she could see the leaves on
the trees, the small rocks filling crevices where their plane
would soon be.  She removed her glasses and bent forward, eyes
clenched shut, arms folded protectively around her head. 
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned..."

The impact came before she finished.  Scully heard the scream of
the plane as it tore itself open on the rocky landscape, and the
rush of dust and wind that filled the cabin told her that some
part of the plane's body had been ripped apart.  She made the
mistake of opening her eyes, trying in vain to find Mulder in the
swirling chaos.  What she saw was a gaping hole where the right
side of the plane had been, where Mulder had been.  

Scully's brain registered his absence only fleetingly as the
plane slid sideways, and she watched the approaching
configuration of rock bearing down on her through the gaping
wound in the right side.  There was a flash of blinding light as
the earth turned upside down, and then blessed darkness
descended, wiping clean the sound of twisting metal and the
horrifying images of what seemed to her the end of the world.


*   *   *   *   *   *


1:07 pm
Cherokee National Forest
Appalachian Mountains, Tennessee
     
Fox Mulder was twelve years old all over again, paralyzed by the
brilliant intensity of the light that surrounded him.  He tried
to move, to call out, but he was incapable of doing either.  He
was helpless against the force of the light, helpless to do
anything as his sister Samantha seemed to float on an invisible
cloud out the window and out of his life.  He struggled in vain
to reach her, but the light, the terrible haunting light would
not release him.  In a heartbeat, she was lost to him and he
moved forward in slow motion toward the window as the light
gradually faded. 

But the light didn't fade this time like it usually did.  And
Mulder, hovering on the brink of consciousness, slowly began to
realize that the awful light of this particular dream had no
intention of releasing him at all.  The hateful glare surrounded
him wholly, burning his face and neck, leading him to raise his
arm over his face in an effort to shield himself from the
radiance.

The movement brought him to full consciousness as pain registered
completely in his mind.  God, he hurt everywhere.  He chanced
opening his eyes and blinked rapidly into the bright sky,
noticing for the first time that he was outside and flat on his
back.  He wasn't dead, that much was obvious.  Beyond that, his
brain ceased to function.

He tried to raise his head to get a good look at his
surroundings, but after a monumental effort, he gave up.  It was
too damn hard.  From where he lay his eyes took in a thick
covering of trees that seemed to tower miles over his head,
giving him absolutely no indication at all of his location.  He
was completely disoriented.  Even the blinding sunlight that had
vexed him into consciousness was, he realized, no more than a
single tiny sunbeam that had managed to cut through the thick
foliage.

Christ.  Where was he?  In a daze, he tried to replay the day's
events in his mind, but the shroud of confusion that covered him
was overwhelming.  Sleep still beckoned like a siren call, luring
him back toward an easy escape from the pain in his head.  He
knew it would be so easy to give in to it, but his mind wouldn't
let him.  Not yet.  Not until he realized... 

Something was missing.  Something important that should have been
there with him and wasn't.  He had no idea what it was, but the
disturbing emptiness he felt was like a phantom pain inside him,
convincing his mind beyond the shadow of a doubt that part of him
was unaccounted for.  He turned his head to look beside him, and
a stabbing pain shot through his body.  Mulder heard himself
groan, and then the lure of sleep returned, too strong to resist. 
Resigned, he gave himself back to unconsciousness, the
unexplained feeling of loss still gnawing at his gut.


*  *  *  *  *
     
1:20 pm
     

The plane lay on its side, mangled and twisted on the rocky lip
of the mountainside where it had come to rest.  It balanced
precariously on a thin shelf of earth that seemed to defy gravity
by stretching too far over the cavernous valley below.  The
gaping hole that had been the right side of the cabin now opened
toward the sky, allowing the early afternoon sun to beat down
upon the exposed interior. 

Perched as it was, the wreckage gave the appearance of a
sacrificial offering, held out from the arms of the mountain.  It
was quiet now.  The creaking and groaning of the framework had
settled, replaced by the eerie stillness of tension, as if the
plane, aware of its position, was somehow holding its breath.

Inside the cabin, Scully groaned, awareness returning to her in
bits and pieces, like a nightmare recalled from the safety of
dawn.  She opened her eyes slowly, blinking several times to
focus her vision on the confusing jumble of images that swam
before her at eye level.  Her carry-on bag, part of a seat
cushion, broken glass, pieces of metal--

Mulder!   Her mind screamed his name.  Where was Mulder?

She twisted frantically, ignoring the pain that shot through her
with every movement, desperate to find some trace of him amid the
debris.  There was no sign, not even a sound to let her know he
was anywhere close.

She forced herself to breathe deeply, trying to calm the
paralyzing fear that was hovering.  Panic was not an option;
hysteria, while tempting, was energy wasted.  Mentally, she went
through her "repertoire" as Mulder called it, the standard
physician's checklist:  no broken bones, no paralysis, no
significant loss of feeling although there was some definite
numbness in her left leg, several scrapes and scratches, endless
bruises, probably a concussion.  Not too bad for a plane crash
survivor, she concluded.  She was alive.  It was enough.

She looked around, assessing the situation, and realized that she
was lying face down upon the emergency exit door.  Rather, what
used to be the door.  In the tilted cabin, it now appeared to
serve as the floor, and Scully was wedged against it, held nearly
immobile by the loose debris that surrounded her.  Her seat had
broken free upon impact, its warped frame now clinging to her
body with the desperation of a small child. 

Lucidity continued to return slowly as she maneuvered herself
carefully around the jagged pieces of structuralized metal,
inching her way closer to freedom.  It was a tedious process, but
she didn't have the luxury of waiting for rescue--she had to find
Mulder.

She succeeded finally in liberating her left arm and used it to
unlock the seat belt that had kept her prisoner.  She sat up
gingerly, rubbing stiff muscles and joints, getting her first
unobstructed view of the remains of the aircraft.  She was
definitely alone; Mulder was nowhere in the cabin.

She didn't dwell on his absence.  She would find him; it wasn't a
matter of question.

Scully looked toward the cockpit, her right arm grasping the 
armrest to steady herself when the sudden movement made her
dizzy.  She had to check on Davis.  Her mind called up an image
of the handsome blond pilot who had so recently been flirting
with her.  

So young...

Summoning courage and breath in the same instant, she tentatively
called out to him, shattering the utter stillness of the air with
a voice that was too fragile, to tentative and childlike to sound
anything like her own.  "Davis?"

The resounding silence that answered was chilling. 

Scully forced herself to stand, ignoring the throbbing ache in
her leg, and began to make her way toward the front of the plane. 
It was awkward with the plane lying sideways.  She crawled and
stepped as carefully as she could over broken seats, strips of
jagged metal, and shattered windows, pulling herself forward with
agonizing deliberation.

Please God, she prayed.  Please let him be alive.

She called again.  "Daniel?"  

Nothing.  There had been no sound at all from the cockpit since
she regained consciousness.  She reached for the door and with
shaking hands, pulled it open.

Overall, the cockpit of the plane looked surprisingly intact. 
Despite the vulnerability of its position, it seemed to absorb
the impact of the crash better than the cabin had.  A few loose
items had been tossed around, Scully noted.  Gauges in the
instrument panel were cracked and most of the glass was broken. 
Davis was still in the cockpit, strapped in the pilot's seat. 
The ninety degree angle of the plane gave him the appearance of
lying on his left side, allowing Scully to see him only in
profile as she crawled over the door.  His eyes were closed; he
was pale and still.  But she saw no obvious injuries, no blood on
his uniform, and she allowed herself a moment of Mulderesque
optimism that he might still be alive.

"Please.  Please be alive," she breathed placing her fingers on
his neck to check for a pulse.  She didn't feel one, but the
position of her hand was unnatural in the cramped area, so she
reached her hand around him to the other side.  Her fingers
encountered the warm, thick, stickiness of blood almost
immediately, and she jerked her hand back in horror.

Scully's bloody fingers touched Davis' chin, pulling his face
toward her as she leaned over him in an attempt to see the wound. 
His head slid toward her with a freedom that was sickening,
exposing to her view a large triangular shard of glass protruding
from his throat.  It had severed both bone and muscle,
effectively decapitating him, save the thin layer of skin than
stubbornly held his head to the right side of his body.

He probably died before the plane stopped moving, Scully thought.

She released his chin, watching as his head bobbed unnaturally
several times, then stilled, the blood continuing to flow from
his neck into a pool on the wall beneath him.

She turned her attention from Davis' body and began to look at
the control panel, searching for the radio.  She found the
microphone dangling beside Davis, and raised it to her lips,
forcing her voice to sound stronger than it felt.  "Mayday,
Mayday.  Can anyone here me?"

The only reply was silence.

"Mayday.  This is Cessna Citation NS84.  We are down--I repeat,
we are down." 

There was nothing, not even static. 

She turned the frequency knob back and forth, trying to raise
some signs of life from the instrument, but it was useless.  In
disgust, she flung the microphone at the control panel, feeling
no satisfaction as the crystal of yet another gauge cracked under
the impact.

She looked blankly at the various gauges and dials on the console
before her.  They all looked alike.  Her head began to ache with
more intensity as she struggled to make sense of the readings. 
She had no clue what she was looking at, no way of figuring out
her location.  

Mulder would probably know, she thought.  Mulder and his
photographic memory.  If anyone had ever halfheartedly explained
the workings of a plane to him, he would remember it exactly.  

But Mulder wasn't there.  

Her heart skipped a beat.

God, what happened to him?  Please let him be safe.

Scully caught a glimpse of Davis' body  in her peripheral vision
and suddenly felt light-headed.  

You're losing it Dana, she warned herself.  And if you fall apart
now, you won't be any help to yourself or Mulder.  The voice made
sense, but the wave of panic rising within her was too strong to
deny.  She was alone.  

Alone in a wrecked plane.  

On a mountain.  

With a dead man.

She backed out of the cockpit as quickly as she could, distancing
herself from Davis' body, sitting down on the side frame of a
seat and thrusting her head between her knees.  She forced
herself to inhale and exhale slowly.  

She had to find Mulder.  

Mulder.

She couldn't think about what might have happened to him.  All
she knew with certainty was that he wasn't dead.  Surely if he
was, she would feel it...

Her head was pounding with more ferocity now, and she raised her
hands to her temples in an attempt to ease the pressure.  Sticky
warmth registered against her face and she jerked her hands away
in horror, dazed eyes staring at fingers still covered with
Davis' blood.  

Don't faint, don't faint...

But the dim ringing in her ears was already growing louder.

Don't faint, Dana, you've got to get out of here....

White spots began to dance in front of her eyes, and the colors
of the world seemed to dim all at once.

Scully made a weak grab for the twisted seat beside her, swiping
feebly through the air as she sank down into a displaced seat
cushion.  The blackness approached her quickly, picking up speed
as the world spun in circles around her.  Her last thought as
she slipped into the abyss was that she had never fainted in her
life.
     

*  *  *  *  *

     
1:30 pm
     
Mulder awakened slowly to the feeling of soft hair brushing
lightly against his neck.  It was a pleasant sensation, one that
evoked erotic images of silky auburn hair trailing his body in
the sensuous afterglow of passion.  He was tempted, momentarily,
to indulge the fantasy, until he caught a whiff of the unpleasant
odor that accompanied it.  It smelled musty and dirty, almost
like a wild anim....

His eyes snapped open to reveal two shiny black ones staring back
at him.  

"Agh!"  The startled cry came as a reflex, but it had the desired
effect.  The frightened raccoon turned and scurried back to the
undergrowth, leaving Mulder alone once again.

Fully awake now, heart pounding, Mulder looked around.  His mind
slowly replayed recent events, searching for the missing pieces
that led him to this place.  

Then he remembered.  The impact.  The screech of metal.  The
feeling of flying through the air, soaring, free falling...

Scully!  Where was Scully?

He tried to sit up, but something was holding him, preventing him
from moving.  Mulder fought a wave of panic before realizing that
he was still connected to the plane seat, held tight by the nylon
safety belt he had donned before the crash.  He released the
clasp and sat up quickly, ignoring the pain that his sudden
movement caused.  With eyes that struggled to focus, he surveyed
the area.  It was heavily wooded, with an expanse of trees in
every direction.  With the exception of the airplane seat and
himself, the area seemed completely undisturbed. No plane, no
sign of wreckage.  No Scully.  

He did a brief check for broken bones.  Finding none, he stood,
wobbling on unsteady legs.  He walked a few feet, then stopped,
realizing he had no idea where he was going.  He leaned weakly
against a large tree, listening intently for some sound that
would guide him toward Scully and Davis.  

All he heard was the dull throbbing in his temples.  His head
hurt like a son of a bitch. 

Thoughts of Scully flashed through his mind.  He wondered if she,
too, was thrown clear of the wreckage, or if she was still in the
plane, trapped and hurt.  Was she calling out to him?  She'd
called out to him before and he'd been unable to help her.  Was
he failing her again?  Was she even still alive?

The last thought stunned him, as he contemplated the very real
possibility of finding her lifeless body amid the crash debris. 
God, he couldn't take that.  He couldn't.  His stomach lurched at
the thought. 

He remembered the look of terror in her eye as the plane was
going down, and how she had looked to him for reassurance.  And
still he hadn't told her.

Fucking coward, he cursed himself.  Why didn't you tell her?  

The image of Scully, bruised and bloody, lifeless amid the
wreckage came unbidden to his mind, causing him to lose the
valiant struggle with his stomach.  He sank to his knees and
vomited, thankful if only for a moment for the solitude of his
surroundings.

     
End of Part 3


Tempest, part 4



1:46 pm
     
For the second time in an hour, Dana Scully regained
consciousness amid the broken remains of  Cessna Citation NS84. 
Unlike the first time, however, the second awakening was
accompanied by lucidity and a feeling of calm.  Davis was dead;
Mulder was missing; she had survived.  Help would be coming soon
enough, she realized.  What had to be done in the meantime, she
would have to do herself.  

She would have to find Mulder.

She struggled to her feet, catching her breath at the burning
sensation that raced down her left leg as she stood.  The white
hot pain ran down the back of her thigh in blistering waves,
amazing her that she hadn't felt it before.  She twisted at the
waist, trying to get a good look at the back of her leg.  When
she did, she wished she hadn't.

"So much for walking away unscathed," she whispered, stunned by
the sight.  

The left leg of her pants was ripped from thigh to knee in the
back, stained dark red with blood -- *her* blood, she realized,
somewhat dazed.  She hadn't even felt it. 

She sighed, more at the thought of having to delay her search for
Mulder than at her own discomfort.  Damn.  She would have to take
the time to dress it.  

She couldn't get a good look at the cut through the material, so
she unfastened her pants and let them drop, wincing as the torn
material slid off of the wound and fell to a pile of bloody
scraps at her feet.

She pulled her carry on bag out of the rubble and opened it,
scrounging around inside for the tube of antibiotic creme she
usually carried, finding it with surprising ease.  She pulled out
a bottle of drinking water and looked around for something
she could use to clean the wound.  There was nothing except her
discarded pants, so she used them to wipe the blood away
carefully before smearing the wound with creme from the tube.  It
was a savage, devastatingly deep cut; she knew it needed
stitches.  She'd also be lucky to avoid infection; she had no
idea what had cut her.

She used her blouse to dress it, ripping the soft cotton into
strips and wrapping them firmly around the gash.  Satisfied, she
donned the spare change of clothing she always carried on board
with her and began searching the cabin for essentials.  She had
her gun; Mulder had been wearing his.  She took inventory of her
bag, noting with some satisfaction that the bottled water and
miniature candy bars that Mulder so often teased her about would
definitely come in handy until help arrived.  She had only a few
medical supplies, small and relatively useless against a wound
such as hers, but she didn't know what kind of shape Mulder would
be in, so she left them in the bag, hoping they would be enough. 
The one medical comfort she did have was a single syringe filled
with Demerol.  The way Mulder found trouble, she never travelled
without the comfort of a "single serving" pain killer.  She'd
learned long ago he was far too much of a little boy to endure
quietly.

She was unable to keep from smiling at the thought, then sobered
instantly as she contemplated the condition in which she might
find him.

We're okay, Mulder, she told him mentally, echoing his words from
earlier in the day.  I'm coming to find you.

She hastily finished packing the bag, careful not to overload it
with more than she could carry.  Finally satisfied, she zipped it
closed and stood, putting her head and left arm through the
strap to keep it anchored as she climbed. 

She moved to stand upon the broken seats directly under the hole
in the plane, cursing her lack of height.  She couldn't reach the
opening.  She stepped down and began pulling the frame of a
second seat on top of the one she had been using.  As she moved
it, the gleam of metal and reflection caught her eye. 

Mulder's glasses.  

Amazingly intact.

She bent and picked them up, wiping them carefully with her
shirt, tears blurring her vision.  She'd almost left them.  She
couldn't explain the overwhelming sense of responsibility she
felt to return them to him.  She only knew that they were a part
of Mulder.  A part she'd secretly always loved.  The only part
she had with her now.  And she'd almost left them.

She unzipped the bag without removing it from her shoulder and
placed the frames carefully inside, protected by the fabric of
her jacket.  Dragging the back of her hand across her cheek, she
swiped at the uncharacteristic moisture there and climbed back
upon the makeshift ladder of broken seats.

"Okay.  This is it, Dana.  Let's hear it for upper body
strength."

She took a deep breath and jumped slightly, hoisting herself up
through the torn metal, drawing her knees up until her feet could
leverage her onto the solid frame of the plane, away from the
jagged edges.  Feeling immensely pleased with herself, she took a
moment to catch her breath, trying to ignore the uncomfortable
sensation of hot metal underneath her injured leg.

"One down," she congratulated herself.  "Now which way to find
Mulder?" 

For the first time since the crash, she looked over the edge of
the plane, expecting to see rocks and shrubs.  She saw nothing
but air.  Terrified, she looked behind her and saw the gentle
upward slope toward the top of the mountain.  The plane had slid
down the ridge like a child's sled down a snowbank, stopping just
before they fell into the abyss.

Oh God.  Oh God.  Oh God.

Adrenaline coursed through her instantly.  She was on a cliff. 
All the moving around she had done inside the cabin, changing
clothes, gathering items, stacking debris--

--and she was on a cliff.

She inched backward, toward the rocky hill behind her, trying not
to cause so much as a tremor on the plane, fighting the
overwhelming urge to cry out.

Yell for help. 

Scream for Mulder.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *
     
Mulder cleared the last small cluster of trees and walked easily
out of the foliage toward the large patch of scarred earth he'd
been searching for.  With no way to gauge the site of impact from
ground level, he had carefully searched the area where he had
regained consciousness, trying to determine the path his own seat
had taken.  It was a slow process; tracking had never been his
strong suit.

He had, over the course of the early afternoon, managed to regain
his strength.   Amazingly, he had no long lasting physical
effects of the crash at all.  A few bruises, but that was all. 
The headache had finally disappeared, taking with it the
dizziness and the nausea.  The shakiness of his legs had finally
ceased.  He was better off than he had a right to be.  He
wondered endlessly if Scully had fared as well.

Standing at last in front of the path the plane had taken, Mulder
scrutinized the razed, barren path of land in front of him, a
frown creasing his forehead.  Somehow the angled path looked
awkward, but he couldn't put his finger on why.  He walked
alongside the huge scar in the mountainside, following the wide
trail as it led--up? 

That couldn't be right.

He looked behind him, visually marking the point where he had
picked up the path.  Then it hit him.  He was walking uphill. 
Very slight, barely noticeable, but definitely uphill.  The plane
couldn't have slid uphill.

Mulder turned and retraced his steps, following the crash course
down the mountain in the other direction almost a quarter of a
mile before he saw the drop--the point where the path of the
plane seemed to veer off into nothingness.  It had fallen, and it
had taken Scully with it.

He sank to his knees, unwilling to look over the side, cursing
himself for every kind of fool.  He'd failed her...lost
her...again.  She might have survived one crash, but he knew
there was no way she'd survived two.  

And he hadn't been with her.  

Grief and rage battled within him, each feeding on the other
until they issued forth a desolate, heartbreaking cry he was
completely unaware of.

He sank further to the ground, head hung low, palms flat to the
dirt as grief finally won out over rage.  He couldn't do it
again.  He couldn't pick up and move on without her.  It wasn't
supposed to happen like this.  Not to them.  Not to Scully.

Her voice reached him through the haze of his desolation, so soft
he thought he'd imagined it.

"Mulder!"

He heard it clearer this time, his heart stopping completely at
the sound.  

"Scully!   Scully where are you?"  He looked frantically around,
unable to locate her.  Their words mixed together and echoed from
every direction; she could have been standing beside him and he
wouldn't have known it from the sound.

"I'm here, Mulder!  Down here on the ridge."  

Her voice was thin and tight, quiet almost.  It terrified him all
over again.  He scrambled toward the thin shelf of the ridge and
leaned over until he saw her.  

His mouth went completely dry.  

She was sitting on top of the wreckage.  The wreckage was sitting
on top of nothing.

"Don't move, Scully!  Don't move an inch."

The tremble in her voice cut through him like a dagger.  "The
plane is sliding, Mulder.  It's gonna fall any second."

And then he could see it -- the wreckage was moving.  Almost
imperceptibly, but it was moving.  And he was powerless to stop
it.  He didn't have a rope; his belt wasn't long enough to reach
her.  And that face, that beautiful face he'd so recently thought
lost to him forever stared up at him like a beacon of hope in the
blackness that was his life.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *


She could hear him above her, frantic movements that echoed the
unexpressed urges within her own mind.  She closed her eyes.

"Scully!"

She didn't open her eyes.  "What?"

"Is Davis still in the plane?"

"He's dead, Mulder."

If the news jarred him in anyway, there was no indication.  "I
need you to look up, Scully.  Is there anything above you that
you can reach or hold onto?"

"I don't think so."  She looked up.  "Rocks and sky, Mulder. 
That's it." 

"Okay." His voice was deceptively light. "Just hang on for
another minute.  I'm working as fast as I can up here."

The plane shifted underneath her.

She forced her voice to sound steady. "A minute might be pushing
it, Mulder."

His voice changed instantly, suddenly as shaky as she felt. 
"Well, grab something.  Anything!"

Her patience snapped.  "For God's sake Mulder, if there was as
much as a speck of dirt down here that I could hold on to, I'd be
holding it!  Grabbing something when you're falling is not a
survival skill that slips your mind!"

"Did I mention I'm working as fast as I can up here?"

Fear and agitation gave way to a reluctant, tentative smile.  "I
think you mentioned it.  Did I mention I'm holding my breath down
here?"  

"Try not to think about it."

Her sharp bark of laughter echoed lightly across the canyon. 
"Words to live by, Mulder.  Now tell me not to look down, okay?" 

She'd already made that mistake once.  Looked down into the
emptiness that momentarily supported her.   What was he doing up
there?  The wreckage groaned and slid forward, moving her another
inch away from the mountain.

She had no idea what he was working on overhead, but it didn't
seem to be progressing very quickly.  She looked beside her,
hoping to find an indentation in the rock, a foothold she could
maintain, a protrusion of any kind that she could grab to
forestall the encroaching freefall into the rocks below.  Several
feet above her, thick rocks jutted outward from the mountainside,
but they were too far out of her grasp.  She had no way to reach
them.

"Hey, Scully?  Let's talk about something."

His voice pulled her back toward him, as though he had
instinctively known the direction of her thoughts.  He was trying
to distract her. 

"What?"

"When was the last time you saw a really good movie?"

That did it.  She was going to get the *hell* off of this cliff
if for no other reason than to strangle Fox Mulder.  Forget the
knight in shining armor crap -- Special Agent Lancelot up there
was *toast.*  She carefully rose to her knees, testing the
stability of the teetering plane before standing.  She placed her
tennis shoe against the loose dirt of the hillside and struggled for a
foothold.  The plane shifted and groaned.  She froze.

"Scully!"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

"Heads up."

"What?"  She looked up.

*Thwack!*  A heavy tangle of fabric hit her square in the face
and she lost her equilibrium as the world went suddenly black. 
Momentarily knocked off balance, she clawed at the offending
material, trying not to panic.

It was Mulder's shirt.

Tied to Mulder's pants.

And t-shirt.

Either he was trying to save her or he'd gone stark-raving mad. 
She didn't care; it was a lifeline.  She grabbed the shirt and
tugged, testing its strength.  "Got it."

The plane slid forward an inch, creeping down the mountainside. 
The underbelly of the plane screeched against stone, metal
ripping with an almost human wail.  Scully's heart ratcheted into
doubletime as the world shifted beneath her feet.  

The plane was going down.

"MULDER, GET ME THE HELL OUTTA HERE!"  She pushed to 
her tip toes and grabbed for the knot that held his shirt to his pants 
just as the plane gave one final lurch and disappeared from beneath 
her feet, taking a large hunk of the hillside with it. 

Suddenly, she was dangling over a 100 foot drop, with only
Mulder's clothing between her and certain death.  The bag looped
over her neck and shoulder banged against her hip, almost causing
her to lose her grip.  She dug her fingers more tightly into the
fabric of Mulder's shirt and held on for dear life.

Breathe, Scully.

She forced air into her lungs in slow, steady rhythm, drawing on
her training to still the frantic cadence of her heart.  It's a
rope.  A cliff.  Basic obstacle course training, Agent Scully. 
You know the drill.

Hand over hand.  Up the makeshift rope, she followed perfect
form.  Knees tight, legs thrusting despite the screaming pain of
her torn thigh.  Her hands found the next knot, fingers curling in
the soft white cotton of Mulder's undershirt.  She brought her
feet up, searching for the bottom knot to leverage herself
upwards and momentarily take the weight off her aching arms.  

Her right foot caught and she heard a ripping sound as the fabric
gave way beneath her.  Her weight shifted, almost causing her to
lose her grip on Mulder's t-shirt, but a frantic, scrambling
second later, her feet found the knot.  The bag thumped the back
of her thigh as she steadied herself, and pain shot through her,
taking her breath away as she dangled helplessly.  She
redistributed her weight and worked to shift the bag away from
her leg and back toward her hip. 

Scully paused to catch her breath and pressed her forehead
briefly against the soft cotton shirt as she regained control.
Oh, God, it was still warm.  A faint, male fragrance clung to it.

Her head swam for a second, and she tightened her hold on the
knot.

"You okay, Scully?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."  She took a deep breath and pushed upward. 
Slow.  Steady.  Hand over hand.  She felt the rope moving
slightly upward as she climbed. Mulder was pulling her, helping
her along.

She could see trees, she realized as she looked up to gauge her
ascent.  She was close.  Closer than she had realized.  She had
gone past the t-shirt, on to his jacket.  Peeking over the edge
of the overhang was Mulder's blue and gray spotted tie, double
looped and double-knotted.  Just a scrap of material that didn't
look all that sturdy, she realized.  Especially considering the
way the fabric was sliding back and forth against a sharp
outcropping at the edge of the cliff.  She imagined she could
actually see the frayed fibers giving way one by one.

She redoubled her efforts, scrambling upward.  Just another
couple of feet....

Suddenly, she was lurched up and forward.  She grabbed for the
side of the hill, clutching at the rocky protrusions at the edge
of the cliff.  Her hair fell forward into her eyes, blinding her
for a second.  

Then hands circled her upper arms and hauled her up and over,
dragging her to her feet and into the circle of warm, strong
arms.  She closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, trapping
the makeshift rope tightly between them as her arms wrapped
around his waist.  She rested her head against his chest, taking
solace in the sound of his heartbeat underneath her--not the
slow, steady beat of traditional reassurance, but the erratic
thumping of panic that had mirrored her own.  

They stayed that way for some time, neither speaking.  It was
Mulder who broke the silence.

"Are you sure you're okay, Scully?  You're not hurt?"

She hesitated.  If she told him about her leg, he would worry,
and there was nothing he could do.  It wouldn't serve any purpose
to tell him, she reasoned.  So she didn't.

"Just a couple scrapes and bruises."  She answered from the
cocoon of his arms,  unwilling to relinquish her hold on him yet. 
He was so solid, wrapped around her, so whole and so real.  She
pressed her hands flat against his back, slowly rubbing the taut
muscles.  "I'm okay, Mulder," she breathed against his chest. 
"I'm okay."

She felt him nod in silent agreement, his chin touching the top
of her head.  She was always amazed that he could make her feel
so safe.  She was a trained special agent.  She could handle, HAD
handled dangerous men twice her size.  But this man had the power
to make her feel safer, more protected  than she had ever felt in
her life.  Just his presence was enough.  

Unthinking, she trailed her hands down to his sides, her
fingertips moving slowly over bare skin.  She felt him shiver and
fleetingly wondered if it was due more to the scare they had had
or her soft touches.  She trailed her nails up and down his sides
in a feathersoft touch and heard his sharp intake of breath.  

Question answered.

Scully smiled into his chest.

Her mind's focus on the day's events began to blur softly as she
relaxed, her clear memories of the day fading into one another,
blurring like wet watercolors until she had only a muted, hazy
understanding of what had happened and how she came to be on this
cliff in Mulder's arms.  She didn't care; she didn't want to
remember the details -- they would come rushing back later
whether she wanted them to or not.  This was enough for now.  It
was all she needed and everything she wanted.  

She concentrated on the sensation of Mulder's warm skin and soft
breath enveloping her.  How many of her days had been filled with
too much blood and death and fear?  She lost count years ago,
because she was hardly fazed by it anymore.  But today it had hit
too close to home.  Today had been an endless bombardment of
ugly, harsh reality, and she just wanted to stand here and not
think about it.  

Her hands rose toward Mulder's shoulders, kneading the tired
muscles.  She couldn't tune it out.  God, she had come so close-- 
so close to losing everything.  Mulder.  Her family.  Her life.  Her 
fingertips moved slowly down to the small of his back, delighting 
in the feel of his bare skin.  She traced light patterns on his 
hips, his thighs, his....

She froze as reality sank in.

"Mulder?"

He didn't move, and she was afraid to.

"Yeah?"

"You're naked."

She felt him smile into her hair.  "Thank you for noticing."


End of part 4


Tempest, part 5


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

2:37 pm

Scully jumped away from him, leaving the bulky cloth rope she had
pinned between them to fall in a puddle at his feet.  Then slowly, as
if trying to give the appearance of utter nonchalance, she turned away
from him, allowing him privacy to redress.  

The act was casual, but he'd seen the color staining her cheeks.
Dr. Dana Scully, expert of forensic pathology, was flustered.  He
couldn't help grinning at the thought.  It amazed him that she still
had the capacity to blush after all they had seen and been through
together -- by rights, she should have been as jaded and cynical and
world-weary as he was.  God, he loved the fact that she wasn't.  

He stooped to pick up his clothes, fumbling over the cloth knots
for a starting place; they were all pulled tight from Scully's
climb.

"You should have said something."

He could hear the censure in her voice.  "I didn't exactly have
time to consult you, Scully."

"That's not what I meant."

Even with his back to her, he could see the exasperation on her
face. "I know what you meant."  

He frowned at the knot he was working, wishing again that he'd
had the foresight to pack extra clothing.  Scully had not only
packed extra clothes, she'd had the presence of mind to change
into them before climbing out of the plane.  She never ceased to
amaze him.  

The material finally moved apart, and he shook out the garments
and stepped into his boxers and suit pants. "You can turn around
now."

She didn't, and he grinned at her absurd sense of decorum in the
face of recent events.  Tactfully, he changed the subject.  "Were you
able to use the radio?"

"No.  Everything was gone."

"Well, there's no point in going after it," he said, tugging at
the knot that connected his dress shirt and T-shirt.  "If it was
repairable before, it's certainly in a million pieces now."  The
knot gave way, and he slipped on the stretched cotton undershirt
and tucked it into the waistband of his pants.  He looked
enviously at Scully's jeans.  She would be a lot more comfortable
during this misadventure than he was going to be.

"We should probably get down there anyway, Mulder.  Our chances
of being seen are going to be a lot greater if we stay with the
plane."

"Exactly, which is why we don't need to be anywhere close to it."

She turned around to look at him.  "Why?"

He put on his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned as he casually
examined the gaping hole in the fabric.  "Because we don't have
any way of knowing whether or not Escabedo was behind the crash. At
this point, and for our own safety, we have to assume he was. And if
that's the case, he'll want confirmation -- he'll send someone to
verify the remains...."

"That's assuming that Escabedo was behind the engine failure,
which we can't prove."

"Are you willing to take that chance?  You want to go back down
there and just wait for whoever shows up?"

"Mulder, I'm not saying I want to paint a bull's eye on my
forehead and jump up and down.  But staying within shouting
distance of the wreckage would increase our odds of being found,
and since the DEA has the flight plan and knows exactly where
they lost contact with Davis, chances are that they'll be there
before Escabedo even knows we're down."  

Mulder walked toward her, lowering his voice out of habit. 
"Okay, then think about this...if Escabedo *is* behind the crash, the
first thing he's going to do is send someone to look for that plane. 
If we're not there, they're going to find Davis alone and start
combing the woods for a runaway blond and her bodyguard. The longer we
can make them believe that Lindsey Carrol is wandering around out
here, the better chance the real Lindsey has to make it to trial."  
He reached out and fingered a strand of her auburn hair, rubbing it
slowly between his thumb and fingers. "If they realize right away that
Lindsey Carrol was never on that plane, they may or may not give up
looking for *us* but they're going to head straight back to Atlanta
and start combing for her all over again."

He scanned her face, watching the play of emotions on her
features as she considered his words.

"You've given this some thought."

He shrugged.  "I thought about it while I was wandering around
looking for you."

Her eyes were unreadable to him.  He thought he glimpsed a trace
of anger in them, but he dismissed it without much thought.  Why
in the world would she be angry?

"Okay," she said quietly.  "On the off chance that you *are*
right, I agree we shouldn't risk it.  I guess the best thing we
can do right now is to make it to the nearest ranger station and
radio our position to someone we know we can trust."  She raised
an eyebrow at him.  "Think there's any such person?"

He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Oooh, a woman after my
own heart.  I love it when you're paranoid."  He stooped down to
pick up the canvas bag at her feet, shouldering it easily.

She didn't smile back.  She looked pale, tired.....distant. 
Hell, she looked positively irritable, he noted. "Something was
still bothering her, he realized, and it had nothing to do with
this case.  The tension between them had been festering for days, and
it started well before the Drug Enforcement Agency had come knocking. 
Mulder had no idea what it was, and judging by the look on her face,
he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  CrankyScully was not one of his
favorite companions.

He unzipped the bag and stuffed his coat into it, filling the
nylon pouch to capacity before he closed it again.  It hung
awkwardly from his shoulder, too full now to be anything but
cumbersome.  He turned slowly in a circle, taking in the
landscape.  "Any idea which way to the nearest McDonald's?"

His attempt at humor fell flat. Nothing. Not even a smile.
"I don't have a clue, Mulder.  But then I was hardly in a
position to sightsee."

"Well then I guess our best bet would be to head back up to the
top of this ridge and see if we can spot any kind of lookout
tower or ranger station."  He turned and started up the path,
turning after a few steps to make sure she was behind him.

She was following quietly -- slowly.  It seemed she was purposely
keeping the distance between them, he noted, continuing up the rocky
hillside.  He looked over his shoulder and made one last attempt at
conversation.  "If we make the top of the ridge within an hour or so,
we should have plenty of time to get started in the right direction
before nightfall."

"Fine."

Her terse reply caught him off guard, but she didn't continue,
and he didn't press it.  Okay, Scully, he thought.  We can play
the quiet game for now.  But sooner or later, you're going to
tell me what's bugging you.  We've got no one to talk to but each
other.

He fell quiet, concentrating on the rocky landscape, listening
occasionally for the sounds of Scully following behind.  She
could have her way for now, he decided.  They had a long
afternoon ahead of them, and probably an even longer night;
tomorrow was too far away to think about.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

6:36 pm

It had been the longest day of Scully's life.  Even without the
crash it had been one long, foggy nightmare from which she
couldn't awake; the crash had just been the final straw.  She
trudged along the rocky trail behind Mulder, keeping him in her
sight, but not following too closely; she needed the distance. 
She hadn't realized how out of shape she had gotten since leaving the
academy, and her injured leg wasn't helping her mobility any. 

One foot in front of the other, Scully, she told herself.  Just
like hiking up Grayson's Ridge with Charlie and Bill.  Just watch the
ground, step carefully, and put one foot in front of the other.  

Her muscles were screaming at her with every step.  All right,
already, she groaned, inwardly addressing her aching limbs.  I
promise I'll go to the gym more often if you'll just get me down
from this mountain.  Her answer was a flash of pain that shot
down her neck and shoulders.  Yeah, well, same to you, she told
her traitorous body. 

She couldn't ask Mulder to stop.  No, that wasn't the truth.  She
*wouldn't* ask -- there was a difference.  They hadn't gone far enough
to take a break; when they had, she would propose a brief stop.

She caught a glimpse of him ahead of her, his work shirt
discarded, T-shirt wet with perspiration, sticking to his back. 
The bag he had taken from her bounced easily against his side,
obviously not bothering him in the least. 

It bothered Scully.  It bothered her a lot.

It bothered her that he had picked it up automatically, relieving her
of a burden she hadn't asked to be relieved of.  A burden, in fact,
that she had fought tooth and nail to hold onto.  He was always doing
that, taking the lead, making decisions, setting the pace.  He was
always the senior agent to her novice; he was always the last word to
her careful suggestion.  He was always the adult treating her like a
child.  Well she wasn't a child, damn it, and she *wanted* her bag!   

God, he was such a ..... a *man* sometimes.  She stumbled lightly on
the loose rocks lining the hillside and fleetingly considered chucking
one of the small pebbles toward him.  A fiendishly childish act, to be
sure, but one that would feel so good. 

A pine sprig slapped her in the face and she swatted it away,
scraping her hand in the process.  Tiny beads of blood surfaced
on her skin, and she wiped them away on her jeans.

Her jeans.  Another perfect example of the Y chromosome at work.
How in the hell could he have failed to notice that she had
changed clothes?  He was a Special Agent of the FBI, for God's
sake.  He had a photographic memory on top of that.  And yet it
somehow "slipped his notice" that her wardrobe changed completely from
point-of-impact to site-of-rescue?

Typical Mulder. Hell, it was *vintage* Mulder.

Mulder and every other man in the world.  They all had that
annoyingly selective attention span.  The one that let them tune
out the sound of the telephone ringing off the hook right next to
them, but allowed them to hear every bit of television sports
commentary over the din of the civil defense siren blaring in the
middle of a thunderstorm.

She watched him up ahead, gaining higher ground, turning around
every once in awhile to make sure she was following.  

Well she was.  Hell, wasn't she always?  That was *exactly* what
she had become, she groused:  a follower to his leadership.

Mulder might not have noticed that she changed clothes, and
obviously couldn't be bothered to notice she was limping, but by
God, if there was a bag to be carried or a pace to be set, he
would be the one to do both.  And the worst part, she admitted,
was that she had allowed it to get to this point.  How many times had
she acquiesced when she should have held her ground?  How much of
herself had she sacrificed to keep up with Mulder?  Too much, she
thought.  And she was just beginning to realize how much she resented
it.

>From twenty yards ahead, Mulder paused and turned to face her. 
They were near the top, and it was obvious he had seen something; he
was grinning like a boy scout on a nature hike.  He looked totally
invigorated.   

She felt completely drained.

She climbed steadily toward him, thankful that the pain in her
leg had been replaced by total numbness over an hour ago.  She
felt absurdly pleased with herself that she had kept him from
noticing.  It was her injury, her cross to bear.  And she'd be
damned if she'd give him control over her mobility.

She reached him quietly, leaning against the roughened bark of a
large pine tree to catch her breath.

"There's a lookout tower halfway up the next ridge.  We won't
make it tonight, but we should be able to get there tomorrow. 
There may be a radio."

Scully nodded.  "You want to camp here tonight?"  God please let
him say yes, she thought.  She'd managed okay for most of the
day, but her leg was growing heavier and heavier with every step. She
didn't know how much longer she could keep up with him.

"I guess we ought to start thinking about making camp," he
agreed.  "We don't have a lot of options."

She looked up at a sky resplendent in deep shades of pink and
orange.  It was later than she'd realized.  "No, we don't," she
readily agreed.  Darkness would come fast, Scully knew, and when
it came, it would be complete.  Impenetrable.   "I guess this is
as good a place as any." 

He looked at the small clearing, sizing it up, finding it,
ultimately to his satisfaction.  "I'll go round up some
firewood."  He walked away into the lengthening shadows.

Scully watched him go without a sound, sliding down the length of the
tree trunk until she was sitting on the ground with her legs stretched
out in front of her.  She was too tired to muster any real indignation
at his hunter/gatherer mentality.  Mulder was the least of her
problems now, she was beginning to realize.

She had no sensation at all in her left leg, and while the
numbness had served her well today, she knew it would be in worse
shape tomorrow, after a night of inactivity.  It was probably going to
get infected. If so, she would know it tomorrow.  

"Then what," she whispered.  "Then what will I do?"

She didn't have an answer.  And it scared the hell out of her.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

10:47 pm

Flickering firelight danced in the blackness, leaping and
stretching in a myriad of ways, illuminating those objects
closest to the campfire, encompassing them within an illusion of
light and safety.  But beyond the small circle of orange warmth,
the liquid radiance spread slow, deep shadows into the unfamiliar
woods, dissolving far too quickly into the larger, smothering darkness
of the Appalachian wilderness.

Stretched out on the forest floor on a blanket of pine needles,
Scully shifted uncomfortably, trying yet again to concentrate on
Mulder's incessant rambling, unable to focus on anything beyond
the all-consuming pain in her left leg.  She rolled onto her
left side and breathed a sigh of relief as the wretched burning
subsided.

"Don't you think, Scully?"

"Uh huh."  She had no idea what she was agreeing with.

Why couldn't she sleep?  Was it the darkness?  The stillness? 
They'd never really bothered her before, and she'd camped dozens
of times as a child.

She stifled an urge to fluff the twigs underneath her, knowing
that no matter how she patted and arranged them, they would never
transform into her big soft bed at home.  Instead, she pushed the
image of home from her mind and pulled her jacket up snugly underneath
her chin like a blanket, crossing her arms underneath it.  It covered
her from chin to hips in the front, leaving the small campfire to warm
her legs.  The comforting warmth she felt lightly against her back,
was Mulder.  

"....was that how you interpreted it?"

Oh.  He was talking to her now.  "Um, yeah.  That was pretty much how
I interpreted it."

Mulder seemed satisfied with her response, because he began the
droning again.  God, she'd never been this tired in her life.  So why
couldn't she sleep?  She was warm, she was exhausted, she was
relatively safe, given that both she and Mulder were armed.  If they
*were* approached by an animal, despite their meager campfire, they
could easily defend themselves.  

The sound of Mulder's voice behind her began to grate on her
nerves.  It seemed he had been talking ever since they had
finished their dinner.  Dinner.  Ha.  That was a laugh.  Five
miniature Three Musketeers bars each and one shared bottle of
Evian.  Not the most nutritiously balanced mean she'd ever had,
but her stomach hadn't cared.  At the time it seemed nothing had
ever tasted better.  Even the lukewarm water was exceptionally
good.  

Water.  They needed water. They would have to find a water source
soon; the small six pack of Evian was going fast.  What kind of
National Park was this where there wasn't even a meandering brook, she
wondered?  

Behind her, Mulder continued his monologue.  "...if that's okay
with you."

"That's fine with me, Mulder."   She hoped it was.  Damn, her leg
hurt.  I should tell him, she thought.  He'll be angry if I don't tell
him. But her pride still refused to let her say the words.  

Oh, who gives a shit if he's angry, she decided at last.  It's
not like he can do anything about it.  And telling him will only
give him more reason to act like he needs to make all the
decisions and I can't do anything for myself.  

She nodded in the darkness, pleased to have won the argument with
herself.  He should have known anyway, she thought unreasonably. She
always knew when *he* wasn't well.  

She was suddenly aware of the silence.  Was he waiting for her to say
something?  

"I'm sorry, Mulder, what did you say?"

He didn't respond.

"Mulder?"

Finally, the steady sound of deep breathing answered her, and she was
filled with an overwhelming sense of resentment.

Sleeping.  The son of a bitch was sleeping.  One minute they were
having a conversation, and the next minute he was off in slumberland. 

Okay, she conceded, maybe she hadn't exactly been holding up her
end of the conversation this evening, but if he had an ounce of
common sense, he'd know why.  He should know why, she groused. 
She frowned into the darkness.  

Unbelievable.  Even his subconscious ditched her.

Scully closed her eyes, calling up comforting visions of home and
family.  She could rest, at least.  She could lay here and relax and
think about getting out of this entire DEA fiasco.  And if sleep
continued to elude her, she would deal with the fatigue tomorrow, and
Mulder would be predictably oblivious.

A cool breeze swept over her face, caressing her cheek and
ruffling her hair.  She shivered, snuggling down under her jacket and
curling her legs up as far as she could without hurting herself.  She
inched back towards Mulder in search of the warmth his body provided,
pressing her back tighter against his.  She found the warmth she
sought, but not the comfort. The comfort was gone, taken away without
warning.  The comfort was sleeping. 

Her leg began to ache again, and Scully bit her bottom lip to
keep from moaning as she steeled  herself against the hot
sensations.  Eventually, through the haze of pain, her
subconscious began to beckon her toward the soft void of sleep,
and in her mind, Scully walked toward the dreamscape slowly,
almost painfully.

And alone.  

Always alone.


End of Part 5


Tempest, part 6

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

3:37 am

He was cold. No matter what he did, he couldn't get warm.  He
stood, sick and trembling outside Scully's door, praying he would
still be standing when she opened it.   The door swung open
suddenly and he stumbled inside, off-balance as she reached
out to steady him.

"Oh.  Mulder."   Her arms went around him.  "Thank God."

He felt sick.  And fuzzy.  There was so much blood.  They would
think he did it.  They would think he killed his father.

Scully reached a cool hand toward his face, gasping as she made
contact with his skin.  "Look at you.  You're sick."  She closed
the door and reached for the zipper of his jacket, yanking it
downward in an effort to take it from him.

"Let's get this coat off."

Didn't she know he was cold?  He was so cold.  He just wanted to
sit down.  "No, I'm okay."  He slumped into the chair beside her
door.

"No, don't."  She pulled him up.  

Why wouldn't she let him rest?

"I want you to lie down."

He moved toward the chair again.

"Don't," she repeated.  "I want you to lie down.  Come on, take
your coat off."  She unhooked the zipper of his jacket and pulled
it from him.  

He gave up this time, shrugging out of it.  He would just have to
be cold.  "We have to find them, Scully."  

She didn't seem to be listening.  She pushed him ahead of her
down the hall and into her bedroom.  Everything was blurry.  *He*
felt blurry.  She guided him toward the bed and he sat down,
craving the coolness of her hands as she stroked his face and the
back of his neck.  She leaned him back toward the pillows, her
silken touch everywhere on him.  She would take care of him.  She
would take care of everything.  

He stretched out on her bed and she walked away from him
suddenly.  She was leaving.  

Scully, don't leave me.

Dad, don't leave me.

His father was gone.

He struggled to a sitting position, ignoring the dizziness that
engulfed him.  He looked down the hall where Scully had
disappeared.  "We've got to find out who killed my father."

And then magically, she was back.  Her hand closed around the
back of his neck and eased him back to the pillow.  "Well right
now, you need to rest," she told him, placing a cool cloth on his
forehead.  

It felt good.  It made him feel better.

"Rest," Scully whispered.

She sounded far away.  She sounded so tired.  He didn't want to
rest.

"It's okay," he heard her breathe close to his ear.  "It's okay."

He slept, and the coldness left him.

He was unaware when she had joined him in bed.  He only knew that
at some point in the night, she had begun to talk in her sleep.

"I'm okay," she whispered.  "I'm okay, Mulder."

He rolled over onto his side, taking in the pallor of her face. 
She was trembling all over.  She didn't look okay.  She looked
cold.  He reached out to touch her cheek, surprised to find it
unnaturally hot.  Scully's eyelids fluttered below the damp cloth
on her forehead.  Had she been sick?  She must be sick.  

"I'm cold, Mulder."

Her skin was so hot.  What was wrong with her?  He couldn't see
anything wrong with her.  But the bed began to shake from the
force of her trembling, and she began to moan softly in her
sleep.  He reached out for her, and she sighed when he touched
her.  Feeling reassured that he was doing the right thing, he
gathered her to him, ignoring the heat of her skin, and wrapped
himself around every inch of her as she trembled from cold he
couldn't feel, and battled demons he couldn't see.

Slowly, the shudders that racked her body began to subside, and
she relaxed against him.  He felt unbelievably tired now.  Scully
sighed and rolled over on top of him, sleeping peacefully at last
with one arm stretched up around his neck and the other curled
under her chin like a small child.  She weighed nothing, he
thought, nothing at all.  Almost as if she wasn't there.

He was dreaming.  He knew it then. But he didn't want to pull
himself out of it.  He wasn't ready to let it go.  Instead, he
anchored himself tighter into the dream, wrapping his arms around
the small waist of his dream Scully, content merely to be next to
her, even within the innocence of sleep. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *
  
6:46 am

The unusually loud song of birds close by broke through the thin
veil of sleep that covered Scully, pulling her softly into the
vague awareness of morning consciousness.  Eyes closed, she
reached her right arm out in a slow languid stretch.  Lord, she
was tired, and her bed felt so good, she just wanted to sleep all
day.  But the unmistakable light of day was evident even through
closed eyelids, and Scully knew she had to get up.  Her alarm
would probably go off any minute. 

Her alarm?  Her alarm hadn't gone off.

Since when did her bed smell like Mulder?

She opened her eyes, squinting away the morning glare, and
blinking rapidly against the unrelenting sunshine.  She was
outside. 

The crash came back to her in a wave, wiping away every trace of
sleepiness.  She was miraculously alive...and she was lying
completely on top of a sleeping Fox Mulder.  At some point during
the night, she had rolled over on top of him and obviously found
him more comfortable than the twigs she had gone to sleep on. 
Not an inch of her touched the ground.  Her left arm was straight
down beside her, resting along the length of his torso, her right
arm was curled under her chin.  Her legs were stretched down the
length of his, the toes of her shoes pointing in toward each
other at Mulder's shins.

Bit by bit, Scully's awareness of her body came fully into focus.

Her growling stomach was the first to complain.  She was
ravenous.  Nothing she could do about that one.  Her head hurt. 
Damn.  There was nothing worse than a morning headache -- they
were the hardest to get rid of.  But at least she had some
aspirin in her bag somewhere.  Next?  She *really* had to go to
the bathroom.  There was only one way to take care of that one. 
She sighed.

Slowly, trying desperately not to disturb Mulder, she put her
hand down on the ground beside him and attempted to raise
herself.  She failed miserably.

Not only could she not lift her body from his, she realized with
horror...she couldn't move at all.

Not an inch.

Nothing.

She was one big sore muscle -- completely immobile.  

Move, damn it, she commanded her body.  Oh God, she thought,
don't let him wake up and find me like this.

One by one, she began carefully testing her limbs, flexing and
relaxing her muscles to gauge the damage.  It didn't look good. 
Her arms were stiff and sore, her back was aching already.  She
couldn't seem to move her legs at all.

Concentrating intensely, she managed to bend her right leg,
dropping her foot over the side of Mulder's leg, feeling a twinge
of hope that she could eventually work her way off of him bit by
methodical bit.  The stiffness she would worry about later.  

Her optimism was short lived however.  Her body straining with
every movement, she inadvertently pressed her hips hard into
Mulder's as she fought for control of her muscles.

And Mulder's body responded instantly.

She went completely still, trying not notice the growing hardness
underneath her, but her own body's response made it impossible. 
Her mouth went dry, her nipples hardened against his chest.  Her
heart began to pound furiously. 

Not good, she thought.  This is not good.  

The only thing that kept her from being completely mortified was
the knowledge that his body reacted to hers of its own volition,
while he continued to sleep. As if on cue, the birds began their
morning song again, louder than any birds Scully had ever heard,
loud enough to wake the dead, she thought. 

Loud enough to wake Mulder.

No, no no, Scully thought frantically.  Shut up.  But the aria
was in full swing.

Mulder's arm went around her waist and hugged her gently.

Oh God.

Dreading what she knew she was going to see, Scully lifted her
head, groaning with the effort, and found herself staring
straight into Fox Mulder's very wide awake hazel eyes.  His body
surged underneath her, and she felt the heat in her cheeks as she
realized she was completely incapable of rolling off of him.  She
didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.  She simply stared
at him.  She'd never been in a more awkward position -- and she'd
never been more aroused in her life.

He didn't say a word.  He didn't make a move toward her, even as
his body continued talk to hers.  His breathing was as shallow as
her own, she noted, and he swallowed hard a couple of times. 
After what seemed an eternity, he lifted his head from the
ground, his face drawing closer, his lips nearing hers.  She
readied herself for the inevitable contact as his arm tightened
around her waist.

"Ooh!"  She couldn't suppress the cry of surprise as Mulder sat
up without warning and rolled her off of him in a single fluid
motion.  Her bottom hit the ground with a solid thump, sending
waves of pain to every muscle in her body.  Before she could
even process what had just happened, he had disappeared into the
surrounding trees.

Pressed against the rough terrain, her injured leg felt like it
was on fire, and it was the motivation to alleviate that agony
that finally prompted Dana Scully to stagger to her feet, wincing
with every movement.

She looked toward the trees where Mulder had disappeared and
began limping slowly in the other direction to attend her own
private needs.  Above her, the mockingbirds whistled shrilly,
their loud unceasing song beginning to grate on her nerves. 
"Obnoxious little bastards," she muttered.

She wouldn't think about Mulder, she told herself.  She wouldn't
give a second thought to what had almost happened.  It was
obvious his arousal had been induced by sleep and her intimate
contact -- not because he wanted her.

She looked down at her dirty jeans and her scratched hands,
wishing desperately for a toothbrush to eliminate a few of the
tiny little sweaters that seemed to cover her teeth.  Gosh,
Mulder, she thought, pulling a leaf from her hair.  What's not to
want?

The sound of her bitter laughter rang clear through quiet
mountain morning.  Overhead, the birds laughed back.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

7:03 am

Mulder was already back in the clearing, pacing restlessly when
she returned.  She walked carefully toward him, determined not to
show the pain that coursed through her with every step.  It would
get better, she promised herself.  She would walk out the
stiffness and it would get better.  She hadn't looked at the
wound this morning.  Her makeshift bandage was still firmly in
place, and she knew if she had taken the time to unwrap and
examine it, Mulder would have come looking for her.  Since she
couldn't clean it anyway, she had left it alone.  It wasn't worth
the argument it would cause if he knew.  

He turned to face her as she approached, seemingly oblivious to
her discomfort, and she was relieved.  When she realized he
wasn't going to bring up their early morning encounter, she was
doubly relieved.  Then she got her first good look at him, and
her relief turned to alarm.

"Mulder!  Oh my God, your face!"  The purple bruise high on his
cheekbone had escaped her notice this morning when he had lifted
his head, and his hair had covered the deep scratches on his
forehead.  

"It's nothing," he told her.  "Doesn't even hurt."

He winced slightly as she pushed his hair out of the way to get a
better look.  "Liar."

His lips twitched.  "Okay.  It hurts a little.  But not nearly as
much as my shoulder.  How are *you* feeling this morning?"

She ignored the question.  "Your shoulder?"

"I'm fine, Scully."

"Uh huh.  Let me check it."

He sighed.  "How come it works when *you* say it?"

She chuckled.  "Because you're a wise man." She walked around to
stand behind him.  "Right or left?"

"Left," he replied.  "It's just bruised, Scully.  I think I
probably landed on it yesterday."

"Take your shirt off, and let me look at it," she ordered.

He complied without comment, wincing as her fingers probed the
sensitive area on his back.

"Well, it's ten shades of purple, and it'll probably be fifteen
shades of blue and green before it's done, but I don't think
anything's separated or torn."  She walked back to face him,
indicating he could redress.  "It's going to be awfully sore
though.  I think you better take it easy today, Mulder," she told
him casually.  "Don't over do anything.  Pace yourself today."

Smooth, Scully, she congratulated herself.  Make him slow down
and think he's doing it for himself.  You are good, you know
that?

"It doesn't hurt when I walk, Scully.  I'm fine.  Are you ready
to go?" 

Damn.  "I think so," she sighed.  "Just let me get the bag."

Mulder began kicking dirt over the black ashes of what had been
their campfire, as Scully walked toward the canvas bag, mentally
taking inventory of the contents.  Their limited supplies weren't
going to support them longer than a day, she knew.  She picked up
the bag and shouldered it, absently patting the side of it.  It
wasn't much, but it was all they had.  Two more meals worth of
Three Musketeers, and enough bottled water to last the day if
they were frugal.  Aside from that, they were painfully short on
anything remotely helpful.  Their jackets, the antibiotic cream
and syringe of Demerol, a lighter she had thrown in as an
afterthought when she saw it in the plane, and Mulder's glasses.

Mulder's glasses.

Oh God.  Where were they?  She had wrapped them in her jacket
before leaving the plane, but then she had slept under her jacket
last night and she hadn't seen them.  Where were they?   She
pulled the bag around to the front and unzipped it, pawing 
through it roughly, removing her wadded up jacket and Mulder's to
get a better look inside.  The glasses were gone.  She had no
idea what had happened to them.

She'd lost them, she thought, somewhat dazed.  She'd managed to
save them from the wreckage only to lose them within a day.  She
blinked hard, embarrassed to realize she was close to tears.  She
wasn't a crier.  Dana Scully had never been a crier.  But she'd
never been in a plane crash before, either, she consoled herself. 
It was stress.

That had to be it.  Just stress.

She sniffed and blinked back the last of her remorse, pulling out
the antibiotic cream and returning the rest of the items to the
bag.  She and Mulder had both lost things in the crash --
clothing, personal items, paperwork.  It could all be replaced --
even his glasses.  She just wouldn't tell him she had ever taken
them from the plane.  It seemed less of a failure that way. 
Somewhat mollified, she zipped the bag and turned to her partner.

"Here," she said, waving the tube of cream at him.  "Let me put
some of this on your forehead before we go.

He nodded allowing her to administer the ointment liberally
before returning it to the bag.   "Okay," he told her, breaking
the short silence that had fallen between them.  "We're heading
west now, and I figure from the last point where we could see the
lookout tower that we're about a good ten or eleven miles from
it.  We won't know for sure until we crest the next hill, but for
now, let's just head this way.  Hopefully we'll find a stream or
a river before lunch time.  Okay?"

She sighed, looking through the trees at a day's worth of
mosquitoes and discomfort.  Fuck it, she wanted to say.

"I'm ready if you are," she said.

Mulder turned and walked easily into the trees.  Limping slightly
after her long-legged partner, she left the clearing without a
look back.  It hadn't been an outright lie, she thought -- she
was as ready as she was going to get today.  Mulder just didn't
have a clue how "not ready" that was.

End of Part 6


Tempest, part 7

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

1:13 pm

Mulder swatted away an errant pine branch and winced as the
needles added yet another jagged scratch to his hand.  He ran his
knuckles across the fabric of his pants, wiping away the blood
beginning to bead.  Sweat ran down the back of his neck and
disappeared into the damp fabric of his T-shirt.  It was too goddamned
hot for barely being May.  Wasn't it supposed to be cool in the
mountains?

As Scully followed several steps behind him, lost in her own
thoughts and observations, Mulder continued walking down the
sloping landscape, slipping now and then on the overlapping piles of
fallen leaves.  Occasionally, there were squirrels and rabbits that
bounded across his path.  Once, he saw a snake.  He hadn't mentioned
that one to Scully.  She hated snakes, and with the mood she was in
now, he just wasn't sure how she would have taken it.

He was beginning to feel discouraged.  Despite the hours they'd
been walking, they weren't making good progress at all.  His
muscles were screaming at him with every step, and although she
hadn't mentioned it, Scully was obviously faring even worse.  She was
limping noticeably, stumbling along several paces behind him. He'd
slowed down automatically when he realized she was struggling to keep
up.  Not that she'd been forthcoming about it. Oh no, not stoic
Special Agent Scully.  She hadn't complained once -- hadn't really
said anything at all outside of basic small talk when they'd stopped
for lunch -- but Mulder knew something was eating away at his partner,
and she stubbornly refused to tell him what it was.  

At first, he had thought she was hiding an injury from him.  But
the longer she kept her silence, the more certain he became that
it had something to do with their uncomfortable encounter that
morning.

Uncomfortable?  Hell, that was the understatement of the decade.
Waking up with the soft inviting form of Dana Scully stretched out
prone like a blanket on top of him was hardly uncomfortable -- it was
exquisite.  He hadn't awakened to a hard-on that intense since high
school.  And judging from the look on Scully's face this morning,
she'd been horrified at his body's response. Now she was keeping her
distance.  

It wasn't like he'd done it on purpose, he rationalized; some
things were just automatic.  Still, he knew first hand how
seriously Scully took her professionalism.  Her status with the
Bureau depended on it.  As a woman, and a small, attractive woman at
that, she had to be on guard all the time.  Mulder knew the ugly truth
that Scully fought so hard against: men take advantage at every
opportunity.  Did Scully think that about him now?  That he had tried
to take advantage?  That he had propositioned her?

Christ.  *Had* he propositioned her?  There had been a moment
when he wasn't sure.  They had stared at each other, neither
saying a word, but the reality of their position was all too
evident to them both.  The truth was, he could have broken the
contact sooner...but then so could she.  He honestly hadn't been
sure what he was seeing in her expression, and so he had waited,
hoping she would say or do something that would give him a clue
as to what his next move should be.  

In a way, she had.  Her silence had ultimately moved him to roll her
off of him before he humiliated himself completely.  But one
word...just one...and things might have been different.

What had she been thinking, he wondered.  Why hadn't she said
anything?  And why, he asked himself, was he agonizing over
something that hadn't been his fault?  She could have moved. 
She could have broken the silence.

The silence.  Scully was a paradigm of it lately.  This morning
had just been one more piece of the unending jigsaw puzzle that
had become their relationship.  He didn't know where he stood
with her anymore, and it was really beginning to piss him off.

He stopped walking.  God, it just hit him this very second.  He
really was pissed off.  Scully had been acting strangely for days now
and treating him as though he should know exactly what was going
through her mind.  Well he didn't know how to read minds, and he
surely wouldn't hazard a guess as to what was going through one as
paradoxical as Dana Scully's.

No.  She was going to have to tell him.  Spell it out.  Come
clean.  And he would pry it out of her tonight if he had to use a
fucking crowbar.  She owed him that much.  She did.

"Mulder?"  

Her voice startled him.  "Huh?"

"What's wrong?"

That's the million dollar question, isn't it, he thought. 
"Nothing," he told her.  "I was waiting for you to catch up."

Her lips thinned.  "Sorry to have held you up."

If she was looking for an apology, she wasn't going to get one. 
"No problem," he told her, turning to start back down the path,
ignoring the surprised look on her face.  He took several steps
before he heard her make a move to follow.

Oh yeah, he thought, slapping another pine branch out of his way.
Tonight it was going to be resolved one way or another.  And he really
didn't give a shit whether or not she was ready to talk about whatever
it was.  He was ready enough for both of them.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

3:42 p.m.

Scully really needed to stop long enough to get a good look at
the back of her leg.  She could feel the wetness seeping through
the bandage and into the fabric of her jeans.  Oozing wetness
wasn't good, wasn't good at all.  If she could see it, she could
verify the infection -- gauge how long she had before the
situation became critical.  Losing her leg was a real
possibility, she knew, and it all hinged upon the amount of
tissue damage she sustained before beginning antibiotic
treatment.  

Another wave of acid burning pain shot down her limb and she
moaned softly.  She had to be realistic.  Losing her leg was only one
of the extreme possibilities that was becoming less and less extreme
with every passing second.  Left untreated under these conditions, the
cut could easily be life-threatening.  She needed to look at it.  She
needed to, but she wouldn't.  God forbid Special Agent Chuck Yeager up
ahead be forced to wait for her again.  No, she could go as long as he
could.  She'd wait for *him* to stop.  To hell with complaining -- she
was her father's daughter.  She could endure. 

A waist-high cluster of golden wildflowers caught her eye and she
brushed her fingertips lightly across the soft petals.  She loved the
velvety softness of flounders.  It was lovely at the beach this time
of year.  She straightened and shook her head.  Where had that come
from?  She looked ahead.  Mulder was farther away than she realized. 
With a deep groan, she limped after him.  

The pain really wasn't so bad once she made up her mind to ignore it,
she thought.  The weather was nice, and the sun was casting the most
interesting shadows all around her.  Some of them actually moved. 
Weird.  She'd never noticed that before -- it must be a mountain
thing, she decided.

She tripped on a rock and took a small skip to regain her
footing.  She laughed out loud, and the sound seemed far away. 
She hadn't skipped since she was a little girl.  Skipping. 
Hopscotch.  Missy's childish voice came floating back to her. 
You're out, Dana.  You stepped on the line.  I did not.  Did too. Did
not.  You're such a baby!  You're such a pukeface.  You're a butthole.
 Mom!  Missy called me a butthole! 

Missy called me the night she was killed.  The phone rang
shrilly.  Don't answer, Mom.  There's been an accident.  Melissa
was shot.  Shot.  C'mon Dana.  Do another shot.  The tequila
burned her throat as she swallowed and placed the slice of lemon
in her mouth.  The party was in full swing.  How long will your
folks be out of town?

You're going out of town again?  Her mother's voice was
reproachful.  I have to, Mom.  That's part of my job.  Agent
Mulder sees more of you than I do these days.  Well we're even,
Mom -- I see just as much of him.  Do you enjoy the view?  MOM!

It's a nice view, she thought dreamily, staring at the slightly
blurry backside of her partner several yards ahead of her.  Such
a nice ass, she marveled.  It was an ass that should be carved
into the side of a mountain somewhere 200 feet tall people could
make pilgrimages to it on vacation.  Mt. Muldermore.  And that
was her professional opinion too.  She was a doctor -- she knew
about these things.  Great ass.  World class ass.

Mom! Dana's cussing!  She keeps saying "ass."  Did not!  Did too! Did
not!  Did too!  Liar!  Tattletale!  Tattle...tattle...
battle...rattle...rattlesnakes?  Her brother's voice now, so close by.
 Very, very close by.  A rattlesnake can kill you within 20 minutes if
it bites you more than once.  She hated snakes.  Hated them.  Mulder
hated bugs.  But he had liked the bug girl.  What was her name? 
Fluffy?  Barbie?

No. Baaaaaambi. That was it, she scoffed.  Hmph.  Real people
weren't named Bambi.  Nobody was *really* named Bambi.  Fucking
deer.  She hated Bambi.  It was her least favorite Disney movie.
Disney.  Pbbbbbbbbbt.  What was WITH all those little characters
losing their parents?  What kind of freakin' sadist WAS that Walt
Disney, anyway?  Bambi, Dumbo, Ariel, Simba, and oh...that little
Jungle Book kid in the loincloth.  

She wished she was wearing a loincloth.  She was too damn hot to
be traipsing around out here in the bright sun.  She'd feel
better if she could rest.  Just a few minutes.  The world spun
around her, making her stomach lurch like she was on a roller
coaster.  Whee.  Free ride.  She almost giggled at the thought,
then sobered as her equilibrium returned with the slightest bit
of mental acuity.  She'd made a mistake keeping her injury from
Mulder.  She should have told him.  He was going to be angry.

Are you mad at me Mom?  Her mother's hand still held the crumpled note
from Mrs. Allegro.  I'm not mad, Dana.  I'm disappointed in you. 
Tears begin to slip down Dana's cheeks.  I think I'd rather have you
mad at me.  

So long ago.  So far away.  

Mulder was so far away.  He looked to be miles ahead of her now. Why
didn't he see she wasn't there?  He was leaving her.  He was leaving
her alone.  She could keep up better is she didn't have to drag around
this heavy bag.  Why wasn't Mulder carrying the bag?  He should have
been carrying the bag.  It was so heavy.

I didn't mean to drop it, Missy.  I just wanted to look at it.  I
didn't know it was heavy.  More tears.  Comforting arms around her. 
It's okay, honey.  Don't cry.  I didn't like that figurine
anyway...I'm gonna get a crystal one that matches my room.  One that
matches...

You're not supposed to play with matches, Bill.  You're gonna get it
if Daddy catches you.  Who's gonna tell him, Dana Raina? Matches start
forest fires -- my teacher said so.  So I won't go near the forest.

Don't go near the forest.  Don't go near the forest.   My name's
Forrest Gump.  People call me Forrest Gump.  You can't be
serious, Mulder.  *Everyone* has seen Forrest Gump.  I keep
meaning to get around to it, I just haven't had time.

The thoughts swirled through her foggy mind.  No time.  No time.
Running out of time.  Wasted time.  Tired.  So tired.  So much blood. 
Alone now.  No Mulder.

Mulder was gone.

Through tear-filled eyes, Scully scanned the wooded landscape. 
When did she fall so far behind?  She'd completely lost sight of
Mulder and not even realized it.  How long ago had it been? 
Seconds?  Five minutes?  An hour?  She had no concept of time. 
Everything was distorted and wobbly.  Everything moved.  Even the
ground was moving.  Was she moving?  She wasn't moving.  When had she
stopped moving?  

She stood, wavering on unreliable legs, and lifted her face into
the soft breeze met her from the east.  Which way were they
walking again?  She didn't know, and she'd never figure it out
without Mulder.  She hadn't been paying attention. 

"Scully!"

Mulder's voice reached her distantly, like the cry of a small
animal imagined through the roar of a summer storm.  She spun
around, looking for a sign of him, seeing nothing but trees.  The
sudden movement stole the last of her balance, and she knew she was
going to fall.

Her knees buckled and she pitched forward, scraping her palms
across the rock-strewn ground as she broke her fall.  She ignored the
pain in her hands.  All she could feel was the pain in her leg. 

"Scully!"  Mulder's voice was closer now. 

"I'm here."  She yelled the words, but her voice resounded in her head
as the thinnest of whispers.  

He found her anyway.  Struggling to stand despite the
heart-stopping agony of her leg, she suddenly found herself
looking directly at his outstretched hand.

She slapped it away.  "I don't need your help."  Her words
sounded thick...not like her own voice at all.

"Scully what is going on?" he asked as she dragged herself to her
feet.  "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong," she mumbled.  "I need some privacy,
Mulder."  She hobbled off toward the trees.

"Scully?"

"Just give me a minute.  I'm fine."  She straightened her back
and walked slowly and deliberately away from her partner, praying with
every step she took, that she hadn't lied to him.  But in her heart
she knew the truth.  Fine was the very last thing she was.


End of part 7

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

     This author's email address has changed to: Joseechung@aol.com

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

Tempest, part 8


*  *  *  *  *  *  *


Mulder watched Scully wobble into the heavily wooded area,
waiting until she was well in front of him before he began to
follow.  He'd known something was wrong for a long time, but
he had hoped she would confide in him what it was.  From the way
she'd shoved his hand away when he tried to help her up, he felt
pretty sure that the admission was not forthcoming.

Watching her limp away from him with agonizing deliberation, he
was equally sure he'd finally put all the pieces together.  She'd
been hurt in the crash.  God, it was so obvious now.  She'd been
hurt and she'd hidden it from him and he'd been a fucking asshole
for not figuring it out sooner.  Well he was going to know all
about it now, or they wouldn't take another step.  Dana Scully
wasn't the only one who knew how to issue an ultimatum.  

Without a sound, he followed the path she had taken, closing the
gap between them.  

He found her half-dressed, leaning against the trunk of a large
tree as she tried to unwind a makeshift bandage from around her
left leg.  Her face was drawn and pale, streaked with dirt where
her tears had rolled down her cheeks.  She'd been crying?  He
could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Scully in
tears.  If she'd been crying, it was worse than he'd anticipated.
He cursed himself for every kind of fool that he hadn't called
her on her erratic behavior earlier.  He should have known she
was covering.

He should have, but he hadn't.

In silence, he stood behind her, watching in amazement as she
unraveled more and more of the bloody bandage from her thigh. 
Her shuddery breath caught in a muffled sob, and his heart
twisted at the sound; she didn't want him to hear her cry.  He
shook his head, dumbfounded by what he was seeing.  She was still
trying to keep it from him, still trying to keep the pace that he
had set for them both -- a pace that he had complained more than
once was too slow.  Now he knew why.

God, he was an jerk sometimes.

He walked toward her quietly, not drawing her attention until he
was standing almost beside her.  A twig snapped underfoot as he
approached her and she jumped as if she'd been shot, looking at
him with a guilty expression that quickly transformed into one of
irritation. 

"Don't you ever knock, Mulder?"

Hostile.  She was definitely hostile.

He was unfazed by her attitude.  "The door was open," he replied
quietly.  His eyes were fixed on the bandage she held loosely in
her hands.  There was blood.  A lot of blood.  "Jesus, Scully,"
he breathed.  "Why didn't you say something?"

"It's nothing, Mulder," she told him, trying to rewrap her leg
before he could see otherwise.  "I just need a few minutes,
that's all."

He closed the rest of the distance between them, fully taking in
for the first time the pallor on her face.  She was almost grey. 
"Nothing, huh?  Is that why you fell back there?  Because it's
nothing?"  His voice rose in anger.  "Is that why you look like
you're about to pass out now?  Because it's nothing?"  The words
sounded angrier than he meant for them to.

"For God's sake, Mulder, I'm a doctor.  I've looked at it -- it's
nothing.  And I'm not about to faint."  She glared at him, but
the attitude didn't disguise the pain in her eyes.  

He didn't bite.  "Sit down," he ordered.  "I want to look at it."
He gave her a look that dared her to argue, and she complied
without comment, awkwardly easing herself down beneath the tree,
leaning against it with a tired sigh as she stretched her legs
out in front of her.  

He crouched down, untying and removing her shoes, tugging lightly
on the legs of her jeans to pull them off completely.  They slid
easily from her shapely legs and he tossed them aside absently as
she shifted her weight onto her right hip, giving him access to
her left leg.  There was not a hint of self-consciousness in her
actions, no misplaced modesty for the fact that she sat before
him clad only in a T-shirt and bikini panties.  She looked
resigned.  Tired.  Sick.  

He felt ill himself.

He began to unwrap the bandage from her upper leg.  Layer by
layer the thin cloth came away from the wound, until at last he
had revealed the entire length of the fiendish cut that ran down
her thigh.  He looked at it closely, steeling himself to maintain
a scientifically-detached scrutiny. 

He wanted to throw up.

The deep, jagged cut was crusted with dried blood around the
edges, but the center of the wound oozed freely, a combination of
blood and dirt that Mulder knew was a haven for infection. 
Already, the skin around the cut was red and puffy, making the
edges of the wound pucker upward, widening the gash.

"It's bad, isn't it?" Scully whispered.  

Her head was turned away, her gaze averted.  She could easily
have twisted far enough to see the cut herself, but she didn't
try and he was glad.  However it might have looked when she
dressed it, he didn't think she had the stomach to see it now. 
He certainly didn't.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Is it infected?"

He considered lying to her, but it would have been pointless. 
She would know.  She *did* know.  She was only asking for
confirmation.

He ran a hand tiredly across his stubbled cheek.  "Yeah.  It's
infected."

She nodded silently, and began to stand, groaning softly as she
shifted her weight onto a leg he knew she had no business
standing on, but he couldn't think of a rational argument for
telling her that, so he said nothing.  She moved slowly,
unsteadily reaching for her discarded jeans.

"Wait," he told her, stopping her with an upraised hand.

"What?"

"I think we ought to put a clean dressing on that before we do
anything else." 

"I don't have anything to dress it with, Mulder."

He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. "Here.  We'll use
this.  I still have my T-shirt."

She looked doubtful.

"Don't argue," he warned.  "Sit."

She shrugged her compliance and sat back down.

Mulder ripped the shirt into strips, his mind racing.  Bad.  This
was more than bad.  Why hadn't she said something.  Goddammit,
she should have said something.  And he was mad as hell about the
fact that she hadn't, but that conversation would have to wait. 
He dug the antibiotic cream and last bottle of water from the bag
and crouched behind her.

"I'm gonna pour some water on it, Scully, and see if I can wipe
some of the dirt away.  Then I'll put some cream on it."

She sniffed and nodded resolutely, gasping audibly when he
touched the tender skin around the cut.  But she didn't cry out. 
Not once.  Not when he dabbed at it with the corner of the
shirt, and not when he touched the jagged edges of the wound with
the thick ointment from the tube.  He would have felt better if
she'd cried or screamed.  Her stoicism only made him feel like a
heel for hurting her -- like she'd just resigned herself to the
torture.  When he tied the last section of the meager thin
bandage, he didn't know who was more relieved.

"So what do we do now?"  He helped her to her feet.  She looked
completely out of it.

"Well, nothing's changed since this morning, Mulder."  Her words
were slow, but lucid.  She stepped into her jeans with his help
and slowly eased them up over her hips, wincing as the thick
denim touched the bandage.  "My leg was hurt then; it's hurt now. 
I can keep going."  She zipped her jeans and stepped into her
tennis shoes, walking slowly toward him.  "I can make it to the
watch tower.  Surely we're getting close by now."
  
"Scully you're not in any condition to be hiking down a
mountainside!"  His voice was loud and rough.

"Well I wasn't in any condition to be hiking down a mountainside
this morning either, but it didn't kill me, did it?"

"Not yet, it didn't," he growled.  "But it sure as hell didn't do
you any good!" 

"Well then you tell me what the alternative is, Mulder," Scully
shot back.  "because I'm sure as hell not gonna sit here and do
nothing while you wander around out here by yourself under the
guise of being chivalrous and going for help."  She crossed her
arms and glared at him.  

"You know damn well I wouldn't be chivalrous and go for help!" he
snapped.

Her eyebrows rose and the corners of her mouth twitched.

"You know what I mean," he corrected in a softer tone.

"Yes, I know what you mean, Mulder," she told him with a small
smile.  But she didn't let him off the hook.  "I'm serious,
Mulder.  We're not splitting up.  I'm not going to perish alone
out here from hunger or wolves or infection..."

"Don't forget hitmen," he added helpfully.

"...or hitmen," she amended without skipping a beat, "because you
felt the need to play hero to my damsel in distress.  Staying put
won't help anything at this point.  We've both seen the cut --
obviously I can't afford to wait around.  I have nothing to lose
and hopefully something to gain by continuing to walk down this
mountain, injured leg or not.  So the only question is why we're
standing here wasting time."  

He sighed.  "Okay.  You win."  He picked up the shoulder bag and
looked around them, getting his bearings.  "We'll take it slow,
and we'll stop whenever you need to, okay?"

She nodded.  "As long as I don't have to bend over or jog, I'll
be fine.  I've come this far; another half a day isn't going to
faze me."  She smiled at him.  "Hey, I've survived giant
flukeworms, satanic cults, pyromaniacs, liver-eating mutants, my
own abduction, and a plane crash.  I think I can walk a few more
hours on a cut leg."

And he almost believed her.  He might have believed her, if she
hadn't walked around to face him and placed her hand on his arm
in a gentle, if hesitant gesture.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was soft.

"What?"  He answered her just as quietly.

"Will you do something for me before we go?"

He looked down at her, hating the stress and pain that showed on
her face.  Hating the evidence of anxiety that had become far too
familiar when he looked at her.  He was suddenly overwhelmed by
the need to offer her some modicum of comfort or reassurance.
Lend her his strength.  Whatever she wanted from him, at that
moment, he would have moved heaven and earth to make it so.
"Sure."

She lifted one leg toward him and smiled tentatively.  "Tie my
shoes?" 

Wordlessly, Mulder bent down and fumbled with her laces,
complying with her request in what seemed no longer than a
heartbeat.  Unexpected tears blurred his vision; he blinked them
away.  Tying her shoes was such a simple gesture, so easily
given, and yet the act itself seemed unbelievably intimate.  And
kneeling in the woods, with Dana Scully's foot on his thigh, Fox
Mulder was startled to realize just how much of his life -- his
world, in fact -- could fit into something as small as a size six
tennis shoe.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

5:47 p.m.

The watchtower sat high on the hillside, supported by a knotty
wooden frame that showed significant signs of weathering and old
age.  Sixty six rungs of rough-hewed pine stretched upward in a
mock salute, taunting both agents with the promise of a much
deserved rest.  But the journey to the top was a test of
endurance.  They climbed for ten minutes, slowly and carefully
inching up the sturdy wooden ladder with Scully setting the pace. 
Mulder followed below, spotting her shaky steps -- steadying her
when the vertigo kicked in about halfway up.  Finally, Scully
pulled herself painfully onto the small deck and scrambled
away from the ladder, making room as Mulder stepped over the last
rung to join her.   He pulled his weapon and fired one quick
round into the cheap padlock on the door, pushing it open and
waiting as Scully limped inside ahead of him.

She knew within five seconds that it hadn't been worth the trip. 
She'd cataloged the contents in an instant:  two short shelves
containing less than a dozen dusty books, one small cabinet
directly underneath the room's single multi-paned window, one gas
lantern on a hook by the door, a hot plate left sitting on a
small folding card table, some rolled up papers leaning in the
corner, and a small dirty generator peeking out from behind the
one tiny cot on the far wall.

There was no radio.

Fatigue and disappointment claimed the last of her strength and
she swayed, showing no reaction at all when Mulder's hands
encircled her upper arms to steady her.  

There was no radio.

He nudged her toward the cot.  "Sit down before you fall down,
Scully."  

She sat.

There was no radio.

"There has to be something here.  There *has* to be."  Mulder 
voice faded in and out as he stuck his head into corners and
crevices.  "How the hell can you have a watchtower in the middle
of a national park and not have a radio?  What would a ranger do
if there was a fire out here?  Send smoke signals?"

Scully leaned back on the dusty cot, melting into a puddle of
benign acceptance.  Her eyes closed instantly.  She didn't care
that there was no radio.  She was too tired to worry about what
would happen tomorrow.  She couldn't feel her leg anymore, and
the temporary respite from the pain was quickly leading her
toward subconscious oblivion.  The small dirty cot with the thin
lumpy mattress felt like a king-sized therapeutic massage bed
from a suite at the Ritz.  It was heaven -- heaven in a dirty
little wooden sardine can.  

She could live with that.  She could live with anything as long
as she didn't have to ever open her eyes again...

"Scully."  

The voice invaded her solitude, tempting her with a wonderful
aroma that made her mouth water.  Food...there was food.  Wait --
that wasn't right.  There was no food.  She was dreaming.

"Scully, open your eyes."

Go away go away go away.  Don't take away my food...I'm not done
smelling it.

"Scully!" A gentle hand on her shoulder roused her, finally.  She
stared at the figure in front of her, unable to blink it into
focus.  Where was she?  

"You okay?"

Mulder.

"Um hmmm."   She stretched her arms up over her head and tried to
push away the persistent sleepiness.  Her stomach turned over
with a loud groan, and she patted it softly, her disappointment
mixing with hunger.  "I dreamed there was food," she mumbled. 
"It smelled so good I didn't want to wake up."

He raised his hands, and for first time, she realized he was
holding a blue ceramic bowl.  Steam wafted over the edges,
curling and dancing into the air. "Cafe Muldaire is open for
business."

Her eyes flew open wide, all remnants of sleep gone instantly. 
"You found food?" she gaped.  "Real food?"

He grinned.  "Five cans of Woodhouse Smoked Baked Beans.  Dinner
of champions."

Her mouth was watering.  Oh God.  Food.  Real honest to goodness
food.  She wanted to tackle him and wrest the bowl away from him,
but she only grinned back.  "When do we eat?"

Mulder pushed a strand of hair from her forehead and looked into
her eyes, concern showing on his face.  "Can you sit up?"

"With food at stake?" she snorted.  "Of course I can sit up." 
With a heavy sigh, she leveraged herself upward and swung her
legs over the side of the cot, yelling in spite of herself when
the back of her left leg made contact with the cot.  "Shit!"  She
pulled her legs back onto the cot and curled them toward the wall
as she shifted onto her side.  "And then again, maybe not," she
said, more to herself than to Mulder.

She could see the concern on his face, but thankfully, he didn't
pass judgment on her condition.  "Okay," he told her
matter-of-factly.  "Dinner in bed it is."  He simply waited 
while she adjusted herself into a more upright position, propping
herself on one arm, then he handed her a worn, bent spoon and
moved to sit on the floor beside her.  They wound up almost eye
to eye.

Scully looked around the room as Mulder situated himself.  The
colorful haze of twilight had long since been left behind,
replaced by unadorned, unrelieved blackness.  The gas lantern
was burning brightly from its hook, casting a surprisingly warm
glow around the small interior.  The room fared much better in
dim light, Scully thought.  In the daytime it was cramped and
dirty.  But through the warm glow of gaslight, it took on an
almost cozy feeling.  Safe.  

She looked at the quiet generator in the corner.  "Does that
work?" she asked.

"Nope," Mulder replied, crossing his long legs underneath him. 
He inched himself closer to the bed.  "It had enough gas to run
the hot plate for approximately seven minutes.   Then it quit
completely.  Lukewarm will have to be good enough."

Scully's stomach rolled over again, the sound unbelievably loud
in the small room.  "Mulder," she smiled, "right now it could be
a baked bean popsicle and I wouldn't complain."

He set the bowl on the edge of the bed between them.  "That's
good to know," he told her.  "Because there's only one bowl and
one spoon."  He held the small tin utensil out to her.  "We'll
have to share."

She fixed him with a pointed stare.  "You don't have cooties, do
you?"

He laughed.  "Not last time I checked.  Dig in." 

Scully didn't need a second invitation.  She took the spoon and
dug into the bowl with gusto, popping a spoonful of the warm
substance into her mouth.  Nothing on the planet had ever tasted
so good.  She moaned her appreciation.  "Mmmm, ese are goo,
Muller."  

She handed him the spoon, swallowing hard as she watched him
savor his first bite.  His eyes closed slowly and sensually as he
savored the taste.  Muscles moved continuously beneath the shadow
of stubble on his jaw, and Scully imagined she could see his
tongue rolling over the spicy concoction in his mouth.  Just as
she had done, he moaned his appreciation.  The sound sent a
shiver down her spine.  Mulder in ecstasy, she thought.  So this
is what it looks like.  Good Lord, it ought to be illegal to look
tha...

"Your turn."

She snapped back to reality, heat flooding her cheeks.  She took
the spoon he offered and dug into the bowl again.  Eat, Scully,
she told herself.  Don't think about Mulder, and for God's sake,
don't think about Mulder's tongue.  Just eat.

In fifteen minutes, the bowl was empty.  Scully dropped the spoon
into the empty bowl and sighed, raising her head to look at the
man sitting in front of her.  "Well I guess that's it," she told
Mulder, surprised to find he was staring at her.

"Not quite," he murmured, reaching his hand toward her.

"Wha..?"  Her question cut off abruptly when she felt his fingers
upon her.  His index finger slowly traced a path upward from her
chin to the corner of her mouth.  When he pulled it away, she
could see the barbecue sauce running down his finger.  She
dragged the back of her hand across her mouth automatically,
watching entranced as he placed his index finger in his mouth and
withdrew it, turning his hand to lap at the small remnants of
sauce clinging to his knuckle.  

When his eyes met hers again, he smiled and she felt her heart
drop to her toes.  "Anyone ever tell you you're a messy barbecue
eater?" 

She just stared at him.  For the life of her, she couldn't think
of a single thing to say.

"Mind you, I'm not complaining," he continued, pinning her again
under the most intense gaze she had ever imagined.  "It's part of
your charm."

She shook herself free from the sexual tension that she knew was
close to overwhelming her.  This was a baaaaaaaad place to be
right now.  Just back away from it, she told herself.  "Part of
my charm?  *Part* of my charm?  Ha!," she scoffed in mock
irritation.  "You're delusional, Mulder.  We both know the fact
that I'm a messy barbecue eater is at least a good three quarters
of my charm."

He laughed and rose from the floor, carrying their single dish
and utensil to the tiny sink.  He paused at the window, his back
to her as he looked out the glass panes into nothingness. 
Automatically, her own eyes followed the path of his.

The blackness of night covered every pane of the window like a
blanket of black velvet hung on the outside of the cabin. 
Crickets whirred outside, their song filling the night with
memories of childhood.  Trips to the country, nights spent with
Missy under her grandmother's handmade quilts, snuggling together
and telling ghost stories, marveling at the darkness of true
country nights in comparison to their street lamp filled twilight
that served as darkness back home.

"We have to talk about what we're going to do."  He didn't turn
around.  "We only have a few options, and we need to talk about
them Scully."

The warm feeling she had nurtured since awakening was yanked away
from her without warning.  Mulder's voice was firm, all business. 
Whatever spell they had been under moments ago was broken.    She
was utterly confused, hopelessly frustrated.  Her relationship
with Mulder was one big roller coaster ride these days -- rising
and falling in senseless abandon, changing directions
constantly...she kept waiting for the bottom to drop out from
under her, wondering every time it did if the ride was over.  

She took a deep breath and forced her mind into focus.  Back to
business.  This was all about the business of survival -- hers
and Mulder's.  If that wasn't serious enough to pull her mind
away from Mulder's body and into some semblance of cognizance for
ten minutes then she deserved to meet her demise out here among
the wild things.

Wild thing, I think I love you...I wanna know for sure...

Focus, damn it!  She could do this.  She could.  She forced
herself to stand and limped over toward the window.  He watched
her approach in the window.  "Okay, Mulder.  Let's talk.  We
need a game plan." 

He nodded, and motioned for her to follow as he walked to the
card table.  Maps were spread across the entire surface, held in
place by various makeshift paperweights to keep the corners from
curling.  Scully looked at the maps.  Aerial, mostly...a few
geographic.  One geological.  Lines and colors and levels and
symbols danced in front of her, a jumble of moving string art. 
She had no idea what she was looking at. 

"Okay... as near as I can figure..." Mulder's voice trailed off
as he ran his finger over the lines of one of the maps.  "We are
somewhere right around...damn.  Where did we go?"  He looked
around the surface of the table, and gave a satisfied sigh,
picking up the object he sought.  "Ah, okay," he continued. 
"Now..." 

Scully stared at him, agape.

"We are...*here.*"  He motioned to a point on the map.

"You bastard."

"Huh?"  He looked at her blankly.

"You bastard!  I can't believe you didn't say...I mean, you let
me think...I just...I thought..."

Mulder straightened and turned to face her, a look of total
incomprehension on his face.  She'd never wanted to hit him so
much in her life.  Never wanted to hit *anyone* so much in
her life.  And the only thing that kept her from punching his
lights out was the fact that she just didn't have it in her to do
anything that would put his once-lost-but-now-found glasses in
jeopardy.  

She kicked him instead.


End of part 8



Tempest, part 9

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"OW!  Goddammit, Scully!  What did you do *that* for?"  Mulder
grabbed his shin and stared at his partner as she'd just grown
another head.

"You're wearing your glasses!" she bellowed.

"And so you felt the need to kick me?" he yelled back.  "Jesus
Christ!  What the hell's the matter with you?"

Her eyes flashed fire.  "I thought I lost them!  I pulled them
out of that plane, climbed up the side of a mountain with them,
and then suddenly found them missing yesterday morning.  I
thought I lost them, and you didn't say a word.  How could you
not say a word?"

He was completely lost.  Uncharted territory.  Clueless.  What in
God's name was she getting hysterical about?  His glasses? "I...I
found them in the...in the bag," he stammered.  "I'm sorry if I didn't
sa--"

"This isn't about being sorry!" she hissed.  "This is about a lot more
than a stupid pair of glasses."

She was feverish, he told himself.  She wasn't herself.  He
reached a hand toward her.  "Scully, calm down."

She pushed his hand away.  "Don't tell me to calm down!"  

"Fine!" he snapped.  "Then tell me what the hell you want me to
say!  I'm sorry I found my glasses?  I'm sorry I put them on? 
What?  I don't understand you, Scully!  What's going on here?"

To his absolute horror, she dissolved into tears.  Her face
crumpled before his eyes, her chin quivering, tears streaming
down her cheeks.  She hobbled away from him, swiping angrily at
the tears as she moved to sit down on the cot.  Like a flash of
fire, she jumped up as soon as the mattress made contact with the back
of her thigh.  Arms swinging, fists flailing the air, she let loose
her anger in a long creative string of invectives, cursing with an air
of fluency that amazed Mulder.  She was completely transformed as she
vented -- a feral creature lashing out with fury.  

His mind was racing.  What should he do?  What *could* he do?  Go to
her?  Try to comfort her?  Hell, she almost bit his head off last time
he tried to calm her down.  He had no idea at all what was the right
course of action...and so he did nothing.  He just stood quietly and
waited for her rage to play itself out.

When she finally began to regain control, she fixed him with a
glare that cut straight to his heart.  "I can't believe you're
just going to stand there, you self-absorbed son of a bitch! 
You're just going to stand there and watch me fall apart and not
say a word.  Just...go away, Mulder."

He stared at her.  "What?"

"Go away.   From me.  Leave me alone.  Oooh!  *There's* an idea! Why
don't you go look outside -- I'm sure you could find a nice bright
light to go chase.  God knows you haven't DITCHED me in at LEAST 8
hours, Mulder.  You must be needing a fix."

His patience snapped.  "Okay, stop right there."  He held up one
hand in a motion to halt her words.  "I've had enough of this
crap -- you're driving me crazy!  Either tell me what's the
matter or take the goddamn chip off your shoulder, Scully.  I
can't read your mind."

She crossed her arms defiantly.  "Well, thank you very much,
Agent Mulder, for bothering to remember that I even HAVE mind." 
Her words were lower now.  Controlled.  But still full of venom.

He was stung by the sarcasm.  "What the hell is *that* supposed
to mean?" 

"For the best fuckin' profiler the FBI ever had, you're not real
perceptive sometimes."  She laughed harshly.  "God, Mulder--you
honestly don't see it, do you?"

He raised his hands toward the ceiling in frustration.  "NO!  I
don't see it!  How many times do you want me to say it?  I don't
get it!    I mean...I'm trying, Scully -- I am.  But you've
been walking around for weeks -- long before this fiasco ever
started -- with a little black storm cloud over your head.  You
won't talk about it.  You hardly speak at all anymore when
we're in the office.  I don't know what I can do that I haven't
already done!  I'm tired of walking on eggshells here.  You think I'm
dense?  Fine.  Whatever.  Spell it out for me and let's get past it
but stop treating me like the bad guy for not being able to fix what
you won't tell me is broken.  What do you WANT from me?"

Blue eyes met his with electric fire, boring their way into his
conscience.  "What do I want?  What do I WANT?  What I *want,*
Mulder, is to know that I'm more than a fucking footnote stamped
on every case report that passes through our office!"  

His jaw dropped open in surprise.  "I've never treated you like a
foo--"

"You *have*," she snapped, effectively cutting off his denial. 
"You come up with these bizarre UFO theories and elaborate,
Byzantine conspiracy plots, and I'm supposed to drop everything
to come play Tonto to your Lone Ranger."

She was in a total fury as she turned on him, breathing rapidly,
her cheeks flushed -- with anger or fever or both, he didn't
know. 

"Well, I'm not your sidekick, damn it."  She pointed her finger
and tapped his chest to emphasize her words.  "I'm a doctor with
as much -- if not more -- education than you, I have a damned
good record the Bureau, which is a HELL of a lot more than you
can say---and if *I* come up with a theory, you can be damned
sure I can back it up with some hard evidence---and God knows,
you certainly can't say that. So what I WANT, Mulder, is for you
to stop treating me like your secretary, you selfish sack of
shit!"

He started to reply, but her tirade wasn't over, and he fell
silent again under the harshness of her words.

"What I WANT, is for you to stop telling me what to do and who to
interrogate and what to ask.  Just once, I want you to ask me nicely
what I think about your suggestion, and maybe, just MAYBE, if I think
it's the best thing for the case, I'll take it under advisement!"

Her anger began to dissipate, and she turned away from him,
limping back toward the cot on the far wall.  Her words
continued, but they were softer now, speaking more of hurt than
of vindication.  He didn't miss the slight catch of her breath
before she continued.  "What I want is for you to acknowledge
that I contribute something to this partnership -- that I'm
not some annoying afterthought you got stuck with."   Carefully,
she sat down on the edge of the cot, her tears spilling anew. 
She swiped a hand across her upper lip, wiping her nose and the
wetness from her cheeks. "I want to know where I stand with you,
Mulder, or else I want you to acknowledge that I don't stand
anywhere at all."  Her chin began to quiver again.  "I want you
to stop confusing me." 

His heart wrenched at the sight of her tears.  He had no bigger
weakness in the world.  "I'm sorry," he told her.  "I'm sorry.  I
never meant to hurt you, Scully.  I don't ever mean to do that."

She didn't meet his eyes.  "Then why do you keep doing it?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.  "I guess I'm just not
aware of what it is that hurts you so much.  Tell me what it is
that bothers you, Scully.  I need specifics."

"Stop ditching me and going off on your own."  The words spilled
forth without hesitation.  "We can be in the middle of a case,
working together, and the first time you have one of your
psychological profiler hunches or supernatural phenomenon
theories, you run off by yourself and leave me alone to clean up
the details you can't be bothered with -- like proof and
evidence.  I might not always agree with your ideas, Mulder, but
I'm part of the X-Files full time -- it's not a hobby for me any
more than it is for you.  And I don't appreciate being treated
like a whore you call up every once in awhile when you have a
professional itch that needs to be scratched."

He winced at the metaphor.  "I didn't realize I was ditching
you," he said quietly.  "I just always assumed we each worked
better in our own comfort level.  You in the lab and me in hot
pursuit.  I never meant for that to seem like a slight of your
contribution to the X-Files." 

"Well, after four years, that's how it feels," she told him.

He nodded.  "What else?"

She looked away from him.  "I just need you to stop taking me for
granted."  

"Taking you for granted?"  He couldn't keep the incredulity from
his voice.  "Scully, there's not a day that goes by that I'm not
thankful you're on my side."  He crossed the room and knelt in
front of her, placing his hands on top of hers in her lap.  "The
fact that I know I can trust you...the fact that I know you trust
me...that's a gift to me.  That I know I can call you night or day and
you'll listen to my outrageous theories and my ridiculous conclusions
and reel me back in when I need for you to."  He reached up and
crooked his finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him.  "The
fact that I can stumble onto your doorstep from a crime scene at two
in the morning, sick and bloody, and know that you'll take care of me
first and ask questions later...those are things I will *never* take
for granted.  And if I've ever once made you think otherwise, then you
have every right to call me on it."

A crystalline tear spilled from her eye and he brushed it away
with his thumb.  "I'm sorry I made you feel that way, Scully." 
His words were a hoarse whisper in the stillness of the wooden
tower.  "I would never knowingly hurt you.  Okay?"

Her eyes searched his for the honesty of his words before she
nodded.  "Okay."

He wasn't quite convinced. He tilted his head to make eye contact with
her again.  "You sure?"

She smiled the smallest of smiles.  "I'm sure."

"All right."  He stood and held out his hand to her.  "Come back
and look at the maps and let me show you where we are.  We have a
decision to make, and then we need to get some sleep."

She made one last swipe at her damp cheeks and took the hand he
offered, wincing as he pulled her onto her feet.  She was
obviously in constant pain, stubbornly refusing to give in to the urge
to cry out.  He supported her weight with an arm around her waist,
walking slowly beside her as she hopped to the table.

"Okay.  We're here," he told her, indicating an area in the
bottom right corner of the map.  "As near as I can figure, our
point of impact must have been somewhere around --" his finger
circled the air as he looked for the position he had pinpointed
earlier while she slept --"right around here somewhere.  This is
the only place I see with a ridge high enough to be the one you
climbed."

She nodded.  "Okay.  So what's the rest of the news?"

He sighed.  "Well it's not good.  If my estimates are correct,
then really it comes down to choosing one of two options."  She
didn't answer, and he bent to look in her eyes.  "Are you
following this, Scully?  I need you to be coherent for about
another 10 minutes, then I promise I'll let you rest."

She attempted a smile.  "I'm here.  Two options," she repeated as
proof that she'd heard him.  "What's the first one?"

"The first one is that we retrace our path and head back to the
crash site like you suggested yesterday.  It would be the safest
bet to ensure our being found."

"Yeah, but we discussed that yesterday," she stated.  "And I 
agreed you were right.  Lindsey Carrol has a better chance if we
stay away from the wreckage." 

"I'm not concerned about Lindsey Carol at this point, and I don't
think you ought to be either," he told her slowly.  "I don't want to
put her in danger, Scully, but right now our first priority has to be
to get you to a hospital."

"Point taken," Scully agreed.  "What's the second option?"

Mulder turned back to the papers on the table.  "The second
option is that we head north west over this little hill right
here.  If I'm reading this correctly at all, I think this is a
main highway."  He indicated a black line that intersected the
mountain in a winding path.  "It's a shorter distance to the
highway, but it's a gamble as to whether or not it's active. 
Plus we'll have to cross a river."

Scully rubbed her temples.  He was struck by the pallor of her
complexion.  She wasn't well at all, and he knew it.  Time was
going to run out on them if they guessed wrong.  They couldn't
afford to miss.  "It's your call," he told her.  "I know you're
in pain and not thinking real clearly right now, but I also know
you're the doctor -- and you know what the prognosis is for your
leg if we don't get the help we need in the time we have left. 
So I need for you to make the decision.  I'll abide by whatever
you say."

She looked at the map, blinking hard, and he could tell she was
trying desperately to comprehend the maze of lines and numbers. 
Finally, she looked up.  The plane is the better bet for rescue,
but the highway is closer.  I say we head for the road at sun-up. I
don't have more than one day that I'll even be able to walk, and the
crash site is two days back now."

His heart skipped a beat at the grim prediction.  "Are you sure?"

"No," she said.  "But I'm willing to risk it at this point.  I
can't stand the pain much longer and I'll be sick with fever by
morning.  I say we take a leap of faith.  The highway's closer."

He nodded.  "Okay.  Highway it is."  

Scully shuffled toward the cot.  "Can I leave a wake up call?"

He took in the warped frame of the old metal cot.  "Do you really
think that'll be necessary?" he asked.  "I can't imagine either of us
will sleep too soundly in these luxurious conditions."

She rummaged through the travel bag and pulled something from the side
pocket.  "Ahhh," she breathed.  "On the contrary, Mulder..." she
turned to face him.  "You're about to ensure that I sleep like a baby
tonight."

He took a step backward.  "Um...I am?"

She smiled and held out a small syringe to him.  "Uh huh.  You're
going to give me a shot."

"I can't give you a shot," he protested.  "I'll...I'll hurt you. I've
never done it."

She walked back to the table and stopped.  "Well, it's you or me,
Mulder, and I can't effectively reach the area where it needs to be
given." 

He swallowed.  "Which is where?"  he asked, his voice shaky.

She smiled at him, a genuine, if tired smile that lightened the
load on his heart just a bit.  "Don't be such a baby."  She
unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, hooking her thumbs in the
waistband and pulling them down, exposing her buttocks to him.

His mouth went completely dry.  His hands were shaking.  He could only
stare at the image she presented standing there with her pants half
lowered, her eyes sparkling with mischief, even through the haze of
fever.

"C'mon, Mulder.  It's not that bad.  I'll walk you through it."

Slowly he approached the table, trying not to stare at the creamy
curves of her bottom.  It was a shot.  An injection.  He could
maintain detachment.  He could.  He took the cap off the needle and
swallowed hard one more time.  "Okay," he managed to choke out.  "What
do I do?"

"Jab the needle in the fleshy part of my hip, slightly closer to
my butt than my side.  Don't try to do it slowly, that'll hurt
more.  Just stick it in there.  And then after you do, press the
plunger halfway down.  That's 100 milligrams of Demerol, but I
want to save half of it in case I need it more later."

His eyes were fixated on her body.  

"Mulder?" 

"Huh?"

"You ready?"

"Um, yeah."

He was as ready as he could be, he told himself.  He could handle
this.  Professional detachment.  Medical decorum, he told himself.  He
could survive the moment without embarrassment.  And he almost did --
until Dana Scully bent over the small table and bared her bottom to
him completely, giving him the most instantaneous erection he'd ever
experienced.

The seconds ticked away.

"Enjoying the view, Mulder?"

"Sorry," he mumbled.  "You're sure you trust me to do this?"

"Mulder," she sighed.  "I'm in a fairly submissive position at
the moment.  I think the matter of my trust has been
established."

"Just...just anywhere over...here?"  He indicated an area close
to her hip.

"That's as good a place as any.  Just do it and put us both out
of our misery."

He jabbed the needle into her flesh, wincing more than she did
when it slid into her body effortlessly.  He pressed the plunger
halfway, then withdrew the needle completely.  "There," he told
her, immensely pleased with himself.  "Home free."

His relief was short lived.

Scully stood and pulled up her panties, wiggling out of her jeans
completely and leaving them in a heap on the floor as she hobbled back
to the cot. "That's what you think, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder.

"Huh?"

She smiled at him as she curled onto her side on the cot. 
"You've never seen me on Demerol before.  I might be home free
for the rest of the night, but trust me -- your  ride is just
beginning."

End of part 9


Tempest, part 10

10:13 PM

She'd been out like a light within ten minutes, though whether
from the drug or fatigue he couldn't tell.  Not that it mattered.
She was resting -- oblivious to the pain in her leg and the
memories of the crash -- and for that, Mulder was thankful.  The
sleep would do her good and give him a chance to study the maps
and determine the best route toward the highway.  Thank God her
dire predictions about her behavior had been a false alarm.  He'd
had enough trouble communicating with Scully lately when she was
coherent; the prospect of spending a night with Scully and the
Three Faces of Eve was more than a little unsettling.

He walked to the cot and pulled the thin cotton sheet up over
her.  She hadn't moved in an hour.  Not a sound, not a whimper. 
Her mouth was slightly open, her beautiful lips soft and
inviting.  Her brow was wrinkled slightly, as if puzzling over
something just barely beyond her grasp as she dreamed.  He'd
never wanted to kiss anyone so much in his life.

He stared at her, entranced by the picture she presented.  Even
after two days of hiking,  even exhausted and injured, uncombed
and unwashed, she was the most magnetic woman he'd ever known. 
Whatever was there between them, it was mutual.  Of that, he was
certain.  If he'd had any doubt at all lingering in the back of
his mind, it had been obliterated the second Dana Scully bent
over that table.  Sure, he was giving her a shot at the time, but
he hadn't missed the unspoken challenge sparkling in her eyes
when she did it.  And the mock sensor in her when she accused him
of lingering spoke more of amusement than irritation.  She'd been
flirting with him -- testing the boundaries.  But he couldn't
help wondering if she was prepared for him to call her on it. 
What would she have done if he'd accepted her mischievous
impromptu invitation?  That was the question he still couldn't
answer, and it was driving him crazy.

He couldn't afford to be wrong.  Not with Scully.  There had to
be nothing to chance, no room for the slightest doubt before they
crossed that line, because once they crossed it, there was no
turning back.  And if her flagrantly provocative behavior tonight
was all he'd had to go on, he would have played along in a
heartbeat.  But her hesitancy when they'd awakened this morning
was still fresh in his mind, not to mention the argument they'd
had only an hour ago.  

No, he couldn't risk it yet.  Not until he was positive.  And
when he *was* positive, he was going to insist they replay this
little scene again with a different ending.  The ending he'd
denied himself tonight.  The ending where he walked slowly up to
the table behind her and pressed his hands flat against the small
of her bare back, slowly kneading the muscles there, allowing his
hands to trail their way down her body until they traced the
curve of her bottom and came to rest on her bare hips.  One small
tug and she would slide back toward him, her bare cheeks pressing
tightly against his erection, and she would gasp that breathy
little gasp that drove him crazy.  Then slowly, like a gift laid
out before him, she would turn over sit up, smiling as her hands
reached for the fabric of his shirt.  He could feel the softness
of her fingers upon his chest. He could feel.....

His eyes snapped open.  What the hell was he doing?  He looked
down at his sleeping partner, relieved to find she was still
oblivious to his erotic musings.  "This is what it's come to," he
chuckled.  "Fantasies about a feverish, dirty, unconscious
woman."

He looked at her quiet pale face, expressive even in sleep and
wondered if she ever fantasized about him.  Did he ever haunt her
dreams like she haunted his?  He shook his head sadly.  Her
dreams tonight were fever dreams -- vivid, probably disturbing. 
He could only hope if he was a part of them that he was bringing
her some comfort.  His hand reached out and softly brushed the
hair from her forehead, lingering briefly on her clammy skin,
gauging the advancement of her fever.  It didn't seem any worse.

She sighed at the touch of his hand, and turned her face toward
him, as if seeking to get closer.  He couldn't resist the
unspoken invitation of her beautiful lips.  He knelt beside her,
leaning in to press a soft, chaste kiss upon her mouth.  Like a
princess in a fairy tale, her eyes fluttered open as he pulled
back from her.  She was dazed and glassy, completely unfocused,
but she smiled at him sleepily.

"Hullo."

"Hi," he whispered back.  "How ya doin' over here?

Her brow furrowed as she contemplated the question.  Her head
rolled to the side.  "I feel FUNky," she slurred.

"I'll bet you do," he smiled.  "Do you need anything?"

Her head rolled from side to side in time to a song only she
could hear.  "Nope," she told him dreamily.  "I'm jus'
peeeeachy."  She giggled then, the uncharacteristic sound making
him grin.  

"Go back to sleep.  I'm sorry I woke you."

"S'okay."  She waved dismissively.  "M'not seepy anyway."  She
giggled again.  "I said seepy.  Did you hear me, Muller?  What I
*meant* was, I'm not seepy."  She gave into woozy, sporadic
chuckles.

He shook his head in bemusement.  A giggling Scully?  Years of
working amid the unexpected and unexplainable hadn't prepared him
for that one.  He started to stand up, but she grabbed his hand.

"Muller?"  She looked distressed.

"What is it, Scully?"

She squinted up at him.  "You're not wear'n your glassiss."

"No, I took them off."

"Well that jus' sucks," she admonished.  "Put `em back on."

He sighed.  "Scully.  You should go back to sleep.  You need to
rest."

"Put `em on," she commanded.  "I'm not gonna rest 'nless you wear
your glassiss."

Mulder ran a tired hand over his forehead.  "Okay.  I'll put on
my glasses, and then you go to sleep, okay?"

She nodded woozily.  "Ooooooookay, fine."

He walked to the table and retrieved his glasses and put them on.

"There," he said, turning to Scully.  "Better?"

She nodded, concentrating hard to move her head in the right
direction.

"Okay," he smiled, walking back to the cot.  "Now can you go back
to sleep?"

She nodded again.  "Mulder?" she whispered loudly.

"What?" he whispered back, just as loud.

"C'mere...I gotta tell you somethin'."

He looked down at her.  "What?"

"Come 'ere," she insisted.  "S'important."

He bent down.  "Okay, Scully.  What?"

"Okay...shhhhhhh.  It's a secret."  She looked up at him
adoringly.  "I jus' looooove your glassiss."

He patted her hand condescendingly.  "I'm glad, Scully.  I love
your glasses too."  He began to pull his hand away but she
grabbed it with surprising quickness and held tight.

"You're not lissning," she accused.  She tugged on his hand until
he bent close to her once more.  "I mean I reallyrillywillyweely
love your glassiss."  She stared at him.  "Are you gettin' this?"

He choked back a laugh.  "Yeah, Scully.  I got it."

She didn't let go of his shirt.  "I don't think you're followin'
me, Mulder."   She pulled him even closer until they were nose to
nose.  "I mean like sometimes at work when you're wearin' 'em, I
jus' wanna go lock the door an' lay across your desk like
Michelle Whasername in that movie...wha's that movie?  You know
the one where she lays across the piano an' sings...."   She let
go of his shirt and made a dismissive gesture in the air.  "Well,
anyway...tha's how I feel sometimes."

What was he supposed to say to that?  Please do?  Feel free? 
Mulder stared at her.  "Um...thank you?"

She released his hand.  "S'okay.  I jus' thought you oughta
know."

He watched her close her eyes and fall still on the tiny cot once
again, feeling immensely relieved that the five minute twilight
zone episode was over.  He hadn't taken two steps away from her
side when a startled gasp made him stop in his tracks.

"Muller!"

His heart began to pound harder.  "What is it, Scully?  What's
wrong?"

She looked up at him through glassy, unfocused eyes.  "My knees
are gone!"  

She struggled to sit up, but Mulder put his hands on her
shoulders, pressing her back to the thin mattress.  "No, Scully,"
he sighed.  "You're knees are right where they're supposed to be.

I promise."

"Don't patternize me, Mulder -- I'm a doctor an' I *know* when my
knees are gone!"  She pointed toward her feet.  "See?  They're
NOT where they're s'posed to be!" she wailed.  "They're gone!" 
She sat up and looked forlornly at her straight legs.  "Bye," she
sniffed, waving limply.

Torn between laughter and sympathy, Mulder picked up one of her
legs under the knee and bent  it.  "See Scully?  You're knee's
right here.  Now go to sleep."

She looked at him gratefully.  "You FOUND it!.  Muller you're the
best.  You're susha good friend..."  She struggled for the words.

"You're susha a good friend that I'd...I'd give you my only knee
f'you needed it."  She looked at him solemnly.  "I would."

"Thaaaaat's nice, Scully," he said, stretching out his arms
toward her.  "Here -- hug me."

"Huh?"  She looked confused, but she reached up for him anyway.

"Okay, Scully, heeeeeere we go."  He linked his arms under hers
and tried to ease her back down on the mattress.

"She pulled her arms away and cupped his face in her hands.  "You
b'lieve me, don't you Mulder?  That I'd give you my knee?"

"Sure I do, Scully.  I'd give you my knee too."

"I know you would," she sniffed.

He started to stand, but she clung to his hand.  "Wayda
minute...wha'm I gon' do with only one knee?" she asked.  "I
can't walk with only one knee."  The look of distress on her face
nearly did him in, but he kept a straight face.

"It'll be okay, Scully.  You sleep and I promise I'll find your
other one." 

She blinked at him, uncomprehending.  "My other what?"

"Your other knee," he told her pointedly.

"Wha's wrong with my knee?" she cried in alarm.

"Nothing!" he protested quickly.  "You're knees are fine."  

She looked unconvinced.  "You're not tellin' me the tooth."

"Really," he assured her.  "You're knees are fine.  Great knees. 
Wonderful knees."

She flipped her hands toward him in an exaggeratedly modest
gesture.  "G'wan.. really?  I always thought they're kinda
knobby."

"GoodNIGHT, Scully," he told her tiredly.

She closed her eyes.  "Night, Muller."

He walked away shaking his head.  What the hell just happened
here, he wondered.  And more important -- was it going to happen
again?  It was a damn good thing he'd only given her half the
Demerol in the syringe, he marveled.  If he'd given her the whole
100 milligrams, she wouldn't come back to earth for a week.  He
chuckled at the image she presented, glazed-over and
half-dressed, laughing at her own jokes.  If she remembered any
of this tomorrow morning, she was going to be mortified, he
thought.  But she probably wouldn't remember; she was too far
gone.  

On the other hand...she had warned him about the possible side
effects before he'd given her the shot.  So obviously, she'd had
the happy drugs before, he realized.  He grinned broadly and made
a mental note to save that discussion for a later time.

He bent over the short wobbly table and unrolled one of the more
detailed area maps, shoving the others off the table into the
floor.  He had to map out a route for them to take tomorrow, and
he had to do it before Scully woke up aga--

"Oh, Muuuuuuuller...."  

He hung his head in defeat, laughing in spite of himself at the
singsong tone of her words. This night was a goner.  The map
would have to wait until morning.  Scully, obviously, was not
going to sleep like a baby after all.

"Oh Scuuuuuuuully," he answered back affectionately. He might as
well sit and talk to her, he realized.  He couldn't get anything
done with her in this condition, and despite her out of character
behavior, he was glad for the easy rapport that had settled over
them again.  He stood up and grabbed the top rung of the chair
back, dragging it toward the cot.  He set it up against the edge
of the mattress and straddled it backwards, crossing his arms
over the back of the chair, resting his chin on his forearms.

Scully smiled up at him.  "Hullo," she said again, waving her
fingers at him. She stretched her uninjured leg straight up
toward the ceiling underneath the sheet, pulling the thin
covering from her upper body.  When she lowered her limb, the
sheet clung to her toes, pooling finally at the foot of the cot,
leaving her completely uncovered.  The navy blue bikini panties
she wore made a startling contrast to her pale skin, emphasizing
the fact that she lay before him in only her underwear and a
T-shirt.  And what amazed him more than her current state of
undress was the fact that she was completely unconcerned with it.

He smiled down at his scantily-clad, uninhibited partner. 
"What's up, Red?"

She turned to her side and propped her head into her hand,
assuming a more conversational position.  Her brow wrinkled. 
"You gave me a shot."

"Yeah." he agreed.

"I dropped my pants right there in the middle of the room, and
you gave me a shot in the butt."

"Yes I did," he confirmed.  "Right in the butt."  

"Oh."  She lowered her lashes, a sad look descending upon her
features.

He frowned.  "What's on your mind, Scully?"

"Well, I was jus' thinkin' -- I do that sometimes you know ."

He grinned.  "What?  Drop your pants in the middle of the room?"

"No!"  She made a lazy swipe at his leg, missing him completely. 
"I *think* sometimes."  She rolled her eyes up to look at him. 
"You with me?"

 "Yeah, I'm with you.  You think sometimes.  What were you
thinking?"

"Well," she continued, "I was just thinkin'... "  Her voice got
low, and he had to lean in to hear her words.  "You saw my butt."

She looked up at him, a woozy mixture of hurt and accusation. 

Her vulnerable expression cut through his joking mood.  He hated
the sight of vulnerability on Scully; it didn't suit her at all. 
Crumbling under the worried look on her face, Mulder couldn't
bring himself to make jokes at her expense, even if she wouldn't
remember them tomorrow.  "Scully, I had to see you to give you
that shot, that's all," he assured her.  "I didn't even look, I
promise."

"I know!" she wailed.  "You didn't say a thing!"  She pinned him
under a drug-induced stare.  "Tha's kinda *harsh* Muller...I
mean, iss not every day I jus' bare my ass to you."

Three words echoed in his head, like a warning:  No.  Win. 
Situation.   He stared at her, taken aback by the indignant
expression on her face.  Pick a response, Mulder.  Any response. 
"Um..." he started.

Her words slurred into one another as her hands made exaggerated
gestures to emphasize them.  "I mean, you could've said 'Wow!' or
'Hey Scully, nice ass' or *something* but you just stuck that
damn needle in me and went 'bout your business."  She leveraged
herself up on her arm until she was almost eye to eye with him. 
"Be straight w'me, Mulder.  I can take it. You don't like my ass,
do you?" she asked him blatantly.  

Heads or tails, Mulder thought.  Deny you enjoyed the view, and
hurt her feelings, or admit you enjoyed it and set yourself up as
Special Agent Clarence Thomas.  "Scully, I only sa--"

"You thought it was flabby 'cause I haven't been workin' out like
I used to."  She sighed and laid back down on the bed, continuing
her accusation without pause.  "Well s'cause I been so tired
lately.  An, s'cuse the hell out of me Mr. Buns of Steel -- we
can't all have an ass as great as yours--"  She slapped a hand
across her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.  "Did I say that out
loud?" she asked, with a look of wonder on her face.  

He should have gone with his conscience, and he knew it.  But he
was having too much fun to be a gentleman at the moment.  He
rarely got the upper hand with Scully.  He opened his mouth and
heard the words come out before he could stop them.  "No no,
Scully, you're not talking out loud -- you're thinking all of
this.  I'm not hearing a thing. What were you saying about
Mulder's ass?"

"Oh," she said.  "Well it's okay then.  'Cause what I was *gonna*
say was..." She looked around conspiratorially, looking for
eavesdroppers before continuing.  "...I've seen his butt too."

He tried not to laugh at her seriousness.  "No!" he cried in mock
horror.  "Scully, you *haven't!"

She nodded quickly.  "Have too!"  She held up three fingers. 
"Twice!"

Okay, he chastised himself.  He'd asked for this.  Any
embarrassment he was feeling here was his own damn fault.  He'd
asked for it, and she'd delivered in spades.  So now he knew. 
Dana Scully liked his ass.  Now what was he supposed to do with
this newfound information?

Her next words solved the problem for him.  "But don't tell
Mulder, okay?"

God, she didn't know what she was saying, and she sure as hell
didn't have a clue who she was saying it to.  Feeling guilty now
for pressing the conversation, he decided to end it.  He traced
an x on his chest.  "Cross my heart," he promised.  "We don't
have to mention this conversation to anyone."

Unfortunately, Scully was beginning to warm to the subject. 
"Yep," she murmured, babbling more to herself now than to him. 
"I've seen Fox Muller naked as a jaybird.  Bare as the day he was
born."  She looked up at him, totally serious.  "And you know
what?"

Mulder rubbed his forehead with a weary hand.  He was afraid to
ask, suddenly reluctant to continue this talk, but curiosity got
the better of him.  "What," he asked softly.

She smiled the smallest of smiles, her eyes glazing over in a
dream-like haze.  "He's beautiful," she whispered.

End of part 10


Tempest, part 11

Mulder's heart clenched at Scully's open, uninhibited words. 
This was total honesty, handed to him at face value, and it
touched him profoundly.  He felt a lump in his throat, and
swallowed hard.  "I'm sure..." he started, then stopped and
cleared his throat.  "I'm sure Mulder thinks you're beautiful
too," he whispered back.  He brushed a stray lock of hair from
her cheek.

"He doesn't," she told him sadly.  "I'm not his type."

He had a type? That surprised the hell out of him.  "Why do you
think that?" he asked gently.

She shook her head.  "I'm too short.  I've got little legs."  To
emphasize her statement, she stretched her uninjured leg up high
in a scissor spilt, running her hand along the top of her thigh.
"They're not bad little legs, but they're not what Mulder goes for." 
She crooked her arm under her knee and pulled her leg over her until
her foot came to rest on the cot by her stomach.   

Mulder watched her distort her body into what seemed like an
impossible position, and shifted uncomfortably in the chair.  His eyes
were transfixed on her hand as it made short stroking motions along
her thigh in an unconsciously sensual motion.  He forced him mind away
from her body.  "Um...not...not what he goes for?" he stammered.

She shook her head.  "Nope.  Mulder likes women with those long
Barbie legs, like Fleabie."

He nearly choked.  "Who?"

"Fleabie.  She was his girlfrin once, but there was a fire inna
hotel and I hate her."

Mulder stared in amazement.  One case with an ex-girlfriend three
years ago, and Scully had concluded that she couldn't possibly be his
type because he went for long legs?  Good Lord, the woman had NO idea
how many nights he'd fantasized about her small, beautiful body lying
naked in his arms.  

Enough.  He'd heard enough.  This flirting and double talk was
going to end, he resolved.  As soon as she was better, they were
going to have a serious talk about all the things they'd
obviously been hiding from each other.  If they both felt this
strongly about it, they'd been stupid to deny it for this long. 
One way or another, the end of this platonic farce was coming --
Fox Mulder had decreed it.

Oblivious to Mulder's mental resolve, Scully was still engrossed
in her Phoebe musings.  "Yep," she continued.  "Hate the bitch. 
Haaaaate her.  In fact..."  She placed her hand on the back of
his chair and half pulled herself up to be closer to him.  "...I
wanna see the bitch DOWN!" she ground out.  Having had her say,
she released the back of the chair and flopped back down on the
cot, giggling at herself.  "I just looooooove Deremol," she told
him.

"I can't imagine why," Mulder laughed.  He stood up and stretched his
legs, giving the chair a gentle kick to move it out of his way.  He
tapped her raised knee and motioned for her to scoot over so he could
sit on the cot.  When she complied, he sank down beside her and placed
a hand on her forehead.  It was hot--hotter than it had been last time
he checked.

She must have read his expression, because she looked up at him,
visibly struggling to appear coherent.  "Is my fever rising?" she
asked.

He nodded, moving a damp strand of hair off her moist forehead. 
"Don't worry about anything, Scully," he assured her.  "You'll be
okay."

"I can't feel my leg," she told him.  

"It's the Demerol," he reassured her.  "That's what it's supposed to
do."

She shook her head.  "No -- Deremol is jus' supposed to make you
not care if you feel it."

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, choosing instead
to take her hand in his.

"Muller, you do know I could die out here, don't you?  You haff
to know that it *could* happen."

He bent close to her face.  "You're not going to die out here,
Scully," he told her.  "It's not an option."

She tried to smile at him, but failed miserably.  For a long
moment they stayed quiet, until Scully broke the silence.  "Well
shit!"  She slapped the mattress vehemently.  "I shoulda paid
better attention."

Mulder looked at her quizzically.  "Paid better attention?  To
what?"

"Sex," she told him bluntly.  "If I'd known the last time I had
sex was gonna be the last time I had sex, I'd have paid more
attention."

He laughed out loud in spite of himself.

"Sure, laugh it up," she groused.  "You're not the one who's
gonna perish out here after an embarrassingly long dry spell."

You'd be surprised, he almost blurted out.

"Neither are you," he argued.  "You'll have sex again, Scully. 
We're going to get out of here."

Her eyes closed wearily.  "Promise?"

"Absolutely."  He stroked her hair.  "Tomorrow we'll head toward
the highway and I'm sure we'll find a --"

Her eyes came open.  "No, I mean do you promise I'll have sex
again before I die?"

He didn't laugh this time.  Instead, he bent his head to hers
until mere centimeters stood between them.  "I personally
guarantee it."

It was Scully who bridged the tiny distance between them, lifting her
head to capture his lips with her own.  The moment her mouth touched
his, he was lost, engulfed in flames of want that had been too-long
denied.  His arms snaked under hers, closing around her shoulder
blades and pulling her closer to him as he slanted his mouth over
hers, deepening the kiss.  His tongue met hers hungrily, the contact
sending a shiver down his spine.  His heart hammered in his chest.  

He threaded his hands through her hair and clasped her to him as
though he could keep her anchored to him forever.  She made a
soft mewling sound in response, her tongue tracing lightly over
his teeth before she pulled away from him, her breathing heavy,
her eyes cloudy with passion.  She crossed her arms in front of
her and grabbed the fabric of her T-shirt, pulling it over her
head and tossing it to the floor in a single fluid motion.  

Like a Roman Goddess poised on the altar, she offered herself to
him silently, sitting before him in her bra and panties, her
chest rising and falling rapidly.  He could see her nipples
pressing hard through the soft cups of her bra, and he ached to
reach out and free them from the silk prison.  He wanted to see
her.  All of her.

He wanted to see her and touch her and make love to her so much
it hurt.

His body was painfully erect, his cock hot and throbbing.  It was all
he could to not to rip his own clothing off just so he could feel her
hot skin against his.  

But it was wrong.  The hateful words blared in his head like a
foghorn at close range.  He couldn't take what wasn't offered
with complete coherence.  He wouldn't risk the repercussions of
morning remorse.  And though he knew there would be no regret on
his part, he also knew Scully deserved to be fully present the
first time they made love.

As much as he wanted her, it couldn't be here.  It certainly
couldn't be now.  No matter how much he ached for her.

No matter how longingly she was gazing at him.

No matter how many baby soft kisses she trailed down his neck and
shoulder...

Mayday, mayday!  The warning sirens began to blare in his head. 
He pulled away again.  Not here.  Not like this.  She was feeling the
effects of the Demerol, and he had to protect her from her actions. 
Christ, he thought, looking at her almost nude body. He had to protect
her from HIS actions.

"Wha's wrong?" Scully asked slowly, her breath warm on his neck.

"You're not up to this right now, Scully," he told her pointedly. "And
as much as I'd like to keep following this path, we both need to get
some sleep.  We'll have time for....this...later. After we're back in
civilization."

Her eyes darkened.  "You're not attracted to me," she stated.

"Jesus, Scully," he ground out.  "I'm hard as a fucking rock
right now."  He stood up, allowing her to see the evidence of his
body's reaction to her.  "So I don't think your attractiveness is in
question."

She smiled at him, blatantly pleased with his admission.  "That's
because of me?" she asked.

He chuckled at the self-satisfaction he heard in her voice. 
"Well it's certainly not because of me," he whispered, bending
down for one last sound kiss.

He pulled the chair back toward the table and spread a tiny worn
blanket on the floor beside the cot.  Pulling his jacket from the
canvas bag, he sat down on the fuzzy plaid pallet and began to remove
his shoes, pausing from his task when he realized Scully was watching
every move he made with rapt attention.

"Mulder?" she said.

"What?"

Her mouth split into a devilish grin, dulled only by the evidence of
haze in her sleepy eyes.  "I'm definitely going to make it out of
here."   She paused to give emphasis to her words.  "We've got
unfinished business."

He shook his head at her brazenness, wondering again how much of
this night she would actually remember.  It was going to stay
with *him* for a very long time.  "Goodnight, Scully."

"Night, Muller," she answered dreamily.

He stretched out on the floor in the dim light of the lantern,
shoving his jacket  under his head as a makeshift pillow.  He was
about to close his eyes, when a sudden movement close to his face sent
him careening off the floor.

"ARGH!"

"AGHH!" Scully answered.

"Son of a *bitch*!" Mulder yelled.

"What!" Scully squealed.

"Something moved right past my head when I lay down."  He began
walking slowly around the rug on the floor.  As he neared his
jacket, the culprit gave another surprise leap.

"Jesus!" Mulder yelped.

"Oh fer goodness sakes, Muller," Scully said.  "It's just a
little frog."

He snorted.  "Yeah, well see how much you like it in your face
when you're about to nod off to sleep." 

"It jus' wanted to sleep with you Mulder," Scully told him with a
sleepy smile.  "Why don't we call it Fleabie?"

He bent to scoop the small creature into his hands, grimacing as
he walked to the door with it.  "This couldn't be Phoebe,
Scully," he called over his shoulder.  "Its mouth isn't big
enough.".

Surely he scored big points for that one, he thought.  United in
Phoebe bashing.  The cement of all good relationships.  Mulder
threw the frog onto the deck and closed the door, waiting for
Scully's reply.  

Surprised at the silence, he walked to the cot and pulled the
sheet away from her face.  She was sound asleep.

He sighed, a mixed reaction of regret and relief.  The ride was
over.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Wednesday, May 2
6:58 a.m.

The thickness of morning clung heavily to Scully,  weighing down
upon her like a sodden wool blanket.  Her body was heavy and
unresponsive, resisting her efforts to slough off the fever
dreams that had plagued her all night.  Water dreams.  Drowning.
Trying to draw a breath of air amid the fluid weightlessness of death
and suffocation.  The images clung to her as she began making her way
slowly back to reality, stretching tired arms outward, calling for
Mulder, and knowing he would never be able to reach her through the
myriad of phantom creatures that held him at bay.  Was this real?  She
couldn't tell anymore.

Fighting her way out of the drug induced stupor, she woke slowly
at last, to the sound of strong wind and creaking wood, and the
unsettling sensation of movement all around her.  The watchtower
swung to and fro like a metronome, groaning its protest to the
relentless gales that assaulted it.  Scully's stomach roiled at
the unwelcome movement and the pain in her leg.  She lay quietly
on the cot, eyes closed, and tried not to move until the nausea
passed.  She wondered if a drink of water would help.

"Mulder?"  Her voice was thin and hoarse, not much more than a
whisper.

When silence was her only answer, she forced her eyes open,
squinting against the glare of overcast daylight that invaded the room
through small dirty windows.  Her head was throbbing, and every
movement she made was a struggle.  Feeling as though she was fighting
her way through quicksand, she forced herself halfway up on the cot
and looked down, expecting to see Mulder stretched out on the floor.

He was nowhere in sight.

"Mulder?"

The high pitched tone of her voice hurt her head, causing the
throbbing to intensify.  He was gone.  How long had he been gone? How
long had she slept?  She felt hot and cold at the same time, her face
flushed with fever, her skin hypersensitive to the cool air of the
mountain morning.  Everything was blurry as she looked around the room
for some sign of her partner.

"Mulder, where are you?" she called louder, unable to keep the
panic from her voice.  He had left her.  He had gotten up while
she slept and he had left her.  Angry tears welled up in
unfocused eyes as she inched her legs over the side of the cot
and pushed herself into a sitting position.

Fire shot up her leg and seared its impression on her dazed
brain.  She tried to scream as the pain engulfed her, but the
sound came out a choked sob as she stumbled off the cot and fell
in a heap to the empty floor.  She had no balance, no equilibrium in
the swaying tower, and the nausea that had assaulted her earlier
returned full force.  She lost the battle of wills a moment later and
vomited.

He'd ditched her, the bastard.  

She was going to kill him.

Scully wiped her mouth and dragged herself on hands and knees to
the small table on the other side of the room, using it to
leverage herself to her feet.  She could walk out the stiffness,
she promised herself.  She would have too.  She wouldn't stay
here alone and wait for Mulder.  

Fucking bastard.

Her partner's voice silently taunted her.  Of *course* I trust
you, Scully...Yes of *course* we'll stay together, Scully...that
is, until you're asleep and I can leave you here safe and sound
and go for help on my own.  Obviously their talk last night had
gone in one ear and out the other for Mulder.  After standing
there and telling her with a straight face that he would make a
conscious effort to stop ditching her, he had crept out of the
tower this morning without waking her and set out on his own.  He
didn't want *her* taking risks, oh no -- but he could take them
without reservation, and knowing Mulder, he'd get up to his ass in
alligators or a rock slide or wind up shivering outside in the middle
of a sudden freak snowstorm...

She shivered with cold and realized for the first time that she
was wearing only her bra and panties.  Her jeans were still on
the floor beside the table, she realized; she had no idea where
her T-shirt was.  How the hell had that happened?  She looked
over toward the cot and spotted the light blue garment in a small pile
on the floor.  Obviously she'd gotten hot during the night and pulled
it off.

Gingerly, Scully stepped into her jeans without bothering to
unwrap and look at her leg.  She couldn't clean or dress it by
herself and she had a feeling looking at it would only make her
throw up again.  Forcing herself to focus, she donned her shirt
and shoes, and began searching the room for any supplies she
could take with her.  Mulder had left her the bag -- for that she was
grateful.  It was the least the asshole could do after sneaking away
while she slept.

She found precious little in the small abandoned shelter.  No
food at all; they had taken care of that last night.  But she did find
a small used bar of soap under the tiny sink, and an unopened box of
baking soda.  She didn't know how old it was or if such things
expired, but she was willing to take her chances for the opportunity
to brush her teeth.  She ran her tongue across the front of her top
teeth, grimacing at the feeling of velvet in her mouth.  She was
*definitely* going to risk it.

Finding nothing else useful, she turned and hobbled back to the
bed to claim the bag she had set there.  She would take the maps
and what little she had, and head toward the main road.  Maybe
she could manage to track Mulder's progress.  He couldn't have
left too long ago -- even Mulder wouldn't have set out in total
darkness.

She pulled her gun from the bag and tucked into the back of her
waistband, repacking the remaining supplies.  She would have to
travel as light as possible in her weakened condition.  Anything
that wasn't absolutely imperative would have to go.  There wasn't
really much to leave -- a couple pairs of socks, a hairbrush, a can of
hairspray she'd brought for it's flammability, and Mulder's gun.

Mulder's gun?

Scully's eyes widened.  He'd left his gun?  That wasn't right.  

She looked around the room, trying to piece together a puzzle
that suddenly seemed unsettling.  There was no sign of him in the
room.  But something still wasn't right.

Then it hit her.

There was no note.

Mulder would never have left without a note.  Even if he had
decided to leave her, he would never have gone without telling
her why.  There was plenty of paper lying around.  

Plenty of paper....plenty of paper...

Scully stared at the table.  The maps were still here.  He hadn't
taken them.  He'd left the maps, and he'd left his gun.  He hadn't
left *her*.  At least, he hadn't left her voluntarily.

"Mulder!" she yelled.

The wind howled back.

She limped to the door and pushed hard against it until it was
caught by the strong current and thrown back against the side of
the building.  She looked left and right on the small deck.  No
Mulder.  Just a small, disgruntled-looking frog that hopped
quickly across the open doorway into the shelter.

Scully walked to the railing and looked down, gripping the wooden slab
when dizziness assaulted her.  She saw no sign of him down below, but
he was there somewhere.  He had to be.

"Scully."  His voice was a whisper almost lost amidst the wind.

"Mulder!"  She looked all around the ground level of the tower

"I need you."

"I'm coming," she yelled, heart pounding ferociously in her
chest.

"Bring your gun."  The words sounded tight, uttered through
clenched teeth, and they sent a chill down her spine.

She felt for her gun in the back waistband of her jeans and moved to
the ladder.  Tamping down the fear and dizziness she felt, she swung
her good leg over the railing and laboriously inched her sore leg down
after it.  She couldn't bend her injured leg well enough to climb down
so she allowed it to hang limply to the side of the ladder as she
began hopping slowly down on one leg.  It took all of her
concentration and almost all of her strength.

"I'm...coming, Muh..Mulder," she panted.

He didn't answer.

She saw him as soon as her head cleared the bottom of the
shelter.  He was standing directly underneath the watchtower,
unmoving and pale...directly in front of a rattlesnake, poised
and ready to strike.


End of part 11


Tempest, part 12


"Oh my God," Scully whispered.

The snake was huge, at least six feet.  Its body was coiled into
a cylindrical tube, capped by the wavering rattle that signaled
its irritability.  Its head undulated slowly from side to side in
front of Mulder, its tongue darting out at regular intervals to sniff
the intruder before it.  Mulder stood still as a statue, his forehead
glistening with nervous perspiration.

Oh God.  Oh God.

A rattlesnake can kill you in 20 minutes if it bites you more
than once.  Charlie's voice invaded her mind again.  Snakes. 
Charlie and Billy had loved them.  She'd always hated them. 
She'd killed one once when she was young, a little sister's
hopeless attempt to gain her brothers' approval.  It had been a
tiny garden snake, totally harmless, and as much as she hated the
creatures, she'd felt enough remorse over killing it that she never
hunted another one.  

Scully stared down at the poisonous monster in front of Mulder
and felt her blood run cold.  This was different.  This one
wasn't harmless.  She could kill this one and not feel a thing.

She eased one hand behind her and pulled her weapon from its
makeshift holster, blinking hard to clear her still blurry
vision.  She aimed the gun down toward the snake, then hesitated,
bringing her hand back up to rub her eyes.  She was so tired and
groggy and fuzzy and blurry...

"Scully?"  

"S'okay, Mulder," she mumbled.  "I'm just a little blurry."  She
aimed the gun again.

Mulder's voice was thick with tension.  "Are you sure you can..."

"Shut up, Mulder."

Concentrate.  She had to concentrate.

Two snakes and two Mulders swam before her eyes.  She only had
one chance to make the right decision.  If she missed, the
startled snake would strike instantly in reaction.  If it struck
more than once, Mulder had no chance.

Her finger tightened on the trigger, and Mulder's eyes widened. 
"Trust me, Mulder?" she asked softly.

He swallowed, but nodded, almost imperceptibly.

The gun discharged in a fraction of a second, the bullet sending
the snake 2 feet into the air before it crumpled in a scaly pile
at Mulder's feet.  Scully too, went flying, too weak to withstand the
recoil of the gunfire.  She landed with a heavy thud at the bottom of
the ladder, not having uttered a single sound on the way down.  Mulder
was at her side instantly.

"God, Scully, are you okay?" he cried, brushing the hair from her face
and gently feeling underneath her head for cuts or bumps.

She had the breath knocked out of her, but she nodded at him,
openmouthed, gasping for air.  He sat there with her until she
recovered enough to sit up.

She couldn't get over the sight he presented in the soft overcast
light of the morning.  He was wearing his glasses, and as usual, the
sight of them quickened her heart just a bit.  After only 2 days, his
face and arms had a healthy tan to them, evidence of his outdoor
nature.  She could feel the sunburn on the bridge of her nose, and
knew her cheeks were almost as red.  Scullys didn't tan...ever.

His beard was thicker today, no longer just a covering of heavy
five o'clock shadow.  She'd never given much thought to Mulder
with a beard, but the sight he presented made a fantastic
argument for the banishment of razors.  Rugged Mulder was damned
appealing, she thought.  Hell, *every* Mulder was damned
appealing.  Rugged, unkempt, formal, professional, casual,
outdoor, indoor, who the hell cared?  Mulder was like brownie
batter -- every state was equally appealing.  You might crave the
final product, but licking the bowl was just as much fun.  She shook
her head, trying to clear the erotic images that were beginning to
form.

"How long were you down here with that thing," she asked, hoping
she sounded casual and conversational.

"I don't know.  It felt like two hours, but it was probably only
fifteen or twenty minutes."

She looked up at him.  "When I woke up I thought...I thought...."

His forehead wrinkled.  "You thought what?"

She leaned forward against his chest, her arms encircling his
neck as she buried her face against his neck.  "Nothing.  It
doesn't matter.  I'm just glad you're okay."

He returned the embrace wholly, his arms encircling her and
holding tight, his chin resting lightly on the top of her head. 
"Quite a wake-up call, don't you think?" he asked with a smile
she could hear.

She nodded.  "Oh yeah.  I'm awake.  Who needs coffee?"

He pulled back from her.  "There's no need for you to try to
climb those steps again.  Why don't you wait here, and I'll go
get our stuff."

"Okay," she agreed.  "I need to go to the bathroom anyway."  She
smiled up at him.  "Although I gotta admit, Mulder, I came damn
close to going as soon as I saw that snake."

He chuckled.  "Well if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure I
*would* have gone, except I was just on my way back from going
when I found the snake."

She laughed at his admission and began to hobble into the trees.

"Watch yourself in those bushes," he warned.

"S'okay, Mulder.  I'm armed," she assured him.

"Yeah, well, I wasn't thinking about your arms."

She turned to look at him, raising one eyebrow.  "And do you
think about these things often?"

He grinned at her and stepped onto the ladder.  "Only lately."

Smiling, she turned and walked out of sight of the watchtower. 

He hadn't ditched her.


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

7:40 a.m.

"You didn't tell me you'd were sick."

The statement was reproachful enough to make Scully feel guilty.

Mulder jumped the last three steps of the ladder, landing lightly
beside her.  "Why didn't you say something?"  He shouldered their bag
and stared at her, scrutinizing every inch of her face.

She tried to shrug it off.  "What should I have said, Mulder? 
Good morning, nice snake you got there...by the way, I threw up?"

His hand reached out toward her face and she ducked away from him with
impatience.  "Yes, Mulder, I have a fever.  Yes, I threw up in the
tower -- if you have to know, I threw up again before you came back
down.  I feel like shit and I'm seeing two of everything.  But
standing here isn't helping.  Can we just go?"  

He waited until she finished ranting, then calmly reached his
hand toward her again.  

Fuck it, she thought.  Go ahead.  Play doctor.  Knock yourself
out.  She looked up at him tiredly, presenting her forehead for
his perusal.  His palm felt like ice against her skin.

"You're burning up, Scully."

She was angry in an instant.  "No shit, Mulder.  My leg's
infected, and I've been walking on it for two days -- I'm sick. 
Of *course* I have a fever."  Her head bobbed randomly with every
emphatic sentence -- a motion she couldn't control -- and she started
to laugh.  Once she started, she couldn't stop.  The laughter became
hysterical, until tears were streaming down her face.  Was she crying
now?  She couldn't tell.  She couldn't tell anything anymore.

Mulder's hands came up to capture her head, holding it steady as
he bent to look directly into her unfocused eyes.

"Scully!" he barked.  "Listen to me!"

She blinked hard, once, twice.  Suddenly he came into focus.  Had they
been standing here long?  The wetness of tears registered on her
cheeks beneath his hands, and she was totally confused.  Was she
crying?  Why was she crying?

"Scully," Mulder said more softly, "I can't leave you out here
alone in this condition, but you're going to have to fight this
fever with every bit of strength you have left if we're going to
get out of here today.  Do you understand?"  

She nodded her head, still held captive by his hands.  Amazing
how familiar his touch was to her now.  She blinked sluggishly,
regretting the automatic blurring of his features.  She never
tired of looking at him.   

He moved his face closer to her own until they were centimeters
apart.  "You're going to have to fight hard," he  told her, his
voice husky.

"I'll try, Mulder."  She searched his eyes, taking advantage of
her momentary lucidity.  "I can do this."

"I know you can."  

He stunned her by leaning in and kissing her softly as he
released her face.  There was no hesitation in the action, no
second guessing -- just the sound promise of honest emotion. 
Scully felt as if her heart stopped completely. She hadn't
totally forgotten their encounter last night, although she had
only a vague recollection of what transpired.  But those kisses
had been initiated by her -- the result of an uninhibited
Demerol-induced stupor.  This kiss had been real and lucid.  This kiss
had been all Mulder.

This small soft kiss had shattered her heart and soul.

Mulder took her hand pulling her gently in the right direction. 
"Let's get started," he sighed.

Her lips still tingled from the contact with his as she turned to
begin limping beside him, silently chanting her single itinerary for
the day.

She had to fight it.  She had to fight hard.  She had to fight
it.  She had to fight hard.

Throughout the course of the morning, the landscape of the
mountain began to blur, then change completely as she
concentrated only on her progress.  She had managed to separate
herself from the fog of delirium and fever that had hampered her
earlier, but it hovered close by, following her every step of the way.
 

Scully knew it was only a matter of time before it overtook her
again.

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

10:27 a.m.

The river was bigger than they'd anticipated.  It was colder and
faster, more imposing than they'd expected to find it.  Mulder
and Scully stood along the bank, transfixed by the sight of the
clear blue water running endlessly over silt and sand, driftwood
and plants.  Strong currents raced over smooth grey stones in a
constant rush of cold water that seemed to come from nowhere and
disappear into the other side of nothing.  If they hadn't had to
cross it, Mulder would have welcomed the sight.  Fresh water --
all they could drink -- cool and cleansing, beckoning them into
its quiet, shallow reserves with a promise of rejuvenation.  They
could have enjoyed the discovery, allowed themselves to revel in
washing away the dirt and grime of three days spent hiking.

But they did have to cross it, Mulder thought grimly.  He looked
across the wide expanse of fast-moving water that separated them
from the opposite bank.  It looked imposing and treacherous,
emphasizing the fact that standing quietly beside him, swaying
with fatigue, Dana Scully looked small and fragile.  

She'd never make it across.  She wouldn't even come close.

"What now?" Scully posed.  "Think we can make it?"  Her voice was
strained and thin, belying the bravery of her words.

Mulder looked at her in amazement, almost laughing at the
absurdity of her question.  He choked on the humor as soon as he
saw the thin straw of desperation that she was clinging to.  Her
solemn, determined face exacted an honest answer, and he gave 
her one.  

"I think *I* could make it...," he began.  "But you'd be three
miles downstream before you got halfway across."  

She nodded mutely, her eyes still fixed on the swift water.

Mulder put his arm around Scully's back and guided her a few
steps away from the bank.  He knew with certainty how bad she was
feeling when she made no pretense of shunning his help.  In fact, she
seemed to welcome it without reservation -- a fact that made him even
more nervous about her rapid state of decline.  "Here," he told her. 
"Come back here and sit down for a few minutes." She agreed without
protest, and he gently supported her weight as she lowered herself to
the ground in a half reclining position.

"Scully?"

He had to call her three times before his voice seemed to
register with her.  Finally she looked at him blankly.

"I'm going to walk around this bend over here and see if I can
spot any point in the river that looks narrower or calmer. 
Someplace we might have an easier time crossing.  Okay?"   He
waited, but received no response.  "Scully?  Will you be okay?"

She shook her head sluggishly, as if trying to throw off a cloudy veil
that covered her.  "I want to clean up," she whispered.

He crouched down beside her.  "Scully?" he said softly, capturing her
cheeks with his palms and tilting her head up to look at him. "Scully,
look at me."  When she didn't comply right away he shook her lightly. 
"Scully, *look* at me!" he commanded.

She turned dull, tired eyes up to meet his.

"Don't bug out on me now, Scully," he told her.  "You hear me?"

"M'not," she mumbled, blinking in slow motion.

"I'm going to look for a place to cross the river," he repeated. "You
stay right here until I get back, okay?"

God, he sounded like a parent, Mulder thought.  A healthy,
opinionated argumentative Scully would have called him on it in a
heartbeat, and God he wished that more-familiar Scully would show up
now.  The Scully in front of him merely nodded.  He was getting more
worried with each passing second.  He had to revive her somehow, even
if it was momentary, or they wouldn't be able to take another step.

"Scully," he asked loudly, hoping the increased volume of his
voice would register with her.  "You said you wanted to clean up,
right?"

She nodded at once.

He released her face and placed his hands on her shoulders. 
"Okay.  Listen to me."  He shook her lightly again to make sure
he had her attention.  "I'm going around this bend and then I'm
coming right back, okay?  As soon as we get across the river,
we'll both take a short break and clean up a little bit, okay? 
How's that sound?"

She smiled at him, or rather, she tried to, and the sight cut
through his very soul.  He couldn't lose this woman.  He couldn't even
begin to consider the possibility.  Life without Scully wasn't worth
contemplating.

He stood up, reluctant to leave her.  "Well...good.  You stay
here and think about enjoying that water, and I'll be back in
just a couple minutes.  I'm not going far."

"All right."  She didn't look at him this time, nodding her head
absently as she said the words and continued to gaze longingly at the
cool river.  But she had answered him without prodding, and he felt
confident enough in her response to walk away from her, down around
the sharp outcropped piece of land that obscured the river from their
view to the east side.  Not wanting to leave her alone any longer than
he had to, he walked quickly with purpose, his eyes fixed on the
variations of distance between the east and west sides of the river. 
He didn't take his eyes off the shorelines.

He didn't look back.

And because he didn't look back, he was oblivious to the fact
that behind him, a small redhead crawled slowly and unsteadily on
hands and knees, toward the rapidly moving water of the Watauga River.

End of part 12


Tempest, part 13


*  *  *  *  *  *  *

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

Standing waist deep in the river, Scully jumped visibly as the
sharp sound of his voice destroyed the quiet tranquillity of the
mountains.  She wearing her T-shirt; her jeans were lying in a
small pile of leaves under the tree where he'd left her.

Sinking lower into the water until only her head was visible, she
stared at him -- a lucid, alert gaze that he hadn't seen in two days. 
"Well, let's see...there's water...there's me *in* the water...there's
soap -- which thank God you didn't make me drop just now when you
screamed at me...if memory serves, I believe most people would call
this a bath, Mulder."  She dipped her head back into the water,
wetting her hair completely.  "You should try it yourself," she told
him, her voice hoarse and throaty. "You're not exactly fresh as a
daisy yourself these days."

Her eyes widened as he plowed into the water fully clothed, his
fury evident.

"What's wrong with y---"

Her words cut off sharply as he bent down and placed his hands on her
hips underneath the water, lifting her effortlessly in the buoyancy of
the water until she was bent over his shoulder, her bikini clad bottom
arched toward the sky.  The bandage he'd placed around her leg was
still in place, the heavy stains of blood a dark brown blemish against
the soaked white cotton that had been his work shirt.  Careful not to
hurt her, he anchored her in place with one hand on her hip, the other
tightly gripping her uninjured leg.

He knew she was angry, but there was no question he was angrier.

He didn't trust himself to speak.  Not as he carried her out onto the
river bank, not as he set her unceremoniously on her unsteady
feet...not even as she stared at him, openmouthed by his actions.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his heart pounded
relentlessly in his chest.  He wanted to throttle her.

"I leave you for ten minutes, Scully!" he yelled.  "Ten minutes! And
all I ask you to do is sit there and wait for me for ten lousy
minutes!  So where are you when I come back?"

"I was taking a bath," she snapped, reaching down for her jeans,
wincing at the sharpness of her own movement.  "Why is that such
a--"

"You were up to your goddamned neck in a river that could have
swept you downstream in less than a minute!  Jesus Christ, Scully --
you don't have the strength of a Chihuahua right now.  What in the
hell made you think you could just waltz into a river -- one that
scares the shit out of *me* by the way -- and have yourself an
Elizabeth Arden moment out here in the middle of the fucking
wilderness?"

"I was doing just *fine* thank you very much!"   She stepped into her
jeans and began tugging, inching the material up over wet legs as she
emphasized her argument.  "Excuse the *hell* out of *me* if I made a
*decision* without *consulting* you."  She left her jeans unbuttoned
and stepped into her tennis shoes.  "You're not my keeper, Mulder." 
Her eyes flashed with indignation.  "So save the caveman routine for
someone who'll appreciate it."

He couldn't help the slow smile that spread across his face.

"Am I amusing you now?" she challenged.

"You're back."  His words were full of quiet emotion.

Scully looked puzzled.

"Look at you," Mulder told her.  "You're wide awake, mad as hell,
ready to take my head off..."  He paused, giving his words time to
sink in.  "Welcome back."

She shook her head, chuckling softly.  "Why can't you just let me stay
mad at you, Mulder?" she asked.  "I was on a roll."

He shook his arms and legs, sending drops of water flying. 
"Because right now it's not in your best interest to be mad at
me."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, and shoved a limp strand of hair
from her eyes.  "Oh?"

"C'mon," he told her, extending his hand toward her.  "I found a
place we can cross.  It's only waist deep and it seems a little
calmer."

Scully hauled the dirty nylon bag into her arms and handed it to
him, allowing him to lead her slowly around the curved bank of
the river.

"This is it?" she asked, eyeing the distance.

"This is it," he confirmed.  "I don't see anyplace narrower, and
those rocks down there seem to pull some of the current away from the
center where it's deepest."  He looked down at her, his heart catching
slightly at the familiar glint in her eyes.  Maybe they would make it
after all.  "You ready?"

She nodded, and made a move toward the edge, but he stopped her
with a hand on her shoulder.  "Hold the bag," he told her,
thrusting it into her surprised hands.  He swept her easily into
his arms, bouncing her lightly a couple of times to test her
weight.

"Mulder," she sighed.  "This isn't necessary.  Really.  I can
pull my weight -- you said it was only waist deep."

He stepped into the water, testing the slipperiness of the rocks
underneath his feet.  "It's not a matter of pulling your weight,
Scully," he told her.  "I'm glad you're feeling better for the
moment, but if you exhaust yourself crossing this river then what good
has it done?"  He stepped off an invisible plateau on the river
bottom, sinking a good foot lower than he'd expected. Scully's bottom
dipped into the water and she held the bag aloft as they made slow
progress toward the other side.

"Besides," he panted, struggling against the rushing water, "when I
said it was waist deep, I meant *my* waist.  You'd be in up to your
neck."  He took a fraction of a second to flash her a sexy smile. 
"And as good as you look in wet, clingy clothes, I'm just not willing
to risk it."

He plowed through the river with slow, deliberate steps, pausing
a few times to readjust the weight of the woman in his arms.  His
muscles were aching, but the precious cargo he carried was his first
priority.  Finally, he felt the surface of the bottom begin to ascend,
and knew he had made it across.  He set her down in water that came to
her hips, taking her hand as they trudged the last few steps onto the
muddy bank and collapsed into the dirt and leaves, breathing heavily.

For the first time since the crash, Mulder felt optimistic.  The
cold water had revived Scully somewhat, and they had to be
getting close to the highway.  They'd cleared the air that had
festered between them, confronted some problems that they'd been
avoiding too long.  And little by little, they walls that kept
them apart at the end of the business day were beginning to
crumble.  He'd kissed her this morning, and although he was
fairly certain she didn't remember their encounter last night,
she hadn't pulled away from him.  It was a step in the right
direction.

It was a beginning.

He closed his eyes against the brightness of the clearing sky,
and allowed his breathing to settle back to a normal rate.  They
would rest a few minutes and head straight through the woods. 
With any luck, he'd have Scully tucked into a hospital bed and
receiving antibiotics before nightfall.  After that, he had no
clue.  But they'd made some promises that he was going to move
heaven and earth to keep.

"Mulder?"

He didn't open his eyes.  "Uh huh?"

"Get up."

"Do I have to?" he sighed.  He hadn't expected her to be so eager to
move on.  She'd been so listless only half an hour ago.

"No," she answered slowly.  "You don't have to, but it won't be
nearly as pleasant if you don't help out a little."

He opened his eyes, squinting up at her in confusion.  "What
won't?"

She moved over him, blocking the sun from his eyes, and smiled
down at him, the smile of everything good that he'd ever known in his
life.  Her tongue darted out and slowly licked her chapped lips,
making him ache to retrace the path with his own tongue.

Don't torture yourself, Mulder, he thought.  "What won't?" he
repeated.

She pushed something wet and slippery into his hand and bent low
to whisper in his ear.  Her throaty laugh promised more than he
knew she could deliver, but he didn't care.  Her words were
enough to make his pulse leap instantly.

"Cleaning up, Mulder," she breathed against his neck.  "You and I are
going to take a bath."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

She hadn't been skinnydipping in years.  Not since her sophomore
year of college when she and Wendy Bealer had sneaked away to
meet their boyfriends at Lake Laremont.  They'd spent hours in
the water, playing, flirting, splashing, kissing, petting.  She'd
finally let Kurt Eyremore get to third base, and if they hadn't been
interrupted by the ill-timed arrival of a group of lost campers, she
would have let him make love to her.  At the time, she'd thought she
loved him.

"You done with the soap yet?"  

Mulder's question broke into her thoughts, startling her out of
her nostalgic daydream.  "Just a minute, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder.  "I'm almost done."  She passed the small white bar over her
arms in small circles and up around her neck, working the slippery
residue into lather as much as she could.  Even though there was no
fragrance, she felt positively decadent.  She dipped lower under the
surface to rinse herself off, and began side-stroking through the
heavy water to Mulder, who waited patiently some distance away.

They'd separated instinctively when they entered the water,
allowing each other their privacy.  Now, closing the distance
between them, Scully regretted their unfailing civility to one
another.  Fox Mulder stood tall and steady in the crystal clear
water that reached only to the middle of his hips.  He stood
completely still, waiting for her to approach him with the humble
delivery.  Tiny rivulets of water ran in slow patterns down his
muscled body, and for a moment, Scully imagined herself as that water,
running free over his skin, his entire body her playground.  Did he
have any idea how much she wanted that?  To explore his body?  To
familiarize herself with every inch of it?

She couldn't breathe.  He was Poseidon come to life.  A god
standing firm amid the watery world that surrounded him. Surely
no human had ever affected her so strongly, no mere mortal had
ever achieved this level of effortless sexuality.  She stopped
her progression in mid-stroke about five feet away from him and
indulged an unabashed stare at his beauty.  She'd never wanted a
man so much in her life.  Fox Mulder was living, breathing proof
of the artistry of the very God he sometimes questioned. 
Perfection didn't happen without help.

"Scully?"

She blinked, suddenly aware she was treading water.  "What?"

"You okay?"  He began moving toward her.

She put her feet down to the muddy floor of the river and
crouched down neck deep into its depths.  "I'm fine, Mulder," she told
him.  Her voice sounded low, husky.  "Just taking a breather."

He began swimming sideways as he drew close to her in the
shallower water, obscuring his nudity from her eyes.  She could
see the worry in his eyes, and felt a pang of guilt.  She'd been
fantasizing about his body, and he was worried sick about her
health.  He reached her easily, almost kneeling in calm water
closer to the bank.  Mulder reached a hand toward her forehead,
but she captured his wrist and lowered it to just above the
surface of the water, placing the small sliver of soap into it
and closing his fingers over it tightly.

"I'm fine, Mulder.  I just got tired, that's all."  She looked up at
him.  "Really.  Go wash."

He nodded his agreement.  "Why don't you go ahead and get
dressed.  That'll give you a little time to rest before we hit
the trail again."  His other hand came out of the water to cup
her cheek.  "I won't be long.  Can you make it out?"

His concern was touching.  It was also irritating as hell.  

They were never going to get anywhere at this rate, she thought,
thoroughly disgruntled.  The game was wearing thin.  She knew he
wanted her; she'd seen -- hell she'd *felt* -- the proof of that. But
for some reason he refused to take advantage of her almost blatent
invitation.  What the hell did he want?  A trail of breadcrumbs? 
Scully stared at the handsome man in front of her with a mixture of
desire and exasperation.  He couldn't kiss her soundly one minute and
play big brother the next.  And if that was what he was feeling at the
moment, he could get over it, she decided.  She wasn't about to step
into little sister's shoes.

"Yeah, I can make it out," she told him, slowly standing up in
the thigh-deep water.  His eyes widened as she bared her body to
him completely before turning slowly and walking toward the
shore, allowing him the lingering view of her naked bottom.

Scully smiled wickedly as she stepped onto the bank, knowing full well
that his eyes were riveted upon her.  Without a look back, she bent
over to retrieve her clothes from the ground, laughing to herself when
Mulder's intake of breath reached her over the distance between them.

"I'll be over on the other side, Mulder," she called over her
shoulder to him.  

He didn't answer.  Scully looked back just in time to see the
surface of the cold water close completely over her partner's
head as he immersed himself completely in Mother Nature's version of a
cold shower.

"Gotcha," she whispered, smiling.


End of part 13


Tempest, part 14


*   *   *   *   *   *   * 

Finally clean from toes to teeth, she was sitting straight legged on
the ground, finger-combing her hair when Mulder joined her on the
bank.  Her leg throbbed dully underneath the soaked cotton bandage,
numbed from its prolonged submersion in the cold water. The river had
acted as an ice pack, momentarily relieving the most intense stabs of
pain, but Scully could feel the heat radiating from the wound.  The
respite would be undoubtedly brief, and then the nauseating agony
would begin again.  

Mulder stood beside her, watching quietly.  He was clad only in
his torn, dirty work pants, the blue fabric turned nearly black
from three days in the mountain wilderness.  His bare chest was
still wet, small trails of water running down from the wet
strands of his hair.

"Need a hand?" he asked her, his voice a soft caress.

She looked at him wistfully.  "Need a brush.  I left it behind."

"I didn't."  He held up her brush, smiling as her face registered her
delight and surprise.  "I saw what you took out of the bag when I went
back into the tower.  I repacked."

She smiled a silent invitation and Mulder lowered himself to the
ground behind her, situating her between his legs as he stretched his
own limbs out beside hers.  She went still, concentrating wholly on
the sensation as he began to stroke her hair.

It was a measure of patience as he worked the soft bristles of
the brush through hair too long neglected.  Little by little, the
snarls began to disappear as Mulder painstakingly drew the brush over
and over and over her hair, following its progress with his hands,
combing the ends around his hand to simulate the soft curl she so
often wore.  Scully sat still beneath his ministrations, her heart
shattering at this, his small simple act of selfless caring.  It was
the most touching thing he'd ever done for her.

She was almost unaware when he stopped the soothing stroking
motion of the brush, and began to knead the tired, sore muscles
of her shoulders.  One sensual pleasure melted into another as
she allowed him to massage away days of anxiety and stress.  His
hand pushed her hair aside and bared her neck to him, and her
mind flashed back to the last time he had made this same exact
move.  Back then, standing alone in a freezing storage unit, it
had been a measure of suspicion; an act of fear and retaliation. This
time, there was nothing but the gentle feel of his skin upon hers. 
His fingers, his breath against her neck.

His breath?  Oh God.  

Scully bit her bottom lip as she felt Mulder's hot breath against the
sensitive nape of her neck.  When his lips touched her there, all
coherent thought left completely.  He grazed soft kisses across her
shoulder and down her upper arm. There was no mistaking the intention.
 She was being seduced.  Awkwardly, trying not to hurt her leg, she
moved to her knees and turned to face him, her eyes searching his.  

It was all there.  

Finally.  

Everything she'd longed to see in him was there for the taking.

Their lips met hungrily, his mouth capturing hers in wordless
passion that set her very soul on fire.  She felt the slow soft
heat beginning to spread throughout her lower body and moaned
against his mouth.  Everything.  This was everything.

The touch of his tongue against the roof of her mouth, the
feeling of his breath mixing with hers. She wanted all of it. 
She wanted more.  Scully captured Mulder's full lower lip softly
between her teeth and suckled lightly, his groan of pleasure
giving her confidence, spurring her on.  Kissing a trail down his jaw
and neck, she let her exploring hands stroke a path across his bare
chest, the last remnants of water spreading out across his muscles
underneath her palms.

"Scully," he groaned, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Shhhhh."  Her mouth continued its journey as she sensuously
worked her way back to his jaw, his cheek.  His beard was
surprisingly soft to her touch, and more arousing than she'd ever
imagined.  Everything about Mulder was arousing, she realized,
wondrously.  She trailed her tongue across his jawbone toward his ear.
 When she found it, she sucked lightly on his earlobe.

His breathless moan excited her even more.  She pulled back,
releasing him just long enough to cross her arms over herself and pull
the constricting T-shirt over her head.  This time, she wasn't wearing
her bra.  She felt the heat of Mulder's eyes upon her and resisted the
urge to cover herself again.  She was so pale and thin -- thinner than
she'd ever been.  She lowered her lashes, afraid to look at him,
knowing she wasn't prepared to see what he might not be able to
disguise.

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered.  When she didn't
answer, he crooked a finger under her chin and raised her face to look
at him.  "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known, Dana
Scully."  His face moved closer to hers.  "Don't ever doubt it."  His
mouth descended upon hers before she could reply, driving away any
doubt of his sincerity.  

His tongue ravaged the softness of her mouth, as he leaned her
back to lie on the ground, covering her carefully with his own
body without ever breaking their kiss.  His hand moved to cover
her breast, gently cupping the soft flesh as his palm made soft
passing strokes across her hardened nipple.  An involuntary
whimper escaped her and she closed her eyes, opening herself to
him completely, drinking in the feel of his hands against her
fevered skin.  His mouth began a downward exploration, kissing a
trail down her throat, stopping as his tongue flicked out to lap
the small hollow of her clavicle.  She shivered and threaded her
hands through his hair.  She was dissolving right beneath him,
unable to believe this was actually happening.

Mulder followed the path of his hands to her breasts, nuzzling
one softly against his cheek before his mouth closed over her
nipple.  When he suckled her, she cried out, breathless, overcome by
the combined sensation of his lips and tongue and beard against her
sensitive flesh.  Her hands tightened in his hair, holding him to her,
and when she felt the moisture beginning between her legs, she parted
them instinctively.  Smiling against her breast, Mulder widened them
further, settling himself finally between her thighs.

He moved up to capture her mouth again, the sound of his wordless
murmurs leading her to the brink of her own self-control.  "I want
you, Mulder," she breathed against his mouth.

His elbows were on the ground on either side of her head, and he
supported his weight on them as he pulled back to look at her.

"I want you, Mulder," she repeated, her honest whisper surprising both
of them.

"Scully, your leg..."

She reached up and pulled his head back down to hers, her mouth
slanting across his in wanton passion.  "My leg wants you,
Mulder."

He chuckled at her brazenness.  "Your leg only wants me for my
knee," he joked, kissing her cheekbone.

"Shut up, Mulder."  She pulled his mouth to hers again,
effectively stopping their extraneous conversation.  She was
overdressed.  They were both so damn overdressed.  Without
breaking the kiss, her hands moved down to the waistband of her
jeans and she fumbled with the button and zipper, finally
releasing them both.  She lifted her hips and began to push the
jeans downward.  A short stabbing pain went through her leg as
the heavy denim scraped across the bandage, but she gritted her
teeth and forced herself to ignore it.  Some things were worth a
little discomfort.  And at the moment, Fox Mulder was all of
them.  

Mulder slid lower down her body, his mouth blazing a trail of
fire down her stomach until his chin rested just below her navel. He
slid his hands into the waistband of her panties and pushed them down
until they met the fabric of her jeans, then pushed both further down.
 

His breath was hot against her stomach, and she felt the tight
coil of desire building hotter within her.  The tension was
unbearable.

"God Mulder," she gasped, "I need...I need..."

His tongue darted out to flick her navel and she whimpered.  "You need
what?"  His voice sounded thick and rough.

"You."  The word was a cry.  A plea.  Eyes closed, she turned her head
to the side as he covered her body with his once more, the already
familiar weight of him a welcome sensation.  Her breasts ached for his
touch, her nipples hypersensitive from the heady feeling of his mouth
upon them.  He buried his face in her neck and she felt the aching
wetness between her thighs.  When finally, his hand moved between her
legs, she gasped, a combination of relief and uncontrolled passion.

He kissed her deeply as his fingers parted her, his tongue
mimicking the motions of his fingers as they deftly stroked her. When
he moved one finger inside her, she moaned loudly against his mouth. 
His assault was unrelenting, first one finger, finally two, pulsing in
and out of her body.  When his thumb moved upward to stroke her
simultaneously, her hips began to thrust against him as she fought for
release.  The tension was unbearable.  Unbearable and magnificent. 
She never wanted it to end.

"Let it go, Scully," he whispered, coaxing her toward the
brilliant light.  "Just let go."

His words pushed her over the edge into the beautiful void she'd
been seeking.  The world exploded around her in a thousand pieces of
dazzling light, settling over her in a cohesive veil of sunlight and
promise.  Her body felt like thick hot liquid pooled beneath him. 
Shapeless.  Formless.

Opening her eyes, she looked into Mulder's fathomless hazel ones,
feeling a surprising wetness clinging to her lashes.  Mulder bent his
head low to her, silently kissing away the moisture. Scully's thoughts
were a jumbled blur.  She couldn't think.  She didn't want to think.
She didn't even want to go home anymore. She didn't want anything but
for Mulder to stay here with her.

"Make love to me, Mulder," she whispered, her voice thick with
emotion.  She reached for the waistband of his pants and began to
fumble with the button.  His erection was huge, straining against the
worn fabric of the pants and she knew the measure of self-control he
had exercised to put her own pleasure first.

He didn't move or say a word as she released the button and
slowly pulled the zipper down.  Only their ragged breathing
measured the intensity of the scene as they played it out in
wondrous solitude.  She slid her hands inside the fabric of his
boxers and pushed them down over his hips.  She needed him.  She
wanted him.  All of him.

Taking up the cause when her arms had reached as far as they
could, Mulder half-turned and removed them completely, his eyes
searching hers endlessly, as if he expected her to change her
mind.  She allowed herself an appreciative look at his body and
felt her mouth go completely dry.  He was beautiful.  Every inch
of him was beautiful.

"Scully," he breathed, lowering himself over her body.  "Are you
sure?"

She reached between their bodies and took him in her hand, amazed by
the silken hardness of him.  "Oh yeah," she breathed against his neck.
 "I'm sure."  She stroked him softly and he groaned.

He kissed her deeply, then without warning or explanation, he
pulled away suddenly, his body still poised above hers.

"Mulder?"

He didn't answer.

"Mulder, what is it?"

"Do you hear that?" he asked, still breathless with passion.

"Do I hear wha --"

"Shhhh..."  he commanded abruptly.

Scully fell silent, listening intently,  hearing only the sound
of her own blood rushing through her veins.  Then there was
something else.  The unmistakable sound of a vehicle.  Not a
plane or a helicopter or something far away.  This was small.  A
car, possibly a truck.  And it was close.  God, it was close.

"Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?" he groaned, closing his
eyes.  When he opened them, he seemed to be in total control. "Wait
here.  I'll be right back," Mulder rasped, rolling away from her and
grabbing for his pants.

The weight of his body pushed her leg into the rocky ground, and
she couldn't stop the cry of pain that escaped her lips.

"Scully!"  He scrambled back, kneeling beside her as he cupped
her cheek in his hand.  "God, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to hurt
you."

She bit her bottom lip and nodded, her eyes closed against the
pain.  "It's okay, Mulder," she said, gritting her teeth.  When
at last the fiery pain subsided, she opened her eyes to look into his
worried ones.  His hand was softly caressing her cheek. "Really.  I'm
fine."  She attempted a smile to back up her words. "Are you?"

He helped her to her feet.  "Am I what?"

Her eyes lowered to his barely concealed erection, bulging hard
against the fabric of his pants.  "Fine."  With a mischievous
glint in her eye, she reached her hand down to cup him softly
through the material.  "It looks like *you're* the one in pain to me,"
she told him wryly.

"God, Scully..."  Mulder's eyes closed as he fought for control.

Taking pity on him, she removed her hand, trailing her nails
across his chest lightly.  He captured her hand easily and
pressed it against his bare skin.  "Scully," he began.

"Yes?"

He gazed meaningfully into her eyes, the small twitch of his jaw
the only indication of his humor.  "Promise me I'll have sex
again before I die."

His teasing words sparked a glimmer of rememberance.  Uninhibited
kissing, her own spontaneous laughter...oh dear lord.  She'd actually
told him...

She was momentarily embarrassed, then gave herself over to good
humor.  Her laughter eased the tension in her body, as she began
to realize that their rescue truly was at hand after their three
day ordeal.  She looked at him seriously, an imitation of what
she vaguely remembered as his own response to her plea.  "I
personally guarantee it, Mulder" she promised hoarsely, pulling
his head down to hers for one last kiss, lightly teasing his
tongue with her own. Drawing away from him at last, she reached
down and pulled his jacket from the ground behind her, shaking it
forcefully to remove the leaves and dirt that clung to it. "Here's
your chance, Mulder," she told him, handing him the jacket and giving
him a gentle shove toward the trees.  "Go be a manly man."  When he
raised his eyebrows in a puzzled expression, she chuckled.  "Go be a
hero and find the highway," she instructed,  "I'm ready to be
rescued."

He grinned and turned without a word, maneuvering through the
underbrush that surrounded the river, fastening his pants even as he
made his way toward the sound of civilization.

Scully watched him go, her heart racing.  She couldn't even
absorb what had just happened here, and she didn't have time to
sort it out.  They'd found the highway.  What they would find
*on* the highway was yet to be determined.

She pulled on her T-shirt and stumbled to her feet, her legs
still shaky in the aftermath of orgasm.  Every nerve in her body
was on full-alert, screaming for a conclusion that wasn't going
to happen.  She couldn't imagine the frustration that Mulder was
feeling.

Sense of humor indeed, she thought wryly.  God was probably
headlining at the Pearly Gates Comedy Club.

She stepped into her shoes, waiting anxiously for some sign of
Mulder through the thick covering of trees.  Gradually, her
breathing returned to normal, even as her thoughts began to pick
up speed.  The trial was tomorrow.  In all probability, if
Escabedo hadn't found Lindsey Carroll by now, she would surely
make it to her court date.  And that was suddenly more important
to Scully than it had been before the crash.  If Escabedo was to
blame for their plane going down, if he was responsible for the
death of Daniel Davis and for what had happened to her and
Mulder, it was suddenly vitally important to Scully that Lindsey
Carroll be present in that court room to nail his ass to the
wall.  She could only hope her own reemergence into the land of
the living didn't jeopardize that.

Scully stared into the trees where Mulder had disappeared and
fought the urge to call him back.  They had to get to a hospital,
trial or no trial.  She couldn't risk losing her leg, no matter what
the cost to the DEA's case.  They'd run out of time.

"Ready or not, Lindsey," she whispered.  "Here we come."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The four lane highway was a welcome sight, winding its way across the
uneven terrain of Cherokee National Park.  It cut across the mountain
like an endless grey ribbon, an adornment of civilization upon the
endless expanse of wildlife.

Mulder and Scully cleared the last piece of overgrown brush that
separated them from salvation and stood quietly, hand in hand,
gazing at the quiet road.  They'd made it to the highway.  They
hadn't made it to safety.

Tightening his grip on her hand, Mulder looked down at his
partner, resisting the urge to lead her back to the river and
finish what they had started.  The images of Dana Scully lying
soft and pliant beneath his exploring hands and mouth was still
fresh in his mind.  It was forever imprinted in his memory...the
soft flush of excitement on her pale cheeks, her parted lips
swollen from his kisses, her breath ragged and labored as she
looked up at him with four years' worth of passion coupled with a
measure of trust he'd never expected to know in his lifetime.  He
could still feel the silk of her skin.  He could still taste her.

Dana Scully was a gift he hadn't earned, his fondest wish come to
life.  She was everything.  

And he was about to step onto this highway and shatter any peace
of mind he ever hoped to have.  He was going to flag down a car
and make her a target again, this time in public view.

He was going to risk her life in order to save it.

"I think something's coming."  Her voice seemed suddenly shaky,
as if she wasn't sure about what they were doing.

He put his arm around her shoulder.  "Scully, we're going to have to
take this chance."

"I know."  She nodded her agreement.  "I just keep thinking that
with our luck, we'll flag down the only car on this highway
that's full of Escabedo's flunkies."

Mulder looked over her shoulder at the approaching vehicle, and
couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face.  "Well, I
think you can stop worrying," he grinned.

Scully turned to look behind her.

"Unless Escabedo's suffered a major financial setback in the last
three days, I don't think he drives a '76 Pinto."

Buoyed by the welcome sound of her genuine laughter, Mulder
smiled and stepped out onto the highway, waving his arms to slow
the sputtering car.  The driver pulled to the shoulder and rolled down
the window.  He was young, college-aged, and more than willing to give
them a lift.

Opening the door and helping Scully into the back seat, Mulder
allowed himself the first deep breath he'd taken in nearly a
week.  Finally, after going to hell and back, they'd come out on
top.  They were going to have the last word.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

End of Part 14


Tempest, epilogue


St. Francis Hospital
Johnson City, Tennessee
5:17 p.m.

The third floor lounge area of St. Francis Hospital was small and
dark, tucked away in the far corner of the hallway across from the
nurses' station.  Rows of vinyl chairs connected by their armrests
formed a yellow and blue chain around the walls.  The room was
uncomfortable and stale, and smelled of old magazines and various
spilled drinks.  Mulder stood alone in the corner of the room, his
hand resting lightly on the wooden privacy carrel that housed the pay
phone.  

Through the glass that served as the top half of the walls, he 
scrutinized the nursing staff as they went about their duties.  Scully
was one of their duties now, tucked away at the end of the hall behind
door 309.  He'd hesitated to leave her even long enough to call
Skinner, but she'd insisted he take care of business and stop
hovering.

Stop hovering.  What a fucking joke.  

He wasn't her salvation.  He could never be her protector.  He was
nothing but a liability to Dana Scully, and this time it had nearly
cost her her life.  The voice on the other end of the phone gave him
instructions, drawing their conversation to a close.

Mulder blinked tiredly, watching the lazy activity across the hall. 
"Yes, Sir.  I'll be in touch tomorrow."  He paused.  "Thank you, Sir."

He hung up the phone and moved wearily toward the door, his feet
carrying him automatically back toward Scully.  He paused only long
enough to retrieve the daily newspaper from the small plastic table
where he had tossed it, folding it inward to obscure the headline from
his sight as he began making his way to Scully's room.

Suddenly, three days in the wilderness seemed like nothing compared to
the length of that hallway. Knowing what he did and anticipating
Scully's reaction to what he was about to tell her, the walk to her
room was the longest solitary journey of his life -- and over much too
quickly.

He paused and took a deep breath, rapping the door with his knuckle. 
Was it too much to hope she wasn't home?

"Come in."

Mulder leaned his head against the smooth surface of the wide entry,
collecting himself before making a move to enter. He couldn't gloss it
over, not this time; Scully had to know the truth.

And in all the years he'd spent chasing it, the truth had never been
uglier.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Scully looked up as Mulder pushed open the heavy door and walked into
the her standard issue, sparsely furnished hospital sanctuary.

"Everybody decent?"

Her heart caught when she saw him.  He'd showered and shaved, 
somehow managed a change of clothes.  Jeans.  God, she loved him in
jeans.  After three days of bearded Mulder, she'd also been unprepared
for her reaction to his familiar clean-shaven visage.  He'd lost
weight, as had she, and the bruise on his forehead was fading to dark
yellow, but she'd never seen him look better.  Her body was on instant
alert.

She smiled at his casual question and pulled back the sheet to reveal
her blue and white hospital gown.  "I think that's a matter of
opinion.  I'm covered, but I'm not sure this classifies as decent." 
When he didn't comment, she quirked an eyebrow at him.  "What answer
were you hoping for?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.  In Scully's experience,
Mulder's eyes always told the tale.  He was so easy to read. 
Sometimes he was *too* damn easy to read.  One good look at his face
and it registered loud and clear.  Guilt...a *lot* of guilt.

There was a small beige chair against the wall by her bed and he
dragged it over to sit beside her, resting his forearms on his knees. 
He was holding a folded newspaper.  "How are you feeling?"

Polite conversation, she noted.  This was going to be bad.  "I'm
okay," she hedged.  Her leg hurt like hell, but she wasn't going to
lose it gangrene.  And until she knew exactly what was on Mulder's
mind, she wouldn't risk adding another load to his overburdened
conscience.  "What's on your mind, Mulder?"

He looked down at his hands.  "I've been trying to come up with a good
way to tell you..."

Her heart began to thud heavily, her mind whirling.  Let's forget what
happened by the river?  I've decided I'm not really that attracted to
you after all?  There's someone else?  She steeled herself for the
horrible possibilities.  "What?  Just tell me, Mulder."

Wordlessly, he handed her the newspaper, and she took it, confused by
the act, but relieved that he hadn't confirmed her fears.  The
headline sent her heart plummeting.  "GRAND JURY CLAIMS INSUFFICIENT
EVIDENCE."  The picture showed Hector Escabedo leaving the courthouse
surrounded by a legion of bodyguards.

She looked up at him, stunned.  "He killed her, didn't he?  He found
her and killed her."

Mulder's jaw tightened.  "He didn't find her."

Her mind raced.  "She decided not to testify?"

"Scully..." Mulder began.  "It's not that simple.  The truth is that
the--"

"I don't understand," she interrupted.  "She had enough to get a
conviction.  Agent Westbrook said Lindsey Carrol's testimony would be
the nail in Escab--"

"She doesn't exist."

That stopped her cold.  "What do you mean she doesn't exist?"  A
feeling of dread spread slowly throughout her body like ice water
running through her veins.  Her heart rate quickened even more.

"There is no Lindsey Carrol."  He closed his eyes briefly and took a
deep breath.  When he opened them, he sprang from the chair and turned
away from her, running a hand through his hair.  "There never was a
Lindsey Carrol.  There was no girlfriend.  There was no testimony. 
The whole thing was a set up, Scully."  He turned back to face her,
his eyes pain-filled.  "We were set up."

She couldn't fathom what he was telling her.  "But..." she fingered
the rough edges of the newspaper struggling to find the words. 
"...the picture -- and the file."

He shook his head.  "The file was fabricated, start to finish.  I can
only assume the picture was an altered photo of you."

She shook her head.  "No.  That can't be right.  Mulder, we checked
all this out.  We did the paperwork.  That file checked out --
Westbrook's whole story checked out."

Mulder ran a tired hand over his face.  "The DEA's official statement,
Agent Mulder, is that we have no record of any Agent Raymond Westbrook
ever having worked for this agency," he quoted sarcastically.  "If you
have any further questions, please submit them in writing to the
office of inter-departmental resources."

"Mulder, that's INSANE!" she yelled.  "What could anyone possibly hope
to accomplish with that kind of elaborate scheme?  What would be the
point?"

He stared at her, the guilt flooding his eyes once again.

"You think they did all this to get rid of US?  Mulder that's crazy! 
Who would go to all this trouble just to...just...just for us?"  Her
voice trailed off.

"All this trouble, Scully?  Like the trouble of killing my father? 
Your sister?  The trouble of abducting you and holding you for months?
 Or the trouble of erasing people's memories, burning boxcars full of
their inconvenient reminders, blowing up entire jets full of innocent
people..."

Her head snapped up at his statement.  "What about Daniel?" she 
asked.

His lips thinned.  "If he ever existed, as far as the DEA's concerned,
he's been erased." 

She put her hands to her temples.  This was too much.  She couldn't
absorb it.  "Mulder, Skinner signed those case transfer orders.  He
okayed our involvement."

He shook his head.  "Skinner started calling around day before 
yesterday when we hadn't contacted him from New Jersey.  As soon as he
realized they'd cut us loose he started searching."  He laughed
harshly.  "You and I have been quite a topic of conversation around
the old J. Edgar Hoover Building," he told her.  "We've been listed
MIA for the last two days."

Silence settled over them as they struggled for a mental hold on the
circumstances.  Scully looked at her partner, her friend, her -- what
exactly were they now?  It didn't matter, she realized.  She was
suddenly overcome with her own guilt.  "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He spun around.  "What?"

She bit her bottom lip.  "It's my fault."

"No."

"Yes.  It is."  She stared at him pointedly.  "Don't try to play the
`My Fault' game with me on this one, Mulder.  I'll win.  It's my fault
because I'm the one who accepted this assignment in the first place."

He walked to the foot of her bed.  "No, it's my fault.  I'm the reason
why you wanted to accept that assignment, Scully.  I made you feel
your work on the X-Files wasn't important or valid."

She responded instantly.  "It's my fault because I was the one 
they approached and I made the decision."

Mulder turned his face toward the window, breaking eye contact.  "It's
my fault, because they never would have approached you if you weren't
involved with me to begin with."  

His pained whisper pierced her to the core.  Game over, she 
realized.  She couldn't compete with that kind of guilt.  She couldn't
begin to imagine the burden he felt.  She held her hand out for him,
craving the feeling of him close to her.  "Mulder..."

He turned toward her and, seeing her outstretched hand, moved to take
it, sitting carefully on the side of her bed.  He looked at her with
the saddest eyes she'd ever seen, and she was overcome with the urge
to protect him.  This was a man who'd taken the blame for the loss of
every person close to him.  She had no doubt he was mentally adding
her to that list with a footnote of  "almost."

She squeezed his hand, looking at their intertwined fingers.  "Mulder,
you have *got* to stop feeling guilty that I'm a part of your life. 
You're not the final say in where my life goes or doesn't go, and I am
exactly where I want to be right now."

He looked away.

"Mulder, I don't blame you.  Not for Missy's death, not for my 
abduction.  You spend a lot of time thinking that you're the reason I
should leave the X-Files.  You don't seem to understand that in my
mind, you're the only reason to stay."

That got him.  He turned to look at her, his eyes glistening with
unshed tears.  Her heart ached for his vulnerability.  She reached her
free hand outward to cup his cheek, and he turned his head into it,
his eyes fathomless as they searched hers, taking the comfort she
offered.  "Mulder, I told you once that even if I had known everything
that would happen, I wouldn't change a day.  Did you think I was
lying?"

He didn't answer, closing his eyes finally against the blatant 
honesty of hers. 

She dropped her hand from his face.  "I have to believe everything
happens for a reason, Mulder.  And even if we don't know what they are
right now, we'll find them if we keep looking."

He swallowed, and opened his eyes.  "I don't know how much 
longer we can keep looking, Scully.  They keep upping the ante."

"Noooo," she said slowly.  "I don't think so."  At his puzzled 
expression, she continued.  "We're not any worse off than we've 
ever been, Mulder.  We're just back on the same old familiar 
ground...trust no one."

He snorted.  "Well obviously we need to be a little more careful about
who we don't trust."

She smiled at him, grateful for the reappearance of his sardonic
humor.  He was gaining perspective...rededicating himself.  In short,
he was coming back to her.

On cue, he leaned forward and pressed a firm kiss to her 
forehead.  "Get some sleep, Scully.  I'm gonna go make a few 
more calls and grab some dinner, which I'll smuggle up to you in a
little bit.  I won't be long."

The kiss was perfunctory at best.  When he made a move to 
stand, she didn't release his hand.  "Is that the best you can 
do?" she asked wryly, arching her brow in feigned annoyance.  
"If it is, I'm afraid I have to tell you that you do your best work in
the field, Agent Mulder."

His eyes widened at her bold statement, but he laughed 
appreciatively, bending to kiss the lips she turned up toward him. 
The kiss was soft but lingering, full of promise -- an unspoken
acknowledgement of things to come.  They pulled away from each other
breathless.  "You gonna be okay?" he asked, stroking her hair from her
forehead.

She nodded.  "Weren't you listening?  I'm always okay."  

He moved toward the door, his hand resting on the door handle.  
When he looked at her this time, he was utterly serious.  "Watch your
back, Scully," he said quietly.

"Uh uh," she told him shaking her head.

He looked confused.

"That's your job, Mulder.  Mine is to watch yours."

Their eyes held for a moment, then without another word, Mulder 
nodded once and disappeared through the open doorway.  

Scully sighed, leaning back into her pillow, closing her eyes. 
Slowly, she gave herself over to relaxation, letting the mild pain
medication carry her off toward slumber.  For Scully, sleep came
easily for the first time in days, finally secure in the knowledge
that she and Mulder were safe, that they had survived and become
stronger.  They'd managed to walk away from this whole thing with time
on their side, and for now, that was enough.  Scully's breathing
became deep and even and she stumbled into the now comforting
darkness, still feeling the warmth of Mulder's promise on her lips.

<END>

Well, there it is.  The finished product of WAY too many months of
work.  :) 
 It would be an understatement to say I'd love to hear your comments. 
 Please let me know if you enjoyed it.

Missy (josiechung@aol.com)