"The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (1/13)

by Jean Helms (jeanlhelms@yahoo.com)



TITLE: "The Seventh Side of the Triangle"

AUTHOR: Jean Helms (originally posted under the name Susan Jameson)

WARNING: Slash

RATING: Mostly PG-13, but rises to R in parts for m/m and m/f sexual

situations.

SPOILERS: Everything up to "El Mundo Gira" (no, I'm not kidding).

CONTENT: M/other slash. S/other. M/S friendship, UST, and even a

little offbeat MSR. Oh, and just for Isa -- a dash of M/K.

SUMMARY: The untold story of Tunguska and Terma.

CLASSIFICATION: SRA. AU.

ARCHIVE: Go for it.

FEEDBACK: No anti-gay flames. Otherwise, yes, please.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully other characters from "The X Files" are the

property of 1013 Productions. The Reilly clan is all mine.

NOTES: I've made my own decisions about the confusing, sometimes

overlapping timelines of "Tunguska/Terma" and "Paper Hearts," and I

have fuzzed some events dealing with the abduction arc.

DEDICATION: To the real Daniel: I kept five petals from the last rose

you sent me, and the message you left on my voice mail. I kept the

picture of us on New Year's Eve, and the card you wrote. I wish to God

I could keep you just a little longer.



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



The Seventh Side of the Triangle

by Jean Helms



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



If you are the desert, I'll be the sea,

If you ever hunger, hunger for me,

Whatever you ask for, that's what I'll be.



So when you remember the ones who have lied,

Who said that they cared but then laughed as you cried,

Beautiful darling, don't think of me ...

Because all I ever wanted

Is in your eyes.



"Father Figure"

George Michael



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



The file is in storage, correctly programmed, neatly categorized and

easily referenced. Within are the official reports of an FBI

investigation into the illegal importation of a toxic substance, a

substance which caused the deaths of an international courier, a U.S.

Customs official and a scientist at NASA's Goddard facility.



The file is available through the Freedom of Information Act to anyone

who knows to ask for it. There is little reason for anyone to bother,

however; the information within is pure fiction, having little in

common with the reports filed by the investigating agents.



Those reports -- far more alarming than anything in the "official"

report -- will never see the light of day. They are long since ashes.



Yet even that file did not tell the real story; not all of it, anyway.



The real story is known only to the people who lived it.



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



Martha's Vineyard

November 24, 1996

Saturday



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



As Scully Saw It



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



Someday, when I look back on Thanksgiving 1996, I suppose I may find

reason to be thankful.



But that will take years; indeed, it may never happen.



It's not that there was nothing for which to be grateful. There was,

and not least that Daniel was alive and recovering from his wounds. He

still had some distance to go before he could put in a full day of

surgery at Bethesda again, but his military career, and his life --

either of which could so easily have been ended by the shooting --

would go on.



In the meantime, Daniel was staying with me. His former wife, Jill, is

a registered nurse and she was staying there, too, using her

considerable professional skills to care for him.



Jill's attitude toward Daniel was perhaps more impersonal than I would

have liked. Yet night and day, she was there, quiet, calm and

professional, as though it were an everyday thing to give up her time

and income to care for the man who'd broken her heart so badly just a

few short years ago.



It was all quite polite and civilized -- well, Daniel had a few fussy

moments, but that's what happens when a physician becomes a patient.



I myself was extremely busy: I had house guests, I had my regular work

to do, and I was also heavily involved in getting Daniel well.

Mulder... well, Mulder needed my attention even if he didn't seem to

want it. He'd been in low spirits even before Daniel was shot, and the

fiasco known as the Paper Hearts case hadn't improved matters one bit

--for him, or for our partnership.



There was no open warfare between us; there seldom is. No, this war

was a war of attrition: Too much silence and too little trust ruled

the day.



The man who shot Daniel remained an unknown subject. The local police

were working on it, and Mulder and I were giving them as much FBI

assistance as we could, but no real leads had surfaced. Even Mulder's

attempts to come up with a profile of the shooter proved fruitless.

There simply wasn't enough evidence on which to construct anything but

the most generic of profiles.



With all that going on, I was definitely looking forward to the

holiday, and not just because it meant I had some time off. Daniel's

brother, Lt. Jim Reilly, was joining us for the holiday. Jim's

submarine, the USS Dallas, made its homeport in Groton, Conn., around

midday Friday, and I had invited him to stay with us so he could spend

some time with Daniel while he was on leave.



And I wanted to see Jim, too. We'd had a pleasant evening together

while Daniel was still in the hospital, and I liked Jim well enough to

pursue the friendship. Nothing more, though. I had no time for it, and

neither did Jim. There was no point starting something we couldn't

finish.



With the new addition to our temporary household, we decided to move

the infirmary to Mulder's father's home on Martha's Vineyard for the

holiday week; we were fast running out of room in my apartment.



Jim took Daniel to the Vineyard Saturday afternoon, and Jill followed

later. She and Jim got the house aired out while Daniel supposedly

rested from the drive. I say supposedly, because when I got there late

Saturday afternoon, after having spent the morning consulting on an

autopsy at Quantico, Jill told me that Daniel had been difficult all

day long.



"He's doing really well physically," she said. "He just can't wait to

get back in battery, and he's not only wearing himself out trying,

he's getting more impatient and short-tempered by the day. I asked him

if he wanted lunch and he just about bit my head off."



"I'm sorry he's been so ..." I began, but I stopped, realizing how

inappropriate that was. Daniel wasn't mine to apologize for; Jill was

telling me this not because he was my responsibility, but because she

is a professional nurse and it's second nature for her to report her

observations to the physician in charge.



For me to act as though she was doing _me_ a favor by caring for him

would be a slap in Jill's face.



Jill, however, took my abortive apology as calmly as she'd been taking

everything else lately.



"Don't worry about how Daniel behaves, Dana," she said. "I lived with

him for 12 years and I've been a nurse longer than that. There's not

much Daniel Reilly is going to do that I haven't dealt with before."



I didn't doubt that. I also didn't doubt that this was extremely

trying for her, emotionally as well as physically, so I asked her to

go grocery shopping with me again, as I had last Friday. Jim was

napping in one of the spare bedrooms, but he'd be there if Daniel

needed anything, and I thought Jill could use a break from The Thing

That Wouldn't Rest.



She accepted so quickly that I felt a little guilty for having left

her cooped up for an entire week.



We had a pleasant enough trip, though, and even managed to laugh a few

times. In spite of a somewhat rocky beginning, it seemed that Jill

Reilly and I might become real friends, and I was all in favor of

that. She seemed to need one and frankly, so did I.



When we got back to the house about 45 minutes later, Mulder was just

emerging from the master bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.

His hair was mussed, and he was blinking in the light.



I suppose that description is my attempt to find a delicate way of

saying he looked ... well, he'd been in bed with Daniel and it showed.



I, of course, didn't think anything of it -- I'm used to being around

them.



Jill, however, got very quiet and wouldn't quite meet Mulder's eyes.

She smiled and said hello, but then she said she was feeling just a

little tired all of a sudden and would I mind getting dinner while she

rested for a minute?



"That's fine," I said, setting the grocery sacks down on the kitchen

table. "I'll call you when it's ready."



Mulder followed me into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, arms

folded across his chest, watching as Jill walked away. He knew

something was wrong; he doesn't miss much.



"Something I said?" he asked, turning toward me.



I shook my head. "She just hasn't seen you and Daniel together

before," I said as I took the salad ingredients out of the grocery

sacks and began washing the lettuce. "It's something of an adjustment

for her."



"I didn't know she'd seen us together yet," he said.



"Well, not _together_, together," I said. "Just ... based on

circumstantial evidence, you know ..."



I stopped there. I was fairly certain Mulder wouldn't need much more

explanation.



He didn't. "Oh, shit," he said, shaking his head. "Should I go say

something to her?"



"I wouldn't," I said. I piled the lettuce into the colander and shook

it over the sink before dumping it onto a clean dishtowel to drain.

"I'd let Daniel talk to her."



"Yeah, well, that would work if they were talking about anything other

than medical matters," Mulder said, straightening up and walking over

to the sink. He grabbed a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth

unwashed.



"Mulder, how many times do I have to tell you ..." I began.



"Not to eat unwashed vegetables," he finished for me. "Scully,

somehow, given all the dangers you and I encounter on a daily basis,

an unwashed tomato just doesn't frighten me the way it should."



"Fine, kill yourself with E. coli," I said, dumping the rest of the

tomatoes into the colander just as he was reaching for another one.

"No, you don't, not this time," I said, swatting his hand away. "I'm

washing these. Mulder, speaking of dangerous situations, I called

Skinner's office yesterday evening looking for you and Kimberly said

you were before OPR in the Paper Hearts case. Why didn't you tell me?"



"Because I didn't need you," he said, then caught himself. "I'm sorry,

I don't mean that the way it sounds ..."



"It's all right, I'm sure you're speaking in a legal sense," I said,

but I'm not sure I really believed that. God knows, it hurt to hear

him say it.



I spread another dish towel on the counter and dumped the tomatoes

onto it, trying to behave as though nothing at all was wrong. "Would

you get the salad bowl down, please?" I said, not looking at him. "So

what happened that made OPR willing to forego the testimony of an

eyewitness?"



"The testimony of the assistant director," he said, as he opened the

cabinet over the refrigerator and got the wooden bowl down. It must be

nice to be tall -- not that I'd know.



"Thank you," I said, taking the bowl. "What did Skinner say?"



"Skinner told OPR -- and the shooting board -- that I got Roche out of

prison on his orders, that I had a lump the size of a turkey egg on

the back of my head when you found me clipped with my own cuffs, and

that he sent me on this case without you because Roche refused to talk

if you were present," Mulder said, leaning against the counter again.

"He told OPR I'd been less than perfectly careful, but that he'd

already dealt with that by suspending me and giving me an oral

reprimand, so there was no need for further action."



For a moment I was speechless. "That's ... Mulder, that's utterly

amazing," I said. "Why on earth did he do that?"



Now it was Mulder's turn to go silent. He pursed his lips for a

moment, almost as though he was thinking he might not tell me. I

waited, hoping he would tell me, hoping enough time had passed for him

to get over his guilt and open up to me the way he used to.



Evidently, that time was not now.



"I don't know what his reasons were," Mulder said, finally. "And it

doesn't really matter, does it?"



I started to protest, but he turned away from me -- slowly, as though

this was just a casual thing, meaning nothing, which it was anything

but.



"Mulder," I called out, but he just shook his head.



"I've got to make a couple of phone calls," he said, without turning

around. "I'll be through in a few minutes."



"Mulder, please," I said, but he didn't answer.



He just walked away.



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



West Tisbury, Mass.

6:47 p.m.



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



Of course, my encounter with Skinner was much worse than what I told

Scully.



Actually, there was a lot I hadn't been telling her. Things had been a

little strained recently. I'm damned if I know what I was doing to

shut her out, but I was sure as shit doing it.



Hell, she was sitting in the kitchen with Jill and Jim right now,

while I sat in the living room alone, reading over all the mail that

had piled up at the office. She could have come in here and sat with

me, asked me more about the meeting with Skinner, but she didn't. She

wasn't going to risk being turned away again.



It's just ... there was a lot I didn't want her to know just yet, a

lot of things that added up to a pretty heavy burden, and one that I

was prepared to carry forever in silence rather than dump one ounce of

it on her.



Oh, Skinner bailed my ass out, all right; he just gave me a thorough

and rather unsettling reaming out before he did it. According to

Skinner, my behavior in the Paper Hearts case was "asinine, idiotic,

unprofessional, foolish, foolhardy and reckless, displaying an

arrogant, unjustified and contemptuous lack of regard for Bureau

regulations, federal law and the safety and security of the American

people."



And that's the short version. The short, cleaned-up version.



The worst part of that encounter wasn't the reprimand, although it was

an official reprimand and would be entered on my record. Big deal.

Like my FBI career was going anywhere anyway?



But I'd been expecting that. What I hadn't expected, would never in my

wildest dreams have expected, was what he said after he got through

delivering a harangue that would have made his Marine Corps drill

instructor proud.



"Agent Mulder," he said, "I know you've been under considerable stress

lately, and I know it's affected your judgment. And I know why."



I goddamn near fell over. Panic time. "You do, sir?" I managed to

croak out.



"Yes, Agent Mulder, I do," Skinner said, looking me in the eye. "I

understand that things were very much touch-and-go with Lieutenant

Commander Reilly for a while, and I know that it was a very difficult

time for you, particularly given the secrecy that the two of you are

forced to maintain."



Oh, shit.



For just a second I thought about denying everything, telling Skinner

I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about and threatening to

knock the crap out of him for what he was implying.



Except I didn't. I'm sick of being in the closet, sick of pretending,

sick of denying and hiding what I am and what Daniel means to me.

Hell, I can't even admit what I feel for Scully, not without blowing

our cover story. There are times that's almost as painful as having to

hide my feelings for Daniel.



So if Skinner was telling me I didn't have to pretend around him

anymore, then by God, I wasn't going to pretend anymore.



I mean, hell -- I trust him, even if I don't always act as though I

do.



I looked up at him. "Thank you, sir," I said. "I appreciate your

sympathy. It means a lot to me."



He just grunted at that. Well, shit, he's still Skinner.



"I've known about your relationship with Lieutenant Commander Reilly

for some time, Agent Mulder," he said. "I have kept that knowledge to

myself and I intend to go on doing so. I can see no reason to destroy

a Navy career that by all accounts has been exemplary."



"Thank you, sir," I said again, looking down at the floor to hide the

sudden rush of relief I felt. Skinner, however, went on as if I hadn't

spoken.



"As for you, Agent Mulder," he said, "henceforth, I expect to be

informed when you have personal problems that could impact your

ability to do your job. Otherwise, your personal life is your own

business. In short, Agent Mulder, as long as you get your work done

properly and don't break any laws worth enforcing, I don't care if you

fuck the entire offensive line of the Washington Redskins on

Pennsylvania Avenue at rush hour. Am I making myself clear?"



"Perfectly clear, sir," I said.



The Redskins thing was an enticing mental image, I must admit,

although I was only half listening to Skinner at that point. It was

beginning to sink in just exactly who must have told him about Daniel

and me.



So I asked him. At first, he hedged, said he'd just suspected for a

long time, and I'm sure that's true. Skinner was, and still is, a

great agent. He'd still be a hell of a good investigator if he hadn't

set his sights on rising through the FBI hierarchy and thus become so

much of a political animal.



But I'm not going anywhere in the FBI hierarchy no matter what I do

from now on, so I wasn't in the mood to be diplomatic. And I've been

an agent long enough to know when someone's not telling me something.



So I asked him again, and I named names.



Oh, yeah, I knew who it was. I haven't forgotten everything I ever

learned as a behavioral profiler. I didn't need Skinner to tell me

that I'd become an untidy little detail in someone's life, someone who

would do whatever it took to clean up that little detail.



That time, Skinner didn't lie. I guess he knew it was pointless. He

confirmed my suspicion: It was Daniel's mother who had outed me --and

by extension, outed her own son.



I tried to make myself believe that she just didn't understand what it

meant to out Daniel to an assistant director of the FBI. I mean, maybe

she doesn't know that Naval Intelligence likes to keep a close eye on

anyone who might be around any of their spooks while they're under

anesthesia.



Shit, it didn't even have to be an assistant director: Anyone in the

Bureau might have felt duty bound to inform the Navy that Daniel, by

virtue of being a surgeon at Bethesda, had access to classified

information, but was gay, hence susceptible to blackmail and should be

considered a security risk.



Sure. Of course she didn't know. She's just married to a captain, the

daughter of an admiral and the mother or mother-in-law of five Navy

officers.



Like hell she didn't know.



At first, I'd thought about telling Daniel, but I immediately

dismissed the idea. His mother had hurt him enough already; he didn't

need the extra burden of knowing that she'd outed him to the very

people whose job it is to investigate him for security clearance.



Understand, now: If I thought Daniel was a security risk, I wouldn't

ignore it. I'd be violating my oath if I did. It's part of my job to

prevent that kind of risk, and as a profiler I'm pretty good at

spotting the people who'll break under pressure.



Daniel's not one of those people.



Skinner apparently agrees with me, too, and he's not influenced by a

personal relationship like I am.



Speaking of Skinner -- he told me something else that day, something

I'm going to do my damnedest to take to my grave, because I don't ever

want Scully to know. I'll keep it to myself if it kills me.



Someday I'm going to get that motherfucker in my sights, and when I

do...



Jesus, I'm a sick bastard. Sometimes it makes me physically ill to

realize what a cold-blooded killer I am, not to mention a reckless

incompetent who constantly puts innocent people in danger. I don't

know why Scully or anyone else stays around me, given how careless I

am of their safety and happiness.



I knew I needed to let all that shit go and just enjoy the weekend, to

relax with Scully and Daniel -- and Jill, as much as possible,

although now that Daniel was out of danger, she and I were back to

tip-toeing around each another, being carefully polite whenever we

chanced to speak.



I had actually had some hope, at first, that she and I might get to be

friends. I'd known from the start that Daniel still loved her, that he

still felt like a shit for having lied to her and walked out on her.

If it would make him happy, then I was perfectly willing to have her

come back into his life.



That was a sacrifice, too, let me tell you. She is a very pretty lady,

after all, and unlike me, Daniel's not utterly devoid of heterosexual

attraction. It's a very small part of who he is, but it's there,

nonetheless.



I know he loves me. I don't doubt it at all. I also know that he'd do

just about anything he could to heal some of the hurts he's caused

her. But there was no way for me to ask him about that; no way even to

bring the subject up without causing trouble, and I wasn't in the mood

for any more trouble right now.



No. No way I was going to enjoy much of this weekend. Too much going

on; too many things that I couldn't tell anyone, not even Scully, much

as I wanted to.



I was mentally resigning myself to spending the weekend in splendid

emotional isolation when the bedroom door opened and Daniel came out.

I hadn't really expected him to reappear before morning. He'd been

pretty tired after dinner; actually, he was already pretty tired

before dinner, thanks to me, but goddamn it, I hadn't seen him for a

week. I wanted to be with him.



And of course, he didn't make me wait. He never does, not even now

when he's still so tired and weak from the shooting.



Daniel was exactly what I needed to stop me from sliding further into

despair. He doesn't even have to do or say anything: Life is easier to

take just because he's there.



"What's all the racket?" he said, looking toward the kitchen. I

followed his gaze; Jill and Scully were convulsing with feminine

laughter over something that -- to judge from his expression -- had

gone completely over Jim's head.



"Your ex-wife and my partner seem to be having fun at Jim's expense,"

I said.



"God, look at them, Fox," Daniel said with a laugh. "They've got the

poor kid outnumbered, two to one. We ought to go in as

reinforcements."



"Yeah, but do we belong with him or with the girls?" I said, smiling

back at him, and I reached for his hand.



But instead of taking my hand as he usually did, Daniel took a small

step backward, casting a quick glance toward the kitchen. Not in front

of them, his body language was saying. Not here and not now.



He was right, of course, but that didn't make it any easier to take --

especially not now, when I needed him so much. But then, Daniel had

needs, too, one of which was not to look like a fag in front of his

brother and his ex-wife.



"Sorry," I said, dropping my hand back to my side. "I wasn't

thinking."



"Fox ..." Daniel began, looking guilty as hell, but I interrupted him.



"Don't worry about it," I said. "Go visit with your brother. I'll be

there in a minute."



Daniel nodded slowly and started to walk to the kitchen, but then

stopped at the side of the couch.



"I am sorry, Fox," he said, quietly. "I shouldn't be such a coward."



"You're not a coward," I said, just as quietly, looking up at him.

"You're just trying not to upset your brother and Jill. Go on, now;

you can hold my hand later."



"I'd like to do a lot more than that," he said, still speaking low,

but his eyes showed his relief.



I smiled up at him. "I don't think that'll be a problem," I said.

"There's still a lock on the bedroom door. Go on, get out of here."



Daniel smiled, and for just a moment he looked as though he was going

to kiss me, but he caught himself. He started to say something else --

some new apology that would have started the whole thing over again --

so I just shook my head and smiled, and nodded in the direction of the

kitchen, and Daniel nodded back.



And then he left, and the room felt cold and unwelcoming again, just

the way it had when my father lived here.



I, on the other hand, felt utterly rejected and unwanted --just the

way I had when ...



Oh, that was crap. Daniel wasn't rejecting me; he was just being his

usual reserved self when there's company around. Daniel's never been

one for public displays of affection, in or out of uniform; shit, it

took him forever to feel comfortable just sitting next to me when

Scully was around. This was just Daniel being Daniel.



That was all ... of course it was.



All right, Mulder, I told myself firmly, you've explained it to

yourself, so get your ass back on task. You've got a ton of important

mail to catch up on.



Well, okay, so most of the mail was junk -- paranoid rants written on

yellow legal pads, both sides, no margins, warning of the coming

Apocalypse, or handfuls of clippings from tabloid newspapers I'd

already read, some with notes scribbled in the margins, some not.



As Daniel says sometimes, S-squared, D-squared: Same shit, different

day. It just didn't hold my attention.



I nearly threw the rest of the pile into the trash unopened, but one

of the envelopes caught my eye. It hadn't come through the mail; there

was no stamp, no postage of any kind.



And it looked almost exactly like the others that had been arriving

recently. Those had contained receipts for diesel fuel, detonation

cord and ammonium nitrate.



It was pretty clear that someone was building a bomb -- someone who,

for some reason, wanted me to know he was building a bomb. So far,

though, there had been nothing to indicate where or when it was set to

go off. I consulted with the FBI's anti-terrorism division, and they

couldn't figure it out either; they just told me to keep them

informed, and I did.



I opened the envelope using my pocketknife and used the back of the

blade to snag the contents so as not to smear any fingerprints that

might be there, although no prints had turned up on any of the other

missives from this UNSUB. Paper isn't the best medium for prints,

anyway, but there's always a chance.



Inside were two receipts, each bearing the same signature: One for the

rental of a two-ton truck and another for first and last month's rent

on space in a warehouse in Flushing, Queens, N.Y.



Queens. It was a viable launching area, even a viable target. JFK

International is in Queens, and the United Nations is just across the

East River.



I dropped the papers and grabbed my cell phone.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I might as well resign myself to it; my life will never be simple.



It wasn't enough that Jill, Mulder, Daniel and I were now living under

the same roof, or that Jim Reilly -- who was clearly attracted to me,

and who stood an excellent chance of making that mutual --had now

joined us.



No, on top of that, Mulder had taken me aside just a few minutes ago

to tell me that our weekend would be interrupted by a counter-

terrorism detail in Flushing, N.Y. An FBI-owned single-engine plane

would pick us up at the airfield shortly after midnight; we would be

issued battle dress and tactical gear and would go in with CIRG, the

Critical Incident Response Group.



None of that was my idea of fun, believe me, and it only added to the

steadily mounting tension of our working relationship to find out that

he'd been planning this operation for weeks and hadn't told me about

it.



For now, Mulder and I were the only ones who knew about it, and I knew

why: He wanted to relax and forget about it as much as possible

between now and then.



I didn't. I wanted to tell the others and to have a chance to prepare

myself mentally, but there was no point in starting another argument.

Privately, however, I thought that Daniel was going to be at least as

upset as I was to be told at the last minute that we were leaving and

that there were armed terrorists awaiting us after midnight.



I didn't tell him, though; it's not my place to tell them how to deal

with each other. I'm not Partner Number Three here, I'm just their

friend. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that.



But then a friend isn't a bad thing to be, especially on evenings like

this one. Dinner was over, the dishes were done and we were all

sitting around the kitchen table, just enjoying each other's company.



Well -- maybe that's going too far. Jill had been rather quiet since

Mulder and Daniel had joined us, and she wasn't making much eye

contact with either of them -- especially not Daniel.



Still, it was a pleasant evening; pleasant, that is, until "Time After

Time" started playing on the radio and Jim shuddered as though an

arctic sea had just washed over him.



"Oh, my God," he said, shaking his head. "Somebody change the station,

quick."



"What is it?" Daniel asked.



"That song," Jim said. "That was Elise's Navy song."



"What's a Navy song?" Mulder asked, clearly intrigued by the concept,

as he turned to look at me. He has such intense curiosity about

everything. It's one of the things I love about him.



"You know, Mulder," I said. "Like 'Beyond the Sea' was my mom's Navy

song. Every Navy wife has a song she listens to while her husband's at

sea."



"So Elise liked 'Time After Time'?" Jill said. "I didn't know that."



"Only for a while," Jim said, getting up to fill his coffee cup --and

to change the station. "I think it ended up being 'Love the One You're

With.'"



"Ouch," Jill said, wincing. "That was cold."



"So was kissing me off while I was at sea," Jim said as he sat back

down -- acting much more nonchalant than he felt, I'm sure. "Anyway, a

Navy song ought to at least mention water, preferably the sea, and

that one doesn't. Probably an omen."



"So do your sisters-in-law have songs?" Mulder asked me.



"Oh, yes," I said, nodding my head firmly. "Tara's is 'Stranger on the

Shore,' which definitely mentions the sea. Mary likes an old folk song

called 'John Reilly.' It's about a young woman who's been waiting

faithfully for seven years for John Reilly to return from the sea.

When he does return, she doesn't recognize him."



"One of our ancestors, no doubt," Daniel said to Jim, who laughed.



"No doubt," Jim said. "Mom had a song, too -- what the hell was the

name of it?"



"'Harbor Lights,'" Jill said. "Don't you remember? She had that old

album and she played it endlessly. It stuck on that one line every

time -- 'You were on the ship, dear, and I was on the shore ... the

shore ... the shore ...' over and over. It could make you nuts, but

she wouldn't even try to replace it because your father bought it for

her."



"Oh, yeah, I remember now," Jim said. "God, I hated that damn song. So

what was yours, Jill?"



I think Jim realized his mistake right away, but it was too late. Jill

just sat there, looking down at the coffee cup in her hand, tipping it

toward her as if trying to decide what that thing was on the bottom.

The rest of us just sat there uncomfortably, wondering how to back

away from this painful topic.



Except Daniel.



"Jill's song was 'Unchained Melody,'" he said, softly, looking at

Jill.



She glanced up, quickly, and for the first time that night, their eyes

met. "I didn't think you knew about that," she said, just as softly.

"I never told you."



"You didn't have to tell me," Daniel said, with that gentle smile of

his. "You used to lunge for the volume control every time it played on

the radio. You even woke me up with it."



"When did I ever wake you up with that song?" Jill said, looking a bit

puzzled. "I never woke you up at all. You were either on duty and you

got up by yourself or you weren't and you didn't get up until you were

good and ready."



"About ten years ago ... Interstate 20 ... near the Georgia state

line, en route from Baltimore to Pensacola ... " Daniel said, a much

more humorous smile now tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Does any

of that ring a bell, Jill Marie?"



"Oh, God," she said, and she covered her mouth like a teen-ager with

braces. "I remember now. I was driving when that song came on, and I

turned the volume way up without thinking. You practically went

through the roof. You'd have thought I'd just sounded collision or

something."



"Well, considering I'd been driving since we left Baltimore and I'd

only been asleep about an hour, you're lucky I didn't take a swing at

you," Daniel retorted, but I thought I saw a hint of a twinkle in his

eyes, too. "Hell of a way to treat a man who's at the point of

exhaustion."



"Well, I _said_ I was sorry," Jill said, but then she started to

laugh. "You'll have to admit, Danny, it was pretty funny."



"Danny?" I said, lifting an eyebrow, and Jim snickered.



Daniel winced. "Jill ..." he said.



"Sorry -- Daniel," she said, but she didn't look very sorry. She

looked happier than I'd ever seen her, in fact. "Force of habit.

Anyway, you called me Jill Marie."



"That _happens_ to be your name," Daniel said, but he was smiling

again. "Would you prefer one of those nicknames you had in high

school? I'm sure everyone here would love to know ..."



"I don't think anyone's really interested in that kind of ancient

history, Daniel," Jill said, hastily.



"Oh, sure they are," Jim said, with that pesky-kid-brother tone in his

voice, but I thought privately that he seemed more relieved than

mischievous. "Hey, would you guys like to hear the name I gave her way

back when?"



"Stand down, lieutenant, I can handle this," Daniel said with a smile,

not taking his eyes off Jill.



"Aye, aye, sir," Jim said, flashing a delightfully impish grin my way.

"However, sir, I strongly suggest that you may need additional

ordnance. You know -- like that name they gave her after that thing

happened with the frog in Mrs. Dumas' biology class?"



"You know, I think I'll go for a walk on the beach," Jill said,

brightly, as she stood up. "It's such a lovely night."



"Sure, change the subject," Daniel said. "You just keep it in mind,

Jill. I can narc you out anytime I get ready."



"And to the FBI, yet," Jim said, standing up. "Dana, you feel like a

walk on the beach?"



"I think I do," I said, rising and taking my coffee cup to the sink.

"Jill, do you mind if we tag along?"



"Not at all, but I'll probably venture off by myself after a while,"

Jill said, following me into the kitchen.



"Fox?" Daniel said. "You want to go?"



Mulder didn't answer right away; that was unusual enough to get my

attention. I looked at him, searching his face for signs of what might

be wrong.



What I saw there I can scarcely describe: fear is too strong a word,

and so is heartbreak, but the dawn of both emotions was in his eyes.



He was looking at Jill, who was rinsing out the coffee cups, smiling

and humming quietly as she worked.



The song was "Unchained Melody."



"Fox?" Daniel said again.



"Sure," Mulder said, with no animation in his voice, as he rose.

"Sure, let's go."



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



Daniel and I followed the others down to the beach, but even that

short walk tired him pretty badly, so we stopped and let the others go

ahead. I gathered firewood while Daniel got the fire started.



It took him a few minutes; it was cold, and windy, and the spray made

everything damp. But Daniel's as patient about campfire-building as he

is about everything else, and after several false starts, he had a

roaring fire going.



He started to sit next to me and put his head in my lap, the way he

usually does when there's a fire, but this time he hesitated. When he

sat down, there was a distinct space between us.



I just sat there, pretending everything was all right, breaking up

what was left of the twigs Daniel had used for kindling and tossing

them, one by one, into the fire.



Daniel watched me for a long time before he spoke.



"Something's bothering you, Fox," he said, in that quiet voice of his.



I shrugged. "It's nothing important," I said.



"Bullshit," Daniel said, smiling and shaking his head at me. "I know

when you're hiding something."



"Not very well, apparently," I said, smiling back just a little.



"Not well at all, actually," Daniel said. "So what is it?"



I shrugged again. "I don't know," I said. "Just ... it was a little

strange, you know, seeing you and Jill together."



"Strange in what way?" he asked.



"Strange in that I've always known you used to be married, but it

never really occurred to me before what that meant," I said, tossing

another twig onto the fire.



"What does it mean?" he asked, quite calmly, although knowing Daniel,

I'm pretty sure he knew that what was coming was going to be

difficult. He always seems to know.



I looked at him. "It means that, for all intents and purposes, you

used to be straight," I said. "I never really had to deal with that

before, because I always told myself you were unhappy in that life.

Now I'm not so sure."



"Fox, I was never straight, even if I almost convinced myself that I

was," Daniel said, quietly. "I don't know anything about being

straight. I just know what it's like when people think you are. But

that's not the same, and you know it."



"Yeah, I know it," I said. I broke another twig in two and tossed it

onto the fire. I didn't say anything else for a while, just sat there

watching the sparks fly up as the twigs snapped and popped.



"I wish I knew why it bothers you so much, after all this time,"

Daniel said finally.



"I don't know exactly," I said. "I guess it just puts a distance

between us -- or maybe it makes me aware of a distance that was there

all along and I just didn't know it."



"There's no distance between us, Fox," he said. "I'm still the same

person you've always known."



"That's just the point, Daniel," I said, throwing a few more twigs

into the fire. "I don't know you. I mean, I know you, but I don't know

the straight man you used to be, that you wanted to be. And you _did_

want it; badly enough to get married, badly enough to try to stay

married even when you finally knew the truth."



"And you think I want to go _back_ to that?" he said, in disbelief.

"Jesus, Fox, am I really that much of a stranger to you?"



He had a right to feel hurt; I was saying some pretty hurtful things.

But I needed ... shit, I don't know what, just something --something

that only Daniel could give me. I had to keep going, for reasons I

just couldn't articulate, even to myself.



"You're not a stranger to me, Daniel," I said, slowly -- giving myself

time to back out, I guess. "And I didn't mean that the way it sounded.

But, yes, I think you still wish you were straight -- and what does

that say about how you look at me? I'm not straight; I've never tried

to be or wanted to be or even really pretended to be. If you hate

being gay, if you hate yourself for being gay, then how the hell must

you feel about me?"



"What do you mean, how do I feel about you?" Daniel said,

incredulously. "I must have told you a hundred times."



"Yes, you have," I said, looking back at the fire again. "Maybe that's

why it hurts so much that you don't seem to want to touch me right

now."



"You're wrong," Daniel said, very quietly. "I do want to touch you.

You don't know how badly I want to touch you. I just don't quite know

what I'm supposed to do about it with my ex-wife and my brother

around."



And there it was, folks: With those few words, the Mulder house in

West Tisbury, heretofore known as the place where Daniel and I could

be ourselves, was officially annexed into that vast area of my life

known as the closet.



Great. Just fucking great.



"There's nothing you can do about it," I said, bitterly. "There's not

one goddamn thing you can do about it. That's just part of the hell of

being gay in a straight world. You don't get to act like a couple even

when you are. You have to pretend you're just friends or tennis-

playing buddies or something. It happens all the time."



"I'm not trying to pretend we're not lovers, Fox," Daniel said. "I

wouldn't do that."



I shrugged. "It's too late to pretend anyway," I said. "They already

know. They saw me holding your hand while you were unconscious. Maybe

the message here is that it's all right for me to look like a fairy,

as long as you don't."



Oh, God. That shocked even me. I didn't have to hear Daniel swearing

under his breath to know I'd gone way overboard.



But there was no way to take it back.



Daniel got to his feet and dusted the sand off his jeans. "I've had

enough of this," he said, and his voice was about as cold as it ever

gets. "I'm going to bed. You're welcome to join me later -- that is,

if you still want to."



"Look, I didn't mean ..." I began, standing up, but he interrupted me.



"The hell you didn't," he said, and I could see the hurt and the anger

in his eyes. "You know, what's really pathetic is that all week, all I

could think of was that you'd be here for the weekend and I'd get to

be with you again. I mean, I was counting the fucking _minutes_, Fox.

And now you're telling me you think I'm ashamed of you, that I don't

want to touch you and I don't want anyone to know we're lovers. Well,

to hell with that. I'm out of here. Try not to make too much noise

when you come in."



He started to walk away, but I grabbed his arm and wouldn't let him.

"Daniel, don't," I said. "Don't walk away. Please."



"I don't need any more of this, Fox," he said. His voice was still

cold and sharp, but at least he didn't try to pull away. "I've already

had way more of this crap than I can take."



God, I hate to hear him speak to me that way. He almost never gets

angry at me; which, I suppose, is why it hurts so much when he does.



"Daniel," I said, letting go of his arm, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry as

hell. I didn't mean to insult you. That's the last thing I wanted to

do. I don't know what the hell's wrong with me."



Daniel didn't say anything for a minute; he just stood there, silently

watching me. I looked into his eyes, afraid that he was just too angry

to speak, but what I saw there was entirely different. I saw anger,

all right, but it was fading fast; behind it, I saw concern and

compassion.



And love.



I mean real love, goddamn it, which was the last thing on earth I

deserved from him right then. God, I was ashamed of myself. I sat back

down on the sand, resting my elbows on my bent knees. With a deep

sigh, Daniel sat next to me and took my hand, interlacing his fingers

with mine.



"Tell me what's really wrong, Fox," he asked, looking out over the

ocean. "This is more than just Jill's being here, stressful as that is

for both of us. Is something wrong at work?"



"I don't want to blame it on that ..." I said, but Daniel broke in.



"Blame it on that if that's what's to blame," he said, in his normal

tone of voice as he turned to face me. "I'm guessing this is something

to do with what you said about having to solve everything with a

bullet lately."



"I should never have said that to you," I said, shaking my head.



"Yes, you should," Daniel said, more quietly. "And I think it's time

you told me what that was about."



"I can't," I said. I took my hand away from him and started massaging

my forehead with my fingertips. My head was starting to hurt, badly.

"I can't even think about it right now."



"Right now, or never?" Daniel said.



"No, not never," I said. "I just can't get into it now, because I have

to leave for New York in about half an hour. There's a stakeout of a

domestic terror group, and someone in the group's been leaking info to

me."



"Why to you?" Daniel said, and I could tell he was worried. "And what

kind of info?"



I shook my head. "I can't tell you until this is over. As to why me --

your guess is as good as mine."



"This isn't my field, Fox, but it sounds as though somebody might be

trying to draw you into the open," he said. "Somebody with a real

grudge against you."



"That is a distinct possibility," I said, looking down into the fire

again. "I would go so far as to say it's the most likely scenario."



"Then why ..." Daniel began, then stopped himself. He let out his

breath slowly. "Never mind," he said. "I get it. You're the bait to

draw _them_ out into the open."



Sometimes I wish Daniel wasn't quite so intelligent.



As casually as I could, I picked up another twig and pitched it into

the fire. "That's the general idea," I said.



"Well, just for the record, I hate the hell out of that idea," Daniel

said, trying to sound as though he were joking, but a slight catch in

his voice gave him away. He was afraid for me, and he had reason to

be. But I wasn't going to tell him that.



"I'm not exactly overcome with enthusiasm for it myself," I said, with

a short laugh. "But it comes with the territory. Anyway, we're going

in with some fairly scary-looking SWAT types, so don't worry. I'll

probably be back before breakfast."



"Those SWAT types can't be any scarier-looking than you, G-man,"

Daniel said, smiling at me, but the smile dimmed quickly. "You were

thinking about this when I came out of the bedroom, weren't you?"



"Among other things," I said. Shit, there was no point in trying to

deny it now.



"I'm sorry," Daniel said quietly. "I should have realized something

was wrong."



"You don't have anything to apologize for," I said, shaking my head.

"It was my fault."



"No, it wasn't," he said, turning to look at me. "Not entirely,

anyway, and maybe not even mostly." He stopped there, then shook his

head. "I wish I knew what to say; I don't want you to leave with

things still unresolved."



I looked away from him and tossed the last of the twigs onto the fire.

"I don't know what you could say," I said, trying -- and failing -- to

sound casual. "But I can think of something you could do."



"And what might that be?" Daniel asked, softly.



I shrugged. "You could give me a kiss for luck," I said. "That is, if

you feel like it."



Daniel didn't answer me right away, and that scared me -- I thought I

might have made him angry again. Then I felt his hand on my cheek,

felt him turning my face toward his, cradling my face in his hands as

he gently traced the outline of my lips with his thumb.



Slowly, with no hurry whatsoever, Daniel brought his lips to mine in a

kiss that was as tender as it was brief. He pulled back, but only for

a second; he kissed me again, and yet again, the kisses never growing

deeper or more passionate, but only more loving, more comforting --

more forgiving.



Then he sat back, taking my hands in his. "Good luck," he said,

quietly.



I wanted to answer him, but I couldn't speak, didn't dare speak. He'd

already given me so much, and yet I needed more, needed that something

that only Daniel could give me, the thing that had pushed me to start

the damn argument in the first place ...



I needed him. It was that simple, and that complicated.



And as always, he knew. He looked down for a moment, as though he was

thinking, trying to decide what to do, but he tightened his hold on my

hands, acknowledging with the gesture that my unspoken message had

reached him.



It seemed like forever before he raised his head and looked at me

again.



"Come here, lover," he said, barely above a whisper.



I went into his arms so fast you'd think my life depended on it --

which in a way, I suppose, it did. I needed him the way I needed air

to breathe or water to drink, and he gave me all I asked for. I didn't

need more.



I was with Daniel, and that was enough.



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



As Jim Saw It



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



Damn, this is a weird situation to be in.



I'm not one damn bit sorry I got into it, mind you, but that doesn't

mean it's easy to understand or to deal with.



I'd enjoyed the hell out of the drive to the Vineyard, even the long

ferry ride, because for the first time in years, I had my big brother

all to myself. We talked more than we'd talked since before he left

for college. It wasn't anything deep, really, just your average guy

conversation; you know, lots of talk about the Celtics and the Red Sox

and the latest nutbag directive from the SECNAV.



For you on-shore types, that's the Secretary of the Navy.



Anyway, it was great. I'd missed the hell out of Daniel in the past

few years, and there was a lot of lost time to make up.



I was looking forward to the evening, too, because I wanted another

chance to talk to Dana Scully.



I wasn't bullshitting when I told her I needed a friend. I've got some

great shipmates and I'd trust any one of them with my life, but it's

axiomatic in the Navy that you don't invest too much emotionally in

billets or personnel because you probably won't be with them for long

-- witness my upcoming transfer to the USS CCity of Corpus Christi.



So when Dana invited me to spend my Thanksgiving leave at her place, I

leapt like a trout to the fly. I guess I knew Daniel's boyfriend would

be there, too, but that was all right with me. I liked him okay; even

if I hadn't, I'd have tried pretty damn hard to keep that to myself

for Daniel's sake if nothing else.



Yeah, it looked like a great week for me, all in all -- until I put my

big stupid foot in my mouth with that idiot question about Jill's

song. I just wasn't thinking; to put it another way, I was being

incredibly thoughtless.



Yes, friends, it was yet another world-class fuck-up by Lieutenant

James Starlington Reilly, USN, otherwise known as the Village Idiot.



Daniel, as always, handled the situation with perfect grace. I wish to

Christ I could be as tactful as he is.



But when Dana said she'd go for a walk with me, I felt forgiven: I

already knew how protective she was of Mulder, so if she was willing

to be alone with me, she couldn't be too upset. That was good, because

I'd been wanting to get her alone again ever since she'd arrived that

afternoon.



Get your mind out of the sewer: I just wanted to talk to her, the way

we'd talked that day outside Bethesda and again at dinner that night.

I don't give a shit whether you find that credible or not.



After we got to the beach we headed off by ourselves, just the two of

us. I told her how bad I felt about the whole song thing, but she told

me I shouldn't worry.



"Some strain is inevitable in a situation such as this, Jim," she

said, walking along with her arms folded across her chest. "It wasn't

just the song."



"Well, if it wasn't just the song, then what the hell was it?" I said,

shoving my hands deep into my pockets. You can't do that in uniform,

so I tend to do it every chance I get when I'm in civilian clothes.

"Did something else happen?"



She shook her head. "No, not really," she said. "Just what you'd

expect -- Jill and Daniel still seem somewhat awkward around each

other, and there's been a bit of tension at work for Mulder and me."



"Anything you want to talk about?" I asked, hopefully, but she shook

her head.



"It's nothing, really," she said. "Just the usual difficulties and

distractions. It's a time-consuming job."



"At least you don't have to sleep there," I said, trying to lighten

the conversation up a little. "I'm at work as soon as my feet hit the

deck in the morning -- or whatever the hell time it is when I get up."



"You don't see the sun much, do you?" Dana said, smiling at me for the

first time since we'd started walking. "That must be very

disorienting."



I shrugged. "It's okay while you're aboard," I said. "It's when you

surface that you get thrown off schedule."



Dana nodded, then fell silent again. I was just about to try another

conversational gambit when she finally spoke.



"I'm afraid I'll be getting a little off schedule myself, Jim," she

said. "Mulder and I have to help out with an operation in New York

City tonight. It shouldn't take long, but we'll be gone from midnight

to perhaps as late as midmorning tomorrow. I'm sorry."



"What kind of operation?" I said, feeling apprehensive for some reason

I couldn't identify.



"Nothing out of the ordinary," she said, looking out over the water.

"And certainly nothing for anyone to worry about."



"Then why are you worried?" I said.



Dana shot me a sharp glance. "I'm not sure you know me well enough to

make that judgment, Jim," she said.



Whoa. Iceberg dead ahead. All engines back full.



"Maybe not," I said, flashing what I hoped was an irresistible smile,

"but I'd sure like to."



She didn't even look in my direction. "We should be getting back," she

said. "It's getting late and I have to change."



Collision. Abandon ship.



With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the sea, and I immediately

felt better. Funny how I can hate it when I'm beneath the surface and

be helplessly drawn back to it when I'm ashore. No wonder Elise left

me. No wonder Dana doesn't want to get involved. Can't really say I

blame either of them.



I can't begin to imagine what I'll do when I'm finally too old to go

to sea anymore. I can't even stand to think about it.



We didn't talk as we headed back toward the road, but it wasn't all

that bad. I already knew Dana well enough to know that she wasn't

necessarily angry; she'd just crawled back into her shell, which

she'll do in a minute if someone touches a nerve -- someone, that is,

besides my brother or her partner. They seem to be shell-proof. I'd

like to be shell-proof myself someday.



Now _that_ would be worth waiting for.



As we got closer, I could see the campfire up near the road, and I

knew right away that that's where Daniel was. He'd light a fire in

midsummer if he thought he could get away with it.



Everything on the other side of the campfire was too deep in shadow

for me to see, except Jill, who was standing with her back to the

fire, shivering.



"I'd better go talk to her," Dana said, laying one cool hand on my

forearm. It was the first time she'd touched me that night. "I hope

you understand."



"Sure," I said, nodding, although I didn't really. Everything looked

just fine to me.



Dana started to walk away, but then she turned back just for a second.

"I'm sorry I've been so distant, Jim," she said, smiling

apologetically. "Maybe we'll have a chance to talk more tomorrow after

I get back from New York."



"I'm gonna hold you to that," I said.



"I was hoping you would," she said, with a real smile this time, as

she turned and walked toward Jill.



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



As Jill Saw It



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



I swear, I was not trying to intrude.



I was alone, walking down the beach by myself, but I didn't mind. It

nice to be alone for a minute, to have some quiet time in which to

think about everything that had happened in the past few weeks.



And it was a beautiful night, dark and cool, with a full moon rising

in the sky. That made it harder to see the stars, but the water was a

lovely midnight blue and the sound of the waves splashing against the

shore was soothing.



Yes, it was beautiful.



And I was very near tears, even though just moments before I had been

feeling happier than I had since the day Daniel left me.



At first it was wonderful, sharing those lovely memories of our

marriage -- which was, and remains, the happiest time of my entire

life -- but that feeling lasted only as long as it took us to get to

the beach. Jimmy and Dana went one way, I went the other ...



And Daniel stayed back near the road with Mulder.



That was as good a demonstration as I'd seen yet of how things really

are now. And it was only going to get worse, from my point of view:

When we got back to the house tonight, they'd say goodnight to all of

us and then they'd walk into the master bedroom together and lock the

door.



I wasn't sure I could bear to see that.



I know every inch of Daniel's body, you know: I know how it feels to

be held by him and touched by him; I know how careful and considerate

and how loving he is in bed. I remember how sweet it was to lie with

him afterward and listen to his quiet voice, to let his heartbeat lull

me to sleep, to hear the slight rustling sound as he pulled the covers

over both of us.



Daniel was never what one might call passionate, but that only rarely

seemed important. I suppose I thought passion wasn't really in his

nature, that he just wasn't the kind to let go, not even when we were

making love.



Oh, but I had wanted him to. I used to dream of it sometimes, when we

were still married. When I would wake up and realize it had been just

another dream, I would cry. If Daniel was home, he would wake up and

he would put his arms around me and tell me it was all right, it was

just a bad dream.



I didn't know how to tell him it was the good dreams that broke my

heart ...



But I learned to live with it, for the most part. Daniel didn't make

love with me very often, but when he did, he made me feel like the

most beautiful, most cherished, most beloved woman on earth.



And yet all the time that Daniel was holding me and loving me, he was

secretly wishing he was with someone else ... someone like Mulder.



Don't misunderstand: I like Mulder. Really, I do. I started liking him

the day I met him, but it still hurts to see him with Daniel and to

know what they're sharing behind that door.



God, it hurts so much.



As I walked, I decided there was really no reason for me to stay here

and put myself through this any longer. Daniel was up and around; he

still tired easily, but he didn't need full-time nursing care. The

nursing director back home had been very generous in giving me the

additional time off, but her patience wasn't going to last forever. If

I wanted to keep my job, it was time to go home. It was past time.



Feeling resolute and determined, I headed back toward the glow of the

campfire, preparing to tell Daniel that I was going back up to the

house and that I needed to talk to him.



I walked up to an outcropping of rock that sheltered the fire from the

ever-present wind, peering around to see if Daniel was still there.



What I saw was like a knife in my heart. There was Daniel, lying next

to the fire with Mulder in his arms, kissing him in a way he'd never,

ever kissed me in the eighteen years we were together.



I turned back and walked away, but I felt shaken and dizzy and I had

to stop. I really didn't know what to do. I could feel my face

burning, too, and no wonder. I was thoroughly ashamed of myself. I

also felt just a little sick.



All right, I felt very sick -- with pure jealousy.



There's no telling how long I would have stood there torturing myself

had Dana and Jim not returned from their walk. She must have seen what

was happening and how upset I was, because she said something to Jim,

who nodded and started walking toward the house. Then she sort of

gently beckoned to me; as quietly as I could, I followed her.



For the first few minutes, we didn't even talk. We just walked along

the beach, further and further from the firelight, further into the

dark. I should have been frightened, I guess, but it's hard to be

afraid when you're with a trained FBI agent.



"Are you all right?" she asked me when we were out of earshot of the

others.



"I guess," I said, shaking my head. "I'm ... I guess I'm just not used

to all this yet."



"I'm sure it's not easy seeing your husband with someone else," she

said quietly, taking my hand briefly. "Especially not when that

someone is another man."



"No," I said. "It's not."



"They didn't know you were there, Jill," she said. "Neither of them

would ever deliberately do anything to upset you."



She spoke quietly, with great delicacy and compassion, and I thanked

God that she and I had begun to establish some kind of friendship

before this happened. I can't imagine how it would have gone if I

still resented her as much as I did at first.



But things were different now; now, I could trust her, and could give

her an honest answer.



"I know that," I said, miserably. "I just ... I think, you know, that

part of it is that I used to be the one who could calm Daniel down and

make him feel better. I miss that," I said, looking away from Dana. "I

really do. It hurts that I can't do that anymore. He was such a pill

today, and then when Mulder showed up ..."



"I noticed," Dana said. "Although I think you're selling yourself and

Daniel a little short. But I also think there's a different dynamic

here than what you're used to."



"Dana, I am absolutely certain of that," I said, with a kind of shaky

laugh. "I wish I understood it better."



"Maybe I can help you understand," she said, with that calm certainty

that I once found so annoying and now found so reassuring. "First,

remember that, gay or not, they're still men."



"Well, yeah, that's fairly obvious," I said, a bit puzzled. "What

exactly does that have to do with how I'm feeling?"



"It means that, with a few obvious exceptions, they relate to each

other the way any two men would relate to each other," Dana said. "And

no man likes to appear weak in front of another man -- not even when

that man is his lover."



All right, I got that one. Score one for Jill, with a major assist

from Dana.



"You're saying Daniel's been upset with me because I keep reminding

him that he's still not very strong," I said, speaking slowly because

I was still thinking it over. "And he knew Mulder would be here

tonight."



"Exactly," she said. And she stopped there, as though there wasn't any

more to say. Maybe, for her, there wasn't.



I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. I had a heavy sweater

on, but it was cold and windy, and the further we walked, the chillier

I got. But it was as much an emotional chill as anything else.



We walked on in silence for a while.



"Dana," I said, after we'd gone about 500 feet, "can I ask you

something personal?"



"Yes, but if it's too personal I may not answer," she said, very

calmly. I didn't doubt that: I already knew she was a very private

person.



"If you don't, I'll understand," I said. "I've just always wondered

when and how you found out that Mulder is gay."



She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest, but we kept

walking. "I've always known, I think," she said, looking down at her

feet. "Certainly, I've known since shortly after I met him."



"Oh," I said. Somehow that wasn't the answer I was hoping for. I think

she knew it, too.



"What's the matter, Jill?" she said, dropping her arms to her sides

again.



"Well, it's just ...," I began, then I stopped walking. She stopped

too, watching me with great concern. "I just ... I was hoping," I

said, with some difficulty, "that I wasn't the only woman who was

stupid enough not to see the signs. No offense intended."



"I can hardly be offended when you just said you're stupid and I'm

not," she said, with a little smile. "Although I doubt it's entirely

true in either case. But you have no reason to feel foolish, Jill;

Daniel was hiding his sexual orientation from everyone, even from

himself. There was no way for you to know."



"I know, I just ..." I stopped again, and shook my head. "I keep

wanting to talk to someone else who's been through this, and I thought

maybe you'd been in love with him, and that was why you two were so

close now. "



She didn't say anything.



"I'm sorry," I said. "That was silly of me. You're his partner, and

here I am imagining there's some tragic romance ..."



She still didn't say anything.



And that's when I saw the truth ... or maybe when I realized what it

was I'd been seeing all along. "You _are_ in love with him," I

whispered.



She nodded. "So which of us is really stupid?" she asked.



"You mean ... you fell in love with him even though you knew..." I

said, in bewilderment.



"That he was gay," she finished for me. "Yes, I did."



"How can you go on with him when you know that it's hopeless?" I

asked. "I don't get it."



"He's my partner," she said. "We have a job to do together. And he's

also my best friend. I don't see those as hopeless relationships. You

wouldn't either, if you were me."



"I'm sorry," I said, shaking my head. "I just can't see myself in a

relationship like that."



"Can't you?" she said, raising one eyebrow.



"What do you mean?" I said, puzzled.



"I mean I think you understand me better than you're willing to

acknowledge," Dana said, arms across her chest again. "If you didn't,

you wouldn't have used up all your vacation and started on what is now

your second week of unpaid leave just so you could stay here and take

care of Daniel."



I didn't have an answer for that one.



I just started walking again.



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



As Jim Saw It



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



That smile from Dana made me feel so damn good. Maybe that's why I was

so far out in the ozone that I didn't see the signs warning that I was

about to stick my goddamn foot in it yet again.



I was stretched out in front of the tube watching Saturday Night Live.

It was almost time for Dana and Mulder to leave for New York to do

whatever the hell it is FBI agents do in New York. Dana and Jill had

gotten back from their walk-and-talk about 10 minutes earlier, and

Dana had rushed to change clothes and then headed outside -- to warm

up the car, she said.



Daniel and Mulder had gotten back about 20 minutes earlier, slipping

quietly through the back door.



Hey, I don't ask and my brother doesn't tell, okay?



I wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but when I heard my own name, it caught

my attention and I turned to see what was up. Daniel and Mulder were

standing by the front door. I still didn't get what was wrong -- but

then, I can be as dense as a sea fog in January.



"Fox, are you sure you wouldn't rather I took Jim and Jill back to

Baltimore with me?" Daniel was saying in an undertone. "I feel kind of

funny about staying when you're not here."



"Now who's acting like a guest?" Mulder said as he adjusted the collar

of his leather jacket. "This is your home as much as mine, Daniel. You

ought to know that by now."



Daniel smiled. "You know," he said, "knowing that you remember every

word I say scares the hell out of me sometimes."



"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Mulder said, smiling back.



I don't know how to describe what happened next. Mulder raised his

hand, then stopped -- almost froze, really -- and clapped Daniel on

the shoulder, awkwardly, as though he didn't do it very often.



"I'll see you when I get back," he said, but he wasn't smiling any

more. He looked ... kind of sad, I guess.



"Yeah, sure," Daniel said, but he wasn't smiling anymore either. They

both seemed pretty tense, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out

why.



If didn't have shit for brains, I would have realized what was

happening here, but I was clueless. It didn't register at all that

they hadn't been touching each other or acting the way a couple in

love usually does. Why would I notice? Guys don't normally hold hands

or shit like that, so from where I stood there just wasn't anything to

notice.



Well, Mrs. Reilly's little boy finally figured it out, but not until

Mulder was almost out the door. Daniel was just standing there, his

hands hanging at his sides, looking unhappier than I'd seen him in a

long time. I think he was just going to walk away, but then he stopped

and looked quickly over his shoulder -- at me.



A second later, he'd made up his mind. "Fox," he said quietly, turning

his back on me.



Mulder turned back toward him. "Yeah?" he said.



Without another word, Daniel stepped forward, put his hand on the back

of Mulder's head and kissed him. It wasn't a dry little peck, either;

it was a real kiss, full on the mouth, the kind you give someone you

love when you need to make damn sure they know it.



"Be careful, okay?" Daniel said, and I may be stupid but I'm not

stupid enough to misinterpret that tone -- he was worried. Really

worried.



"I'm always careful," Mulder said, very calmly, but he looked grateful

as hell. And he was holding Daniel's hand.



"Tell it to the Marines, G-man, the sailors won't believe it," Daniel

said, as he brushed the hair back from Mulder's forehead with his free

hand.



Shit. I knew I was staring, but Jesus, I was too goddamned shocked to

do anything else.



Yeah, I know -- I should be more open-minded. Well, I am open-minded,

okay? I didn't say I thought it was wrong -- I just said it was a

shock. I'd never seen two men kiss before.



Now I had -- and one of those men was my big brother.



And I was stunned. Hell, I wanted to cry, if you want to know the

truth, although I haven't cried since I was 11. But I sure as shit

felt like it then -- just maybe not for the reason you'd think.



Right now, though, it didn't really matter what _I_ felt like -- it

was pretty damn obvious that Daniel and his boyfriend had things to

say to each other, and they sure as hell didn't need me around.



As quietly as I could, I got up from my chair and headed down the hall

to the den, which is where I was supposed to sleep -- on the sofa, but

that was okay with me. A sofa's got a shitload more room than you get

aboard a submarine, I can tell you.



I flopped down on the sofa with my hands under my head, and I started

to do some very serious thinking.



Yeah, yeah, I know -- all that unaccustomed activity can be bad for

you. Look, do you want to know what I was thinking about or not?



Okay, then. I was thinking how many other times in an average day

Daniel had to muster all his courage just to do some simple thing that

the rest of us take for granted -- like kissing someone goodbye, or

just putting on his uniform and reporting for duty every day, in spite

of how much he stands to lose.



It was something to think about, all right.



A slight noise got my attention, and I looked up. Daniel was standing

in front of me, looking at me with an expression I really couldn't

define.



"I'm sorry, Jim," he said, and I couldn't believe how ashamed he

sounded. "I'm sure you never wanted to see anything like that."



Ashamed? What the fuck was that all about? Jesus H. Christ on a

jumped-up pogo stick -- Daniel didn't have a goddamn thing to be

ashamed of, and fuck anybody who thought he did. Fuck _anybody_ who

made my brother think that he'd forfeited my good opinion when he

kissed the man he loves.



Shit. I guess it was me that made him feel that way, when I got up and

left. It wasn't for the reason he thought, but Daniel's no more a

mind-reader than I am.



I was going to have to tell him how I felt, and that's hard for me --

I don't have Daniel's guts. But I had to wipe that look off his face.



"You know something, big brother?" I said, cringing when I heard how

thick my voice was. Oh, fuck. I did not feel like blubbering right

now, but I was pretty goddamn close.



"What?" Daniel said, more quietly.



"You," I said, then I had to clear my throat before I could go on,

"are one brave son of a bitch."



He gave me a peculiar look then -- I think he thought at first that I

was mocking him. But then he looked away, fast, and I knew he'd

figured out that I wasn't kidding at all, and he was embarrassed. He

just didn't know how to take it.



Shit, I wouldn't have either. I mean, who the hell ever tells his

brother how he really feels about him?



He got hold of himself, though. He always does.



And then he smiled. "You are such a twerp," he said, in that half-

affectionate, half-scornful tone that all big brothers use in speaking

to kid brothers.



"Takes one to know one," I said, with my brattiest smirk. And I stuck

out my tongue.



Daniel laughed. "Goodnight, Jim," he said, and he started to walk

away, down the hall to the master bedroom -- alone.



I started to make some smartass remark or another, keep the kid

brother crap going just a little longer, try to cheer him up, but I

guess my guardian angel must have tapped me on the shoulder. That's

not what he needs, the little voice said. No more jokes. He knows you

still love him: Now he needs to know that you still respect him.



Well, shit, that was easy. I spent four years at the Academy learning

how to show respect for an officer senior to me. I got to my feet

and put my hands behind my back.



"Goodnight, sir," I said, in my most polite tone.



And Daniel stopped dead in his tracks. I waited, not moving until he

turned and looked at me.



"As you were," he said quietly, and without another word, he went on

his way.



I lay back down, feeling immensely satisfied.



He got the message.



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



Flushing, Queens

New York City

November 25, 1996

3:07 AM



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I don't know what I found more unbelievable -- that I'd started out

this day after midnight, standing inside a shipping container, dressed

in full SWAT gear when I should have been asleep in my bed, or that

Mulder seemed finally to have turned his considerable deductive powers

to something resembling a normal FBI case.



I had never doubted him, you understand; it was he who had doubted

himself. Over the past four years I had seen all the proof I needed of

his skill as a profiler and the accuracy of his instincts. If Mulder

thought something was going down, something was going down, and anyone

with good sense would listen to what he had to say.



It's just that -- well, neither of us was exactly trained for this

kind of thing, and it's been a few years since either of us was in the

Academy, which was the last time I'd had to fire the MP5. I'm a lot

more used to my own service weapon, but a handgun isn't much use in

the kind of firefight we were in tonight.



Now that it was over, I could finally admit to myself how nervous I'd

been before it started. All right, to be perfectly frank, I was

scared. All I wanted was to get it over with as soon as humanly

possible.



Mulder had noticed how antsy I was getting.



"We can't go in too soon," he'd said. "We have to be patient, it'll

happen."



"What makes you so sure?" I'd asked him. He'd told me, of course,

while we were on our way here from D.C., but I needed to hear it just

once more.



Or maybe ... maybe I just wanted to give him one more chance to say,

"Okay, Scully, what do _you_ think?" Or, "Gosh, Scully, I'm sorry; I

didn't realize I'd been leaving you out of this case. I won't do it

again."



He didn't, of course. Patiently, as though we hadn't already been

through all this, he'd gone over it again: the receipts he'd been sent

for detonation cord, fuel and ammonium nitrate, for the storage space

and the truck. He'd told me he thought we might be looking at the next

Oklahoma City.



I didn't disagree with him. With evidence like that, it didn't take a

profiler to put it together. The only question was who'd sent those

receipts and why, because the conclusion suggested by the evidence

wasn't just obvious; it was so obvious it smelled of a very dangerous

trap.



I got my answer in very short order.



"We got traffic," a SWAT agent said, and it all began.



I don't remember many details of what happened next. Everything is a

blur of bullets and tear gas, of running, booted feet, of truck tires

scrabbling on the gravel that littered the parking lot. It was truly

terrifying, even though I stuck close to Mulder and covered his wing,

so to speak.



And then, when it all seemed to be over, we found out where those

receipts had come from: Alex Krycek, the world's greatest rat bastard.

Mulder no sooner saw him than he decked him, and I didn't blame him. I

didn't try to stop him, either. I didn't want to. I didn't let him

shoot Krycek, though; I still won't do that, not unless there's some

excellent provocation. If I act, it's only to protect Mulder from a

murder charge, because personally, I don't care whether Alex Krycek

lives or dies.



Actually, that's not true: I'd rather he died. But I don't especially

want Mulder to be the one who sends him to his maker.



Mulder wants to. Mulder doesn't just hate Krycek; he hates Krycek with

a passion. My hatred is to Mulder's what a kitchen match is to a

multiple warhead H-bomb.



Krycek, of course, was full of righteous indignation as always,

claiming he'd handed Mulder the bust.



Mulder didn't believe him at first. With his usual felicity of

expression, he called Alex an "invertebrate scum-sucker whose moral

dipstick is about two drops short of bone dry."



He does have a way with words.



I was tired, and so was Mulder, and I think we were both about ready

to put Krycek in the back of a New York squad car and head home to bed

when Krycek stopped us cold by insinuating that there was another bomb

somewhere.



God, if only we'd gone ahead and put him in jail. We might have

avoided so much trouble in the days and weeks and years to come.



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



As Krycek saw it



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



"We can't help you, Krycek," Mulder said, with that cold, nasty smile

he seems to save just for me.



God, sometimes this job is just too fucking easy.



There are times it presents a real challenge; not many, but some.

Dealing with that cigarette-smoking bastard is never easy. My

consolation comes in knowing that he finds me no easier to deal with.



After you've sharpened your claws on that nicotine-stained freak,

getting a death grip on Fox Mulder is no challenge at all. I know

exactly how to stalk him, how to lure him in, how to play him along

until I reach the exact right moment and I spring.



This time was no different. Send him a few receipts for diesel fuel,

ammonium nitrate and truck rentals, and he's convinced he's got the

next Oklahoma City bombing developing. In he comes with the FBI SWAT

team in full battle gear, automatic weapons at the ready. Tear gas

grenades fly, tires are shot out and Fox Mulder is the hero once more.



Oklahoma City, my ass. That was never going to happen. In the unlikely

event that Mulder hadn't taken the bait, I'd have stopped the whole

thing. Bombing a public building is just way too far above ground for

someone at my level of operations. No real revolutionary puts his

faith in paranoid militia groups -- those idiot children who

congregate in the dusty and decadent West, believing in the law as

they interpret it, invoking that law to justify their pointless

exercises in bigotry and random violence.



Idiots. There is no power in any law or any constitution, no power in

Mulder's precious "truth." They're just words, and words are

meaningless without the power to enforce them. Real power, my friends,

lies in military strength -- or in holding power over those who can

command that strength.



That's why I have the real power. I know what these men want, these

polite, urbane traitors to the human race -- and I know how to give it

to them and save their miserable lives. I also know how to withhold it

and ensure their deaths.



Mulder, for all his many strengths, still believes in Camelot. He

still believes there is a Holy Grail, that finding it will bring true

power, that virtue and truth will win out in the end. He thinks he

understands how this game is played.



That's why he never suspected that I was in league with these would-be

bombers. They believe in their cause. Mulder believes in causes, too.



The only cause I believe in is my own.



I gotta tell you, though, seeing the look on Mulder's face when he

recognized me tonight was almost worth getting the shit beat out of

me. Anyway, I've had far worse beatings than he'll ever give me.



And he won't kill me, either, because Milady Scully does not want me

killed.



That's what really frustrates him, and what will defeat him in the

end: Her. She's his fatal weakness, whether he admits it or not. Oh,

he's got other vulnerabilities -- his boundless credulity, his almost

insane drive to find out what happened to his sister -- and a few

other things.



Like, for instance, his Navy doctor boyfriend.



I can't tell you how triumphant I was when I found out that Mulder had

a lover. I gotta admit, my admiration for Mulder went up a notch or

two when I realized he'd been in a relationship for two years without

my knowing it. Like everyone else, I'd fallen for the story that

Sailor Boy was Scully's squeeze.



Once I knew what was really up, though, figuring out how to use that

relationship to manipulate Mulder was easy enough for a backward

kindergarten child.



It wasn't news that he was gay. I already knew that. The entire

consortium knew it: That's why they sent me to deal with the Scully

problem. They know that I don't really give a damn who I'm fucking, as

long as fucking them will help me achieve my goals. Sex is a tool for

me, not a desire. That makes me the perfect lure for a man like

Mulder, the perfect weapon against a woman like Scully.



And I did take care of the problem -- much more thoroughly than either

of them yet knows. I still have so many ways of breaking them --

including about a hundred photographs that Mulder would kill me for if

he knew they existed. Shit, he'd kill himself before he'd let her see

them. He can't tell her, because he doesn't know himself, how I

engineered that whole event.



Yeah, he knows I helped them take her. But that's not the only reason

he hates me. He doesn't hate me for what they did to her, because he

doesn't know and she can't remember. There's a much more mundane

explanation for his hatred.



He remembers.



He remembers what we did together, what he said to me, how he opened

himself up to me body and soul that afternoon, how he gave me

everything he had and begged me to take more.



He remembers. And he'd kill me for it if he could, but he can't.



Once my plans are put into action, he's going to remember it all so

much more clearly. He'll ... relive it, you might say.



And he will hate every minute of it, even as he's moaning and crying

out for more. I'll make certain of it.



Starting now.



"Mulder," I said, and -- against his will, I'm certain -- he looked at

me again.



"This is just one bomb I'm sitting on here," I said, as casually as I

could. "You didn't ask me how many more I know about."



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



11:42 p.m.

Alexandria, Va.



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



God damn me right to hell for listening to that rat bastard.



"It's in a diplomatic pouch," he says. "People would kill to have it."



I spent almost an entire day questioning Krycek and then had to drive

back to the District, take turns guarding the slimeball while Scully

and I changed clothes, then run my ass off through the fucking airport

to come up with what?



A rock. A fucking rock.



"What is it?" he said, just as if he didn't know.



"Expose it for him, Scully," I said. What I really wanted to do, of

course, was to grab the goddamn thing and bash Krycek right on top of

his fucking skinhead 'do.



He just stood there staring at it, like he didn't get why I was so

upset. So I made some stupid crack about Charlie Brown and stalked

off.



Why the fuck won't Scully let me kill him? I'd be doing the world a

favor, and it'd almost be worth doing life without parole to watch

that motherfucker hit the ground bleeding.



When we got to Georgetown, I made him lie down on the floor and drove

about 10 blocks out of my way before I dropped her off. Not that I

don't know he can get to her apartment anytime he likes, but why the

hell should I make it any easier for him?



I may have cuffed him just a shade too tightly for the trip ... maybe.

I know Scully unlocked the cuffs and relocked them about a click more

loosely. She didn't look too pleased with me, either.



Sorry, Scully. I just can't always do things as perfectly as you do.



Christ. Now he's got me angry at her, and she sure as hell doesn't

deserve it. She came out in the middle of the night to help me with

this bust, she didn't narc on me for beating the crap out of Ratboy

and she hasn't said one harsh word to me even though she's now gone

close to 36 hours without sleeping.



That's me, Fox Fuckhead Mulder, lashing out at everyone whether they

deserve it or not. First Daniel, then Scully ...



I hope my mom doesn't call me.



Speaking of calling, I ought to call Daniel. I told him I'd be home

before breakfast and it's nearly midnight, but I need to find a

landline. Too damn many people in this town get their rocks off

scanning other people's cell calls -- and those are just the ones who

do it as a hobby. I don't especially want anyone listening in on my

calls to my lover, for reasons that should be obvious.



Anyway, Daniel won't be all that worried. He knows someone would get

word to him if anything bad happened to me. I made damn sure of that

after the fiasco when he got shot. The Gunmen will be told and they'll

know where to find him -- and why.



My love life is getting to be a bigger open secret around D.C. than

the president's.



God, I'm tired.



I want to go home.



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



X Files office

November 26, 1996

Tuesday

11:17 a.m.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I am not sure I have ever seen anyone make such a complete turnaround

as Mulder has made this morning. And it only took one word:



Mars.



That was yesterday, when we were at NASA Goddard talking to Dr. Sacks.

The whole conversation was like the dialogue in a low-budget, 1950s

science-fiction film; way too much like it for me to take very

seriously. Electricity won't stop the Martians, sir. We'll have to

use... the atom bomb. My God, man, are you mad? That's what unleashed

these creatures in the first place.



"What you are looking at," Dr. Sacks said, practically quivering, "is

quite possibly from Mars." As he spoke, I had the oddest feeling that

everything would soon turn to grainy black and white.



Mulder, however, was drinking it all in avidly. The game was afoot and

Mulder was on the trail. I suppose his dear friend Phoebe would call

it a "three-pipe problem."



And now all I could do was stand and listen, unbelieving, as he spun

his usual conspiracy theories even further out in the ozone than he

usually does.



Incredibly, he seemed to want to trust Alex Krycek. Alex, he claimed,

had given us "the pivotal piece to an even larger plot."



"What he's given us, Mulder, is a rock," I said. "Alex Krycek is a

liar, and a murderer." I didn't think I needed to add the obvious --

that Krycek's victims included Mulder's father and my sister.



Or maybe I did.



"Who wants to expose the same men that we do and will go to any

lengths to succeed," he said, sounding so sure of himself.



My God, was it only two years ago that I had to shoot Mulder to keep

him from killing this man?



From the looks of things, I'd have to shoot him again if I meant to

keep him from following Krycek into God-only-knows-what.



"What I'm worried about is you, Mulder, and how far you'll go," I

said. "And how far I can follow you."



I thought surely he'd respond to that, say something to let me know

that he heard me and that my concerns mattered to him, but no. He

didn't say a word. He just walked out and left me standing there,

feeling invisible.



I'm doing everything I can to keep this investigation moving forward

in some logical, sensible fashion, and he's behaving as though Alex

Krycek, the lowest form of life on earth, is the new Messiah, sent to

save us from the conspirators.



I suppose in Mulder's case that's the original Messiah. I keep

forgetting he's Jewish, possibly because he seems to have forgotten it

himself.



He's forgotten so many things that used to mean something to him.



I'm so afraid that I'm about to be added to that list.



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



New York City

Upper West Side

November 27, 1996

Midnight



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



As Marita Saw It



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



"What are you doing here?" I asked, although I'd already been warned

that he was en route to my apartment.



"I need your help," he said, just as I'd known he would.



"How do you know where I live?" I responded, hoping I'd put just the

right tone of curiosity-plus-irritation in my voice.



"FBI database," he said. "I'm sorry, it's a matter of extreme urgency.

A diplomatic pouch left Russia and arrived here in the U.S. Two men

are dead. I need to know why."



I unchained the door and let him in.



"Is that all you came for?" I said, gesturing toward the easy chair.



"I promise you, I have no ulterior motives," he said as he sat down;

he rather collapsed, as a matter of fact.



I could see in his eyes, in every line of his body, that he was bone

weary, as though he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't, but

that was all right. A man starved for sleep is a man susceptible to

suggestion, but it was still going to take marvelous finesse to get

Fox Mulder to the place we needed him to go ... and with the person we

needed him to go with.



I nodded, careful to let my face betray none of my thoughts. "I'll

need to make some phone calls," I said. "I'll be in the bedroom. You

can wait here ... or if you'd like, you can come lie down for a few

minutes."



He looked up quickly at that. Clearly, he'd caught the faint air of

suggestion in my statement, the invitation worded so carefully that it

could be accepted or rejected without loss of face for either of us.



"If you don't mind," he said, slowly, "I'll wait here. I hate to

eavesdrop."



Rejected. Interesting. Not that it hasn't happened to me before, but

this wasn't what I'd expected from him. He certainly looked like a

normal, hot-blooded male in his mid-30s, and he couldn't have missed

what I was suggesting to him. Perhaps he really was sleeping with his

partner, as all the gossip in our little community had it. Quite

interesting, and possibly useful.



"Wherever you're more comfortable," I said, as coolly as I could

manage. "I shouldn't be long."



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



Four hours later, I had his answer for him. I could have gotten it

more quickly, but that might well have left him with enough time to

meet with his partner and tell her where he was going. That could have

ruined everything.



He'd fallen asleep, of course, but those few hours of sleep weren't

going to be enough to clear his mind. That was quite apparent.



For a moment, though, as I knelt beside the chair, I almost felt

guilty about what I was doing to him. He was such an attractive man,

so dedicated to his fool's errand, a modern-day Don Quixote with a

red-headed Sancho Panza riding at his heels ... I genuinely felt

sorry for him. But I brushed that aside, as I always do, and

concentrated on my part in this little drama. The matter was far too

serious for me to indulge in sentimentality.



Time to wake him, and send him on toward the giants he was so sure

were over the next hill.



"Agent Mulder?" I said, and he woke instantly. There was a moment of

confusion on his face, but it was quickly gone. He was in command of

himself.



Too bad. I would have loved a chance to make him lose that iron

control, but it was not to be.



Not this time.



"The diplomatic pouch traveled an apex route to the Russian province

of Krasnoyarsk," I said.



"Krasnoyarsk?" he repeated, in a far better Russian accent than I

would have expected. Yet another interesting fact about Fox Mulder to

be stored away and brought out when needed.



"The point of entry," I said, returning to my task, "was the city of

Norilsk."



"That's just north of Tunguska," he said, with a hint of wonder in his

voice, as he got up and began looking through the pockets of his

jacket.



"Tunguska?" I said, as though I'd never heard of it.



"Yeah," he said, continuing to rummage around in his pockets.



"What are you looking for?" I asked.



"My cell phone," he said. "I gotta book myself on a flight to

Krasnoyarsk, Russia."



Ah, there it was ... that lovely little tug at the end of the line

when the fish leaps toward the bait, when the gentlest, yet most

precise motion sets the hook firmly in its doomed mouth ... there's

always a thrill of success, coupled with an equal thrill of fear, when

that moment arrives. But there was no time to revel in it now. I had

more important work to do.



"I can help you, Agent Mulder," I said.



"Find my cell phone?" he said, but without smiling.



"No," I said, moving toward him. "With cover credentials. A diplomatic

passport and visa."



"Why?" he said, clearly puzzled. "Why are you helping me?"



"Because I can," I said, and that at least was the truth. It needed a

lie to make it complete, though, so I went on. "Because there are

those of us who believe in you ... believe in your search for the

truth."



"How long will it take?" he said.



"How long do you have?" I asked in return ... just my little effort to

let him know the invitation was still open.



He still wasn't going to accept. I could see that right away; a man

who's planning to bed a woman generally does not look at his watch

first to see what time it is.



Not, that is, unless someone's waiting for him at home.



Oh, yes, I do wonder ...



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



Washington, D.C.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I don't know if Skinner saw in my eyes just how alarmed I was at the

news he brought me, but I have seldom been more frightened.



Dr. Bonita Charne-Sayre, possibly the world's foremost virologist, was

the intended recipient of that rock ... and now she, too, was dead.



That meant Mulder and I were among the very few people left alive who

knew what was in that pouch; and there were powerful men -- very

powerful men -- who very much wanted to know where Mulder was now.



I was reasonably sure that I knew why, too. We were all in danger.



When I got inside my apartment, I barely made it to the couch. My legs

didn't want to hold me up. I needed to tell Mulder what was happening,

but I didn't know where Mulder was.



God damn him for putting me in this position. I'm alone and there's no

one I can talk to. Skinner may be asking me a lot of questions, but he

does not want to carry the burden of knowing what I know, pitifully

little as it is. Daniel is on the Vineyard with his family, and

Mulder... oh, God, I wish I knew.



What's almost worse than being alone is the thought of going hat in

hand to Marita Covarrubias and asking her nicely -- or even not nicely

-- where my partner is. I know it's petty, aand I shouldn't care, but I

do. It humiliates me to have to confess to anyone, let alone that

woman, that Mulder doesn't actually tell me everything he's doing.



I can just see the look of triumph in her eyes as she realizes that

he's confided to her matters that he will not confide to me. That,

gentlemen, is the female equivalent of an unassisted triple-play in

the male-attention game. I know you can't read that look in women's

eyes, but trust me: We can.



I wish Daniel were here. I can't tell him much, but I would try to

reassure him, and he'd try to pretend that it was working, and we'd

both know just what big liars we really are... and then he'd take me

in his arms and hold me and for just a moment, we could both forget

how afraid we are, for Mulder and for ourselves.



What's happened between Mulder and me lately is something I could

never have imagined, could never have dreamed in the worst of times...

but it's true. He doesn't trust me. He not only doesn't trust me, but

he's decided to trust Alex Krycek, and I just don't understand how he

can do that.



I only know it hurts. It hurts so much.



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



I stopped only once on the way to the airport -- at a pay phone, where

I called and left a message on Daniel's answering machine. There was

no landline at the Vineyard house, but I knew he'd use his cell phone

to check his messages at least once a day.



I left Krycek cuffed to the steering wheel, with the windows up, and

walked the 10 feet or so to the phone. I hoped that was enough to keep

him from overhearing me.



"Daniel," I said, after the beep, "I've got to go away for a day or

two. It's something to do with the case I told you about. I just

wanted to let you know, and I'll tell you more about it when I get

back. Talk to Scully if you really need to find me. I'll talk to you

soon." 



God, I hoped that was the truth.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I keep thinking I'm going to wake up soon ... real life couldn't

possibly be this bizarre.



Mulder is God knows where and I'm in jail for contempt of Congress --

and not just in jail, but in jail for at least the next four days,

because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and Congress is in recess.



I have plenty to read, but nothing to do but wait, hope and pray that

I'm doing the right thing. I am still wearing my own clothes; it's

rather pathetic, but I am immensely comforted by that, although I may

have to sleep in this suit. No one seems inclined to bring me a jail

uniform, at any rate.



And, fortunately, I have a cell to myself. Law-enforcement types

usually do, if there's any room at all in the lockup. I suppose that's

a small blessing in the midst of this insanity; that, and the fact

that my mother is spending Thanksgiving with Bill in San Diego. I

would hate for her to see me like this.



At our meeting, Senator Sorenson had left no doubt whatsoever that he

meant to find out where Mulder is -- for reasons which I dare not

guess -- and he made it quite clear that I would tell him what he

wanted to know or I would suffer the consequences.



As soon as I could, I called Daniel again and told him as much of the

truth as I knew. He was already quite worried --apparently Mulder had

left a message on Daniel's machine that was so cryptic as to be almost

useless. He wanted to know what the message meant, but I couldn't help

him. I was, if anything, more in the dark than he was.



I just told him that Mulder's whereabouts had to be kept secret; that

it was so important to keep that secret that there was a very real

possibility that I would soon be jailed for withholding that

information from a Congressional committee.



There was a long silence.



"That's not very reassuring, Dana," Daniel said.



"I can't tell you any more than that, Daniel," I told him. "Soon, just

as soon as I can, I'll tell you the rest. All I can say now is stay

where you are -- all three of you -- and Mulder will get in touch with

you when it's safe to do so."



That "all three of you" part was, of course, aimed mostly at Daniel.

Jill had already left the Vineyard. She was staying at Daniel's

apartment; I'd suggested it after our walk, because she seemed to need

some time alone to think, and after a polite protest, she'd agreed.

Daniel and Jim would stay on the Vineyard and she would stay in

Baltimore until ...



Honestly, I didn't know. She wasn't going to stay forever; that, I

knew. But how long she would stay was a mystery even to her, I think.



I doubted Daniel was in any mood to stay put, either, from the tone of

his voice. "You're in serious trouble, aren't you?" he said, slowly.

"Both of you?"



"It's a serious situation, Daniel," I said, carefully. "We are

pursuing some leads. Once we know what we're dealing with, we will

know what to do. Until then, I've said all I can."



I could hear Daniel's short, humorless laugh even over the telephone.

"I don't know what say, Dana," he said, but he sounded more sad than

angry. "I'm almost used to Fox shutting me out. I never thought I'd

have to get used to you doing it."



That hurt, but I knew why he felt that way. Mulder can be quite a

closed book, as Daniel and I both know all too well. What I was doing

now, in essence, was Mulder's dirty work.



That didn't mean I couldn't try to make it a bit easier for Daniel to

bear it.



"Daniel, please," I said, softly. "Please trust me. Mulder and I would

never, ever keep this from you if it weren't so dangerous and so very,

very important. You have to believe me."



"I believe you," Daniel said, in his quiet voice. "And I do trust you,

Dana. But none of this is easy for me; especially not having to stand

by and do nothing while you go to jail and Fox goes ... wherever he's

going."



"Well, it may not come to that," I said, although I knew better. "If I

do go to jail, you'll bring me cigarettes, won't you?"



That got a bit more of a laugh. "You don't smoke," he said, and I

could almost see his gentle smile.



"I can't think of a better reason to start," I said. "Daniel, really,

there's nothing you need to do right now. If I do go to jail, maybe;

you could bring me something to read, anyway."



"I'll come see you whether you're in jail or not," Daniel said. I

felt a sigh escape me. Daniel's presence was always like a calming

hand laid on my heart.



But it was asking too much of him. I couldn't let him do it.



"No, don't," I said. "Stay where you are and rest, Daniel. There's no

reason for you to travel all the way to Washington until we know

what's up."



"Actually, I'll be in town anyway," he said. "I've got to report to

Bethesda at 0730 Wednesday for a physical, to see when I can return to

duty."



"So soon?" I asked, a little surprised. "Are you sure you're ready?"



"I'm sure I'm ready to find out," Daniel said, firmly. "I've about had

enough of doing nothing, Dana. I want to get back in battery, even if

it's only light duty for a while."



I laughed. "Wouldn't it be odd," I said, "if you got your life back on

the day I lost mine?"



And that turned out to be almost prophetic.



Wednesday rolled around, Sorenson demanded to know where Mulder was, I

wouldn't answer, and the committee wouldn't listen to anything else I

tried to say.



I was found to be in contempt of Congress, given into the custody of

the U.S. Marshals and locked up.



Skinner came by soon after, bringing me some of the files on this

case, files which I still hoped to show to the committee. He pulled a

considerable number of strings to get permission for me to have

visitors, for which I was most grateful.



That's why my one phone call went not to my lawyer, but to Daniel.



He was here in less time than I would have thought possible, bringing

my toothbrush and some clothes that Jill had selected for me. The

guard confiscated those, but assured me they'd be returned when it was

time for me to face the subcommittee again. Daniel also brought some

journal articles and textbooks on Dr. Charne-Sayre's work ...



And he brought Jim -- and with him, a whole cascade of emotions I

found I couldn't deal with.



Don't misunderstand me; I was glad to see Jim, more glad than I would

ever have thought I could be to see anyone except Mulder or Daniel.

Jim's light-hearted approach to life exerted a pull on me that I never

expected.



Even more surprising to me, he not only seemed to have a window onto

my deepest thoughts, but he appeared to enjoy the view for reasons I

couldn't quite fathom.



Yet if I hadn't been uncomfortable before, I was now. No matter how

persuaded I was that I was doing the right thing, it was still a bit

embarrassing to appear as a prisoner before someone who was, after

all, still a relatively new acquaintance. I hoped he wouldn't ask any

questions I couldn't answer.



Jim, however, had very little to say. He mostly leaned against the

walls of my cell, his arms folded across his chest, listening as

Daniel and I talked.



"This isn't going to last forever," I said, patting Daniel's arm as he

sat beside me on the creaky iron bunk. "I'll miss the turkey and

dressing, but I should be out of here as soon as the committee

reconvenes Monday."



"That's not all that's worrying me, Dana," Daniel said, but he put his

hand over mine as though grateful for the contact. "You still haven't

told me where Fox is."



"That's because she doesn't know," Jim said, abruptly, and it shocked

me. Of all the unnerving things that had happened lately, Jim's

uncanny ability to figure out what I was thinking and feeling was

perhaps the most unnerving of all.



"That's the truth, isn't it, Dana?" he went on, when I didn't answer.

"You don't know, and you don't want to, either, because you can't tell

what you don't know."



I couldn't respond. I didn't dare. For all I knew, there were

microphones and cameras all over this cell.



"Shit," Daniel said, rising. He ran one hand through his hair,

abstractedly, the way he does when he's completely at a loss. He

walked over toward the desk, looking down at the papers scattered

there as though he thought they might yield the answer he wanted.



Then his eyes widened and he picked up one of the papers. "You've been

busy," he said, looking at me. "How'd you find him from in here?"



"Find who, Daniel?" I said, puzzled.



He held up a small black-and-white file photograph. "Last I heard, you

didn't have a clue about where this guy was," he said. "What

happened?"



"I'm still not sure what you mean," I said, slowly. "I didn't know

where he was until recently, but we weren't actively looking for him;

he came looking for us. Do you know Alex Krycek?"



"Is that his name?" Daniel said, looking at the picture again. "So

where was he?"



Jim, meanwhile, had walked over to look at the photograph. "Who is

this guy, Daniel?" he said, taking the photograph. "You know him from

somewhere?"



Daniel gave a short laugh. "Yeah, I guess you could say so," he said,

shaking his head. "That's the guy who shot me."



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



I remember once when I was Christmas shopping with my mother, looking

for that one toy that my nephews were sure they couldn't live without,

when a tall stack of boxes fell from a high shelf in the crowded toy

store. One of them landed squarely on top of my head, striking me very

near the sagittal suture and knocking me to the floor.



At first, I couldn't feel it. All I knew was that something had made a

very loud noise. Not until a few moments had passed and the pain began

did I realize what had happened.



That's as close as I can come to describing how I felt just then.



I got to my feet, practically staggering, and took the photograph from

Daniel. "Daniel, are you sure this is him?" I asked in a whisper.



"I'm not likely to forget that face, Dana," Daniel said, looking at me

curiously. "Is there some other significance to this photograph?"



I nodded, dumbly, looking down at the photograph. It didn't look much

like the composite the police artist had drawn. I'd already known the

composite was no good; Daniel had told us that shortly after it was

drawn. That was one of the obstacles that had been holding up the

investigation.



Damn that artist anyway. If his sketch had been any good at all,

either Mulder or I would have recognized Krycek.



He looked so clean-cut, so thoroughly trustworthy in the photo, just

as he did the day I met him. I thought then that my instinctive

dislike was because I didn't want anyone taking my place with Mulder.



With Mulder ...



"Mulder's with him," I whispered. I was going to say more, but the

cell walls suddenly lifted and tilted around me. There was a loud roar

in my ears, and I fell into the blissful confusion of darkness.



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



Tunguska Gulag



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



"What did you tell them?" I demanded, my arm at Krycek's useless

throat as I forced him back against the cold damp walls of our cell.



"That we were stupid Americans lost in the woods," he spat back at me.



Well, he had that part right. I was being stupid, attacking Krycek,

who was my only link to the world outside, but goddamn it, I'd been

almost three days without sleep, I'd been beaten unconscious, and

another prisoner had just informed me that I was here to suffer and

die. I was not in the mood to be patient -- especially not with

Ratboy.



For a moment, he just stared at me with eyes full of hate and anger.

In fact, I could almost believe that he hates me as much as I hate

him -- as if that were possible.



"Mulder," he said, "you're going to need me in here." He shoved my arm

away, angrily. "Don't touch me again."



I was so goddamn close to saying the same thing back to him, but I

thought better of it. If he wasn't thinking about that day, I didn't

want to, either.



Especially not when we were both flying on a major testosterone-and-

adrenaline high, and standing so close to each other that if either of

us moved we'd be ... kissing.



That did it. I turned away.



Krycek went back to working on the bars.



And I collapsed in the corner, waiting, with nothing to do but

think... and remember. Unbidden, but unstoppable, the memories came

rushing back, the shame and the anger still as fresh now as they were

two years ago ... the day after Scully disappeared.



That was quite possibly the worst day of my life. I'm not entirely

sure that it wasn't worse than the day Samantha disappeared. It was at

least as bad.



I remember the meeting in Skinner's office as though it happened

yesterday. I was exhausted and half out of my head, but I had no

intention of going home or anywhere else until I had a good lead on

where Scully was.



Skinner had other ideas. He ordered Krycek to take me home and make

sure I rested.



That may have been the only order Krycek got as a special agent that

he actually obeyed. He took me home, all right, but we were no sooner

in the door than he was coming on to me.



I can't say it surprised me, although I don't think I'd given Krycek's

sexual orientation any thought at all before that. He didn't appeal to

me, and anyway, he was in the FBI. I wasn't dumb enough to try

tricking with someone I'd have to see the next day at work. I meant it

when I told Scully I hadn't slept with anyone in the Bureau.



Well, it was technically true. He wasn't in the Bureau when I said

that.



I never think about what it was like with him if I can help it. I

loathe every memory of him, of his touch. Yeah, it was consensual sex,

and it was damn good at the time, but big fucking deal -- if I'd known

who and what he was, if I'd known what his part was in everything that

had happened, I'd never have let him touch me.



That was what drove me to try ...



Forget it. I'm not even going to think about that time. It's over.



Consensual or not, sleeping with Alex Krycek was still a goddamn

stupid thing to do, but I wasn't exactly thinking clearly that day. I

didn't have the mental energy to resist when Krycek put his hands

on my chest and started speaking to me in that low, slow voice. I

can't say I really wanted him even then; I just thought a quickie

might help me shut down my brain for a few minutes.



He gave me a lot more than a few minutes.



"You need to let go, Mulder," he said, as his hands worked the buttons

on my shirt. "You need to let someone else be in charge for a while."



"Yeah?" I said, getting aroused in spite of myself. "And you think

you're that someone?"



"I know I am," he said, pulling my shirt open and thrusting his hands

underneath as his mouth descended on mine in a rough kiss. He gave me

a hard shove that sent me sprawling across my couch ... two seconds

later, he was on top of me.



He was a man of his word. Every time I tried to speak, he'd tell me to

shut up, and he'd force his mouth down on mine again. It was pretty

goddamn rough, all of it, even for me ... and before I met Daniel,

that was the way I wanted it, every single time, although there were

limits: I was never into pain or bondage or any of that shit.



Rough ... well, rough is different. Rough is how men are; with each

other, anyway. In case you hadn't noticed, men and masculinity and

maleness in general are what get my motor going.



Alex Krycek went a bit beyond rough, and while I didn't fight it, it

still hurt more than I was comfortable with. It hurt a lot, to be

honest; so much so that I was damn close to shoving him off me.



But then, there was a part of me that thought it was no more than I

deserved for letting Scully be taken that way. I mean, God, I'd had

her blood on my hands. Literally.



Painful or not, it worked. I came so hard I thought my brain would

explode right out of my skull.



When it was over and he left, I decided maybe it wasn't so bad after

all. My nerve endings had been flooded with so many contradictory

sensations at once that it sapped every last bit of energy I had. I

was sore and exhausted, marked by his teeth and bruised by his hands;

my legs were rubbery, my arms were shaking and my brain ... was

blessedly quiet.



I rolled over on my side and I slept. I didn't sleep long, but I

slept, and that was something.



Then Duane Barry died, and I found out just how badly Alex Krycek had

betrayed me ...



I went home, stripped off my clothes, and stood in front of the mirror

staring at the marks he'd left on me. All at once I felt sick to my

stomach, and I leaned over the john, retching and heaving until my

head ached and my abdominal muscles were screaming in pain.



Then I poured myself a stiff shot of gin, drank it straight down and

passed out on my couch.



I woke up the next morning with only two certainties in my head: I

would find Scully and I would kill Alex Krycek. I would do those two

things if it took me the rest of my life, if I had to die in the

attempt.



I didn't give a shit about my life at that moment anyway.



In the hopeless cold of Tunguska gulag, I was rapidly reaching that

point again.



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



As Jim Saw It



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



"Are you out of your fucking mind, Daniel?" I said. "You're not

trained for this kind of shit. You'll get yourself killed."



Okay, so I shouted at him. You get the picture, though, don't you? I

mean, this was deadly stuff -- the kind of stuff you read about in spy

novels, only it was for real. One look at Dana was enough to convince

me of that.



And I knew I had to stop him.



I meant no disrespect to my brother, believe me. Daniel's a damn fine

medical officer -- hell, I got a good look at that right there in that

goddamn cell. He saw what was happening and had his arms out to catch

Dana before I even noticed anything wrong, then he had me call for a

guard while he laid her down on the cot and started checking her pulse

and loosening her clothing.



When the guard got there, bringing a medic's kit, Daniel went right to

work, checking Dana's blood pressure, her reflexes -- all that doctor

shit. I'd never seen him do any of that before, and I gotta tell you,

it was pretty cool. I was proud as hell to see him handling everything

so competently, knowing just what to do, not panicking like someone

else might have...



No, I didn't panic. But if Daniel hadn't been there, I might have.



Dana didn't exactly panic when she came to, either, but she was scared

shitless. Even I could tell that, and I haven't really spent much time

with her. Seeing her react that way, when she's normally so calm and

self-possessed was maybe scarier -- to me, anyway -- than realizing

her partner was with the guy who shot Daniel.



And she was scared to death, believe me. She kept telling Daniel that

she couldn't trust anyone in the FBI -- or out of it, for that matter

-- with the information that might lead themm to Mulder, or to this

Alex guy, the one who shot Daniel.



So Daniel said he would go find them -- both of them.



Well, you know me -- I said the first thing that popped into my head,

which is my preferred method of getting myself in deep shit. I do it

all the time.



And, as usual, I regretted it the minute the words were out of my

mouth. I could tell just by looking at Daniel's suddenly narrowed eyes

that there was a better-than-even chance that what he thought I was

saying was, "Listen, gay boy, you're not up to doing a man's job."



I didn't mean any such thing, but then I hadn't meant anything by it

the other night when I tried to leave him and Mulder alone for a few

minutes, and he'd sure as shit misunderstood that. I didn't want that

to happen again.



"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "I don't mean to imply you're not capable

of doing this -- under normal circumstances. But Daniel, you just got

out of the hospital, you're not even cleared to return to duty yet and

you want to go happy-assing off looking for the same guy who put you

in the goddamn hospital in the first place? That's nuts. It's pure

fucking nuts."



"I don't recall asking for your advice, lieutenant," Daniel said,

coldly, and if I'd thought he was pissed before, I knew it now for

sure. Daniel's never had to raise his voice to get that point across.



"Jesus Christ, Daniel, don't start pulling rank on me," I said. I

guess I sounded a little desperate, but -- well, goddamn it, I was.



"I just did," Daniel said, flatly. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm

not in need of your assistance just now, so stand down, lieutenant.

That's an order."



Oh, thanks a bunch, Daniel. So now what do I do -- disobey a direct

order and dare you to bring charges against me, or obey the order and

risk that you'll get yourself killed and it'll be my fault?



In truth, if it came down to a court martial, he'd probably lose.

Ordering your brother to shut up so you can run off to look for your

gay lover is not likely to be ruled a legal order by any military

judge on earth.



Daniel knew that. He wasn't counting on the Uniform Code of Military

Justice to compel my obedience; he was counting on my respect for him,

as a brother and as an officer.



God, that was a dirty trick.



I had to make my decision, and fast: Dana was sitting up on the cot,

looking back and forth from me to Daniel, wide-eyed and scared half

out of her wits, while Daniel was looking me right in the eye with

that cold, steely-eyed stare that superior officers always give you

when they're daring you to act like you've got balls.



I don't know if I do or not, Daniel. But I know good and goddamn well

that you do.



I lowered my eyes just a little, surrendering, then I looked him in

the eye again. "Aye, aye, sir," I said, keeping my voice as level as I

possibly could.



Daniel nodded. He knew I still didn't like this one bit, but I could

tell by the look in his eyes that he also knew I meant it:



I would obey him.



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



Daniel's apartment



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



As Jill Saw It



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



Hot.



Water.



Blisssssss....



I hadn't had time for a hot bath since I left San Diego, so now that

I was alone, I was indulging myself madly in Daniel's all-but-unused

clawfoot tub, with vanilla candles burning all around me and about a

six-inch layer of gardenia-scented bubbles floating on top of water

hot enough to cook pasta.



It was almost painful to sit in water this hot, but it was exactly

what I needed to soothe my nerves. I could cool off later, before I

dressed for bed.



And then, please God, I would sleep. Sleep had been so elusive

lately...



In fact, if I hadn't needed to sleep so badly, I wouldn't have been in

that tub at all. It seemed selfish beyond belief for me to lounge

around in the tub enjoying myself while Dana was locked up, but she'd

sent word through her boss that she was fine, and I was not to worry

about her. I needed to take care of myself for a while, she said, and

this was a good time to do it.



She was right, too. I was worn out, emotionally and physically. I'd

told myself I'd use this time alone to think, to plan what I would say

to Daniel when he returned from his fitness exam at Bethesda.



Actually, I wasn't really expecting much response beyond a nod and a

polite "thanks for all your help," but it soothed my ego to think that

it still might matter to him that I was leaving.



And this time, I was determined that it would be for good. No more

running to his side if something went wrong: He had Mulder, and he had

Dana, and between the two of them, I was sure he'd be well cared-for.

I still held Daniel's power of attorney -- he said he wanted it that

way -- but Dana knew now that I'd agree to whatever she thought was

best.



I was just about to get out of the tub when I heard a key turning in

the lock. It didn't startle me; after all these years, I could still

tell it was Daniel, just by the sound. I hadn't really expected him to

be here tonight, although I knew there was a chance he wouldn't be

through with his physical in time to catch the ferry back to the

Vineyard.



I sighed and slid back down into the water. Great. End of relaxation,

time to deal with the gay ex-husband again.



"Jill?" he called out. "You here?"



"I'm in the bathroom," I called out. "Come on in."



I could hear him walking toward me, but then he stopped right outside

the bathroom door. "Are you decent?" Daniel said, a little hesitantly.



"Oh, come on, Daniel," I said, with what I hoped was just a hint of

sarcasm. "The lights are off, this is a bubble bath, you're a

physician, I was married to you for 12 years and, on top of that,

you're gay. How decent do I need to be?"



"Well, when you put it that way, not very," Daniel said, as he walked

in and sat cross-legged on the floor next to the tub, just as though

it was an everyday thing ...



Which it was, once.



Daniel used to sit next to me like that almost every night, unless he

was at sea or at the hospital. He would wash my back, or just lean on

the rim of the tub and talk to me.



We had some of our best talks then, along with a little affectionate

kissing and nuzzling. That rarely led to anything more, but there were

times ...



That ended in the last year of our marriage. More and more often,

instead of coming home and spending time with me, Daniel would stay

late at work, or go out with some friends ... or so he said.



I didn't really know what to do; I just started taking a lot more

showers, bought a long-handled bath brush, and began to play the radio

while I bathed, to keep the silence from being too oppressive.



Inside, I suppose, I knew what was wrong. When I look back on it, the

signs were there; I just pushed it from my mind and refused even to

consider it.



But it hurt; oh, God, yes, it hurt.



But then, maybe ... maybe it hurt him, too, for me to deliberately

refuse for so long to acknowledge what he was going through.



That was a new thought; one that I couldn't really deal with right

now. Daniel was worried about something; even in the candlelight, I

could see that clearly.



"Danny, what's wrong?" I said, without thinking, then flinched as I

realized my mistake. I was just so used to it -- I had always been

allowed to call him by his childhood name, even after high school,

when he started making everyone else call him Daniel.



I had always treasured that privilege, although I really think Daniel

suits him better than Danny. I hated to give it up, even now.



"Sorry," I said, sheepishly. "I meant Daniel."



But to my surprise, he shook his head. "Danny is still okay, Jill," he

said, smiling softly. "From you, anyway -- no one else."



"I thought you didn't like it anymore," I said. "You didn't like it

when I said it the other night."



He shook his head again, the smile fading. "I wasn't behaving very

well that night, Jill," he said. "Not with you or with anyone else."



"I didn't notice anything," I said, softly. Damn him, he was getting

to me again, and he wasn't even really trying.



"Just take my word for it," he said, the smile reappearing for just an

instant, but then he sighed and looked away.



"You still haven't told me what's wrong," I said, turning toward him a

little, slowly so I wouldn't slosh bubbles all over him, resting my

arm on the rim of the tub.



"No, I haven't," he said, but he didn't look at me. I knew what that

meant: He was really upset about something but he was trying not to

show it.



"Danny," I said, very quietly, then waited until he turned toward me

again. "Something's really wrong, isn't it?" I said, when I was sure I

had his attention. "Tell me."



He nodded. "Fox is missing," he said, quietly. "Dana doesn't know

where he is, but she's pretty sure that, wherever he is, he's with the

man who shot me."



I gasped. "Daniel, is she sure?" I said, in horror. "How in the world

did that happen?"



"I don't know, and Dana says she can't tell me," Daniel said. "All

I know is she fainted when she realized what was going on."



"Is she all right?" I said, and believe me, I was genuinely concerned.

I've never been overly impressed with the quality of healthcare in

correctional facilities. "Is anyone taking care of her?"



"Jim's with her," Daniel said. "She's all right; she stabilized

quickly. She's just worried about Fox."



"So are you," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "You're worried

to death, Danny. I can see it in your eyes."



He smiled, just a little. "I never could hide anything from you, could

I?" he said.



I closed my eyes. For a second, I thought I might summon the strength

just to let that comment pass unremarked, but I was tired of suffering

in silence, I guess ... I mean, I know I was.



"There were a few things you hid pretty well, Daniel," I said, softly.



For a minute there was no sound in the room except the slow plunk,

plunk of water dripping from the faucet and the slight hiss of bubbles

breaking.



"Yes, I guess there were," Daniel said, finally, and his voice was a

little thick. "And I am sorry, Jill. I know I've said that a million

times, and you're probably no more interested in hearing it now than

you were before, but it's true, nonetheless."



"No, I'm sorry," I said, leaning back against the bath pillow, feeling

very ashamed. "That was a cheap shot. It was uncalled for, and I

apologize. You came here to tell me something."



"Yes, I did," he said. He sounded disappointed.



I knew what he wanted me to say; I just wasn't sure I'd ever be able

to say it.



"I've got to go to New York," he went on. "I have to go talk to a

woman who Dana says may know where Fox is."



"Why are _you_ going?" I asked in surprise, opening my eyes again.

"Why doesn't she get someone in the FBI to go?"



"She says she can't trust them," Daniel said. "After what she's told

me, I'm not sure I do, either."



"And after you talk to this woman, then what?" I said. "Will Dana be

out of jail in time to go find him herself?"



Daniel shook his head. "She's there until Monday, at least," he said.

"If they're still asking the same questions on Monday, and she's still

refusing to answer, she'll be there indefinitely."



"So who's going to ..." I began, then stopped as I realized what the

answer was. "Danny, no," I said, quietly. "You're still not well."



He laughed at that. "You sound just like Jim," he said, shaking his

head. "Why is it that no one seems to think I'm capable of taking an

airline flight and making a few phone calls?"



"Because there may be more to it than that, and you know it," I said.

"I saw on the news about that raid in New York that Dana and Fox were

on; it scared me to death, and I'm not ... involved with either of

them. You could get hurt again, maybe even worse; if this man wanted

to kill you before, he'll want to now, too, maybe even more than he

did then."



"Jill, I've thought about that, believe me," Daniel said, very

quietly. "I'm not anxious to get shot again; it hurt like hell, and I

know better than anyone how easily it could have killed me. But this

is ..."



He stopped then, and averted his eyes. I knew why, too.



"So when are you leaving?" I asked. I didn't want him to finish that

sentence.



"Now," he said, getting up from the floor. "I just came to get a few

things. I'll leave my car here, in case you need it. I'll take a cab

to the airport."



"I won't be here," I said, without thinking. Not until I saw Daniel's

face did I realize how abrupt I'd sounded.



"You're going home?" he asked. He sounded ... I don't know, sad? Not

quite that ... but something.



"Danny, I have to," I said, more quietly. "I'm out of vacation time,

and I'm not eligible for family leave, not for this. You're not my

husband anymore."



"I know," he said. "I've asked too much of you already. You've got

your own life now."



What life, Danny? I thought. But at least this time I had the grace

not to say it out loud. "It's not that so much," I said. "There's just

not much wiggle room in my finances these days, and I'm not getting

paid for this time off. I have to get back to work."



Daniel looked at me for a long, long minute; then he crouched down

beside the tub so that he was looking at me at my eye level.



"Jill, I already owe you more than I can ever repay," he said, very

quietly. "I won't insult you by offering you money for taking care of

me, but it's there if you need it and as far as I'm concerned, you've

got a right to it. You wouldn't take it when we divorced, but you

should have. I wouldn't be where I am now without you."



Well, that was at least partly true, I supposed. I had worked double

shifts and had even passed up a couple of really good job offers in

other cities while Daniel finished med school at Harvard. When I

wasn't working, I was taking care of the housework so Daniel could

study.



In the end, what that meant was that Daniel's medical license -- or

rather, the potential income it represented -- would have been counted

among our marital assets if I had insisted.



I refused even to consider it, so adamantly that my lawyer finally

told me I was nuts. She thought I ought to take Daniel for every penny

I could get, which wouldn't have been difficult: he'd already said,

through his lawyer, that he wouldn't contest any claim I made on his

income.



"He's a surgeon, Mrs. Reilly," she kept saying. "He gets paid three

times as much as other officers of his rank. He's not going to starve

if you take what you're entitled to."



All I wanted, I told her, was for this to be over. I wanted no further

ties to Daniel of any kind, I said.



Famous last words, huh?



I shook my head. "I don't need money," I said. "And I didn't ask for

alimony because I didn't want it. You don't owe me anything, Daniel.

Really."



"You're wrong, Jill," he said. "You couldn't be more wrong."



He stood up then. "I need to get going," he said. "Before I go,

though, I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you've

done. You'll never know how much it meant to me."



I could feel my cheeks growing hot. "Don't thank me, Danny," I

mumbled. "You'd have done the same for me."



"Jill, I would do anything I could for you," Daniel said, very

quietly. "I hope you know that; and I hope, if you ever need anything

-- anything at all -- that I'm the first perrson you'll call."



I knew I couldn't promise that, so I said nothing; I just nodded.

Daniel waited; hoping, I guess, that I would say something more, but I

just closed my eyes again and sank deeper into the water.



I heard him sigh, and then the quiet sound of his footsteps as he

walked away. I waited to get out of the tub until I heard him in the

bedroom, packing his suitcase -- and as I'm sure you can imagine, I

know quite well what that sounds like. Every Navy wife does.



I stepped out of the tub, took my bathrobe from the hook behind the

door, slipped into it and tied it around me.



And then I simply stood there like an idiot, dripping on the bathroom

rug, trying in vain to remember what I had intended to do next. I

stood there, listening to the old, familiar sounds ... the opening and

closing of drawers, the rattling of clothes hangers, the rasping of

the zipper on his overnight bag, the clinking of his keys ...



His keys. He had picked up his keys.



Without thinking, I jerked the bathroom door open and ran out, down

the hall toward the front door, just as fast as I could.



"Danny," I called out, "Danny, wait."



I rounded the corner and stopped; there he stood, looking quite

startled, one hand on his suitcase and the other on the door.



"What is it, Jill?" he said, clearly confused.



"It's just ..." I began, then stopped. Why was I there? "I just

wanted..." I began again, then shook my head. "I mean, I ..."



Without another word, Daniel put down the suitcase, dropped his keys

on the coffee table, walked over toward me and took my hand, just the

way he used to when we were together.



"Tell me, sweetie," he said, quietly.



For just a moment I was almost completely disoriented; it was as

though I'd dreamed the last three years, as though Daniel was still

mine and I was his. His hand, his voice, even the way he called me

"sweetie" -- everything was so familiar that it hurt.



And I wanted to go on hurting like that forever.



I didn't know I was going to do it; if you'd asked me whether I ever

would, I'd have said no, never.



But I did. I let go of his hand and flung my arms around his neck,

pressing my lips to his cheek, holding onto him so tightly I'm

surprised he didn't choke.



His arms went around me, holding me in a grip so convulsively tight

that I knew, without being told, that I wasn't the only one whose eyes

were filling with tears.



"Promise me you'll be careful," I whispered in his ear. "Promise,

Danny. Don't let anything else happen to you."



"I won't," he whispered back, and I could feel his breath stirring the

loose strands of hair at my temple. "I promise."



I nodded, feeling the soft scratch of his late-day stubble against my

cheek; just one more touch that used to be so commonplace that I'd

scarcely noticed it.



But I had missed it, these past few years. I had missed so many

things, things that used to be part of everyday life with Daniel, whom

I had loved so much ... and loved still.



I turned my head just slightly and kissed his cheek again,

lingering for a moment, then hid my face against his shoulder, nearly

overwhelmed by the confusing jumble of emotions I was feeling.



"Jill, there's so much I want to say to you," Daniel said, still

whispering. "So many things I've wanted you to know. I'd give anything

for just a few more hours with you so I could tell you, but I can't

stay. This is ..."



There it was again: that sentence he couldn't finish, because he was

trying so hard to spare my feelings.



Maybe it was time I tried to spare his.



I took a deep breath to steady myself and leaned away from him just a

little so I could see his face.



"But this is your lover we're talking about?" I said, as gently as I

could. It did hurt to say it; yet somehow, with Daniel's arms around

me, it was bearable. "Is that what you wanted to say, Danny?"



Daniel didn't answer right away; after a minute, though, he nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I'm sorry, Jill."



"No, don't be sorry," I said, and I laid my head against his chest.

"You've spent too much time already being sorry about things that

aren't your fault."



I thought he might protest at that -- it would have been like him --

but he said nothing. I raised my head and looked up, looked into those

deep, blue-black eyes, and I knew why.



Daniel had told me a hundred times on the day he left me that he was

sorry for what he'd done, for hurting me and lying to me.



This time, he wasn't saying it ... not out loud, anyway.



Maybe that's why this time, for the first time, I really heard it.



I laid my hand over his heart; he covered my hand with his, and his

fingers closed around mine, and he leaned forward, gently resting his

forehead against mine. He started to say something, but I shook my

head.



I didn't need to hear him say it. Not with words; not now.



"Jill, I have no right to ask you this, or anything else, for that

matter," he said after a minute. "But I would give almost anything if

you would stay just a few days longer -- just until I get back,

because I really need to talk to you. I know you don't have a paycheck

coming in, but there's money in the top drawer of my desk if you need

it, and I'll leave the car here. Please say you will."



I started to tell him no, to say that I had to get back to San Diego

or risk losing my job, but I didn't. That was an excuse for leaving,

not a reason.



I wanted to leave, but I knew I needed to stay. I needed to hear what

Daniel wanted to tell me, and I needed to start healing. And God help

me, I needed to help Daniel heal, too.



"I'll stay," I said, snuggling deeper into his arms. "I'll be here

when you get back, Danny. However long it takes, I'll be here."



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



New York City

2:52 a.m.



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



As Marita Saw It



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



Someone was knocking on my door.



Who in the world could it be this time? Fox Mulder was enjoying the

hospitality of the Russian government, while his partner was a guest

of the Americans, so it couldn't be either of them; nor, for reasons I

will never disclose, could it be their supervisor.



I looked through the peephole and, without thinking, licked my lips.

Someone had dropped quite a present on my doorstep; whoever he was, he

was gorgeous.



"Who is it?" I called out.



"My name is Daniel Reilly, Miss Covarrubias," he said, not too loudly.

"I'm a friend of Fox Mulder."



Well. This was unexpected, and there weren't supposed to be any

surprises at all in this operation; I'd been assured there wouldn't

be. Obviously, I needed to find out more about Mr. Reilly and what he

wanted. I opened the door, leaving the chain on.



"What can I do for you, Mr. Reilly?" I said.



"I apologize for the intrusion, Miss Covarrubias," he said. "But no

one's heard from Fox in several days, and his partner thought you

might know where he had gone."



"I have no idea where your friend might be, Mr. Reilly," I said, as

coolly as I could. "He and I are not in communication with each

other."



"Miss Covarrubias, may I come in and explain?" he said, and I could

just barely sense the impatience behind his careful politeness. It was

the kind of self-restraint that spoke of old family, long traditions

and careful upbringing.



I added that to my list of keys to unlocking this man's secrets, and

to getting back in control of the situation.



"It's late, Mr. Reilly," I said. "I find it a bit of an imposition on

your part ..."



"I won't stay long, Miss Covarrubias, I assure you," he said. "But I

do mean to find him, and I believe -- if you'll pardon my saying so --

that you know a great deal more than you're telling me."



My inclination was to refuse, to shut the door in his face and then to

call one of the elders to find out who this person was. The only thing

that prevented me was the knowledge that, if this Daniel Reilly was

important in Fox Mulder's life -- or his partner's -- someone there

already knew of it, yet hadn't informed me.



That meant I had to find out for myself where this man fit into the

overall scheme of things, unless I wanted to suffer the nearly total

loss of influence that comes, in my world, to those whose information

is known to be second-rate.



I stepped back, closing the door just long enough to unlatch the

chain, then opened the door again.



"Come in, Mr. Reilly," I said. I gestured toward the same chair in

which Fox Mulder had taken his last innocent sleep. "Please, sit

down," I said, seating myself on the chair opposite. "What is it that

makes you believe I can help you find your friend?"



"Because Dana Scully told me that you would know," he said. "And I

trust her instincts."



"I see," I said. "Have you and Agent Scully known each other long?"



"Almost three years," he said. "Miss Covarrubias, I'm sorry, but I'm a

bit pressed for time. I need to know what you told Fox when he was

here -- and I do know that he was here. Dana gave him your address

right before he disappeared."



"Disappeared is a very strong word, Mr. Reilly," I said. His growing

impatience was all to the good; I needed him just a bit more impatient

and a bit less in control, however, if I was to learn what I sought to

learn.



"Disappeared is the appropriate word, Miss Covarrubias," he said,

quite calmly. "He's gone without a trace -- except, perhaps, for

whatever traces he left here."



A very interesting man, this Daniel Reilly; much less volatile than

Fox Mulder, and not as easily manipulated through his emotions. His

eyes were calm, revealing nothing except his ancestry, which was

unmistakably Celtic. No other people has eyes so blue they are nearly

black, eyes that change so swiftly and engagingly from joy to sadness,

from laughter to lust.



A pleasant thought, indeed. Perhaps Daniel Reilly, unlike Fox Mulder,

could be manipulated in a more carnal fashion.



"I see," I said, rising. He stood, too; quite a gentleman. How

touching ... and how rare, these days. "I can find out what you want

to know, Mr. Reilly," I continued. "I'll need to make a few telephone

calls; it could take several hours. Perhaps you'd like to lie down and

rest while you wait?"



He smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting with a soft exhalation that

might have been -- but was not -- a laugh. "Thank you, but no," he

said, quietly, almost deferentially, but his eyes met mine directly,

and his gaze was firm and unfaltering. "If you don't mind, I'll wait

here."



Yet another surprise, another rejection ... and in almost the exact

words Agent Mulder had used such a short time before. It was as though

these two men shared some impalpable connection, strong enough to keep

their minds moving in the same direction, in spite of their obvious

differences of temperament. Almost as though ...



And then I laughed. There was some humor in it, after all, and a real

lesson for me in the limitations of sex as a weapon.



"So you're the reason," I said, softly. "I can't believe I didn't know

this before."



"The reason for what, Miss Covarrubias?" he said. He honestly didn't

know what I meant; I could tell by his expression.



"The reason, Mr. Reilly, that Agent Mulder seemed so ... resistant to

suggestion when he was here," I said. "Resistant to my ...

invitation."



"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said, still with that firm,

steady gaze. This time, however his eyes betrayed him; there was

awareness there, but no fear. Admirable ... and again, so rare.



"Oh, come now," I said, still amused by my own stupidity. "You know

exactly what I mean, Mr. Reilly. I won't be so rude as to spell it out

for you ..."



"Thank you," he said, quite calmly. "I think I'd prefer it that way."



"But we both know what we're talking about," I went on, as though he

hadn't spoken. "And if nothing else, Mr. Reilly, you've restored my

sadly crushed pride in my attractiveness."



"You don't need to suffer any loss of pride, Miss Covarrubias," he

said, and strangely enough, he seemed to mean it. "You're a very

beautiful woman, and a very intelligent one. Intelligent enough, in

fact, to know that since you've admitted that he was here, you might

as well tell me what was said and where he went."



All my training, all my orders and instructions told me I should play

him along, send him in the wrong direction, feed his search on careful

disinformation ...



My instinct for survival, however, told me otherwise.



I was in a perilous position with my employers; Daniel Reilly's very

existence had been kept from me, along with the reason he was a part

of Agent Mulder's life -- a very important part, and one of which I

might have wished to make use.



That meant only one thing: I was not trusted, not taken seriously.



Very well, then. The safest course for Daniel Reilly was also the

surest path to my revenge. I would help this man find his lover; I

would tell him the truth and give him the credentials he would need to

help him on his journey.



If my employers noticed his disappearance, they would simply assume

that I had lied to him and sent him on a dead-end journey. They would

not trouble to follow him or to interfere with his travel.



This is a dangerous game that we play, one in which no one dares make

a single misstep. Never let anyone doubt, however, that the lady is an

accomplished player.



I will teach you the foolishness of keeping me in ignorance,

gentlemen.



"Very well, Mr. Reilly," I said, looking him in the eye. "I will tell

you what I told your friend; more than that, I will give you what you

will need to find him -- although you must be warned, he may not be

well when you do."



"Not well?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "In what way?"



I shook my head. "I won't tell you that, Mr. Reilly," I said. "I find

you very attractive, and your devotion to Agent Mulder admirable, but

I have no desire to risk my life in order to share that information

with you. I will tell you that when you find him, you should try to

seek medical attention for him at the first opportunity."



"That won't be a problem, Miss Covarrubias," he said, shaking his

head, his expression showing, for the first time, genuine alarm -- and

annoyance. "I'm a physician. I just need to know what kind of

preparations I should make."



"I see," I said. Yet another interesting twist to this already quite

unusual evening. "In that case, Dr. Reilly, you should prepare to do a

bit of smuggling."



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



Federal lock-up

Washington, D.C.

November 28, 1996

Thanksgiving Day



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



As Scully Saw It



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



"You know," Jim said, "I rarely eat anything that isn't powdered or

freeze-dried and this," he gestured toward his tray, "tastes like shit

even to me."



"That's your own fault for insisting on sharing my Thanksgiving

dinner," I said as I spooned up another postage-stamp-sized piece of

turkey roll. "Jail food is notoriously bad."



"Yeah, but I figured if I could eat what they serve on a submarine, I

could eat anything," Jim said, with that impish smile of his. "That's

what I get for thinking."



Poor Jim. Here he was, sitting on the edge of the cot, eating his

unappetizing Thanksgiving dinner with a spoon and trying so hard to

keep my spirits up, and I wasn't responding much at all.



Even if I couldn't respond, though, I was still grateful to have Jim

there with me -- it was a testament to the depth and power of

Skinner's connections and of his care for me, despite his outward

behavior.



What it signified about Jim's feelings toward me, I didn't know; right

now, I didn't want to know. I had other things on my mind; dark,

frightening thoughts of how much danger Mulder was in, and of how

pitifully little I had done to dissuade him from following Alex Krycek

into that danger.



But Mulder at least was a trained agent with years of field

experience. Daniel, despite his military background, would be out of

his league with people at Marita's and Krycek's level.



And I was the one who had sent him into their world ...



"Dana," Jim said, quietly, snapping me out of my daydreams.



I looked up at him, startled. "I'm sorry, Jim," I said, with what I

hoped was a gracious smile. "It's not the company, really; I just have

a lot on my mind."



"I know you do," he said, putting his hand over mine. "I'm worried,

too. I'm kicking myself pretty hard right now for backing down as fast

as I did. I should have done something more to stop him."



In spite of myself, I smiled, even as I withdrew my hand. "Great minds

think alike," I said, digging the thick, blunt-handled spoon into a

lump of dry, almost solid cornbread dressing.



"You mean you're blaming yourself, too," he said, and he let out a

heavy sigh. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.



"What could possibly be funny?" I said, puzzled.



"It's just an old family joke," Jim said, shaking his head in

amusement. "Daniel used to have this basset hound named Max -- he said

the dog's full name was Maximillian Q. Reilly, but no one knew what

the Q stood for. Anyway, whenever anything went wrong, somebody would

look at Max and say, 'Look at him -- he's blaming himself.'"



The mental image was too funny to resist, and I laughed out loud.

"Poor Max," I said. "It must have been a heavy burden for him."



"It was," Jim agreed, nodding. "But I learned something important from

Max: No matter what happens, your basset hound is always having a

worse day than you are."



I laughed again, but more softly. "I suppose it's as good a way as any

to keep one's troubles in perspective," I said. "Too bad Skinner can't

arrange for a basset hound to visit me."



"Well, I'm not a basset hound, but I'm here," Jim said, and I was

touched to see real sadness in his eyes. "I wish I could do more to

help."



"You're helping a lot just by being here," I said, and I meant it.

"Even if you're not having a worse day than I am -- or are you?"



"Well, let's see," Jim said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You're in

jail, so you're one up on me there. We're both worried about Daniel,

so we're even there, although you're also worried about Mulder, so you

win that one, too."



"Then I suppose I am having the worse day," I said, quietly. "Not a

distinction I would have chosen."



"Ah, but you're forgetting something I'm way more worried about than

you are," Jim said, with a softer smile. I knew that smile so well; it

was Daniel's smile. I wondered if Jim knew it.



I turned my eyes back toward my tray. "And what might that be?" I

said, stabbing at the rubbery pumpkin pie with my spoon.



"You," Jim said, quietly, laying one hand gently against my cheek. "I

am very, very worried about you. How long are you going to keep

quiet?"



"Forever, I suppose," I said, turning away from him. He didn't

protest, just let his hand fall back down at his side, but I could

still feel the warm imprint of his hand where he had touched me.



"So you just rot here in jail?" Jim said. He stood up, taking my tray

from me. I had given up on the pie. "Isn't there any other way to

resolve this? Can't your boss do anything?"



"No, he can't," I said, brushing the crumbs off my wrinkled skirt.

"Actually, he wants me to tell the committee where Mulder is, although

he hasn't ordered me to."



"Then maybe he doesn't really want you to," Jim said, setting the

trays down by the small sliding door at the foot of the cell door.

"It's my experience that people who _can_ give orders to get what they

want usually _do_ give them -- like, for instance, Daniel."



"I think Skinner just doesn't want to give me an order he knows I

won't obey," I said, looking over at Jim. I wondered if he knew how

exactly the blue of his sweater matched the blue of his eyes ...



"Shit, I wish I could find a way to make some officers I know think

that way," Jim said, straightening up. Then he stopped. "Was this file

here before?" he said, looking at me.



I followed his gaze. There was an FBI file folder, about a half-inch

thick, lying on the floor next to the food trays.



I shook my head. "I haven't seen that one before," I said. "Maybe it

belongs to Skinner. Could you hand it to me, please?"



Jim picked up the folder and gave it to me. I could feel the contents

slipping and shifting inside the stiff manila; it contained

photographs, then. I laid the folder on my lap and opened it

carefully.



And I stopped breathing in that instant.



There were dozens of black-and-white photos, the kind the FBI prints

for use as evidence, and every one was a photograph of Mulder ...



 ... Mulder, sitting in a bar next to a beautiful woman with long,

dark hair, porcelain-white skin and lips as dark as blood ...



 ... Mulder, holding a door for the same woman, one hand resting on

the small of her back ...



 ... Mulder, holding the woman in his arms, with something on his face

that looked like shaving cream ...



 ... and Mulder, naked, lying on a tiled floor with that same woman,

his hand on her naked breast, his mouth fastened on hers.



The pictures didn't lie. It was Mulder, and he was making love to a

woman.



Even having seen it, I still couldn't make myself believe it. Mulder,

having sex with a woman? It was ludicrous, impossible: He'd told me

years ago that he'd never even considered it, that he absolutely did

not want that at all.



For four years now I had taken Mulder's assurances as a promise,

almost -- foolish as it was -- as a vow of his fidelity to me. I had

used that promise as a balm for the constant ache of wanting him, as a

shield against the quiet, illogical but ever-present fear that it was

me, personally, that he didn't want.



Now, I had no defense against that fear: It had come true.



The photographs fell from my lap and scattered across the concrete

floor as I lunged for the toilet, vomiting up my Thanksgiving dinner

as if by doing so I could purge my mind of what I had just seen.



I was only distantly aware of Jim's hands on my head, supporting me,

holding my hair away from my face. I could hear his voice, but what he

said might as well have been Sanskrit for all I understood of it.



No, I heard nothing except the words that were pounding through my

head, mocking me, laughing at me, telling me -- in a voice roughened

and deepened by cigarette smoke -- what a fool I was to believe in

Mulder, to give up my freedom to protect him.



"Breathe, Dana," Jim said, his voice faint in my ears, although he was

kneeling right beside me. "Just stay where you are and breathe slowly.

I'll get the guard."



"No," I said, shaking my head furiously, gasping for air at the same

time. "I don't need the guard. I'm fine."



"You are not fine," Jim said, firmly, as he handed me a cup of water

from one of the lunch trays. "You're sick as a damn dog and you're

practically in shock. Here, rinse your mouth."



"I am perfectly fine," I said, as I rocked back on my heels and took

the cup from him; but my hand betrayed me, shaking the cup so hard the

water sloshed over the rim. I decided to ignore it. "It's just ... I

must have eaten too fast."



"You barely ate at all," Jim said, watching calmly as I rinsed my

mouth. I spat as quietly as I could into the toilet, and then took a

few sips of the tepid water. "Dana, I don't know what those

photographs mean," he said, "but even for a bonehead like me, it's not

hard to figure out what they mean to you, and why they would upset

you."



Involuntarily, I looked down at the photographs scattered all around

my tiny cell, and I shuddered. "Jim," I said, just above a whisper, as

I turned my head away, "would you put those where I can't see them?

Please?"



"Yes, of course," he said, quietly, pressing a paper napkin into my

hand. "Come on, wipe your face and then go lie down. You're upset, and

you need to rest."



I started to protest again, but I had no strength left for it; anyway,

he was right. I did need to lie down. Nodding, I took Jim's

outstretched hand and let him help me to my feet, then I stumbled

across the floor to the cot, trying desperately not to look at the

photographs that littered my path.



As I lay there, eyes closed, I could hear Jim moving quietly around

the room, picking up the photographs. He said nothing, and I was

grateful for that. My brain still refused to confront the problem

posed by these photographs, or to do anything except hammer away at me

with the same painful thoughts over and over.



"All right, I've got them," Jim said after a few minutes, and I felt

the mattress shifting as he sat on the edge of the cot next to me. I

opened my eyes; he had the folder in his lap, one hand laid across it

to steady it and, I suspected, to make sure it didn't open

accidentally.



"I don't know what to do with them," I mumbled. "I don't want to see

them again, but I don't know how to get them out of here, either."



"I don't know either," Jim said. "I could try to take them with me,

but they'll search me when I leave -- they always do."



I shook my head. "No," I said. "That wouldn't do. I'll just have to

leave them on the desk with the other files until I'm released."



"You know, I've been thinking about that," Jim said, thoughtfully.

"About your getting out of here, I mean. I'll bet that's why these

photographs are here."



"I know," I said, wearily, laying my forearm across my eyes to block

out the light, which suddenly seemed far too bright for comfort.

"Someone sent me those so I'd be angry at Mulder -- angry enough to

betray him to the committee. That much, I've figured out."



"That's what I'm thinking," Jim said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "which

is why there's one thing about those photographs that just baffles the

shit out of me."



"Just one thing?" I said, dubiously, moving my arm so I could look at

him. "You mean something other than the sight of a gay man making love

with a woman?"



He smiled then; not Daniel's smile, but his own. Yet to my surprise, I

found that it still had some of Daniel's calming effect on me.



"Okay, so it's more than one thing," he said. "Not to be indelicate,

Dana, but those pictures seem to consist of nothing except what most

people would call foreplay -- and not very much of that."



I winced a little at that and turned my face away from his. "I haven't

wanted to look at them that closely," I said, swallowing back tears.

"What are you suggesting?"



"That what you were given," Jim said, more gently, "is a bunch of

crap, something designed to make you believe a lie. They're

photographs of an incomplete act, and that doesn't make sense."



"Why do you think that?" I said. "I'm not disagreeing with you, but I

don't see what difference it makes."



"I'm not the investigator here," Jim said, with just a flash of his

usual devilment, "but it seems to me that if someone out there wants

to piss you off so badly that you'll turn against your own partner, it

doesn't make sense for them to censor the act itself. I think they

sent you those pictures because those are the only ones they've got."



"So what are you saying?" I said, still puzzled. "You're telling me he

didn't go through with it?"



"Maybe it's not that he didn't go through with it, but that he

couldn't," Jim said, more quietly.



"What do you mean, he couldn't?" I said. "I don't understand you,

Jim."



For just a moment, he hesitated; then, with a slight shrug, he

answered me.



"I didn't want to mention this," he said, and I could hear the genuine

apology in his voice, "but Dana, nowhere in any of those photographs

does Mulder have even the beginnings of an erection. Not even," he

said, with something more like his usual humor, "at a point where, I

can promise you, I would have had."



"Jim," I said, warningly, but at the same time, I felt an unexpected

rush of heat at the thought of Jim Reilly aroused and hard and ready

for me...



Oh, God, I did not need to entertain thoughts like that. There was no

reason for it, except that I was tired, and frightened, and this side

of Jim -- the gentle, nurturing side -- was soothing and comforting. I

was simply confusing my perfectly normal response to his tenderness

with something more ... something I couldn't let myself feel for him.



I liked this Jim Reilly, though. I liked him more than I dared admit.



With some difficulty, I forced myself back to the problem at hand. "If

he wasn't interested, then why was he with her?" I said, shaking my

head. "If he didn't want to do it, then why even try?"



"That, I can't tell you," Jim said. "I think this is where I step back

and let the FBI take over. Although," he added, with a thoughtful

expression, "there was one other thing that seemed out of character."



"What?" I said, puzzled.



"Well," Jim began, then stopped, as if unsure. "I just ... well,

Mulder's Jewish, isn't he?"



"Non-practicing, but yes, he is," I said. "Why does that matter?"



"Because in those photographs, he's wearing a cross," Jim said, then

shrugged. "I don't know. It probably doesn't mean anything, but it is

a damned unusual ornament for a Jew, even one who's not very

religious."



"A cross?" I said, wonderingly. "What kind of cross?"



"A very small one, golden, on a thin chain," Jim said. "In fact, it

looked a lot like the one you usually wear."



Without thinking, I reached for the cross at my neck but my fingers

found only skin. Of course: My cross was in the property room, locked

up with my other valuables. I hated not having it; I almost never

voluntarily leave it off. Mulder knew that, too; that's why he guarded

it so carefully when ...



And that was when I realized the meaning of what Jim had seen: Mulder

had my cross. He not only had it, he was wearing it around his neck,

and there was only one time in our entire partnership when that could

have happened.



Quickly, I sat up, putting my feet on the floor; I was trying not to

hope too much, but my heart was pounding. "Jim, I need a favor," I

said.



"Whatever I can do, you know I will," he said, with a simplicity that

warmed my heart. "What do you need?"



"When you leave here, I need you to call the FBI and ask for Holly in

records," I said. "She should be there; she usually works Thanksgiving

so she can take off to shop the day after. If she's there, tell her

you're a friend of mine and that you need to speak to A.D. Skinner.

She'll connect you to his apartment. He has a direct line from the

Hoover, and it's the only phone he's likely to answer on a holiday."



"And when I have him on the phone, what do I tell him?" Jim asked,

looking more interested than puzzled.



"Tell him I need copies of any X files Mulder investigated while I

was missing," I said, then stopped as I saw the surprise in Jim's

eyes.



"You were missing?" he said. "When? What happened?"



I shook my head. "I can't tell you that right now," I said. "Someday,

maybe; but for now, I just need to know what Mulder was doing during

that time. Tell Skinner it's extremely urgent. Can you do that for me,

Jim?"



"I'll leave now," he said, rising from the cot. "But if I leave, I

won't be able to get back in here until tomorrow; is there anything

else you need?"



"No," I said, then stopped. "Well ... a prayer or two, I think, if you

haven't given up on it."



"It's been a while since I made it to Sunday Mass, but I think I can

come up with one," Jim said, smiling that smile that was so achingly

like Daniel's ... and yet so thoroughly different.



He set the file down on the small desk, then walked to the cell door

and knocked briskly. I heard the footsteps of the guard as she

approached.



"There is one thing you should know, though, before I start praying,"

Jim said as the door opened and the guard stood back to let him

through.



"And what might that be, Jim?" I asked, softly.



"I'm not promising you that I won't pray for my own nefarious wishes

to be granted," he said, in a low, conspiratorial tone. With that, he

stepped through the door, and I heard the cold sound of the door

closing and the key turning in the lock.



For a moment I just sat there, listening to his footsteps and those of

the guard retreating down the hallway; another door slammed, and I was

alone again.



"No promises from me, either, Jim Reilly," I whispered to the silent

air. "None at all."



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



I need to stay awake. Why the fuck can't I stay awake? I keep going

back to sleep and having nightmares.



At least, I think they're nightmares. They may be real.



When they happen, I can feel things crawling under my skin.



God, I hurt everywhere, and I'm soaked to the skin and cold ...



I want to get up and move but I don't know where they are.



If they find me, they may not kill me, but I will try my best to make

them. Anything's better than going back to Tunguska gulag, back to the

tests and the torture ... death is better than that kind of life ...



If I move suddenly, they may see me and kill me.



But what if they don't?



What was it the geologist said? Something about the persistence of

life ... survival beyond all reason.



But he gave me the knife. He must have known that it could be a

suicide mission for me to attack Krycek or anyone else with it ... but

he gave me the knife.



If my head and my shoulders and my back would stop hurting, if my skin

would stop stinging ... I could think ... i really need to ... think

...



wonder where scully is ... does she know where i am ... i'd be safe

... daniel ... if daniel were here ... but krycek ... where ... i

think that might be more ... these leaves feel like gravecloth ... if

i sleep for a while and things don't crawl like the things that crawl

i mean the things that crawled into my brain ...



don't move



they will have to kill me ...



isn't it wonderful ...



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



Federal lock-up

Washington, D.C.

November 29, 1996



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



As Scully Saw It



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



Variola virus.



There I sat in jail, less than halfway through the long holiday

weekend, worried sick about Mulder and Daniel, confused to the depths

of my soul by Jim Reilly, and all I was doing was reading the

fascinating story of variola virus as if I hadn't a care in the world.



Under other circumstances, I might have found it interesting reading,

but not now. I was reading the monograph only because I had to do

something or go insane, and as a result, I wasn't comprehending it

very well. All I could think about was Mulder and that woman and those

pictures and why in the world Skinner was taking so long to get me

those files.



I was very nearly at the end of my rope when Skinner came in. He had

a few questions for me before he handed any files over -- such as why

I was protecting Mulder.



I tried to explain, to make him understand what I believed was

happening and why I thought the committee was so fixated on finding

out where Mulder was, but I'm reasonably certain none of that got

through to him.



"These are congressmen we're talking about, Agent Scully," he said, as

though he thought that fact might have escaped my notice somehow.



"I know that, sir," I said, as calmly as I could. "And it is my

natural inclination to believe that they are acting in the best

interest of the truth ... but I am not inclined to follow my own

judgment in this case."



"You're going to follow Agent Mulder's?" Skinner said, sounding just a

bit incredulous. "Is that it?"



I didn't answer him; I don't suppose I needed to. He shook his head in

annoyance, then reached under his coat and drew out a folder that bore

the familiar stamp of an X file.



"Lieutenant Reilly said you wanted me to find out what X files Mulder

investigated during the time you were missing," he said, holding the

file out to me. "There was only one; the department was closed until

shortly before your return."



"I'm aware of that, sir," I said, fighting to keep my voice level. "I

think, however, that the X file you have in your hand may unlock some

of the mystery with which I am now faced."



Judging by his facial expression, Skinner was anything but convinced;

still, he gave me the file. "If you need further materials for your

investigation, tell the guards," he said. "The director has arranged

for you to get whatever you need so this situation can be resolved

quickly and without further embarrassment to the Bureau."



"I understand, sir," I said, and I did. Skinner was telling me that my

career was on the line. I was taking a huge risk for Mulder; whether

that risk was justified, I didn't know, but I knew that at least some

of the answer was in the file Skinner had brought.



"Very well, Agent Scully," he said, a bit gruffly. "I'll see you

Monday when the committee reconvenes, at which time I hope you will

have something better to offer the senators than a speech on your

medical education."



"As do I, sir," I said.



He left, and for a moment I simply sat there, looking at the folder,

hoping and praying that I had assessed the evidence correctly.



I took a deep breath, opened the file and began to read about the

bizarre life and death of the Unholy Trinity and the woman known as

Kristen Kilar.



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



Tunguska

6 a.m. EST



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



As Daniel Saw It



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



Find the truck driver, she said. He'll lead you to your friend.



As directions go, that one was right up there with "you can't miss

it."



I found a truck, if not a driver. The truck was overturned, wrecked

and riddled with bullet holes. There was blood on the glass, on the

interior and on the outside of the doors. I hoped that meant that

whoever was in that truck when it rolled over was still among the

living and capable of being found -- and questioned.



That was a joke: Daniel Reilly trying to interrogate someone who, in

all probability, spoke about as much English as I did Russian. I'm not

used to asking people anything more piercing than if there's a history

of osteoporosis in their family or how they managed to break a leg

playing badminton.



I couldn't help wondering if I was anywhere near where Fox was, or if

I had been set up and was going to disappear just as he had. There was

every possibility that Marita Covarrubias had sent me on a wild goose

chase. Or a wild fox chase.



God, he'd have killed me if he'd heard me making bad puns about his

name. He says he got enough of that in elementary school.



I had slept on the ground the night before, and I was sore as hell but

I kept going as long as I could, following the trail, watching for

footprints in the damp soil, blood drops here and there, any signs

that someone who was injured had passed that way.



All those skills I learned when I was a Boy Scout were finally going

to be of some use.



And speaking of things you got enough of in grade school, no stupid

Boy Scout circle-jerk jokes either, please. In my case, they're all

too painfully true.



The long, difficult walk was taking its toll on me, and I had to sit

down again and rest. The sun was high, but it was still chilly and I

just didn't have the stamina to keep going. I dropped my backpack on

the ground, flopped down onto a pile of leaves and closed my eyes,

waiting for sleep to overtake me again ...



I was so exhausted, dreaming so deeply, that at first I didn't realize

that what I was hearing wasn't part of my dreams. It was a whiny

grating, metallic kind of sound that rose and fell in pitch like an

old-fashioned siren.



I used to hear that sound in overseas medical clinics where they never

heard of disposable scalpels. It was the sound of someone sharpening a

knife.



And that was when I awoke to the unpleasant realization that I wasn't

alone in Tunguska forest.



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



The truck driver's home

Tunguska



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



I was in someone's house. That much was clear.



It's just that I couldn't begin to remember how I got there.



One minute, I was asleep in a pile of leaves; the next, I was

sprawling across a hard floor listening to a man -- the truck driver

from Tunguska gulag -- arguing in Russian with a woman, who I decided

must be his wife. The only word I caught was "son of a bitch."



I was pretty sure that referred to me.



After a brief, snarling exchange with the woman, the truck driver

stalked off, slamming the door behind him. The woman was instantly

calmer, bringing me a hot drink and checking to see how badly I was

hurt. She said something to me, but my Russian vocabulary consists of

about six words, none of which is considered polite.



"No Russian," I said.



"American?" she said in a thick accent.



"Tell your husband I'm sorry about his truck," I said, thinking that

was the reason for his anger.



She wasn't listening. She was looking at my arm. "The test?" she

asked, clearly upset.



"Yeah," I said.



She sighed heavily, shaking her head. "They kill everybody for the

test," she said.



They didn't kill Krycek, I thought bitterly. Or the truck driver, now

that I thought of it. "Why don't they kill you?" I asked her.



"My husband makes deliveries," she said, and I could hear the despair

in her voice. "They spare our lives. But now ... no truck ... he is

afraid."



Pissed as hell was more like it, I thought. Time to get moving before

he comes back. "Well," I said, "I have to go now."



"No," she said, emphatically. Obviously she didn't understand.



I tried to explain. "They'll come looking for me," I said. "They'll

come looking for you."



"No," she said. "There are other ways."



Other ways? What the hell did that mean?



"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, puzzled. "What other

ways?"



She didn't answer me. "Grisha!" she called out, and a young boy

entered the room -- a young boy with no left arm.



"No arm, no test," she said, as though it were all quite simple.



Not to me, it wasn't. I had no fucking idea what she was getting at.



"You don't understand," I said. "These tests ... the smallpox scar on

your arm is some kind of identification. You have to help me escape.

I'll help you escape. You have to help me get to St. Petersburg."



Just then, I heard a sound at the door and turned around quickly. It

was the driver, standing in the doorway, holding a large knife.



Suddenly it was all very clear: No arm, no test.



And no doctor, no anesthesia, either.



No fucking way, buddy. Maybe I can't beat you in a halfway fair fight

in the shape I'm in, but a fight is what you're getting, nevertheless.

I stood up, shaking my head.



He just stared at me, raised the knife and gestured for me to follow

him outside.



And then he froze. Someone was standing behind him; I could hear the

clicking sound of a gun being cocked, and I knew it must be one of the

guards from the gulag come to find me and take me back.



"Put the knife down," the man said, stepping into the light. I saw his

face and I nearly wept with relief.



Somehow, against all hope, it was Daniel.



And at last, I was safe.



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



The rest of what happened in that house that night is hazy in my

memory. I remember a long conversation in which -- aided by Mrs. Truck

Driver's translation -- Daniel managed to persuade Mr. Driver that he

could undo the damage caused by the tests without an amputation.



He argued his case pretty well, too, considering he had absolutely no

idea what tests they were talking about.



Finally, they agreed to let Daniel tend to my injuries -- but in their

barn. There was no way the driver was going to let me stay in his

house and risk my being found there. After my stay in Tunguska gulag,

I understood his reluctance, believe me.



All through the negotiations I sat there staring at Daniel, still

scarcely able to believe he was really there. He looked tired as hell,

almost too tired to stand, but he did stand: he stood very close to

me, keeping himself between me and the driver, although he didn't

touch me or even speak to me directly while we were in the house.



He did put one arm around me as he helped me out to the barn, though.

Mrs. Driver helped him get me up in the hayloft; she spread a blanket

across the hay, and I collapsed onto it. My legs just wouldn't hold me

up another second.



I heard a heavy thud as Daniel dropped his backpack, and I opened my

eyes. Mrs. Driver was still there, nervously holding a lantern; Daniel

was kneeling beside me, taking a stethoscope out of his backpack and

putting it around his neck.



"Just exactly what the hell did you think you were doing, running off

to Russia without telling anyone?" he said as he wrapped a blood-

pressure cuff around my arm, but I heard a slight quiver in his voice

that told me just how worried he'd really been.



"Sorry, Mom," I said, trying to smile. "I forgot it was a school

night."



That remark didn't get the laugh I was hoping for, but that didn't

worry me. Daniel's a different person when he's being a doctor: He's

dead serious, entirely focused, almost to the point of being

impersonal. It's a side of him I don't often see, but I'm in awe of

him when I do.



He took the cuff off, did the whole "follow my finger" routine,

shining the penlight in my eyes, which I just fucking hate -- I don't

tolerate bright lights well -- then he and Mrs. Driver helped me sit

up, and Daniel unbuttoned my shirt and put the stethoscope to my

chest.



That was when he saw the whip marks.



"Jesus Christ, Fox, who did this to you?" he said, looking down at me

with eyes that were both angry and horrified.



I shook my head. "Let me tell you later," I said in a near-whisper.

"I'm not ready to go back there yet."



"Are you going to tell me about these 'tests' later, too?" he said, as

he poured some kind of liquid onto a gauze pad and started dabbing it

on the welts. It stung a little, but Daniel's touch was soothing, and

I didn't mind the pain.



"Much later," I said, turning so he could work on my left side. "Much,

much later."



Daniel nodded. "Later, then," he said, in that quiet voice. He still

sounded a little shaky, but his hands were steady as he continued to

examine and treat my wounds.



"How the hell did you get all that stuff into Russia?" I said,

flinching a little as he gave me an injection of tetanus anti-toxin

and another of an antibiotic. "In fact, now that I think of it, how

did you manage to get a gun past airport security?"



He shook his head. "Let me tell you later," he said, as he started

bandaging the worst of the wounds. "Much later."



"Okay," I said, and I think I actually managed a smile. "Much later,

then."



After applying a few more bandages and giving me a couple of Tylenol,

Daniel was finished. He sat back and sighed heavily, then turned to

Mrs. Driver, who was, if anything, more nervous than she'd been

before. A little more negotiating, and she agreed that we could stay

in the hayloft until dawn, after which we needed to be on our way.



Couldn't argue with that.



Daniel thanked her; she left, and I lay back down on the blanket.



"So am I going to live?" I asked, trying to sound casual, although I

sure as shit didn't feel that way. The truth is, I was worried as hell

about those tests and what they had done to me, but I had no idea how

to describe any of it to Daniel. He probably couldn't do anything

about it anyway, so what would be the point of worrying him?



"In spite of your best efforts not to, yes, I think you are," Daniel

said, quietly, shaking his head. Then, thank God, he smiled and moved

closer to me. "You are one stupid son of a bitch, Fox," he said, as he

lay down beside me. "Are you aware of that?"



"Painfully," I said, just as his lips met mine.



Two seconds later, I was fumbling desperately at his zipper.



God, I wanted him so badly that night. I wanted his strength and his

gentleness, wanted the slow slide of his hands over my skin, the warm

movement of his tongue against mine, the hard thrusts of our joining

together, the safety of his arms as he told me with his body that, to

him, I was well worth crossing an ocean to find.



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



I awoke only once during the night, roused from sleep by a terrible,

animal cry of pain that echoed through the forest. I lifted my head,

searching for the source of the sound, but the trees muffled and

reflected the sound so thoroughly that it was impossible to tell.



I lay down and wrapped my arms around Daniel, and I slept again.



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



We were out of the barn and on the road toward Norilsk before the sun

was up. We had to move slowly and quietly, in case there were any

guards around, and it was a real toss-up as to which of us was closer

to exhaustion, but we managed to make good headway for most of the

morning.



Around noon, we stopped to eat and then rest for a while beside a

brook which, besides providing water, provided enough cover noise so

that we could finally exchange "How I Got to Russia" stories. Daniel

leaned up against a tree and I, indulging myself in the rare freedom

of being unknown and unseen, sat between his legs and leaned against

him, and he put his arms around me.



Daniel told me about Scully and the committee, which upset me pretty

badly, although I did my damnedest not to let it show. But I couldn't

help it; I knew that Scully was in jail only because of her loyalty to

me, even though I'd been such a total asshole about Ratboy.



Maybe someday I'll learn to listen to her ...



Yeah, right. Somebody call Hell and see if it's frozen over. Anyway,

Scully's not always right; she's just always careful, and methodical,

and loyal, and committed to the journey ... and to me ... and ...

Shit. Whoever had locked her up had better run when he saw me coming.



Daniel tried to reassure me, told me that Jim was looking in on her,

thanks to Skinner's awesome bureaucratic pull, but that only made me

feel worse, knowing that another man was bringing her the comfort I

wanted so badly to give her.



I've always known that some man is going to take her away from me some

day. I just keep telling myself it's not yet, not yet ...



I tried to get my mind back on course by asking Daniel how he got to

Tunguska in the first place, but there he became strangely quiet. It

took a good bit of prompting to get him to tell me about Marita and

how she'd helped him get to Russia with a backpack full of medical

supplies, food and -- let us not forget -- a gun and about 100 rounds

of ammunition.



I found out why he was so reluctant when he told me, rather nervously,

that she seemed to have guessed at the true nature of our

relationship.



That was worrisome, all right, although not necessarily where Marita

herself was concerned; if she was willing to help Daniel, then it

seemed she was still a fairly reliable ally. I did wonder for a moment

if discovering I was gay was going to lessen her enthusiasm for

helping me in the future, but at this point, that question was largely

academic; the real problem facing us was getting back to the States.



While we were resting, I got the gun from Daniel's backpack, loaded

and unloaded it a few times and dry-fired it twice. It was a model I'd

never fired before, and I didn't want any unpleasant surprises if I

had to use it.



"Is this your gun or Marita's?" I asked him as I reloaded the clip and

chambered one round.



"Hers, of course," Daniel said, running his hand slowly through my

hair. He likes to do that, and I like it when he does, although just

now it was a little distracting ... but what the hell.



"Why 'of course'?" I asked, twisting my head to look up at him.



"Because I don't own a gun, G-man," Daniel said. "I haven't fired one

since I left college, and I don't intend to now if I can help it."



"You sure looked like you were going to fire it when you came through

that door," I said, giving him a quick kiss before turning back to my

impromptu weapons-familiarization course. "But given that we've only

got one gun, I don't think you'll be called upon to fire this one

anytime soon."



"You'd better hope not," Daniel said, with a quiet laugh. "I'm a lousy

shot."



"That's all right," I said, shifting to one side and putting the gun

in the waistband of my pants. "I'm a lousy surgeon."



"I'll do my best to make sure you never have the opportunity to prove

that," Daniel said.



I was just opening my mouth to answer him, but something stopped me;

some noise, or vibration, maybe, that said someone was nearby. From

the look in Daniel's eyes, he'd felt it, too.



"What the hell was that?" he said, lowering his voice.



"I don't know, but I'm not waiting here to find out," I said, getting

slowly to my feet. "Get your gear and let's take cover."



Daniel grabbed his pack, and I reached down to help him up. Just as he

got to his feet, I saw a movement in the trees to the north of us, and

I knew what it was I'd felt.



Horses. Horses running at a pretty good gallop, by the looks of

things.



I grabbed Daniel around the waist and practically threw him into the

brush nearby. I reached behind me for the gun; from the corner of my

eye, I could see the alarm in Daniel's face, but he didn't move or

make a noise. That Navy training of his comes in handy sometimes.



As they approached, I could see that there were two riders. They

reined their horses to a halt alongside the stream and when I saw

their faces, I thought I was going to pass out.



They were guards from Tunguska gulag, and there was little question

that they were searching for someone. I was pretty sure that someone

was me.



We might have been able to elude them with a bit more warning, but

that goddamn stream had made so much noise that I hadn't heard them

until they were right on us. Christ, what a fucking idiot I am.



I didn't recognize one of them -- a short guy with long hair -- but

the other guy was the one who'd always seemed to be in charge: the

bald guy with the glasses, the one whose cigarette Krycek had so

thoughtfully lit, the one who'd injected me full of God only knows

what.



You've heard of the taste of fear? It's metallic, and very, very

strong. Just then, my mouth was full of it.



Scared or not, I was not going to fall into that motherfucker's hands

again, and I sure as shit wasn't going to let him get hold of Daniel.



But we were in a bad position: There was no hope of getting away from

them, and almost no hope that they wouldn't spot us; the foliage

around us wasn't very thick, and we were partly exposed. They would

see us, soon, and we were dead men when they did -- or worse, test

subjects for the Russian consortium.



I would only get one free shot; as soon as the gun went off, whichever

guy I didn't shoot would be coming after me.



At least I'd had the good sense to chamber a round before I put the

gun away. That would help maintain the element of surprise long enough

for me to take that first shot.



As slowly and quietly as I could, I drew the gun and took aim.



The first bullet hit the short guy square in the chest. He was dead

before he hit the ground. But my cover was blown now, and the

advantage of surprise was gone, too.



Baldy whirled his horse around and headed straight for the spot where

Daniel and I were hiding, pulling his bullwhip out as he approached.

He was a moving target, and one that I wouldn't get a second chance

at.



There was no time to aim. I pointed the barrel in his direction and

pulled the trigger.



The bullet struck him in the upper abdomen. The injury itself wasn't

so bad, but the shock of the bullet made him lose his grip on the

reins and slide sideways from the saddle. He landed on the ground with

a loud thud and lay there groaning in pain.



Good enough, I thought, and I reached for Daniel to help him up.



I should have realized that Daniel wasn't just sitting there passively

waiting for me. When I turned around, he was already on his feet,

reaching for his backpack. He was as white as milk, and his eyes were

wide with shock -- but he was heading toward the guard.



I grabbed him by his belt and hauled him down, none too gently.

"Daniel, what the hell are you doing?" I stage-whispered. "We've got

no time for this. If someone heard those shots, we're dead."



"If I don't help that guy, he's dead," Daniel said, flatly, and his

eyes were steely. "You expect me to run off and leave him there?"



"Goddamn right I do," I said, still whispering. "Daniel, these guys

have been traveling in a pack. There'll be two more of them here in a

minute or maybe less to see what's happening."



"Fox, I'm a physician," Daniel said, and I could tell he was getting

angry. "I can't just walk away from him."



"You're also a Navy officer, and this is a battlefield," I said,

sharply. "It's him or us, and I have no intention of letting it be

us."



Daniel hesitated for just one split second, then nodded. "All right,"

he said; rather calmly, in fact, which surprised the shit out of me.

Somehow, I'd happened upon an argument strong enough to persuade

Daniel Reilly not to be a doctor. Unbelievable.



There was no time for self-congratulation, though. I could hear the

sound of more hoofbeats approaching, and while I'm no Lone Ranger, I

was pretty sure there was more than one horse.



"Let's get the fuck out of here," I said. I grabbed Daniel's pack with

one hand, his arm with the other, and we ran headlong into the cover

of the trees.



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



Federal lockup



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



As Scully Saw It



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



My eyes were burning and my head aching furiously by the time I

finished reading through all Mulder's various notes, test results,

arrest records and all the other minutiae in the Kilar file.



Mulder was almost certainly correct in his assertion that the one they

called "The Son" was suffering from congenital erythropoietic

porphyria. Mulder was also unquestionably on the right track in making

a connection to the murders committed in other states. What little I

know about serial murder, I have learned from Mulder, but even I could

recognize a clear pattern to these killings.



None of that was what I was looking for, however.



The real key was at the end of the file, in one short note, written on

a small sheet of lined paper in Mulder's characteristic scrawl.



"Question: Anyone ever survive going home with KK? Doesn't seem so.

Attraction fatal to several men."



The rest of the page was filled with phone numbers and names of

various LAPD personnel, families of victims, and so forth. At the

bottom of the page, however, there was another note, written in ink

that faded in and out, the way it does when the pen is running out of

ink.



"S. King asks do the dead love?" it said. "Only one way to know ... go

back to Kilar's house ... death is either an end or a beginning ...

maybe Scully will be th ..."



The letters faded into nothingness.



I watched, almost calmly, as a tear dripped from my cheek and landed

on the paper, obliterating the last, incomplete word. It didn't

matter. The paper had done its work, as I had done mine.



I had the answer to my question now; to mine, and to Mulder's.



Yes, Mulder: The dead do love.



And so do the living.



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



Tunguska forest



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



As Daniel Saw It



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



We hadn't gone very far before we found him.



I was still pretty shaken up by having watched as Fox shot and, from

what I could tell, killed two people. I was even more shaken by the

fact that I'd gotten up and walked away from an injured man who needed

medical help if he was to survive. I'd never done that before; I

couldn't even have imagined doing that before.



Fox had been right: it was a battlefield, and the only thing that

would have changed if I had stayed was that there'd have been four

casualties instead of just two.



But that's not why I left.



It was that bullwhip.



This guy, or someone like him, had taken that whip to my lover, had

beaten him so severely that I was pretty sure he'd bear the scars for

the rest of his days.



That's the only reason I let Fox persuade me. I just told myself it

was a unique situation, it was over and I'd never have to face it

again.



I soon found out just what a rotten prognosticator I am. We'd been

running, more or less toward St. Petersburg, for about an hour, and

Fox was getting slightly cyanotic and dyspneic, and ...



Sorry. Doctor jargon. His skin was a little gray and he was having

trouble catching his breath.



Anyway, we found a moderately usable path through the woods, hidden

from the main road by thick foliage, and we'd been walking slowly down

the path toward a small clearing.



Fox all but collapsed when we got to the edge of the clearing, but I

kept going. I'd heard a noise, and it wasn't hoofbeats this time; it

was the sound of a human being in terrible pain. I've heard that sound

way more times than I care to remember; orthopedic injuries tend to be

extremely painful. There was someone in those woods who needed my

help, and I was not going to abandon an injured person for the second

time in one morning.



And then I saw who it was.



I'm not proud of it, but I was so close to turning around and

walking away; that is, I was until I saw why he was crying out that

way: He'd suffered a traumatic amputation of the left arm.



It was about as bad an injury as I've ever seen, and I've seen some

bad ones, believe me. Someone had tried to cauterize the wound, using

coals or a poker or God only knows what, but it hadn't done any good.

The stump was still bleeding despite burns that could best be

characterized as fifth degree -- all the way to the bone.



It wasn't just bleeding, either; it was bleeding in regular spurts,

which meant there was at least one arterial vessel hemorrhaging. The

wound was at least 12 hours old from the looks of it, so the artery

had to have reopened recently. He'd be dead if he'd bled like that all

day.



And he wasn't out of the woods yet, either literally or figuratively.

The color of his skin, his rapid respirations, the sheen of sweat on

his face all told me that he was in mild shock already, and it was

deepening. He would die if I didn't help him.



No matter how much I hated him, I couldn't bring myself to do that.

Not again.



I dropped my backpack on the ground and knelt beside him.



When he heard the noise, he stopped moaning and looked up at me with

eyes that barely focused. He said something in Russian -- a plea for

help, I suppose.



"I don't speak Russian, Mr. Krycek," I said, and I saw the recognition

growing in his eyes as I took out an ABD pad and began applying

pressure to the wound.



"You know me?" he said in that croaking voice that speaks of

dehydration and exposure to the elements. I'm familiar with that, too.



"Don't try to play games," I said, as calmly as I could, although I

sure didn't feel calm. "You know who I am, and you know who I'm here

with and why, so just shut up if you want me to help you."



Oddly enough, that made him angry. "Why the fuck would I trust you to

help me, Dr. Reilly?" he said, still grimacing in pain. "If you know

who I am, then I've got every reason on earth not to trust you."



"You've got one really good reason," I said. I taped the dressing down

as tightly as I could, wrapping it tightly around the circumference of

the stump. When I was sure the bleeding had stopped, I got out my

stethoscope and pressure cuff. "I'm the only doctor you've got, and if

you don't get treatment for this pretty damn quick, you're not very

likely to survive. You've got nothing to lose by trusting me."



For just a moment, he seemed to be considering it, but then he closed

his eyes and nodded.



I checked his vital signs as quickly as I could; his blood pressure

was low, so I gave him a vasopressor and started an IV. I only had one

liter of normal saline with me, which wasn't much for a man who'd bled

as much as Krycek had, but it was all I had, so it would just have to

do. I hung the bag from a low-hanging branch nearby and turned my

attention to the wound itself.



I was so intent on my work that I didn't realize Fox had followed me

until I saw the look of terror on Krycek's face. I turned to see what

was wrong, and there was Fox, with a gun aimed right at Krycek's head.



"Move away from him, Daniel," he said, quietly.



"Not this time," I said, reaching into my pack for some Betadine. "If

you want to arrest him, you can arrest him after I'm finished."



"I have no intention of arresting him," Fox said, still very quietly.



"Then just go sit your ass back down," I snapped. "There's been enough

killing for one day, don't you think?"



"You don't know who this fucker is," Fox said, not lowering the gun by

a millimeter. "I do -- and I'm telling you to move out of my way."



"That's not going to happen," I said. "I'm through being an officer

for today, Fox. For now, I'm a doctor. So either help me or get the

hell out of my way."



To be honest, I was getting pretty scared. I'd always known Fox had

another side; I mean, I knew he could kill someone if he had to, but

knowing it and seeing it are two different things. I wasn't entirely

sure what he would do now.



Well -- let me modify that a little. Whatever happened, I knew I was

safe. Fox would end his own life before he'd hurt me. But Alex Krycek

was my patient now, for good or for ill, and I wasn't one bit sure

what Fox might do to him. He was still holding the gun, still aiming

for Krycek's head, but clearly, he wasn't going to fire as long as I

was in the way, and I damn sure wasn't moving. Instead, I started

tying off the artery as though Fox wasn't even there.



I had him figured right. He lowered the gun, but he cast a resentful

look my way.



"You don't know this guy, Daniel," he said, shaking his head. "You

don't know how many people he's killed, or how many lies he's told.

I'm going to have to kill him someday, if only to keep him from

killing me, so it might as well be now."



Krycek looked up at Fox then. He was in less pain than he had been,

but in spite of the drugs I'd given him, he was still very much awake;

his eyes radiated pure hatred, but he said nothing.



And then he looked at me, and I saw something else.



He was afraid; afraid for his very life. He was waiting for me to tell

Fox what I knew about him. He knew he was a dead man if I did.



That wasn't going to happen. For my own self-respect, I had to take

care of him, even if he was the lowest form of life on earth. If I

didn't, I'd never be able to look at myself in the mirror again.



"That may be, Fox," I said. "But he's in no shape to hurt either of us

just now, so put the gun away and give me a hand here."



For a minute I thought he might refuse, but I had underestimated him.

He shrugged and put the gun in the waistband of his pants, then knelt

down beside me.



"This is a mistake, Daniel," he said.



"Maybe," I said. "But it's my mistake to make. Now, open one of those

4-by-4 gauze pads and give it to me. Don't touch anything but the

outside of the wrapper."



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



It was late afternoon when I finished my meatball surgery, but the sun

was already sinking low. Dark comes early in that part of the world in

winter.



I wanted to build a fire, but we couldn't risk that: Someone might

have seen it. I had a Mylar survival blanket in my pack, and I wrapped

it around Krycek as closely as I could to keep him warm. His vital

signs had stabilized, and he wasn't showing any signs of infection

yet, although it was virtually certain that he would at some point.

That wound was just too dirty not to get infected.



But the night was coming on, and there were riders all around; I could

almost hear the hoofbeats in the distance. There was no way to get

Krycek to a hospital that night; he would just have to take his

chances with me until morning.



After checking once more to be sure my patient was stable and

comfortable, I felt my way slowly back to the clearing, where I found

Fox sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, looking up at the moonlit

sky.



He didn't move or make a sound as I approached him, but he knew I was

there; I know him well enough to know that. He just didn't want to

talk to me.



I didn't really blame him. He was angry at me for protecting Krycek,

and he had a right to be, I suppose. I couldn't help wondering what

he'd do if he knew everything I knew about Alex Krycek.



But then, I had a strong suspicion that Fox knew plenty about Krycek

that he hadn't told me, either. And I was reasonably certain that I

knew what it was.



Right at that moment, though, I didn't care what Fox knew or whether

he wanted me there or not. I was damn near exhausted and I didn't feel

like playing Mom to his sulking toddler, even if he was entirely

justified in his feelings.



"He's asleep," I said, as I sat down.



Fox looked up at me, but then he looked away again, slowly, as though

he simply wasn't interested in where I sat or what I said. He scooted

down, though, as if to make room for me next to him.



"You don't feel like talking?" I said, as if I didn't know.



"Not really," he said. He still wasn't looking at me.



"Then I guess I'll go sit somewhere else," I said, getting up, but

then Fox grabbed my hand.



"What did Krycek say to you about me?" he said.



I shook my head. "If he said anything at all while he was that heavily

medicated, I wouldn't tell you," I said as I sat back down. "That

falls under doctor-patient privilege."



"Which means he didn't say anything," Fox said, flatly, dropping my

hand. Sometimes I forget how good he is at reading between the lines.

I guess that comes from a long and rather strange career in law

enforcement.



"I'm not saying either way," I said, mostly for form's sake. I mean, I

have to at least pretend I'm an ethical physician, don't I?



"He didn't," Fox said. Then, at last, he turned to look at me. "You

don't know who you're protecting, Daniel. Krycek's a murderer, a liar

and probably a traitor," he said, and then he grimaced. "Not that I

didn't know that already; I did. I just let myself forget it and

follow him here because I thought he would lead me to some answers

I've been looking for."



"And did he?" I said.



Fox shook his head. "You were right, Daniel," he said. "So was Scully.

Krycek set me up."



"That's not the only reason you want to kill him," I said. "There's

something else you're still not telling me."



Fox nodded, almost imperceptibly. So there _had_ been something

between them. I guess my gaydar's better than it used to be.



But then, Fox's everything-radar is a thousand times better than mine.



"You already know what it is," he said, his voice carefully casual.

But he wasn't as calm as he pretended. He just didn't want to say it

aloud.



"Maybe I do," I said. "But if you two had a thing in the past, I think

I'm pretty safe in saying that it's over now. If it's not, you've got

the best damn cover story I've ever seen."



He smiled at that, but he didn't really seem any happier. "It wasn't

anything special," he said. "He was just a trick."



"How long ago?" I said, and I was surprised to hear how thick my voice

sounded. Why did it bother me? There's not a gay man alive who hasn't

indulged in a quick one-night stand now and then -- hell, a 15-minute

stand -- and yes, that includes me, but not since I've been with Fox.



He did laugh then, but it was a bitter laugh. "It was right before I

met you," he said. "Right after Scully was taken. Alex was involved in

taking her. Obviously, I didn't know that when I went to bed with

him."



That explained a lot, all right. Dana's the only person on earth who

can lay claim to as much of Fox's heart as I do. Sometimes, I think

she has more of him than I do, although I know she doesn't think so.



Whatever Fox thinks about the balance of our little triangle, he keeps

to himself.



"So how did you find out he was involved?" I said after a pause. I was

beginning to find this discussion very difficult. Fox noticed it, too.

He notices everything.



"Daniel, he never meant a damn thing to me," he said. "Not even then.

I just wanted to de-stress a little, forget about how badly I'd fucked

things up. We didn't even talk."



For some reason, that stung. I guess it showed on my face.



"What's wrong?" Fox asked.



I shook my head. "You just wanted him to fuck you so you could forget

about things?" I said. "You didn't want to talk to him?"



"I just said that, didn't I?" he said, looking puzzled. "Why the hell

does that bother you?"



Now it was my turn for a bitter laugh. "Because lately," I said, "that

seems to be exactly what you want from me."



There was a long silence. I couldn't see Fox's face all that well in

the growing darkness, but I didn't have to see him to know how badly

I'd shocked him and hurt him.



"Fox," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder as an attempt at

apology, but he jerked away from me.



"I'm going to sleep," he said, and he slid down off the tree and lay

on the ground, his head pillowed on his hands.



For a minute, I thought about grabbing him and telling him to forget

the silent treatment, that it was time to start talking to me -- that

I _needed_ him to talk to me.



Instead, I got up and went to check on my patient.



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



Washington, D.C.

Sunday



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



As Jim Saw It



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



I knew as soon as I got to the lock-up Sunday that whatever Dana had

found out had reassured her. She was calm; much calmer than on any of

my previous visits, with an inner serenity I'm not sure I'd ever seen

on her face before.



I liked it, though. And I liked even more the thought that maybe I'd

helped put that look there.



She was sitting on the edge of the bunk, reading, but she put down the

book and smiled as I came through the door. She didn't flinch when the

door slammed shut and locked behind me, which she had on every other

visit I'd made.



"I'm glad you're here," she said, without preamble, but that didn't

seem to be so unusual for her.



"Yeah?" I said, sitting in the chair. "Any particular reason?"



Her smile widened, which was as close as she'd come to laughing aloud

since before that damn raid. "Because you've been a good friend to me,

Jim, and I've really needed one lately," she said. "I'm very grateful

to you; I'm sure you never wanted to spend your leave behind bars."



"Don't thank me," I said. "It's been a pleasure to spend time with

you. Any hope you'll get out of here in time for us to have a real

Thanksgiving dinner before I have to ship out?"



"I wish I could tell you," she said, the smile fading. "I can't tell

them where Mulder is, and it seems clear they won't release me until I

do, and I wouldn't even if I could. I could be here for months if he

..."



Her voice trailed off. I knew why.



"Don't think about that," I said quickly. "He'll be here soon. If he's

not, I'm going to find my brother and kick his ass, even if he does

outrank me."



That brought the smile back. "You look as though you could do it,

too," she said.



I shrugged. "I have an unfair advantage," I said. "He won't hit me

back. That's the advantage of fighting with a surgeon. They can't

afford to injure their hands."



It was supposed to be a joke, I promise. A weak joke, but a joke

nonetheless.



Dana, however, turned a little pale and averted her eyes. She seemed

... frightened. Or maybe ashamed.



And then I realized what the reason was. She had scars on her right

hand; fine, almost unnoticeable, but definitely there.



And she's a surgeon.



Once more, Jim Reilly says the wrong goddamn thing at the wrong

goddamn time.



"I'm sorry," I said, more quietly. "I didn't realize ..."



She shook her head. "Please don't apologize," she said, but her voice

was flat now, and nearly emotionless. "It's in the past."



"Who was he?" I said. I knew I didn't have any business asking how it

had happened. I just wanted to know who the son of a bitch was so I

could kill him if I ever met him.



"No one," she said, shaking her head. "At least, not anymore. I'd

really rather not talk about it, Jim."



I nodded. I knew better than to press her for an answer. The only

problem was, I couldn't think of anything else to say. Not only had

this guy hurt Dana, he'd hurt my chances of ever finding the place in

her heart that I wanted so badly.



I wasn't trying to take all of her, you understand. I wanted her in my

life, but I'm just not around enough to settle down with her or with

anyone else. That probably makes me a full-fledged bastard, but that's

what a submariner's life is like. It's what I do, and it's got to be

done.



And anyway, I love it. On the days I don't hate it, that is.



It's the same for her. She's got a hell of an important job to do, and

she's not giving it up, no matter what it does to her. She also has

Mulder and my brother. She doesn't need me; not much of me, anyway.



But then, I'm the wrong man for a woman who needs much. I'd proved

that years ago, when Elise needed me and I wasn't there.



There wasn't much left for me to give Dana, but however little it was,

I wanted so badly to give it. I wanted to take that last lingering

sadness from her eyes; I wanted to give her someone to hold in the

night.



Oh, shit, tell the truth and shame the devil: I wanted her to hold me.

Now, thanks to the miserable bastard who'd hurt her, it looked as

though I might have to wait forever for that to happen.



Fuck it, then. I didn't have a damn thing to lose if I let her know

how I felt.



Without saying a word, I got up, walked over to the bunk and sat down

next to her -- and I mean really next to her, so close that our legs

were touching.



She seemed startled at first, but that didn't last long. She got

herself under control fast, and I knew that look on her face: It said,

plain as day, "I am watching you, buster, so don't try anything."



I never was very good at taking orders.



I leaned toward her and I kissed her.



For just a moment, her whole body went rigid, and I was afraid she was

going to pull away and slap my face.



But she didn't. She relaxed -- just a little at first, and then more -

- and then I felt a cool, soft hand on my faace, and felt her mouth

opening under mine.



God, if I'd known praying was this effective, I'd have started doing

it a long time ago.



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



Somewhere in Russia

Sunday



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



As Daniel Saw It



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



The contest for the biggest asshole on earth ended in Russia on a

cold, moonlit evening, and I won.



I was so tired I was cross-eyed, but I couldn't sleep. I was pretty

sure Fox wasn't sleeping either; for one thing, he wasn't snoring, and

he never once rolled onto his left side, and that's the side he

normally sleeps on.



It was also the side that would have had him facing me, and he didn't

seem to want to look at me just then.



I didn't blame him. I couldn't begin to imagine what had made me take

that kind of cheap, below-the-belt shot at him. Not only was it a low

blow, it wasn't even true. He does talk to me. He talks to me a lot,

for a man, anyway. Men aren't great talkers, in case you hadn't

noticed. I thought I'd gotten over thinking there was something wrong

with that.



No, the only one sleeping was Alex Krycek. In spite of his injury, he

was sound asleep, thanks to the medications I'd given him. I've never

believed that it did people any good to make them suffer when I could

do something about it.



Yes, I know, I'm digressing. I suspect I've done that a lot in my life

-- immersed myself in the details of my proffession as a way of

avoiding something else that was too painful to contemplate.



What I was avoiding now, of course, was talking. I knew it. I was

face-to-face with my own hypocrisy.



I was so close to just rolling over, pretending I was asleep and doing

the whole macho routine of waiting until we both forgot about it.



Except we never would forget it, not really. That kind of crap may

work with your friends at work or at the Y, but it doesn't work with

your lover. It didn't take me long to learn that.



Quietly, so I wouldn't wake Krycek, I got to my hands and knees and

crawled over to where Fox lay thrashing around in make-believe sleep.

I think he heard me approaching; he stopped moving around and lay very

still, barely breathing.



I was so close I could feel the warmth of his body on my skin, and yet

I said nothing.



I said nothing. All I wanted to do was put my arms around him and

touch him, to let my touch tell him how sorry I was and how much our

love-making means to me, whether we talk before, during, after or not

at all.



I couldn't do that, not after what I'd said. I just stayed where I

was, kneeling next to him, my hands pressed against the cold, hard

earth, wishing and praying that he'd turn over and look at me.



But he didn't move.



I was on the verge of giving up and crawling away, declaring myself a

coward as well as an asshole, when I heard a very heavy sigh. Fox

rolled over onto his back and looked at me with those weary, beautiful

green-gold eyes of his.



I couldn't think of a single damn thing to say. I just crouched there,

feeling utterly ridiculous. I probably would have stayed frozen there

forever if my still-weak right arm hadn't started to shake from the

strain.



The movement caught Fox's attention. He looked at my arm and sighed

again, a long, slow sigh this time, and laid his hand gently on my

upper arm.



"It's not really healed yet, is it?" he said, turning his eyes back to

mine.



I shook my head. "It works all right," I said.



And then he smiled. It was a sad smile, a tired smile, but beautiful,

as is everything about him.



"It doesn't seem to work very well for groveling," he said, softly,

his fingers still playing up and down my arm.



"I just haven't had much practice," I said, as lightly as I could.



"I guess not," he said. He took his hand from my arm and laid it

gently on my face. "So are you going to kneel there until you fall

over, or are you going to sit down and talk to me?"



"I think I'm going to sit down," I said, as I shifted my weight off my

arms and sat on the ground next to him. He raised himself on one elbow

and took my hand.



"So what did you come here to say?" he said, lacing his fingers

through mine.



I'd been expecting that question, and I'd thought I had an answer for

him. I thought I would tell him all the things I'd been thinking about

before I literally came crawling back to him.



I couldn't. I couldn't fight off the inner constraints that warned me

against risking my emotional control.



And that, I suppose, was the honest answer; and damn it, he deserved

an honest answer from me.



"Nothing," I said. "To be perfectly frank, not one damn thing."



Fox nodded, slowly. He looked so tired, and still so hurt, and yet I

knew already that he was going to let me off the hook. I could feel it

just as surely as I could feel his hand closing around mine.



I couldn't take it. I turned away from him. "Fuck," I said, under my

breath. It had been a long damn time since I'd felt this ashamed.



He heard me, of course. "Was that a request or a comment?" he said,

with just a trace of his usual humor.



I laughed. I couldn't help it. "It was whatever you want it to be," I

said, shaking my head at my own foolishness.



"I think I'll take it as a request, then," Fox said, and he bent

forward and kissed me, very gently.



God, he felt so good, but I couldn't really enjoy it. I knew that I

didn't deserve this; I wanted it, but I didn't deserve it.



"Fox, I need to tell you something," I began, but he interrupted me

with a shake of his head.



"No, you don't, baby," he said, putting his hand gently on the back of

my neck. "Not now, anyway. If you want to, we can talk later; but only

if you want to."



With that, he kissed me again, his mouth moving over mine slowly but

firmly, almost forcefully, his tongue barely touching my lips. When he

kisses me like that, I couldn't tell him no if he wanted to do it in

front of the entire Sixth Fleet.



"Tell me what you want, Daniel," he whispered in my ear as he laid me

carefully down and put his arms around me. "Tell me."



"You," I whispered back. "Just you ..."



He gave me what I'd asked for; not just his beautiful body, but his

whole being, body, mind and soul. He's never withheld himself from me;

not when it comes to this.



And when it comes to this, there's really no need for words.



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



Washington, D.C.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I have never felt so confused as I did that day, sitting on the edge

of my steel-framed bunk with Jim Reilly's arms around me, my head

resting on his shoulder and my lips still warm and wet from his kiss.



I knew he was going to kiss me only a split second before he did it,

and yet I think, really, that I had known since the day I met him that

he would kiss me someday -- and that I would want him to.



The kiss didn't last long, but it was wonderful anyway; warm,

comforting, affectionate, simultaneously arousing and unsettling. He

kissed me, and I kissed him back, and it shook me to the core of my

being.



There was no hiding it then, from Jim or from myself. I liked what he

had done, and I wanted more.



And I didn't want to want that.



I had never meant to let a man get to me again, not after what Josh

did to me. I had promised myself that Mulder's love, and Daniel's,

would be enough for me, would be safe and pleasant if not passionate.



I remember so well what Mulder said on the night I finally admitted to

him how much I loved him. He told me that it wasn't my fault.

Heterosexual women are attracted to men, he said, and you're

heterosexual.



Mulder was right. It is normal, and desirable, for me to want to be

with a man. That's why I fell for him, because he is every inch a man,

as is Daniel ... and Jim.



Why, then, did it still feel so wrong to be in Jim's arms, to be

sitting here in warm, peaceful silence, leaning my head on his

shoulder and letting him carry the double burden of my worries and

Mulder's together?



I didn't know. I knew I would have to face that question soon.



But I just kept telling myself it was not yet ... not yet.





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



Somewhere in Russia



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



As Daniel Saw It



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



We hadn't been asleep for more than an hour when the riders caught up

with us.



If the moon hadn't already set, we'd have been captured in no time,

still asleep in each other's arms. As it was, though, the moonlight

had faded to nothing and the sun wouldn't be up for hours.



Fox heard them first, and woke up fast, the way people do who are

constantly on alert. I've seen it in combat veterans, and I've seen it

in shore patrolmen, too. I don't have that facility, so it's a damn

good thing I wasn't alone.



As it was, I was startled awake by the feeling of Fox's hand over my

mouth. I jumped about a mile, and I probably would have yelled if I'd

been able to. Fox kept his hand over my mouth to make sure I didn't;

he knows me pretty well, I think.



"Daniel, don't make a sound," he whispered in my ear. "I don't think

they've seen us yet, but they will if we move, so lie still."



I nodded to let him know I understood, but I turned my head very, very

slowly in Krycek's direction. Even wrapped up in the silvery Mylar

blanket, he was little more than a not-so-dark patch against the black

night. He seemed to be asleep.



The first of the riders reined his horse to a stop not three feet from

Krycek, and I thought my heart would jump right out of my chest,

because he was almost close enough to hear us breathing. The rider

said something in Russian, of which I caught only one word: Tovarisch,

comrade.



Krycek roused himself then and responded in the same language. I could

only assume he was telling the rider about his injury, because the guy

leapt from the saddle and pulled the blanket back. He was horrified,

too, to judge from the way he gasped and jumped back. For a second he

didn't move, but he seemed to recover himself and he began pelting

Krycek with questions.



I didn't catch much of it; not, that is, until near the end, when I

heard the rider say what sounded like "Americans," and "spionem,"

which I understood because it sounds a good bit like the French for

"spies."



I wanted to tell Fox what I'd picked up, but when I turned toward him

and opened my mouth to speak, he shook his head. No, he was saying.

Not now.



Okay, Fox, not now. How about after they grab us and put us in front

of a firing squad? Would that be okay?



And then Krycek did something very peculiar. He looked in our

direction, shook his head and said, "nyet."



That was all. The rider helped Krycek into the saddle and led the

horse away from us.



"What the hell was that all about?" Fox said, when he was sure the

riders were out of earshot.



I shrugged and sat up. "He told them we weren't here, I think," I

said, rubbing my hand over the back of my neck to ease the stiffness.



"Why the hell would he do that?" Fox said, sounding almost angry. "He

hates my guts; even if he didn't, he's the one who got me involved in

this damn case in the first place."



"Maybe because he owes me one?" I said, feeling a bit nettled. "I did

take care of him, after all."



Fox shook his head, then he sat up. "That's not like him," he said.

"He's never passed up a chance to hinder my work; not that I can

remember, anyway."



Krycek had another reason, of course, but Fox didn't know about that

one. I wondered briefly whether I shouldn't go on keeping those facts

to myself, but I rejected it almost as quickly. If I didn't tell him,

he would more than likely find out someday from someone else. Our

relationship might not survive that, because there wasn't much reason

for him to trust me unless I was equally willing to trust him.



I took a deep breath, let it out and reached for Fox's hand.



"Fox," I said, "there's something I have to tell you."



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



I nearly lost it altogether when Daniel told me that Krycek was the

shooter who'd so nearly killed him. I was furious: at Krycek for

having done it, and at Daniel for having kept it from me.



"What the fuck were you thinking, not telling me that?" I hissed at

him. I would have yelled, but even in so towering a rage, I knew I'd

better keep my voice down. "Don't you realize he could have shot you

while we were asleep?"



"I doubt he had the strength for that, Fox," Daniel said. He looked

calm enough, but then, he usually does. "Even if he had the strength,

he didn't have the gun. You did."



"You don't know him, Daniel," I said. "I told you that earlier. You

didn't believe me then and I don't think you believe me now, but you'd

better start listening to me. If the people he works for wanted you

killed, that means they know about you -- about us."



"I know that," Daniel said, mildly. "But they haven't outed us yet.

Maybe they're not going to."



"Maybe they're just saving it for a rainy day, until they want me to

do something for them," I said. "You should have told me. Even if it

didn't give them leverage over me, you should have told me so I'd know

to be on guard."



"Fox, you told me that if these people wanted you dead, you'd be

dead," Daniel said, still with that infuriating calm. "So what's the

point of being on guard?"



"The point is that Alex Krycek is dangerous as hell," I said, turning

my back on him and pulling our remaining blanket over me. "I don't

really know how good a shot Krycek is; he may have been trying to kill

you and just missed."



"He didn't miss," Daniel said. "He shot me -- and caused a wound that

could easily have been fatal. But I would point out that he did it

practically next door to Bethesda, which, if I do say so myself, is

one of the best hospitals around."



"So what the fuck was the point?" I snapped, sitting up again. "You

got any theories on that, Commander?"



"I've got one theory," Daniel said, quietly. "My theory is that if we

don't stop sniping at each other, we're not very likely to get out of

Russia alive."



"We will," I said. "Just as soon as you stop keeping things from me."



"I will," Daniel said, and now there was just the slightest edge to

his voice. "Just as soon as _you_ stop keeping things from _me_."



"I'm not keeping anything ..." I began, and then I caught myself.



Daniel noticed, though. He always notices.



"There is something, isn't there?" he said.



I didn't answer. I wouldn't even look him in the eye. I could tell he

was hurt by it, but all he did was lie back down and -- with a quiet

sigh -- pull part of the blanket over himself.



"Goodnight, Fox," he said, in a resigned tone, but he took my hand as

he spoke.



I wasn't going to tell him. I swear to God, I wasn't. If it weren't

for the fact that I'd just spent five minutes yelling at him for

keeping things from me, I'd probably have rolled over and gone to

sleep, feeling very self-righteous and ill-used.



That's what I would have done, had nature or God or whatever is in

charge not granted me the grace of a second thought.



And so I told him. It scared the living shit out of me, but I told him

everything. I told him about how Krycek came into my life, about

Scully's disappearance and how it had affected me, about how I tried

to get Kristen Kilar to kill me because I was too much of a coward to

kill myself.



I told him about John Lee Roche, and how I went cowboying off and

allowed a dangerous serial killer to escape from prison. I told him

how I blew Roche's brains out with my backup weapon.



I told him about killing Gerry Schnauz.



I told him about Skinner.



I even told him about his mother.



I had to, because he knew; maybe not about her, specifically, but he

knew something like that had happened. He just didn't know the

details. But it was hurting us, putting up a barrier between us that

we could both feel even if neither of us could really see it.



He was upset by what his mother had done, no question about it. Shit,

who wouldn't be? But overall, he took it all a lot better than I'd

ever thought he would.



"None of that is your fault, Fox, especially not my mother," he said

as he cradled my head on his shoulder. "She does what she wants, and

even my father can't make her change her mind. You're too damn quick

to blame yourself for things you can't control."



"Maybe, maybe not," I said. "But just because I'm having a bad time at

work doesn't excuse my keeping that from you."



"Having to use deadly force twice in two weeks is a little more

than just a bad time at work, Fox," he said. "I wish you'd told me."



"I know you do," I said. "But Daniel, I don't even want to _think_

about that shit when I'm with you, let alone talk about it. I don't

want to fuck up what little time we have together with tales of how I

went Dirty Harry on some child-molesting serial killer."



"Fox, we had this argument two years ago," he said, shaking his head.

"You want to be with me but you don't want to tell me when things go

wrong. Well, I need more than that."



"What do you mean?" I asked.



"I mean that I need you to trust me," he said, very softly. "I'm not

asking you to strip your soul bare; I just need you to tell me enough

so I don't have to stumble around blindly, wondering what the hell's

wrong with you. I'm not going to turn on you or think less of you

because you did your job, no matter how bad it gets."



"You just don't know how bad it can get," I said. "You don't know some

of the things I've seen, or the things I've done ..."



"No, I don't," he said, and tightened his hold on me. "But I know you,

and I know you do everything you can to make things go right. That you

can't always do that is just a fact of human life. Why didn't you tell

me any of this before? Did you think I wouldn't understand?"



I gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Daniel, I don't understand it

myself," I said. "I have my suspicions about where Scully was and what

happened to her, sure, but I can't prove one goddamn thing and even

she doesn't really believe my theories on that subject; not all of

them, anyway. As far as Krycek goes -- I don't know what to say except

that tricking was just what I did back then."



"We've all done it," he said softly, and pressed his lips gently

against my hairline. "God, I wish I'd known you then. I hate to think

of you going through all that alone."



"I wish you'd been there, too," I said, pressing my face a little more

closely to his chest. "Shit, I wish I'd had you around from the day I

joined the FBI, although I'm not sure I would have had the good sense

to fall for you then. I had a few things to learn first."



He laughed at that, quietly, but with genuine amusement. "Actually,"

he said, "if you'd met me then, you probably wouldn't have given me a

second glance."



"How come?" I asked, turning my head to look up at him. "I mean,

you're pretty damn ugly, Daniel, but I can't imagine that you were any

uglier back then."



"Not ugly, maybe, but definitely married, Bozo," he said. "You would

have walked right past me."



"Shit, I forgot about that," I said, a little more quietly. "You're

right. I would have taken one look at that wedding ring and kept

going. The last thing I ever wanted was to get mixed up with a

straight guy who was looking to experiment."



"I know," he said. "I got that reaction from a lot of guys back then,

believe me. And I didn't blame them. I just tried to find another way

to get what I needed."



"What other way?" I asked, twisting my head around so I could see

him.



"The usual guy stuff," he said, with a shrug. "Remember the day we

met?"



"Of course I do," I said. "Why do you ask?"



"Do you remember how it happened?" he asked.



"I twisted my ankle and you came over to check on me," I said.



"You didn't just twist your ankle, Fox," he said. "You got fouled.

Stan Ray -- he's the knuckle-dragging ape with the bad toupee --

practically tackled you. That's why you fell."



"Okay, he tackled me," I said, quietly. "I still don't see what that

has to do with what we were talking about."



"Well, as you pointed out once," he said, "I lived as a straight man

for a long time. And I'm here to tell you that that kind of shoving

and pushing and back-slapping is about all the physical contact

straight men ever allow each other. It's like they've got a force

field all around them: You don't look, you don't touch, you don't even

talk in any way that could be remotely construed as affectionate.

They'll knock the crap out of you if you try."



"I know that," I said. "I've been around straight guys all my life. I

know how they act."



"Yeah, but you've never had to settle for getting hit and slapped and

punched because it was the only way another man would ever touch you,"

he said. "Do you have any idea what it's like to need that touch so

badly that you'll put up with the macho shit rather than live without

it?"



"I've had periods of celibacy," I said, feeling a little nettled. "I'm

not completely wild and crazy."



"It's not the same," he said. "Even if you were abstinent for a while,

if you woke up in the night and you really needed to be with someone,

you could go out and find someone. Even if he was just a trick, he was

still somebody."



"Yeah, but you didn't have to go looking for a trick, Daniel," I said.

"You already had somebody; sometimes lately, I think maybe you still

need to have her. "



"No," he said, very quietly. "I loved Jill. I still do. But what I

feel for you goes way beyond that, to something that has no parallel

in the straight world. Do you really understand what a profoundly

intimate act it is for one man to touch another the way you and I do?"



"Yeah, I know," I said, and I took his hand and kissed it. "Just not

from the same perspective as you. But that's not what I meant."



"What did you mean, then?" he asked, sounding puzzled.



I touched my fingers briefly to his lips. "This," I said. "Someone to

talk to. Someone who can be to you what Scully is to me."



"You mean Jill?" he said, then he shook his head. "That can't happen.

There's too much history there, good and bad. There's no way we can be

just friends."



"I never said you could," I said, settling my head against him. "But

I'll bet you can still talk to her."



There was a long silence before Daniel answered.



"Yes, I can," he said, quietly. "But I didn't think you wanted me to."



Thank you, Daniel, for letting me know just what a shit I really am.



"I didn't," I said, after a pause. "But I was wrong. You never asked

me to give up any of what I have with Scully; I had no right even to

insinuate that you should give up what you still have with Jill."



Daniel fell silent for a moment.



"You know, I was just wondering about something you said earlier," he

said, finally. "You said nothing happened with you and your vampire

lady because you never had any sexual interest in a woman. I wonder if

you know how rare that really is -- I mean, never, ever in your whole

life to want that."



"I have an idea," I said. "I also know that you do want that

sometimes; not just in the past, but even now, and that's part of why

you don't think you can be just friends with Jill. Sometimes, you're

still interested in her that way. Am I right?"



Daniel was quiet for a moment, but then he nodded. "Rarely, but it

happens," he said. "I think I've learned to deal with it, though. Does

it bother you?"



"I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "Maybe a little. I know

people sometimes have desires that go against their basic sexual

orientation, but I've never really had that kind of desire for women

and it's hard for me to understand it."



"It's not easy for me to understand it either," Daniel said. "I didn't

begin to understand it until very near the end of my marriage."



"Is that why you thought you were straight for so long?" I asked.



"I don't think I ever really thought I was," Daniel said, looking up

at the sky. "I always knew what I really wanted, and I knew what it

meant. I just didn't want to believe it. When I met Jill, when I fell

in love with her, I was so damn relieved. I told myself that all those

other feelings I'd had were just adolescent curiosity, that they meant

nothing except that I hadn't met the right woman yet. It took me

fifteen years to admit the truth to myself, and by that time, I was

already married and an officer in the United States Navy."



"What was the truth?" I asked, quietly.



"That I didn't fall in love with Jill because she's a woman, but in

spite of it," Daniel said, simply. "She's the only woman I've ever

really felt that way about, but it just wasn't enough."



"But you said you loved her and you were attracted to her," I said.

"So how is it that that wasn't enough?"



He shook his head. "It just wasn't," he said. "It wasn't even close to

being what I needed. For me, being married was like trying to subsist

on nothing but carbohydrates. You can survive on that for a while, but

eventually the lack of protein is going to kill you."



"So I'm the cheeseburger in this equation?" I asked him, lightly. He

smiled, and I felt a 10-ton weight lift from my chest.



"You're all four food groups, kid," he said, and he laid his hand

lightly on my face. I took his hand in mine and held it tightly.



"But you have thought about it?" I said. "About getting back with

Jill?"



"No," Daniel said, shaking his head. "I just wish I could do something

to make it all up to her, to repay her in some way for everything

she's been to me and everything I've done to hurt her. But then, you

know what that feels like, don't you?"



I damn sure did. And Daniel knew it.



I sat up and wrapped my arms around my bent knees. I was thinking

hard, mostly about whether I'd be able to admit the truth of what

Daniel had said.



"Okay, you've got me," I said, after a minute. "I've thought about it.

Sometimes Scully just seems so damn sad and lonely, and I know she

still wants me ... "



"And I've always wondered why you didn't at least try it," Daniel

said. "You love her, and you know it would make her happy."



"No, it wouldn't," I said, shaking my head. "I know she still wishes

sometimes that things were different, but they're not: sex with Scully

is just not what I want."



"Sometimes things happen even if they're not what we really want,"

Daniel said.



"Daniel, what I really want is you," I said. "I want Scully to be

happy, but I can't make that happen for her. Not like that. She's

better off with her dreams of what might have been. And that's not an

easy thing for me to admit, believe it or not -- not even to you, or

maybe even especially not to you."



"Seriously?" Daniel said, and I could hear the surprise in his voice.

"Why is it so hard to tell me that?"



I shrugged. "Because there's always that little voice of cultural

conscience telling me that if I were a real man, I'd be able to get it

up with a woman. Well, I can't. You can, though. You did, for years."



"Not as often as you might think," Daniel said. "Anyway, I thought I

was the one with all the internalized homophobia."



I laughed. "We all have it to some extent," I said. "Straight guys and

gay boys. That's one thing I learned as a profiler."



"So what exactly do you propose that we do about it?" Daniel said,

more softly.



I thought for a minute. "I think the best thing we could do," I said,

"is to go back to the Vineyard as soon as we can and spend some time

persuading each other of the virtues of gay sex."



"Works for me," Daniel said, with that killer smile on his face. He

looked so beautiful smiling that way, with the last remnants of

moonlight reflecting in his eyes.



I can't resist him when he looks like that. I slid over next to him,

but this time I took him in my arms and kissed him, a long, slow,

exploring kiss. If I hadn't been so goddamn tired and, to be honest,

already so fucked out, I might have been tempted ...



But I was tired, and so was he. Shit, he was exhausted, and my best

estimate had us walking for at least another day before we made St.

Petersburg. I wanted to make love with him, but that would have to

wait. For now, all I could do was try to protect him from dangers he

didn't really see and couldn't comprehend if he did.



So I just held him and kissed his forehead, running my fingers through

his hair and rocking him gently. I love to hold him like that, but I

so rarely get the chance.



"You gonna sing me a lullaby?" Daniel murmured sleepily.



"Only if you want to have nightmares," I said, and that made him

laugh. "Go to sleep, Daniel."



"I will if you will," he said, stifling a yawn.



"I'm on watch," I said. "I wouldn't sleep right now even if I weren't.

Come on, Navy, stand down."



"Okay," he said, nestling more closely against my shoulder. "Love

you," he mumbled just before sleep took him.



"I love you, too," I said, and I kissed him one more time. His eyes

were already closing.



For the rest of the night I just lay there, holding him and watching

over him as the northern sky wheeled slowly toward dawn.



Shortly after sunrise, we caught a ride from an old man who was taking

his swine to market and we made St. Petersburg the next afternoon. Our

tickets were waiting for us at the airline counter.



I slept all the way home.



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



Scully's cell

Monday



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



As Scully Saw It



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



I shouldn't be this nervous. I know what I've got to do, and I know

that I will most likely be spending at least one more night in this

jail. I'm absolutely convinced, too, that if I don't talk, all

Skinner's connections won't stop the committee from ordering me held

in solitary confinement, without visitors, or -- what would be worse -

- ordering me incarcerated with the rest of  the jail population.



I've known of more than one law-enforcement officer who got hurt very

badly when that happened.



I suppose I'll be freed when Mulder comes back, but I can't shake the

fear that he won't. I don't even know whether Daniel was successful in

finding him, or if he even got Marita to tell him anything. I don't

know, and it's killing me.



Nights are the worst time here. Lights out is at 9 p.m., so I have to

put my reading away then, but I don't sleep. The sound of doors

slamming and the occasional cries from the other cells, combined with

my fears for Mulder and Daniel, are more than enough to keep me awake.



All I can do is lie here in the dark and imagine what horrible

things may have happened.



I will never let anyone see my fear, though. No matter what happens,

the committee will never see me anything less than perfectly composed,

perfectly in control. I will never give them the satisfaction of

knowing how frightened I am.



Jim knows. I didn't tell him; indeed, I tried my best not to let him

know, but somehow, in some almost ... well, spooky way ... he seems to

know what's inside me.



It scares me, and yet I find myself drawn closer and closer to him.

Mulder calls that need "psychological visibility": the need to have

someone see, without being told, what's in your mind and your heart.



When things are going well, I have that with Mulder. I always have it

with Daniel, but it's in a much lower key.



Jim ... Jim hardly knows me, but he sees right through me, and I am so

afraid of that even as I want more of it ... of him.



I am pathetic, am I not?



Before he left yesterday, Jim told me that he's reasonably sure he'll

be at sea for Christmas. He's asked me to keep the gifts he's bought

and give them out at the appropriate time. I told him that I would.



"Maybe when this case is wrapped up and everyone's back safely, we can

all go spend some time on Martha's Vineyard," I said, carefully

stressing the plurals. "It hasn't been much of a leave for you; we'd

like to make it up to you."



"I'd like that a lot," Jim said, with a soft smile that told me he

knew what I was saying. "It's a nice place, and the company's about as

good as it ever gets, for me, anyway."



"Well, Daniel is always glad to see you, and Jill is, too ..." I said,

a little nervously, but Jim interrupted me.



"Dana, it's okay," he said, taking my hand. This time, I didn't pull

away. "I'd like to be with you -- just you -- but I'm not going to

complain if that doesn't happen."



"You should," I said, feeling slightly ashamed of myself. "You should

complain loud and long. There's no reason you should waste your time

when this isn't going to go anywhere."



"Maybe you just don't know where I want it to go," Jim said, flashing

that devastating Celtic smile at me. "I don't want everything; I just

want whatever place you can give me in your life."



I turned my face away, not wanting him to see the embarrassed flush on

my cheeks, but I kept hold of his hand. Wasn't _that_ the perfect

metaphor for the way things were with us?



"That's not fair to you," I said, almost in a whisper. "You deserve

better."



"Why don't you let me decide what's fair to me?" Jim said, and the

smile was gone. He was dead serious now. "Dana, I told you the day I

met you that I don't have much of myself to give. My soul may belong

to Jesus but my ass belongs to Uncle Sam, and that's not going to

change anytime soon."



"I know the feeling," I said, and I smiled in spite of myself.



"I know you do," Jim said. "Which is why I think you're worrying about

nothing. We couldn't have any kind of traditional relationship even if

we both wanted it."



"Then what can we have?" I said, without thinking, then blushed all

over again when I realized what I'd said.



"We can have whatever you want," Jim said, more quietly. "I'm not

asking you to commit to anything. All I'm asking is that when I'm on

the surface, on shore, you let me call you. If things haven't changed

too much for you, then maybe we can spend some time together."



"And that's all?" I said.



"It is unless you decide you want more," Jim said, and there was no

mistaking the look in his eyes. He might not know what I wanted, but

he knew what _he_ wanted: Me.



"I can't answer that now," I whispered. "I can't even think about it

until this is over."



"I understand," Jim said. He laid my hand carefully on my lap and

stood up. "I'd better get going," he said. "It's getting late and

you've got a long day tomorrow."



"Or a very short one," I said, with a slightly shaky laugh, but Jim

smiled anyway.



"I'm going to hope for the best," he said, looking down at me with

eyes that told me quite plainly that he wanted to kiss me again but

wasn't sure how I'd respond.



Slowly, nervously, I stood up, and I took one step closer to him. Jim

didn't move, but I could see the flicker of hope in his eyes.



"So I'll see you tomorrow?" he said, but he didn't move.



I nodded. "Tomorrow," I said. "Unless I'm in solitary confinement."



"God forbid," Jim said, but his voice shook slightly as he spoke.



I looked up into his eyes, trying my best to keep my gaze steady

although my heart was pounding almost painfully in my chest.



He wasn't going to ask, and he wasn't going to move toward me; not

without an invitation, anyway. He was being so careful, trying not to

presume, trying not to frighten me away.



He did deserve better, even if he wouldn't ask for it. I would have to

offer.



And, to be perfectly honest, I wanted to. I really wanted to.



I breathed in once, slowly, to calm myself. "Can I have a goodnight

kiss?" I said, but there was a bit of a tremor in my own voice.



Almost instantly, Jim's smile was back, broader and more

devastating than ever. "Oh, yeah," he said. "You bet you can."



And with that, he bent forward and kissed me; gently at first, then

more firmly. I put my arms around his neck and his arms encircled my

waist, pulling me closer to him. I could feel him getting hard, but he

didn't pull away from me, nor did he make any special effort to make

sure I noticed it. It was just there, as he was, if I wanted him.



And I did. I was trembling in his arms, at once frightened and aroused

in a way I hadn't been for years.



Jim's kiss was careful and affectionate, but there was more behind it

than just affection. He was asking for, but not demanding, a response

from me. He was just kissing me, the way a man kisses a woman he cares

for and wants to ...



Wants to make love to.



I should have stopped him, perhaps, but that moment, that kiss, was

just too perfect, offering no more and no less than what I already

knew I wanted, even though I had no right to ask that of him: a friend

for always, a lover for sometimes.



It might not be this week, this month, or even this year, but it would

happen.



Someday, Jim Reilly would open his arms to me, and I would go to him.



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



December 2, 1996

Monday



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



You don't run in the U.S. Capitol, but I damn sure wanted to.



I could hear the voices all the way at the other end of the hall.

Someone -- some man -- was speaking very loudly, and right into a

microphone. The amplified sound was echoing off the walls until it

seemed to come from everywhere.



And I could hear what he was saying, too: Scully's name. She was back

before the committee, and she wasn't giving in. She was all alone, she

had only one way out of jail for all she knew, and she wasn't giving

up.



I wanted to see her so badly, to put my arms around her and tell her

what it meant to me that she had done this and that she had sent

Daniel to find me. First, though, I had to stop this damn senator

right in his megalomaniacal tracks.



I opened the door just a crack and peered through. There was Senator

Sorenson, his hatchet face practically knocking the mike over as he

yelled at my partner.



"Agent Scully," he was saying; shit, he wasn't just saying, he was

demanding.



Scully, as she almost always does, seemed perfectly cool. She just

went on with what she'd been saying.



"About his murder, and my opinion about its connection to the death of

Dr. Bonita Charne-Sayre of the World Health Organization ..." she

said, but Sorenson interrupted her again.



"Miss Scully," he said, frostily, and I could feel my temper rise.

That's Agent Scully to you, dirtbag, I thought; on Sundays, it's Dr.

Scully. Get it right before I kick your ass from here to Jupiter.



"You'll get your chance with all of that," Sorenson was saying, but

Scully kept right on going.



"Or about the biotoxin being transported within that pouch," she said,

but I could see just the slightest droop in her shoulders. Defying

authority doesn't come naturally to her.



Sorenson was getting extraordinarily pissed off by this show of

resistance, too. "Answer the question, Miss Scully," he snapped at

her.



Fuck this bastard and the horse he rode in on. Before Scully could say

another word, I pushed through the door. "What is the question?" I

said, as arrogantly as I dared.



Scully whipped around in her chair, and I swear to God she'd have run

right to me if she could have. If we'd been anywhere but where we

were, I'd have been running toward her, too, but that would have to

wait. I just walked the rest of the way down the aisle and sat down

exactly where I was supposed to.



Senator Romine started pounding his gavel. "All right," he said.

"Let's come to order. Agent Scully, do continue."



Romine's all right.



Scully turned around just as calmly as if she'd known all along that

I'd be walking in any second.



"Yes, sir," she said, coolly. "If I may, I'd like to finish making my

point."



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



As Scully Saw It



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



The sound of Senator Romine's gavel will live forever in my memory as

one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard.



I had waited as long as I could. I had fought as hard as I could to

remain calm, and I think I largely succeeded.



But when that gavel came down, I let it all go. I stood up and I ran

straight into Mulder's arms. There was so much I wanted to say, but

all I could manage was his name.



And he smiled, and he held me close. "It's good to put my arms around

you," he said. "Both of them."



I had no idea what he meant by that, but there was no time for that.

This case wasn't over; not by a long shot. There was more to come, and

on a personal as well as a professional level.



I was ready to tackle it now. Mulder was here, he was alive, he was

safe, he was as glad to see me as I was to see him, and he was putting

his arms around me in front of Skinner and everyone else.



I could have stayed there forever, feeling his hands gently stroking

my back, feeling the strength of his arms, but that couldn't be.

Reluctantly, I let him go.



"When did you get back here?" I asked him.



"It's been a long, strange trip," he said, rather cryptically.



I was just about to ask him to explain that, and to tell me whether he

was all right -- I could see that he'd been injured, but I could also

see that the injury had been tended to. Daniel _had_ found him, then.

Thank God.



I didn't get the chance to ask anything right then, however. Skinner,

still looking royally pissed off, interrupted us.



"Some other time," he said, gruffly. "I think there's been enough

strangeness here to sort through."



The thought flashed through my mind that Skinner didn't know much

about what Mulder and I do if he thought this case was strange, but I

quickly turned my attention back to the case at hand.



There was work to be done.



And now that I had my partner back, I was sure that I would be able to

do it. Nothing was going to stop me now.



Nothing at all.





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



West Tisbury, Mass.

December 6, 1996

Wednesday



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



Whatever self-confidence I had when I walked into the Senate committee

room was shot to hell by the time I got back from Terma.



It wasn't just being knocked down by an exploding oil well, although

I'm here to tell you, that can really ruin your day.



It wasn't just that Scully had once again escaped death or injury by

inches.



It wasn't even that all my efforts to talk to Scully, to tell her what

her loyalty had meant to me, were thwarted by the exigencies of last-

minute plane reservations for cramped seats situated far apart, by

investigations that took ever stranger turns and, finally, by my utter

exhaustion.



That was all bad, and it all hurt, but I could have dealt with it if

we'd come back with something tangible, something that the damn Senate

committee wouldn't be able to dismiss or deny.



Instead, we came back with nothing. Not one goddamn thing. Oh, I made

a big, brave speech to Sorenson and Romine and all the others, but the

truth is that I was whistling my way through the graveyard of yet

another desperate hope.



By the time we got back to the Vineyard Tuesday night, I was in a deep

funk. I almost hadn't come. I had seriously considered just staying in

the District and telling Daniel and the others to go ahead without me.

I would have done it, too, except that Scully put her foot down and

told me that I wasn't going to mess up her Thanksgiving dinner again

no matter how pissed I was.



I didn't argue with her. I never do when she talks to me like that.

It's kind of corny, I guess, but when she lays down the law to me like

that, it just shows me all over again how much she really loves me, no

matter how cool she can be while we're trying to work.



When we got there, very late -- we caught the last ferry that day -- I

was glad I'd listened to her. Not only was Daniel there, but he walked

up to me and kissed me when I came through the door, as though there

was nothing unusual about it.



Normally, there's not. Of course, we're not normally surrounded by

other people.



Speaking of which, Jill was in the kitchen, baking and roasting and

cooking up a storm, creating a Thanksgiving dinner that could have

served as a model for Norman Rockwell.



And it was good. It was so damn good, all of it: The food, the

company, the laughter during the meal, the quiet afterward. It gave me

just a flash of memory of what my life was like before Samantha

disappeared, when holidays were warm, happy times, celebrated with

latkes or turkey or matzah, shared with family and friends.



Stupid and mushy as it sounded, I felt like I was part of a family

again. I hadn't felt like that since 1973. I thought I never would

again.



But I liked it. I liked it a lot. I felt so good, in fact, that it

didn't even bother me -- well, not much -- to see Daniel put his arm

around Jill when he thanked her for the dinner. In fact, I thought it

was kind of nice.



How's that for progress toward actual adulthood?



After dinner, Jim and Scully disappeared into the kitchen, spurning

all offers of help from me or Daniel -- Jill was excluded by

acclamation and sent to the living room to rest -- so Daniel and I

went for a walk. It was pretty damn cold, but at least it wasn't

Siberia.



Anyway, it would have to have been a hell of a lot colder before I

would have passed up this time with Daniel. He was scheduled for

another physical at Bethesda the next afternoon, and he told me it was

a pretty good bet he'd be cleared for limited light duty. That meant

we'd both be back to our usual schedules soon, and I'd have to get

used to not seeing him as much.



I found that thought unpleasant in the extreme, all the more because

I'd spent so much time in his company recently. It was beginning to

seem natural to spend the day with him and then fall asleep with him

at night. For us, of course, that scenario is anything but normal.



Daniel seemed happy, though, and more at peace than I'd ever seen him,

and I told him so.



He just shrugged his shoulders. "I've got every reason to feel

peaceful, don't I?" he said. "You're back safely, apparently none the

worse for wear, I'm about to get back to doing what I love, Jill's

forgiven me -- mostly, anyway -- and my brother's still here with me.

I don't think there's anything missing."



There was something missing, of course, but I was damned if I was

going to remind him. He was just doing what so many gay men and

lesbians have to do; he was redefining what constituted family in his

life, creating his own family to replace the family that didn't want

to include him.



It's not an easy process, and I wasn't going to make it harder for him

by reminding him that his own mother didn't seem to want to be part of

that family.



I decided I'd steer away from that discussion toward something a bit

safer. "Do you really see it that way?" I said. "That Jill's forgiven

you, I mean?"



He looked at me as though I'd turned some strange shade of purple.

"Yes, I do," he said. "Why, do you think I shouldn't?"



It was my turn to shrug then. "My first impression of her was that she

wasn't all that angry at you," I said, sticking my hands deep into my

pockets. "She said she was, but I had a hard time believing it."



"That's just Jill being Jill," Daniel said, shaking his head. "She's

not much for showing what she feels."



"Ah," I said. "Well, it stands to reason she and I would have at least

a few things in common."



"Oh, you're funny," Daniel said, giving me an entirely insincere but

nonetheless withering glare. "Next thing I know, you'll be telling me

you want to enroll in nursing school."



"No way," I said, shaking my head. "Although Jill did say something

about Oxford ..."



Daniel laughed, but he quickly grew serious again. "Does it still

bother you?" he said.



"Your having been married before?" I said, and he nodded. "Not

really," I said. "I mean, it's still something I can't relate to, but

I'm getting used to the idea."



"I guess that's as much as I have any right to expect," Daniel said,

looking off into the distance. He looked so damn good that night,

especially with the wind blowing through his hair. I had a pretty good

idea that we wouldn't make it back to the house anytime soon.



"You have a right to expect a lot more, Daniel," I said, still

watching him, still marveling at how he could ever have chosen to be

with me.



"Nah," he said, shaking his head. "People can only absorb so much at

one time, and you've had to deal with one hell of a lot lately. It's

all right, though; we've got time."



"I wish we did," I said, feeling suddenly sad. "We never seem to have

enough time together."



"That's because you're so damn insatiable," Daniel said, but he looked

at me as he said it, and he was smiling.



"Guilty as charged," I said, smiling back. "But only with you."



"And there's the paradox," Daniel said, his smile fading, replaced by

a more reflective expression. "You're trying to adjust to my previous

relationship, and I'm forever trying to adjust to your not having had

one."



"Are you serious?" I said, in genuine surprise. "You never told me

that bothered you."



"In my more secure moments, it doesn't," Daniel said. "Other times,

yes, it does. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."



"That's not going to happen," I said, firmly. "You have nothing to

worry about."



"I have a lot to worry about, although not all of it pertains to you,"

Daniel said. "Some of it does. You know, we've probably talked more in

the past week than we've talked the whole time we've been together."



"And that bothers you?" I said, puzzled.



"No," Daniel said. "What bothers me is that you're already beginning

to pull away from me; emotionally, I mean."



"I'm sorry you feel that way," I said, more quietly. "I didn't think I

was shutting you out."



"You're not," he said, quickly. "It's a normal progression. We get

close, we get a little emotional, and then we pull back for a while.

That doesn't mean I particularly relish it."



"You think so?" I said. "I haven't seen that in you, that pulling

back. Not much, anyway."



"I just don't make much noise about it," Daniel said. "Or anything

else, for that matter."



"That's not necessarily bad, Daniel," I said. "You're quiet about

things, sure, but most of the time that just means that you think

before you act, which, of course, I don't; not always, anyway."



"I was just brought up that way," Daniel said, and then he fell silent

again.



That was okay with me. I don't usually try to make him talk when he

doesn't want to, and in fact, he doesn't usually try to make me talk,

either. Things were ... going a little differently now.



We'd walked a long way, turned around and were heading back to the

house before Daniel spoke again.



"You know, right before my marriage ended, I started going to one of

those ex-gay ministries, hoping they could show me how to change," he

said, reflectively. "They made me pour out my life's story, then told

me, very solemnly, that my angry, emotionally distant father had made

me a homosexual."



"If I give him the yarn, will he make one for me?" I said, and Daniel

gave a short laugh.



"You'll have to ask him," he said. "Anyway, the only thing I really

got out of that ex-gay group was my prayer partner's phone number. By

the way, they told him that he was gay because his father's

relationship with him was unnaturally close and overly emotional."



"Damned if you do, damned if you don't, in other words," I said, and

Daniel nodded.



"That group was probably the single most important factor in

convincing me that I couldn't change," Daniel said. "I mean, you can't

have it both ways."



"You can if you're bi," I said, but that witticism only got me a faint

smile. "So what happened with the prayer partner?"



"It didn't last," Daniel said, and I could hear the regret in his

voice. "Michael was a nice guy, but that relationship was doomed from

the outset. He didn't like sneaking around with a married man, and I

just couldn't bring myself to tell Jill. So he told me to give him a

call when I was ready to be honest with Jill, with him and with

myself."



"And did you?" I asked, then cleared my throat. The thought of

Daniel with another man was painful, but what was even more painful

was picturing the turmoil he must have been in back then. He's an

honest man, and a good one, and cheating wouldn't come naturally to

him.



Daniel shook his head. "I never saw him again," he said. "Two days

after I broke it off with Michael, I told Jill the truth. I still

loved her, but I couldn't stand to cheat on her anymore."



"But you didn't feel able to give up on relationships with men,

either, did you?" I said. It wasn't really a question.



"No, I didn't," Daniel said, and then fell silent and stopped walking

-- but he also took my hand.



"Before you left for New York, you asked me how I feel about you," he

said after a few minutes. "I thought about that a lot while you were

gone, and I realized that I can't think of anything to say that I

haven't said already. I love you. I have since the day I met you. And

I've always looked up to you and admired you for having the guts to

come out to yourself and the rest of the world so early in life,

without apologizing and without looking back."



I kept my eyes on the ground. I couldn't look at him. I just nodded.



"Because you're right, you know," Daniel said, even more quietly than

before. "There was a time -- maybe even after I met you -- when I

would have given anything to change. I've never gotten over having

hurt my parents and Jill so badly. But I've never kept that a secret

from you."



He stopped for a second, trying -- it seemed to me -- to collect

himself a little. That was unusual; outwardly, Daniel is quieter than

I, less aggressive, more sympathetic. Inside, though, he's tougher

than I am, much more in control of himself. There's only been one time

that either of us cried in the other's presence, and Daniel wasn't the

one crying.



"But in spite of all that," he said, and I knew I'd guessed right by

the slight roughness in his voice, "I promise you, I wouldn't change

now even if I could. Even though it would make my parents happy, and

Jill happy, and protect my career, I still wouldn't do it -- because

if I were straight, you wouldn't be my lover, and I can't even imagine

life without you anymore."



For a minute I just stood there, holding Daniel's hand so tightly I

doubt there was any blood left in his fingers. I didn't want to cry

any more than he did, but I sure as shit felt like it. Finally, I just

went to him and put my head on his shoulder. He let go of my hand and

his arms went around me in a death grip as he rested his head against

mine.



"I feel like the world's largest piece of shit," I murmured against

his shoulder, and I could feel the soft rumbling when he laughed -- it

was a little shaky, but it was a genuine laugh.



"Not the world's largest," he said, and I felt his lips press against

the top of my head. "Second largest, maybe; definitely in the top

ten."



"Oh, thanks a lot," I said, looking up at him, but I was laughing a

little myself. "You really know how to hurt a guy, don't you?"



"Not my intention," Daniel said, mildly, reaching for the top button

on my shirt and slipping it loose. "We were just having a discussion."



"So how do we end this ... discussion?" I asked, but it was a

rhetorical question if ever there was one, because Daniel had my shirt

about halfway unbuttoned. "Do you have any plans?"



"Yeah, I've got an idea," he said, smiling at my sudden shiver of

pleasure as he slid his hand under the shirt and his fingers grazed

over my nipple.



"Don't keep me -- Jesus, Daniel ... oh, yeah, right there -- don't

keep me in suspense," I said, leaning toward him as he bent to taste

some of the flesh he'd just uncovered. "Let's hear it."



"My plan," he said, his mouth muffled against my throat, "is to take

you back to the house, lock the bedroom door and nail your ass right

to the mattress so you'll never doubt what I really want again as long

as you live."



"Really," I said, between breaths -- very deep breaths, too. His mouth

was getting damn close to my ear. "You promise you'll be gentle with

me?"



"Uh-uh," he said, as he sucked my earlobe into his mouth and nibbled

it for a few seconds. "In fact," he said, in that deep, husky voice

that never fails to turn me on, "I would go so far as to say I will

definitely not be gentle with you."



Oh, Jesus. How the hell does he always know exactly what I want? I

swear I don't know. I just know I can't get enough of him.



I started to pull him down on the sand, but he was way ahead of me. He

put his arms around me and laid me down so that I was on top of him,

lying between his legs, and he was kissing and touching me in a way

that made me think I might be pretty damn tired and sore in the

morning -- and pretty goddamn happy, too.



The only trouble was, I knew there was a good chance the others would

be coming along soon, and the moon was still shining brightly. Scully

could deal with it if she saw us like this, but I was reasonably

certain that Jim and Jill would have a lot harder time with it.



"Daniel, stop," I said, none too convincingly. "We can't do this

here."



"Too much sand?" Daniel murmured, pushing my shirt off my shoulders

and nuzzling at my throat.



"Too damn public," I said, putting my hands on his shoulders and

reluctantly rolling off him. "Unless you're feeling way more

exhibitionistic than usual, we need to get the hell back to the house

before I start ripping your clothes off."



I got to my feet, dusted the sand off my jeans and reached down to

help him up.



"You know something?" Daniel said as he took my hand and pulled

himself to a standing position. "That's the first intelligent thing

you've said all night."



"Fuck you, Reilly," I said, softly, taking him in my arms.



"I'd rather do it the other way around, but whatever," he said, with

an evil grin, and then he kissed me gently. "Come on, lover," he said.

"Let's go."



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



Thursday

6 a.m.



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



As Daniel Saw It



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



"Daniel?"



I felt a soft hand on my cheek and opened my eyes. It was Dana, of

course, kneeling beside the bed, looking beautiful as always with

those red curls all anyhow, her eyes unmade-up and blue as the sea.

Normally, when I'm off duty, I sleep like a log. That she can wake me

this way still surprises me.



That I want her to surprises me even more.



"Mmm," I said, sitting up. "What time is it?"



"It's 6 a.m.," she said, smiling her apology. "But you said you wanted

to get up early today."



"What exactly was I on when I said that?" I said, rubbing my eyes. I

hear her soft laugh.



"As best I can recall," she says, amused, "we were eating dinner and

you were telling Sleeping Beauty here," indicating Fox, "that the two

of you should get up and go for a walk before breakfast, and you asked

me to wake you."



"Obviously, I'd had too much to drink," I said, and she laughed again.

I smiled back, then looked over at Fox, who was sleeping peacefully

for the first time since we returned from Russia. It seemed a shame to

wake him ...



I looked back at Dana. She wasn't looking at me; she was looking at

Fox, with that same mixture of love and sorrow that always comes over

her when, in an unguarded moment, she lets herself see him as he is.



For a moment I just watched her, remembering how he and I had made

love last night, how greedily I drank in the sight and sound and scent

of my lover's passion, more drunk on him than I could ever be on the

wine ...



And here was Dana, who loves him, who would give her life for him, who

has given up more for him than I think he'll ever know and has done it

in spite of the heartache it's caused her, done it over and over with

incredible courage and poise.



Her lips were trembling just slightly as she watched him sleep, but I

knew her courage hadn't deserted her; it was still there, calm and

strong.



God, life can be perverse sometimes.



"He'll always love you, Dana," I said, and it startled her. It

startled me, too. I wasn't sure exactly where that had come from.



She smiled at me, though: a sad little smile, painful to see, yet

beautiful, as everything about her is.



"I know he will," she said, but there were tears in her eyes. "I love

him, too, and I think, I hope, that, in time, we can go back to where

we were with each other before ... all this happened. But it's so

hard, Daniel, and I'm so afraid. I don't want things to change between

us."



"Things change whether you want them to or not," I said, and I took

her hand. "You're a Navy brat. You should know by now that you can't

hold back the tide."



"I know that," she said, and the smile faded, just a little. "I just

don't want it to wash everything away. I want to keep what we have ...

forever. I'm just selfish, I guess."



Selfish. I doubt Dana even knows the meaning of that word, it's so

alien to everything she is and does.



No -- when it comes to Fox, I'm the one who's selfish and greedy. I do

love him and want him for himself alone, but last night as we lay in

each other's arms I knew that with every kiss, every touch, I was

taking back what was mine, repossessing him from Alex Krycek and

Kristen Kilar and everyone else who's ever used him and left him hurt.



But I can never reclaim him from Dana. He was hers first, and he will

always be hers, as she will always be his. I wouldn't change that if I

could. I love them both, and I love what they are to each other; it

hurt to see how much distance there still was between them. It was

painfully clear every time they spoke to each other, every time they

didn't touch each other. All their attempts just kept falling short,

leaving them just a bit more wary, a bit more afraid to open up again.



I sighed, without meaning to, and she looked at me quickly, then away,

her face flushed with shame. She knew I'd caught the look in her eyes.



"I should go get dressed," she said, getting up. "I've got so much to

do today."



"No, don't," I said, reaching for her other hand. "Stay here a while."



"Stay?" she said, sounding completely confused.



"Stay," I repeated, as I threw the covers back. "Lie down for a

minute. It's cold in here."



"Daniel, are you sure?" she said, genuinely surprised.



"Sure that it's cold in here or sure I want you to lie down?" I said.

"Either way, the answer's yes."



"Well ...," she said, hesitantly, "I guess I am still a little sleepy.

If you're sure you don't mind."



"If I minded, I wouldn't have suggested it," I said, holding my arms

out to her. "Come on, let me hold you for a minute. I haven't been

able to do that for a long time."



She smiled at that. "It has been a long time," she said, very softly.

"And I've missed it."



"So have I," I said, still holding out my arms to her.



Finally, she gave in. She slid into the bed and nestled into my arms

with a little sigh that could break your heart. Well, it could break

mine, anyway. Somehow, while I was dealing with all these convoluted

events and complicated relationships, I forgot about the one and only

uncomplicated relationship in my life.



And I need that ... I need it more than I'll ever be able to tell her.



"You feel good," I said, and I kissed her forehead. She did, too: all

warm and soft and small and female. That may not be my first

preference, but I can still appreciate it, if only from an aesthetic

point of view. With Dana, it's a little more than that, though.



I don't think I'll ever tell her that; but then, I'm not sure she

needs to be told.



"You feel good, too," she whispered. She didn't say anything else for

a long time, and I thought she might have fallen asleep until she

spoke again.



"Daniel, what's going on with him?" she said, in a tiny, hesitant

voice, so unlike her usual speech.



"Maybe you should ask him that yourself," I said, but she shook her

head, her hair making a slight rustling sound against my chest.



"I can't ask him," she said, pressing her body just a little closer to

mine. "Every time I've tried, he turns and walks away."



"Did he do that while you were in Boca Raton?" I asked in some

surprise.



"No," she said. "We've been so busy there wasn't time to talk, I

suppose, although something in me keeps telling me he'd find the time

if he really wanted to talk."



"That may be true," I said, sliding my free hand into her hair. She

likes that, and so do I. "Although I think the problem is more one of

overload than avoidance."



"What does that mean?" she asked, turning her head to look up at me.



"Well," I said, and then paused. "It's ... he and I have had some

trouble lately, too, Dana."



"I know," she said, softly, and she kissed my cheek. "I mean, I

noticed the tension. He didn't tell me about it. But is it all right

now?"



"Yeah, it's all right," I said, and I held her closer. "It just took a

lot of conversation to get to that point, and I think he's about

talked out right now."



"So I just wait," she said, sadly. "At least I've got plenty of

practice."



"There's nothing to wait for, Dana," I said. "Maybe he hasn't said

anything to you, but I haven't heard or seen anything that would make

me think he's withdrawing from you on purpose."



"Even if it's accidental, Daniel, it's still a problem," she said.

"It's affecting our work. This last case was the worst yet; I warned

him about Alex Krycek, and he wouldn't listen to me. What happens next

time?"



"Dana, I don't know," I said. "As I said, you really ought to ask him

that."



"How can I, when he never has time for me?" she whispered, sliding her

head just a little lower. I know why she does that; she says she likes

to listen to my heartbeat. She told me that when she was staying with

me after her hand surgery, and it touched me deeply. It touches me

even more deeply now.



"He's got time now," I said. "I'm going to wake him up, and then I

think I'll go see if Jill wants to go for that walk with me."



"Daniel, no," she said, pushing herself off me. "You don't have to do

that."



She didn't really seem alarmed, just reluctant. Whether it was at the

prospect of my leaving her alone with Fox or at my taking a walk with

Jill, I didn't know. And to be honest, it didn't matter: I knew, in

spite of her protests, that she really did want to be alone with him.



And that was okay with me. It's been a long time since I worried about

that.



I rolled over to the other side of the bed and touched Fox's shoulder

to wake him. He opened his eyes slowly.



"Morning, sleepyhead," I said, smiling at him. He's so beautiful when

he wakes up.



"Good morning to you, too," he said, in a voice thick with sleep, and

then he smiled. "I see we have company."



"Yeah, I'm trying to persuade Dana to stay for a minute," I said. "I'm

going to go for a walk, and I thought maybe she could keep you out of

trouble."



"Can't be done," he said, raising himself on one elbow and leaning

toward me for a kiss.



I leaned over and kissed him and smoothed the hair back from his

forehead. "Why don't you see if you can persuade her?" I said.



"How do you propose I do that?" Fox said, looking at Dana with that

half-tender, half-wary expression he gets when they're not getting

along.



"You're asking me?" I said, and they both laughed.



"Hey, you're the one who was married, not me," Fox said, flopping back

down on his pillow.



"So that makes me the expert on women, I suppose," I said, and I

ruffled his hair. Sometimes I think I shouldn't do that, but he seems

to like it, and God knows I do. "I have only one suggestion, lover," I

said, more quietly.



It amazes me sometimes how quickly he can become absolutely focused. I

suppose it was the endearment that got his attention; I'd never called

him that before unless it was just the two of us.



"And what might that be?" he said, just as quietly.



"Talk to her," I said.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



This is going to sound very strange, but I didn't want Daniel to

leave. It _had_ been a long time since I'd been in his arms; the last

time, in fact, was a couple of weeks before he was shot.



To be honest, I was a bit on edge about Daniel, much as I love him,

just because Jill was there. All the little signs of Daniel's

affection that I had come to take for granted -- the hugs, the kisses,

the hand-holding -- were on hold for now. I couldn't bring myself to

be that familiar with Daniel in her presence, knowing that all that --

and more -- had once been part of their relationship and now was not.



In fact, it's entirely possible that, if she hadn't been there, I

would have spent at least some of my nights in Daniel's bed. We'd done

that before in times of stress; it was, of course, entirely platonic,

but I liked being close to him, and Mulder had made it perfectly clear

that he didn't mind.



Being in bed with Mulder was, of course, a horse of a different color.



For several minutes after Daniel left, I just lay there, wrapped up in

the sheets still warm from Daniel's body, and wondered what it was

that Daniel thought it was so important that I hear.



Mulder didn't move, either, or say anything, and that made me even

more apprehensive.



It was Mulder who finally broke the silence.



"You're nervous about being here with me," he said, his voice level,

but I knew he was hurt. I don't know how I knew, but I knew.



"Not about you," I said, rolling over on my side to face him."I'm

nervous about whatever it is that Daniel wants you to tell me."



"I am, too," Mulder said, brushing one strand of hair off my forehead.

"I don't want to upset you."



All right, that was ... terrifying. It was so terrifying that I

actually considered telling him to keep it to himself for the next

century or so.



That was too cowardly, and anyway, Mulder deserved better from me.



"Well, you have to tell me now or I'll be even more upset," I said,

reasonably enough, I thought.



Mulder fell silent. He was thinking hard; I could almost see the

wheels turning in his head.



"It started after the Paper Hearts case," he said, slowly, as though

he still wasn't sure he should say this. "He called me into his office

the day Daniel got out of the hospital."



"That must have been unpleasant," I said.



Mulder just shrugged. "I didn't enjoy getting chewed out, but it

wasn't too bad. You know, Skinner's built like a brick shithouse, and

when he's angry and his muscles are tense, it's just that much more

evident."



"Is that a fact?" I said, amused in spite of myself. "I never really

noticed."



"Yeah, like hell you didn't," Mulder said, smiling at me. "You know as

well as I do that Skinner looks good enough to eat, with or without a

spoon. Take that statement any way you like."



"I wasn't thinking anything except that I believe you're wasting your

time," I said, but I was still smiling. "Skinner's straight and you're

committed."



"Very happily, too, thank you," Mulder said. "But shit, Scully, I'm

not made of stone. I've been known to check Skinner out from time to

time, but that's as far as it goes."



"Uh-huh," I said, thoroughly unconvinced.



"Well, okay, maybe I occasionally indulge in a minor fantasy or two,

but it's just idle thought," Mulder said, a bit sheepishly. "It

doesn't have anything to do with what I feel for Daniel. Even if I

were attracted to someone else, I'd never put our relationship at risk

that way. Never. Besides, Skinner would probably beat the shit out of

me if he knew what I was thinking when he turns his back on me."



I laughed aloud in spite of myself. "You never cease to amaze me,

Mulder," I said.



"I hope not," he said, smiling back at me. "Anyway, as I was saying:

We were there to talk about the Paper Hearts case and my OPR hearing,

but during the conversation he told me he'd had a phone call from

Georgiana Reilly."



My heart skipped about two beats, the next pulse striking with such a

resounding thud that I almost imagined Mulder could hear it. I'm

pretty sure he could feel it.



"What did she want to tell him?" I whispered.



"Just exactly what you think she wanted to tell him," Mulder said,

looking me straight in the eye. "She was calling to out me."



"And did she?" I said, my throat dry.



"Not exactly," Mulder said. "I mean, she told him, all right. But she

didn't out me because, it seems, AD Skinner already knew."



"Oh, my God," I said, putting my hands on my head. This was worse than

I'd imagined. "How?"



"How did he know?" Mulder said. "I asked him that, too."



"So what did he say, Mulder?" I asked, impatiently. He loves to spin

out a yarn, whether he's trying to get me involved in another X File

or just explaining his latest theories on intergalactic conspiracy.



Yet now that I looked at him more closely, I began to wonder whether

there wasn't something more behind this dilatory recitation than just

Mulder's love of drama.



"Mulder, what aren't you telling me?" I demanded. This was beginning

to frighten me just a bit.



"Scully," he began, then stopped. "Look," he said, with a sigh, "I'll

tell you, but you've got to promise me you're not going to blame

yourself, all right?"



"Blame myself?" I said. "Mulder, for God's sake, tell me. Was it

something I said?"



"No, nothing like that," he said, shaking his head firmly. "It was

someone else. Look," he said, turning to face me again. "Skinner told

me not to worry, that he already knew and it didn't matter."



"He doesn't care?" I said. "I mean, I know it's not technically

against Bureau policy ..."



"He doesn't seem to care," Mulder said. "He said something about not

caring if I wanted to fuck the entire offensive line of the Washington

Redskins. I was so close to telling him I'd like to try that ..."



"Thank God you didn't," I said. "And then?"



"I thanked him and I asked him how he'd found out," Mulder said, and I

thought I saw pity in his eyes. He was pitying me? But why?



"Mulder, what aren't you telling me?" I said.



"He said," Mulder said, slowly, "that he got a phone call last year

from a federal prisoner who claimed to have information about me that

Skinner might want. He said he went to see this prisoner, who was

incarcerated at Cumberland FCI in Maryland."



Oh, my God. Now it was my turn to look away. "I suppose," I said,

slowly, "there's no need for me to ask who that prisoner was."



"It was Josh Larrimore," he said. He put one hand on my shoulder.

"It's not your fault, Scully; nothing bad came of it anyway, so let's

just forget about it, all right?"



"I can't," I said. I felt like crying. I still couldn't bring myself

to look at him. "Mulder, there's no telling who else Josh may have

told. For all we know, he may have told the Navy, too. He's vindictive

enough."



"Yes, he is," Mulder said. "And he did. He sent several letters to the

Bureau of Personnel, Scully."



I used to wonder what people meant about breaking into a cold sweat.



I didn't have to wonder any longer. It was happening.



"Were any of them about Daniel?" I asked, and I heard my voice quiver.



"Every one of them was about Daniel," he said. "But Skinner's not

without friends in the Navy; for that matter, neither are you.

Evidently, he was able to persuade certain highly placed officers --

several of whom know the Scully name quite well -- that Josh was

acting out of jealousy because you went back to Daniel after Daniel's

testimony helped put Josh in the penitentiary."



"So what happened to the letters?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to

moisten my lips. My mouth was dry as a desert.



"No one seems to know," Mulder said. "Put it behind you, Scully. It's

over. He can't hurt you or anyone else now. You need closure for that

relationship; you deserve it."



"Mulder, closure is rather an abstract concept," I said, still a

little shakily. "Maybe an impossible one. For some relationships,

there is no closure, and it's a waste of time to try to find it."



I felt Mulder's arm shift under me as he laid me gently on my back and

rolled onto his side, facing me.



"If you don't find it, you may not be able to move on," he said,

softly brushing my hair off my face. "And you need to move on, Scully.

It's time."



"I can't," I whispered. "I don't know how."



It was hard to talk; for some reason, Mulder's touch was having a much

more profound effect on me than usual.



"Why not?" he asked, still running his fingers through my hair.

"Scully, I'm not going to feel betrayed if you fall in love."



"Won't you?" I said.



"No, I won't," he said. "I wish you could believe that. I see you and

Jim getting closer every time you see each other, but you're still

holding back and I think it's because of me."



"Jim and I are friends," I said. "Nothing more than that."



"I think it is more than that," he said, gently. "And that's not a bad

thing, Scully. What are you so afraid of?"



"I'm not afraid," I said, although that wasn't quite true. I was

afraid: afraid that, after all he and I had been through, I was about

to forget all those hard-learned lessons of the past four years and

let myself hope for something I could never have.



"I think you are afraid," Mulder said. "And I think it has a lot more

to do with Jim Reilly than with Josh Larrimore."



Damn him, he was still touching me. I felt shaky and fluttery and hot

all at the same time, and confused.



Very confused.



"I'm not afraid of Jim," I said, and I put my hand over his. I

couldn't think with him touching me that way. "But I'm very afraid of

losing you."



"That's not going to happen," Mulder said, softly. "How many times do

I have to tell you that?"



I laughed, shakily. "I don't know," I said. "A hundred? A thousand? I

can't help it; I have no ... template ... for this relationship."



"Do we need one?" he asked. "Can't we just be what we are?"



I couldn't answer that one. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I

shook my head. "I don't know," I whispered. "I always thought so."



"Scully," Mulder said, "I love you. I'll always love you. But what I

feel for you is different from what I feel for Daniel, and different

from what you're beginning to feel for Jim. It's no less real, and no

less likely to last, just because it's not sexual."



"It's not sexual for you, Mulder," I said, and I reached up to touch

his face. "As you've pointed out before, I am straight. I can't feel

what I feel for you without wanting you; that's just the way I am."



"I know that," he said, and there was nothing but compassion in his

eyes. "It's always going to be painful, for both of us, unless maybe

the day comes that you can't take it anymore. I hope that doesn't

happen, but if it does, it does. You deserve a real relationship with

a man who can love you in every way there is."



"You love me in all the ways that matter," I whispered, and I kissed

him. His kiss was soft and sweet, as it always is.



I don't think the day will ever come that I won't want that anymore.

I'm sure of it.



We lay there for a long time in silence, and I, at least, was feeling

more peaceful and relaxed than I had in a long time. Sometimes, there

is no real substitute for physical closeness. I need to remember that.

Even if it isn't sexual, it's nice to be the only woman in his life

...



But I wasn't, was I? I thought, shuddering as the memory forced its

way into my conscious thought. There was one more ghost to be laid to

rest, and it was a big one. I couldn't let it stay there, chilling the

air between us and slowly killing our trust in each other.



"Mulder," I said, reluctantly, "there is one more thing we need to

talk about."



"God, Scully, have a little pity," he said, groaning dramatically.

"This is one hell of a lot of talking for a guy. I'm beginning to see

why straight guys go so pale when women say they need to talk."



"Mulder, I'm serious," I said, and he immediately dropped the

histrionics. He could tell I meant it.



"What is it, then?" he said, quietly.



"It's ..." I began, and then stopped. I had no idea how to say this.



"Is this something else about Josh?" Mulder asked, looking very

concerned.



"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's not Josh. It's ... Mulder, while

I was in jail, someone put a folder in my cell."



I stopped again. I didn't want to do this. I really didn't.



"Something in that folder upset you?" Mulder asked, very gently.



I nodded.



"Can you tell me what it was?"



I swallowed hard. "Photographs," I said. "Of you and ... someone

else."



Mulder went very still. "Alex Krycek?" he asked nervously.



"No, not Krycek," I said. I should have been surprised by that, I

suppose, but on some level I think I always knew that something had

happened between those two. It was the only real explanation for

Mulder's intense hatred of Krycek.



"Who was it, Scully?" Mulder said. He was worried; more than that, he

was a bit frightened, I suppose.



No matter how little I wanted to, I had to tell him. I couldn't leave

him hanging like that.



"It was a woman named Kristen Kilar," I said, my throat feeling as dry

and gritty as sandpaper. "It seems someone ... set you up, Mulder."



There was a long silence.



"That wasn't what you think, Scully," Mulder said, quietly. "You have

to believe that."



"I do," I said quickly, putting one hand on his upper arm. "Really, I

do. I saw the notes in the case file, Mulder. I know why you went to

her."



"I thought she'd kill me," Mulder said, in a dull, flat tone. "And at

that time, that was exactly what I wanted."



"I know," I said, and I laid my head against his chest again. "And I'm

so, so sorry that you had to go through that. I'm even more sorry that

someone apparently manipulated you into that situation."



"I can't see how," he said, but he was thinking hard. His drive to

investigate, to understand, will surface at the oddest times.



"I'm less interested in how than in why," I said.



"Why is easy," he said, thoughtfully. "Blackmail. I suppose they sent

you those pictures because they wanted to make you angry at me, to

make you talk."



"That was my conclusion," I said, as matter-of-factly as I could,

although in reality, it was killing me to have to think about this, to

talk about it, especially when I was lying in Mulder's bed with my

arms around him.



He noticed, too.



"It hurt you pretty badly," he said, softly. "I'm sorry, Scully."



I shook my head, almost in annoyance. "It's not your fault," I said.

"I never blamed you for anything."



"There's a very important unspoken 'but' there, Scully," Mulder said.



I nodded. "I just ... well, when I saw the photographs, I thought ...

I mean, I had thought ..." I stopped. I couldn't bring myself to admit

it.



But this was Mulder, and I didn't really have to tell him. No matter

how much anger and distance there's been, he still understands me.



He held me a little more closely, his lips warm and gentle against my

temple.



"Nothing happened, Scully," he said, and he kissed my forehead

lightly. "And nothing ever will. If I ever really made love with a

woman, it would be you."



It would be you.



For the first time, I realized how badly I'd wanted to hear him say

that. Yet now that he had, I could hear the finality of his choice.



If. If he did.



But he never would.



I'd known that for so long; now, it was time to accept it.



I pressed myself closer to him, taking his head between my hands and

pulling him toward me for a kiss. "I love you, Mulder," I whispered as

I pulled back.



"You'd better," he said, with a shaky laugh. "You see what happens to

me when you're not around?"



"I see," I whispered, and I kissed him again. "And I'll always be

around when you need me. Nothing could make me leave."



"Don't say that," Mulder whispered back. "You're tempting fate,

Scully."



"Since when are you superstitious?" I asked, pulling back so I could

see his face.



"Since it comes to anything that might take you from me," he said, and

he held me close. That quieted me, as always. "It's all over and done

with, Scully," he said, his lips nuzzling into my hair. "Forget it. My

career is safe -- and so is yours, which is far more important to

humanity."



"If you're right about what we've been investigating for almost four

years, your career could be worth everything to humanity," I said,

holding him tightly. "I know it's worth everything in the world to

me."



"You're a minority of one," he said, and he kissed the top of my head

quickly. "But thanks anyway."



I didn't answer him. I was exhausted by the effort of this long, but

entirely necessary conversation. "I need to go back to sleep," I

mumbled, laying my head on his chest again.



"Sleep, then," he said. "I'll stay here with you until you wake up."



"Stay with me forever," I said, but I was already drifting off. I

didn't hear his answer.



I didn't need to hear. I already knew.



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



As Jill Saw It



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



Go walking with me, he said.



We won't go very far, he said.



And we'll stop the minute you get tired.



Daniel is such a liar sometimes.



When he asked me, I envisioned a slow stroll down the beach. I had

completely forgotten that he had a fitness exam that day, and that

he'd be even more determined than before to prove to himself how fit

and healthy he really was.



The slow stroll turned into the Martha's Vineyard Death March. By the

time we finished, my legs were burning, my throat was dry from gulping

cold air and I was freezing to death because the perspiration was

making my clothes damp.



It was not one of our better moments, and I'll admit it: I was

thoroughly annoyed when we finally got back to the house. I was so

tired I just collapsed on the front steps, when all I wanted to do was

head straight for the shower and then go back to bed. I suggested to

Daniel that he do the same, so he'd be rested up for his physical.



He made a rather odd face when I said that.



"I don't think I can do that," he said, apologetically, as he sat down

beside me. "I mean ... Fox and Dana are in there, and I don't think

they want to be interrupted."



"Excuse me?" I said. I couldn't have heard him right, could I?



"They're just ... taking a nap, I guess," Daniel said. "They've done

it before."



"And that doesn't bother you?" I asked, amazed.



"No," he said, so firmly that I had to believe him. "It doesn't bother

me. I know that sounds strange, but it doesn't. Fox honestly isn't

interested in her that way."



"She's interested in him, though," I said without thinking, then put

my hands to my face as I realized what I'd done. "I'm sorry, Daniel,"

I said. "I shouldn't have said that."



He smiled and shook his head. "I already knew, believe me."



"I was right the first time," I said, leaning back on my elbows. "I

don't understand the way you three do things. I can believe that he's

not interested, but I can't quite believe he wouldn't do it just to

make her happy."



"I don't think that's what either of them wants," Daniel said, wiping

his forehead with the sleeve of his Navy sweatshirt.



"I wouldn't, either," I said, unthinkingly. I didn't realize what I'd

said until I noticed that Daniel had stopped talking.



"It wasn't like that, Jill," he said, very quietly, looking down at

the gravel walk. "It really wasn't."



"Daniel, I'm sorry," I said. "I wasn't talking about you and me ..."



"Maybe you were," he said, interrupting me, which is unusual for him.

He normally has such perfect manners.



I thought for a minute. "Okay, so maybe I was, Dr. Freud," I said, and

that made him smile. "Maybe I've been wondering for the last three

years whether you ever really wanted me."



"I did," Daniel said, firmly. "I very definitely did. I used to lie

there afterward, looking at you while you slept. I'd think of how

beautiful you were, how soft and sweet and pretty, and I'd wonder what

the hell was wrong with me that I didn't let this happen more often."



"I wondered that, too," I said, softly. "When I found out, though, I

started wondering why you ever let it happen."



"Because I loved you," Daniel said, looking at me with those beautiful

eyes. "Because you were beautiful and it felt good to touch you;

because you were the only person on earth who made me feel loved and

accepted. Isn't that reason enough?"



"It is for me," I said, and without even thinking, I leaned over and

kissed him. It wasn't until I sat back and saw the look in his eyes

that I remembered: I hadn't kissed him in almost four years.



For a minute we just sat there, staring at each other, wondering what

to do next, I suppose.



Daniel decided for us, as he usually does. He bent forward and he

kissed me again, his hand resting gently on the back of my head. It

was a sweet kiss, a loving, tender kiss, the kind he always used to

give me.



"God, I've missed you, Jill," Daniel said, a bit hoarsely, resting his

forehead against mine. "I never wanted you to go out of my life. I

wish I had the right to ask you not to."



"I never wanted that either," I said, and for once I didn't care that

I was crying. "I'm not sure I want it now. There's a part of me that

wants to call my nursing supervisor right now and tell her I'm going

to stay here and get my old job back at Johns Hopkins, but I can't. I

can't stay here where you are, Danny, because there are some things I

just can't do yet, and one of them is to watch you walk into a bedroom

with someone else."



He flinched at that. "Jill, I'm ..." he began, but I interrupted him.



"I know you're sorry," I said, and I laid one hand on his forearm,

stopping him. "I'm sorry, too -- for a lot of things. But this is no

one's fault; it's just a fact. Dana and Fox started out as friends and

they've never been anything more, no matter how complicated their

friendship gets. That's not how it was with us."



"I know that," Daniel said, slowly. "I know it makes a difference. I

hate it, though. I wish we could be friends."



"We are friends," I said, letting my hand slide down his arm and

taking his hand. "We've been friends since we were kids. But we're not

_just_ friends, Danny, and we never will be. I can't do what Dana does

-- I can't sit on the couch and wait for youu to emerge from the

bedroom, I can't see you with someone else and not be hurt by it. It's

not because he's a man, either; it's just that he's where I wanted to

be, where I used to be, with you. I can't get around that; not yet."



Daniel nodded, swallowing the way he does when his feelings run deep.

"Fox has it easy in some respects," he said. "He's never doubted what

he was, and he's never been with a woman or wanted to be with one.

It's all so clear for him. He's never hurt anyone the way I hurt you."



"Was it so hard for you?" I said, stroking the back of his hand with

my thumb.



"Very," he said. "It took me a long time to understand that falling in

love with you, wanting to be with you, didn't make me straight; it

just made me a gay man who'd fallen in love with one particular

woman."



"Me?" I said.



"You," he said, holding my hand more tightly. "You're just that

special, Jill."



"Flattery will get you nowhere," I said, but without thinking, I laid

my head on his arm.



"It got me twelve of the happiest years of my life," Daniel said,

leaning his head toward me, pressing his cheek against my hair.



"Aren't you happy now?" I said.



"Yes," he said, with such assurance that I knew he meant it. "I'm

happy -- in most respects. But I still miss you, and I still hate what

I did to you."



"You have to stop that," I said, softly so my voice wouldn't break.

"You have to put that behind you. I understand why it happened. That

doesn't make it hurt less, but it makes me much less angry, at you and

at myself. It's time for both of us to move on."



"And for you," Daniel said, turning to look at me again, "that means

back to San Diego."



I nodded. "It means back to San Diego," I said. "I don't have much of

a life there, Danny, but what I do have is my own, and I'm beginning

to see that as a positive thing. It's going to be a long time before I

can think about doing anything else. I have to be able to live without

you in my life, and to be happy that way, before I can have you back

in my life and be happy about that, too."



I thought he might pull away from me then, but he didn't. He just sat

there, holding my hand, his head bent protectively over mine,

holding me close with his other arm.



"I do love you, Jill," he said, quietly. "I always have. I always

will."



He took his arm away then, but he kept hold of my hand; he raised it

to his lips and kissed my palm.



"I don't begin to understand how it works," he said, slowly, still

holding my hand, "but I know, as sure as I'm sitting here, that on

some level, you and I are still part of each other and always will be.

I never want that to change."



"Do you really believe that, Danny?" I asked. "Do you think it's like

C.S. Lewis said, that when two people make love they create a bond

that's eternal, beyond time and space?"



"I think it is," he said, pulling me closer. "I mean, I don't know

about the rest of the world, but I'm pretty sure it's true of you and

me."



I tucked my head under his chin and nestled against him like I used

to, listening to his heart beating. I felt hot tears rising and

soaking into his shirt, but I didn't try to stop them; they were tears

of happiness, not sorrow, and I didn't want them to stop.



Then I felt Daniel's fingers under my chin, gently tipping my face up

to his. Daniel said he could never hide anything from me, but really,

it was the other way around: I could never hide anything from him. He

didn't just see my heart or know my heart, he _was_ my heart, from the

very beginning right up until the end.



For one fleeting instant, I was afraid: afraid of loving him again,

afraid of wanting him, afraid that I couldn't look at him without

recoiling from the memory of him kissing another man. I wanted to

remember him the way he looked when we were at peace with each other. 



I turned my face upward toward his again. 



And it happened again -- that strange sense of deja vu, that feeling

that time had turned in on itself, and it was Daniel looking back at

me, the Daniel I'd known and loved for more than half my life, with

eyes the color of midnight and a smile so gentle it could break your

heart.



I couldn't give him everything he wanted from me, but that didn't mean

there was nothing I could give him.



So I kissed him, very gently, stretching up to reach his mouth just as

I'd always done it when we were together.



It was goodbye, yes; but it was also a promise that I would come back,

someday. Maybe not someday soon, but someday ...



Someday.



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



December 9, 1996



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



As Mulder Saw It



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



"A weather anomaly near the Mexican border," Scully said, with her

typical I-can't-believe-this-crap lift of the eyebrow. "All right,

Mulder, I'm sure you're going to tell me there's an X File in there

somewhere."



I nodded. I'd rather eat a bug than let Scully know it, but I love

this moment in our investigations. People think Scully's skepticism

annoys me, but it doesn't usually; when she challenges me at the

outset of a case, it's a good feeling, a solid feeling, as though

we've hooked ourselves together again, that we're joined in the only

way we really can be, and I do love it.



She'd probably _make_ me eat a bug if she knew that.



Anyway, I was opening my mouth to explain when Scully's favorite

oldies station took one step too far in the pop-music direction. It

was REO Speedwagon, which I particularly hate. It's so fucking sappy.



But there they were, singing about how they can't fight this feeling

any longer and it's grown to be more than friendship and all that

crap. Without even asking her, I reached for the knob to change the

station.



Then I felt a cool hand on mine.



"Don't," she said. "I want to hear this one."



"You want to hear this one?" I said, disbelievingly. "Scully, you hate

this kind of schmaltz."



"I just want to hear it this once," she said, sounding a little

nettled. "I'm not going lite rock on you, I promise."



Shrugging, I put my hand back on the wheel and went back to thinking

about how I was going to sell Scully on the need to investigate yellow

rain.



And then I realized Scully was singing along with the music; under her

breath, so I couldn't really hear, but her lips were definitely

moving. Her eyes, however, were fixed on something far in the

distance, almost as though she wasn't really here with me right now.



That was strange: Strange enough, in fact, to make me stop to listen

what she was singing to. I'd never really listened to this song

before; I hate that kind of music. Normally, so does she.



But this one had gotten her attention.



And as I listened, I knew why.



The chorus. The chorus, that says it's time to bring the ship into the

shore ...



Scully had found her song.



Now I had to find a way to survive it.



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



Two weeks later.



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



As Scully Saw It



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



El Chupacabra. El Chupabullcrap, I say.



The only thing worse than chasing down Mexican goat suckers is the

realization that our next case may well be even more weird, and that

my fellow agents are probably concocting new derogatory nicknames for

me and Mulder even before we get the paperwork filed.



I must love him. I'd have killed him by now if I didn't.



I was so absorbed in the frustratingly bureaucratic multi-part expense

forms that I didn't even hear Daniel come in. If Mulder hadn't stood

up, looking very surprised, I probably would have sat there forever,

oblivious.



"This is a surprise," Mulder said, and he sounded as though he meant

it. "What brings you here this time of day?"



"I had a couple of things I wanted to tell you," Daniel said, dropping

his cover on Mulder's desk. It took me a second to realize what I was

seeing: There was gold braid on the bill of his cover.



I whirled around in my chair and looked at Daniel's shoulderboards.

Sure enough, there were three full stripes there.



"Oh, Daniel, why didn't you tell us?" I said, rising and giving him a

hug. "You didn't even tell me you were up for commander."



"You got promoted?" Mulder said, looking a little wounded.



"I did," Daniel said, but he didn't look as happy as a man should when

he's just gotten a major promotion.



"What's wrong, Daniel?" I said, puzzled. "Don't tell me you're not

happy about the promotion. It's a big one for an officer your age --

you'll almost certainly make admiral at this rate."



"Maybe," he said, quietly. "But this promotion is kind of a good news,

bad news thing."



"What do you mean?" I asked. "What's the bad news?"



Daniel didn't answer for a moment; when he did, he spoke to Mulder.



"I have orders," he said, and I felt my heart sink.



"Orders ..." I said. "TAD orders, I hope?"



Daniel nodded; he still wasn't looking at me, though.



Mulder just looked puzzled. "What does that mean?" Mulder asked.

"What's TAD?"



"It's temporary additional duty, and it means I have to leave

Bethesda," Daniel said. "Not forever, but I'm going to be spending the

next three to six months as senior medical officer of USS George

Washington. She's a carrier, part of the U.N. peacekeeping force."



"Peacekeeping force as in ..." Mulder began, then broke off as the

realization flooded over him.



Daniel nodded.



"Bosnia," he said.







THE END ... BUT NOT FOREVER.