TITLE: Blood Ties(1/2)
AUTHOR: Dawn
E-MAIL: sunrise@avenew.com
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know
SPOILERS: Mild through season 6
RATING: PG-13 for violence and disturbing imagery
CLASSIFICATION: S, A -- with a case file thrown in
KEYWORDS: MulderTorture, Mulder/Scully UST, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY: Upon the death of his mother, Mulder learns a family secret that
will change his life forever.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter and 1013
productions. I only borrow them for entertainment purposes. Grey McKenzie is
all mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Undying gratitude to my beta reader, Laurie, and beta
reader/collaborator Donna. You guys have a way of offering encouragement
just when I need it the most. Thanks for keeping me going. This story is the
first in a possible series - you tell me what you think!
FEEDBACK: Is the icing on the cake. I'd love to hear from you!

Blood Ties (1/2)
By Dawn

The X-Files Office
Tuesday
1:30 p.m.

"Scully, you're avoiding the question," Mulder said, leaning back into his
chair at an even more precarious angle and twirling a pencil between his
fingers.

Scully looked up reluctantly from the expense report she was hunched over
and rolled her eyes. "Mulder, I realize this is a foreign concept for you,
but I'm trying to get some work done on this report. If you keep initiating
these ridiculous discussions I'm never going to finish."

"Ridiculous! Scully you wound me! I'm just trying to broaden your mind, give
you some penetrating questions to challenge your thinking and stretch your
world view."

"Mulder, I hardly think determining whether Batman or the Green Hornet had
the coolest car is going to stretch my world view."

He pouted. There really was no other word for the way his lip stuck out just
a bit and his hazel eyes turned reproachful. Scully knew, of course, that it
was all an act. Mulder was bored, and a bored Mulder could be the equivalent
of an extremely pesky little boy. Still, as much as his constant
interruptions annoyed her, she had to admit it was fascinating sometimes the
way his brain worked.

"Mulder, don't you have some files to go over? Some new report of lights in
the sky or swamp monsters or something to occupy your mind? Skinner is going
to wonder what's wrong if you don't bring him some sort of preposterous 302
soon."

The pout turned into a scowl. "There isn't anything. Even the tabloids have
been lacking in inspiration. If we still had the files I could be looking
through some of the old cases, but we both know that's pretty hard to do
with a pile of ash."

Scully was about to respond but the phone rang and she scooped it up
instead. "Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Kim. Assistant Director Skinner would like to come
down to see you and Agent Mulder. He just wanted me to be certain you would
both be available."

"Sure, Kim, we'll be here," Scully answered, her mind already working
furiously on the issue of why Skinner was coming to them instead of the
reverse.

"Thanks Agent Scully. He's on his way."

Scully hung up the phone, a frown on her face. "All right, Mulder. What did
you do?"

Mulder had discarded the pencil in favor of a paperclip that he was in the
process of shaping into some new art form.

"Huh? What's wrong, Scully?"

His face looked innocent, but there was still the matter of Skinner leaving
the sanctity of his large, comfortable office for the relative squalor of
the basement. Something was going on, and she would much rather be prepared
for it before her boss walked through that door. Which left her about three
minutes.

"Skinner is on his way down here to see us, Mulder," she said, raising one
eyebrow and shooting a pointed stare in his direction. "Why don't *you* tell
me?"

"Scullee!" Mulder replied, eyes wide with innocence. "How can you even
suggest I might have something to do with this?" When she continued to
stare, unamused, he sobered. "Scully, honest. Getting myself into trouble
with Skinner would require that something interesting had happened in my
life recently. I only wish that I had done something exciting enough to piss
Skinner off."

"Please, Mulder, I was just beginning to relax enough to enjoy the respite."

*Make that two and a half minutes* Scully thought ruefully, trying not to
smirk when her partner nearly tipped over.

Mulder guiltily pulled his feet from his desk and tried to assume a more
professional demeanor. "What brings you to no man's land, sir?"

Skinner glanced from Mulder to Scully and then away. A muscle jumped near
his jawline and he slipped both hands into his pockets.

"I needed to speak with you about something, Mulder, and I thought your
office might prove to be the better location."

Mulder studied Skinner's face, not liking what he saw written in the grim
set to his mouth and the lines of tension around his eyes. Once again he
mentally reviewed his activities of late to determine what could possibly
have landed him in the doghouse with his boss. He came up empty.

"Scully, maybe you should wait outside for a moment..."

"No. Scully, don't go anywhere," Mulder said impatiently, raising his hand.
"Sir, I don't know what this is about but I'd like you to stop beating
around the bush and come to the point. If I'm in some sort of trouble..."

Skinner cut him off before he could continue. "You aren't in any trouble,
Mulder. I'm sorry -- I never meant to give that impression." He removed his
glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he continued, his voice was
oddly gentle. "This isn't easy for me to say. I'm here to talk to you about
a personal matter that has nothing to do with the bureau."

Mulder's forehead creased in a puzzled frown. "Personal?"

Skinner took a deep breath. "I received a call about ten minutes ago from a
hospital in Connecticut. Your mother was brought there this morning. A
neighbor who was supposed to meet her for brunch became concerned when she
never showed up. She went to check on her and found her collapsed in her
living room. The neighbor called 911 and they rushed your mother to the
hospital. The doctor there determined she'd had another stroke."

Mulder, his face abruptly drained of all animation, had practically leaped
to his feet at Skinner's mention of his mother. Now he was stuffing a few
file folders into his briefcase, his eyes roaming the interior of the office
as if searching for something yet his gaze blank and unseeing. Scully
glanced at Skinner, and her stomach clenched at what she saw. Her boss' face
was grave, but with an additional measure of what could only be termed
compassion. It was obvious he was more than a little concerned about her
partner. Mulder evidently hadn't heard all Skinner needed to say.

"Mulder."

The compassion Scully had detected in Skinner's face was even more
pronounced in the utterance of that single word. Mulder continued to pack up
his things as if he hadn't heard, but when he reached for his suitcoat she
saw his hands were shaking.

"*Mulder.*"

The voice was stronger, more authoritative, yet no less sympathetic. Skinner
laid one large hand on Mulder's shoulder with a gentleness that caused
Scully to blink in surprise. At his touch the burst of adrenaline seemed to
abandon Mulder as quickly as it had come. He let the briefcase in his hand
fall to the desktop, his eyes slowly rising to meet Skinner's. Scully could
see that he knew - maybe he had known instinctively from the moment Skinner
began speaking. She could read everything in his wide-eyed stare.

*Don't say it. Please. Once you say the words it will all be real...*

"The stroke was massive. She was already gone before the paramedics arrived.
They tried everything they could to revive her but..."

Mulder dropped into his chair, his legs folding as if they were suddenly
incapable of supporting his lanky frame. He licked dry lips and swallowed
thickly, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Skinner, obviously at a loss for
what to say, plunged on.

"The doctor told me it looked as if she'd died instantly, Mulder. He assured
me she didn't suffer."

Mulder swallowed again and brought his gaze back to Skinner with what looked
to be an enormous amount of effort. Skinner winced at what he saw there.
Shock, yes, but something far deeper and more disturbing. It was as if a
terrible void had been opened up inside his agent, threatening to suck him
down until his very soul imploded from the force of it. He looked over at
Scully and saw that she shared his disquiet.

"I've already asked Kim to initiate the paperwork for your leave, Mulder,"
he said softly. "Don't worry about anything here. Take all the time you
need."

Realizing that he wasn't going to get an answer Skinner moved toward the
door, sending Scully an intent glance as he passed her. His meaning was
clear: *Take care of him.* She nodded almost imperceptibly to let him know
the message was received. Skinner paused in the doorway, struggling for the
right words. In the end, he just sighed deeply.

"I'm very sorry, Mulder. Please let me know if there's anything I can do."

Scully waited, listening to the sound of Skinner's footsteps echo down the
hallway, the rattle of elevator doors opening and shutting, and then the
deep silence. Mulder didn't move, didn't speak, barely seemed to breathe.
She struggled with her own overwhelming need to fill the silence with words,
however trite and meaningless. Just when she thought she could bear it no
longer, Mulder spoke. His voice was husky with a multitude of repressed
feelings but his eyes remained dry.

"Guess I'd better book a flight."

The words were spoken woodenly, with little or no inflection, and despite
them Mulder didn't move. He continued to stare off into space, gone
somewhere Scully didn't recognize and was sure she'd never want to visit.
After only a moment's hesitation she reached for her phone and dialed the
airline.

"Yes, I need information on flights from Washington, D.C to JFK
International." She listened, noticing that Mulder appeared to be paying
little or no attention, still lost in his own thoughts. "Five-thirty sounds
good. Yes, coach. Two."

Ahh. Good. THAT got his attention. His eyes abruptly snapped back into focus
and he was searching her face. His own expression was a mixture of
bewilderment, annoyance, and hope. Scully ignored him for the moment,
pulling out her own credit card and reading the number and expiration date,
patiently repeating herself several times for the slow-witted clerk. When
she finally hung up she just raised an eyebrow at his sharp look, daring him
to comment. As always, Mulder didn't disappoint.

"*Two*, Scully?"

"Mulder, your mother handled everything when your father died. I, on the
other hand, was by my mom's side while she made the arrangements for Ahab."

She faltered just slightly. Even after five years the wound was still
tender. The emotion in her own face must have threatened to pierce Mulder's
shell, for he looked quickly away, blinking. Scully pretended not to notice,
but filed it away for future reference. *You're going to have to let that
out sometime, Mulder.*

She got to her feet and walked over to perch on his desk, forcing him to
look at her. She wanted to touch him, to slip her hand into his for comfort,
but knew that it might provoke a display of emotion he was currently
unwilling or perhaps even incapable of handling. Instead, she poured the
comfort into her gaze, doing everything she could to open the conduit
between them. So often they communicated without speaking a single word, and
she fervently hoped that ability would serve her now.

"I want to be there for you, Mulder. Please, let me."

It nearly undid him. His hazel eyes, presently the muted gray of a cloudy
day, flooded with tears and he closed them quickly before any could escape,
biting savagely at his lower lip. When he finally managed to regain the
upper hand on his emotions, Mulder pushed himself to his feet and grabbed
the briefcase. His eyes skittered away from hers but his voice, when he
spoke was rough with emotion.

"I'll pick you up at four."

She watched him leave, quelling the words that wanted to tumble from her
lips. He had no business behind the wheel of a car right now, still reeling
from the news of his mother's death and scrambling to cope. She wanted to
protest, to urge him to leave his car at the bureau and allow her to drive
him home to pack. Instead, she held her tongue and thought about the trust
Mulder had shown by allowing her to remain at his side for what could prove
to be his most vulnerable hour. He'd given her a gift, and she vowed to
treasure it.

Lincoln Memorial Cemetery
Thursday
2:30 p.m.

It rained the day of the funeral. A steady, icy downpour that was
bone-chilling in combination with the barely-above-freezing temperature.
Scully stood close to her partner throughout the brief graveside service,
her arm linked in his so that she could shelter them both with the large
umbrella. So often Mulder had kept this same umbrella suspended carefully
over her when they were in the field and investigating under less than
optimal conditions. It felt a little odd to be returning the favor.

Not that Mulder appeared to notice. He stood rigidly at her side, staring
mutely at the coffin decked with various floral arrangements. She could feel
how desperately he was holding the pieces together, fighting against the
splintering of his soul that had begun when Skinner entered their office
just forty-eight hours earlier. Scully knew the time was fast approaching
when his sheer force of determination would no longer be sufficient and the
inevitable meltdown would occur. She wondered how much more he could take.

She watched him now, talking quietly with an elderly woman whom she'd
gathered was a former neighbor. The rain had let up for the moment, and
she'd moved away to allow Mulder some privacy as he accepted the condolences
of the few people who had come to pay Teena Mulder their final respects. On
the surface he looked fine -- a son experiencing grief over the death of his
mother, but coping with it. Scully knew better. His eyes were dark and
shadowed with weariness, his shoulders held stiffly, the smile brittle and
forced.

*Mulder, sooner or later you have to let it out. You can't keep denying the
pain.*

She was shaken from her reverie by the approach of Skinner. He'd stopped to
lay a bouquet of flowers on the casket, and gave Mulder's shoulder a small
squeeze as he passed. Scully smiled warmly at her boss, still touched by the
fact that he'd shown up at all. She knew it wasn't easy for Skinner to break
away from the day-to-day grind at the bureau, and it must have taken some
effort for him to rearrange his schedule. Even Mulder's impassive mask had
slipped a little when Skinner entered the church.

"Scully," Skinner said by way of greeting, as he joined her where she waited
next to the rental car.

"Thank you for coming, sir. I know Mulder appreciates the support."

Skinner followed her gaze to the man in question, before returning to study
her face. "How is he?"

Scully sighed, wondering whether Skinner should have the edited or uncut
version of the truth. After only slight consideration she decided he'd more
than earned the latter.

"He's not good, sir. He puts up an admirable front, but that's exactly what
it is. He's not eating, and from the circles under his eyes, I'd guess he
isn't sleeping either. I'm not sure why he feels he has to hide the fact
that he's hurting from me."

Skinner raised both eyebrows and his mouth quirked a little with something
that looked suspiciously like a smirk. "Keeps telling you he's fine?"

Caught without a leg to stand on, Scully could only wince, then smile
grudgingly. "I see your point." She decided a change of subject was in
order. "Did you fly up, sir?"

Skinner nodded. "I had some trouble with the return flight, though. I
settled on one first thing tomorrow morning, so I'm going to need a motel
room tonight. I was hoping Mulder could recommend something."

Scully rolled her eyes. "Obviously you've never had to endure Mulder's
choice of motels or you'd never suggest that." Her expression turned
thoughtful. "We've been staying at a motel until now, but we're going to be
at Mrs. Mulder's house tonight. He needs to begin going through her things.
Sir, I'm sure Mulder wouldn't object to you using the couch. It would save
you at least one expense."

Skinner looked uncertain, a small frown line creasing his brow. "I don't
know if that's such a good idea, Scully. I wouldn't want to intrude."

"Intrude on what?" Mulder's voice and sudden appearance startled them both.
He extended his hand to Skinner and they shook solemnly. "Thank you."

Skinner nodded almost imperceptibly -- message received.

"The A.D. can't catch a flight back until the morning, Mulder," Scully
explained. "I was saying I didn't think you'd mind him sleeping on the couch
at your mom's house."

"Mulder, a hotel would be just fine, if you can recommend one," Skinner
protested.

Mulder raised one hand to cut him off. "No, sir. Scully's right. It's the
least I can offer after you making the trip. There's plenty of room so it's
no imposition." When he saw Skinner still looked doubtful, he managed a
little grin. "If it will ease your conscience, sir, you can help me haul
some of the boxes out of the basement."

"You've got yourself a deal, Mulder," Skinner replied. "Actually, I'm
relieved. According to Scully you're not exactly the best source for
recommending accommodations."

Mulder turned an exaggeratedly soulful gaze on Scully. "Scully, I'm hurt.
How could you say that after all the nights we've spent in the lap of
luxury?"

"I'd hardly call places like Bert's Sleep 'N Eat the lap of luxury, Mulder,"
his partner answered dryly.

Mulder ignored her jibe and turned to his boss instead. "You can follow us,
sir. It's only about ten minutes from here."

Skinner did just that, following Mulder's blue Taurus while musing on the
man inside, thinking that Mulder had endured more than any ten men. No man
should have to be the only remaining member of his family at the ripe old
age of thirty-eight. His sister had been abducted from before his very eyes
and never returned. His father was murdered as he was about to finally
reveal the truth regarding that loss. And now his mother was dead without a
chance for reconciliation of the bitterness and anger that had sprung up
between them.

He watched Mulder and Scully as they drove, noting the way Scully's head
kept turning to regard her partner. Skinner knew she was worried about
Mulder, and rightfully so. All his casual banter at the cemetery, Skinner
suspected, was only a thin veneer of normalcy that Mulder had carefully
applied to conceal the turbulent emotions that lay just beneath.

They reached Mrs. Mulder's two-story Cape Cod home and Skinner retrieved his
overnight bag from the trunk before joining Mulder and Scully on the large
front porch. Mulder had pulled a keyring from his pocket and was fumbling to
locate the correct one. When he reached out to slip it into the lock,
Skinner saw the slight tremor in his hand. He looked over to see Scully
regarding her partner with the same troubled frown he'd seen at the
cemetery.

They stepped into the dim hallway, oppressively silent except for the faint
ticking of a clock. Mulder's face was very still, his eyes fixed on a
grouping of family pictures mounted on the wall to their left. Skinner
shifted uneasily, feeling abruptly awkward. It felt as if time had stood
still here and the house was patiently waiting for Teena Mulder to return.
Scully pulled her eyes from Mulder's face and turned to Skinner.

"I can take that upstairs for you, sir. We'll put it in one of the bedrooms
until tonight," she said, indicating the duffel in his hand.

Skinner shook his head and reached out to lift Mulder's bag from the slack
grip of his fingers. "Don't be silly, Scully. Just show me the way."

Mulder seemed to shake himself free of the daze he'd been in. "First door on
the right, Scully. That's the guest room."

Torn between wanting to allow Mulder some privacy and her own hesitancy in
leaving him alone, Scully nodded and proceeded Skinner up the long narrow
staircase. Mulder listened to the creak of old wood as they ascended for
only a moment before turning to his right and opening the door that led to
the living room.

He pulled the door shut behind him and shed his trenchcoat, dropping it onto
one of the wingback chairs. He drifted toward the overturned coffee table
that marked the spot where his mother had breathed her last breath. A
smaller end table and an ottoman had been shoved unceremoniously into a
corner, probably by the EMTs who had tried to revive her. Mulder stared at
the large open space on the floor and dropped to his knees beside it. He
placed one trembling hand on the smooth nap of the Oriental rug,
irrationally hoping to feel some trace of warmth from the body that had lain
there. All that met his fingers was cold emptiness, and something in his gut
twisted painfully.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pressed both hands to his ears, unable
to shut out the voices that echoed harshly in the silence.

*You betrayed your husband, my father.*

*Never!*

*How far back did it go?*

*SLAP! How dare you? How dare you come here and accuse me?*

*Who is my father?*

*What do you want -- to kill him again?*

*Just answer the question, Mom!*

*I am your mother and I will not tolerate any more of your questions!*

The sob that had remained clenched inside his throat broke free -- ragged,
tearing, and surfacing from a primal place that was buried too deeply to
name. Another immediately followed it, and another -- linked together in an
endless chain of grief. He folded over until his face was pressed to the
floor, perhaps to the very spot where she had crumpled dying and gasping for
breath.

Suddenly, the walls seemed to press in upon him and he found himself panting
for air. Robbed of all logic, one thought took command of his brain and
subsequently his body -- he had to get out, to get away from the ghosts that
hovered around him as an almost tangible presence. Functioning now on
autopilot, Mulder staggered to his feet, flung open the French doors, and
burst out into the frigid rain without a backward glance.

Teena Mulder's House
Thursday
3:18 p.m.

Scully descended the stairs, leaving Skinner in the guest room where he was
changing clothes. She'd already switched from her black suit to faded jeans
and an old Georgetown sweatshirt, anticipating the messy job that lay ahead.
She was certain that she'd find Mulder in the back portion of the house,
which contained a roomy kitchen and a small family room complete with
fireplace. She walked down the long hallway and through the door, already
speaking to him as she went.

"Better get out of that suit, Mulder. Armani doesn't wear well when cleaning
out a basement..."

She trailed off when she realized that both rooms were empty. In fact, it
didn't appear that anyone had entered this part of the house since before
Teena Mulder's death. A half-consumed mug of tea lay next to a folded
newspaper bearing Tuesday's date. The sink was filled with cold, congealed
dishwater and several dishes still resided in the drainer, waiting patiently
to be put away. But her heart constricted at the small, handwritten note on
the refrigerator.

*Pick up dry cleaning on Thursday*

Time had moved on and left Teena Mulder behind.

Scully tore her eyes away from the note and retraced her footsteps to the
bottom of the stairs where she nearly bumped into Skinner coming down. He'd
also changed into blue jeans along with a dark green Henley. Scully found
herself doing a double take. She was accustomed to Skinner in his "power"
clothes, and seeing him dressed so casually was more than a little
disconcerting.

"Mulder isn't upstairs, is he?" she asked, unable to stop the worry from
creeping into her voice.

Skinner frowned and shook his head. "I didn't see him, no."

Scully peered through the glass door to her right that led into the living
room, hoping to catch a glimpse of her partner. She pulled the door open and
stepped inside, her eyes following the same path that Mulder's had just
minutes earlier. She took note of the black trenchcoat carelessly tossed
onto a chair and the large open area in the middle of the floor. She'd
examined enough crime scenes to put together what had transpired in that
painfully empty space.

"Mulder?" she called softly even though the room was clearly deserted.

Skinner moved past her, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny of the dim
interior. "Well, we know he was here. The coat makes that obvious enough."

A current of cold air wrapped itself around Scully's ankles and her sharp
ears detected a soft rattling sound. She abruptly remembered the day that
now seemed very long ago, when she'd driven an agitated and slightly
confused Mulder to this house to speak with his mother. She'd stood
awkwardly in the hallway while Mulder had ushered his mother into this very
room, the closed door unable to disguise the angry voices and the sharp
crack of a slap. After Teena had stormed up the stairs, Scully had entered
an empty room to find that her partner had executed one in a string of
infamous "ditches."

Her sense of disquiet only increasing at the memory, Scully strode rapidly
to the French doors that led directly outside. Even as she reached for one
of the knobs she could see that the door was ajar.

"Scully?" Skinner asked.

"It's open. He must have gone outside." She tried to keep her voice calm and
steady, but her eyes were pulled to the abandoned coat. Skinner made the
connection.

"Wait. Let me get our coats," he urged, and she couldn't help reflecting
wryly that Skinner lapsed into command mode in a crisis.

He was back an instant later and Scully silently accepted his offering even
as she stepped out into the rain. The showers had picked up once again, and
drops pelted her exposed skin like tiny needles. A gust of wind whipped her
hair into a red cloud until she impatiently tucked the strands behind her
ears.

"I'll go around front," Skinner said, his glasses already speckled with
moisture.

Scully nodded and turned toward the backyard. "Mulder!" she called against
the wind that tried to blow the words back at her.

Her ears, attuned for the sound of his voice, heard only the pattering of
the rain on the roof and the gurgling of the water in the gutters. She
rounded the corner of the house, her heart pounding more frantically with
each step and her knees feeling weak. The spacious backyard sloped gradually
down to a rock wall, bordered on each side with lilac bushes. She almost
didn't see him at first, his still form shrouded by the steady curtain of
rain. He was seated on a lawn swing facing the wall, rocking gently.

Scully caught her lower lip between her teeth and just stood for a moment,
trying to calm her rapid breathing. The last thing she wanted to do now was
startle him. She strode purposefully across the soggy grass, circling the
lawn swing to face him. What she saw froze the words before they could leave
her mouth.

He was weeping, the tears mixing with the rain to course silently down his
cheeks. His eyes were crinkled in misery and he bit savagely at his lip
until Scully was certain he would draw blood. Only one word described the
man she saw before her, the man who had spent the last two days evading a
grief that had stalked him like a predator and now sank talons into him.
Desolate.

She blinked back her own tears and slipped onto the swing beside him,
falling into the unbroken rhythm of his rocking. When he didn't acknowledge
her presence, she reached over to put her hand over his where it rested on
the bench, gasping when her fingers encountered his icy flesh.

"Mulder, you have to come inside," she murmured, lifting his hand to rub it
briskly between her own two before moving one to cup his cheek. Even his
tears were cold on the pad of her thumb as she brushed them aside.

Mulder's eyes wandered slowly over to connect with hers, alarming her
further with his apparent disconnection from reality. Though his skin was
freezing cold and his hair and clothing were plastered to his skin, he
appeared oblivious.

"I destroyed it, Scully," he whispered brokenly. "I destroyed it."

The sudden pressure of a large hand on her shoulder wrenched a startled gasp
from Scully. She looked up into Skinner's warm brown eyes and felt an almost
giddy relief. Skinner indicated Mulder with a slight tilt of his head,
clearly asking Scully how he could help.

"We've got to get him inside and warmed up, he's going to wind up with
pneumonia," she said tersely.

Without waiting for further instruction, Skinner moved quickly to Mulder's
side and slipped one hand under his arm. "Come on, Mulder," he said gently.

Mulder didn't move or acknowledge him, only continued to rock and weep.
Skinner glanced over at Scully helplessly, then inspiration struck.

"Mulder, Scully's going to catch a cold if we stay out here. Let's go
inside."

It worked. At the mention of his partner Mulder's eyes lost their blankness
and darted to her face before fixing on Skinner. He nodded slightly and
allowed Skinner to pull him to his feet and lead him back to the house.
Scully directed him back to the family room where Skinner deposited his
charge onto the sofa and hastened to build a fire in the fireplace. Scully
pulled an afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped her now violently
shaking partner in it after stripping off his tie and soaking dress shirt.

"I'll be right back, Mulder," she said soothingly, smoothing his wet hair
back from eyes still overly bright. "I'm just going to get you some dry
clothes."

Skinner paused in the middle of stacking wood to catch her eye, nodding that
he would watch over Mulder. By the time Scully returned with several fluffy
towels and a pair of sweats her boss had managed to ignite a small blaze
that was already driving the chill from the room. She dropped the clothing
into Mulder's lap, shooting Skinner a pleading look before heading for the
kitchen to make coffee.

Ten minutes later she was seated next to Mulder, an untouched mug of coffee
cooling on the table in front of him. Skinner had helped him exchange his
wet clothes for the sweats before retreating to sit near the hearth where he
absently stirred the fire with a poker whenever it seemed to be dying down.
The tremors had ceased and Mulder's skin was warm when Scully slipped her
hand into his, but he hadn't uttered a word since speaking to her on the
swing and his eyes still brimmed with barely contained tears.

"Talk to me, Mulder," Scully said quietly.

Mulder squeezed his eyes tightly shut and pulled his hand from hers, leaning
forward to rest his elbows on his knees and bury his face in his hands. His
reply, when it came, was something between a whisper and a moan.

"I can't. Hurts too much."

Her heart broke at his words. "You can't keep burying this. It won't go
away. I know what you're feeling. When Ahab died..."

But Mulder had raised his head and was shaking it before she could say any
more. His face bore an odd mixture of sorrow and anger. "You *don't* know,
Scully. You don't have any idea what I'm feeling, so don't pretend that you
do."

Skinner watched as Scully's expression transformed almost instantly from
compassionate to indignant.

"How can you say that to me? You aren't the only one ever to lose someone
you love, Mulder. Believe me, I hurt just as much -- maybe more, since I was
actually close to Ahab."

"Scully!" Skinner said sharply.

Her boss's sharp rebuke and Mulder's flinch smothered the flame of anger and
it winked abruptly out of existence, leaving only shame in its place. Scully
pressed trembling fingers to her lips, her blue eyes round with horror at
what her loss of temper had wrought. Mulder's shoulders were hunched as if
expecting a blow.

"Mulder, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that, I just got angry."

He dropped his hands and turned slowly to regard her. The simple planes and
angles of his face seemed transformed by the emotions contained within, so
that she momentarily felt she was looking at different man. Then, with an
unpleasant jolt, she realized what it was in his expression that had
provoked that thought. It was resignation.

Scully had weathered the gamut of human experiences with Mulder and all the
feelings that accompanied them. She'd seen him furious, curious, determined,
heartbroken, delighted, sarcastic and even drunk. She'd watched as the
powers that be had attempted to break his spirit, not once but twice. But
never had she seen Fox Mulder resign himself to anything. Her Mulder was
many things, but foremost a fighter. This was a stranger.

"You don't have to apologize," he said roughly. "Never apologize for the
truth. You're right, I'm grieving for a mother I haven't spoken with in
almost two years. What was your last visit with your father like, Scully?
Did you share a meal? Did he ask how things were going in your life? Did he
kiss you goodbye? The last words my mother and I exchanged were bitter
accusations and angry denials. The last time my mother touched me..." His
voice caught and his chest hitched in a silent sob as his hand crept up to
touch his left cheek and a tear escaped to trail slowly down the right.

Scully's eyes flooded with tears as the memory of that day surfaced a second
time. "Mulder..."

"There's nothing left now." He tried to smile but it came out as a grimace.
"Not that there was much to begin with. My family is gone, and I had a
starring role in causing its destruction."

Scully shook her head, the words he'd spoken on the lawn swing beginning to
make sense. She opened her mouth to refute his claim but Skinner, nearly
forgotten by them both as he sat silently by the fire, beat her to it.

"You're wrong, Mulder."

Mulder turned dead eyes to his boss. If Skinner witnessing his loss of
control disturbed him, he didn't show it. "Am I, sir? What would you know
about it?"

"I know that I've worked with you for over five years and I've seen you
repeatedly assume responsibility for situations over which you had no
control. You take the burdens of the world on your shoulders, Mulder. This
is one of many that isn't yours to bear."

"I stood by while my sister was taken from me, an event that drove my father
to alcoholism and ultimately ended my parents' marriage. Despite promises to
the contrary, I've never found her -- or if I have, she has become a woman
who doesn't need or want me in her life. I was sleeping on my father's couch
even as he was murdered in the next room, and I've never brought the rat
bastard who did it to justice. And I accused my own mother of betraying my
father by sleeping with another man, causing a rift in our relationship that
I never bothered to repair. Now you tell me, sir -- if that's not destroying
your family then what the hell would you call it?"

"I call it a man who tried desperately from a very young age to hold
together the pieces of something that was shattered beyond repair through no
fault of his own. If anything destroyed your family, Mulder, it was choices
made by misguided men -- probably before you were even born."

Skinner's eyes had locked onto Mulder's and refused to release them. "Have
you ever considered that after losing Samantha, you may have been the only
reason your parents had for going on, even as broken as you say? That
without you the grief might have consumed them completely?"

Mulder's face crumpled at his words, tears no longer held in check. Scully
pulled him into her embrace with his head tucked onto her shoulder as she
rocked gently in an unconscious parody of the swing.

"That's it, Mulder," she murmured, running her fingers soothingly through
his hair. "Let it out."

"I should have told her, Scully," he wept brokenly. "I should have told her
that I loved her in spite of everything. Now, it's too late."

Her own painful regrets after the death of her father flashed before her
eyes, still bringing with them a dull ache. Recalling a precious memory, she
rested her cheek on the top of his head, the silky strands of hair still
damp.

"She knew, Mulder."

She waited only a moment for the inevitable question to follow. Once again,
Mulder didn't disappoint.

"How, Scully? How can you be sure?"

Scully smiled softly, her eyes glancing upward. "Because, Mulder. She was
your mother."

Teena Mulder's Home
Friday
6:10 a.m.

Scully padded down the long hallway to the kitchen, the chill from ceramic
tile penetrating even her thick socks. Though it was past dawn, deep shadows
still lingered, broken occasionally by a bright flare of lightening and the
bass rumbling of thunder. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand while
pushing open the door to the kitchen, squinting at the sudden increase in
illumination.

Skinner sat with elbows propped on the small table and a cup of coffee in
his hands, staring gloomily at the storm through the large bay window. He
took one look at Scully and hooked at thumb over his shoulder.

"Coffee's fresh, I just made it."

Scully closed her eyes and sniffed the heavenly aroma appreciatively before
opening the cupboard to locate a mug. She filled it to the brim and took a
long sip, sighing as the little caffeine molecules raced through her
sleep-addled brain. After two more swallows she turned her gaze to Skinner,
only to find him watching her with a slight curve to the corners of his
mouth.

"Not much of a morning person, are we Scully?"

Scully raised an eyebrow and started to give him "The Look" before abruptly
remembering this was her boss and not Mulder. The surreal feeling of the
past few days only intensified, but she pushed aside her discomfort. They
were off the clock now, and Skinner had asked for it with that remark.
Besides, she'd stopped thinking of Skinner as just a boss when he'd shown up
at the funeral.

"You're beginning to know a little too much about me, sir," she said wryly.
"Mulder's learned to check his conspiracies at the door until I've had at
least one cup." She glanced into the adjacent room. "Speaking of which..."

"Still out like a light," Skinner said. "See for yourself."

Scully set her cup on the counter and walked quietly through the darkened
family room until she reached the couch. Though the fire had burned itself
out hours ago, she could still smell the smoky scent of ashes. Mulder was
sprawled bonelessly on his side, one arm hanging off the cushion so that his
hand was suspended in midair, palm up, and his legs were hopelessly
entangled in the afghan. His brow was unmarred by lines and his lashes lay
sootily against his cheeks, the overall affect that of a small boy worn out
from a long day at play, not an FBI agent. Scully resisted the urge to
smooth back the lock of hair that insisted on falling over his right eye,
and returned to the kitchen instead. She collected her coffee and took a
seat across from Skinner.

"Well?" Skinner asked, scanning her face.

"Well, what?"

Skinner frowned in irritation as if she was deliberately being obtuse. "He's
been asleep for fourteen hours, Scully! I rattled around here making coffee
and I don't think he so much as twitched. You're not concerned about that?"

Scully buried the smile that wanted to surface. Skinner was justifiably
concerned; he simply didn't know the way Mulder operated.

"I'm sorry, sir. I forgot that you've never had to work with Mulder when
he's on a tear. He immerses himself to the exclusion of all else -- doesn't
eat, doesn't sleep for days. Then when the killer's been caught and the
horror is over, he crashes. It's like his body just shuts down for repairs."

"And what about this time?" Skinner pressed quietly. "Is the horror over?"

Scully took another drink from her cup, the action giving her time to think
about what Skinner was really asking.

"If you're wondering whether Mulder is done haring out, then my answer is
yes," she said slowly. "Yesterday was a necessary catharsis for him. He
hadn't slept or eaten since finding out about his mother. I knew eventually
he'd reach the breaking point, I just wasn't sure when."

She sighed heavily, pulling her eyes from Skinner's to gaze out the window.
"But if you're asking whether he's come to terms with his mother's death...
You said it best yourself, sir. Mulder collects burdens the way some people
collect spoons. He hasn't made his peace with this yet."

Skinner pondered her words, swirling his coffee while staring into its
depths. For a moment he looked as if he was going to reply to Scully's
assessment, but changed his mind.

"Looks like I'll be able to give you and Mulder a hand after all," he said
instead. "I called the airport. All flights have been delayed due to the
weather. Hopefully, I can catch one later this afternoon. I already left a
message warning Kim I'd be out another day."

"I'm sure we can still put you to work, sir," Scully said, eyes crinkling
with amusement. Mulder had fallen into a deep sleep not long after his
ill-advised trek outdoors, so the plans for cleaning had been temporarily
shelved. "Just remember, rank holds no privileges here."

Skinner snorted. "Then I'll feel right at home, Scully. It doesn't afford me
any at the bureau either."

"Damn. You just shot down my ambition to climb the corporate ladder."

Mulder leaned in the doorway, a serious case of bedhead and bleary eyes.
"Scully, please tell me there's more coffee or just put me out of my misery
right now."

Scully, having reaped the benefits of her own caffeine fix, grinned smugly
and got up to pour him a cup. Mulder leaned against the counter, sighing
contentedly when she placed it in his hand.

"How do you two function in that little office first thing in the morning?"
Skinner said, shaking his head.

"The same way porcupines make love," Mulder answered, smirking at his
partner.

Seeing Skinner's blank look, Scully took pity on him. "Very carefully."

Skinner rolled his eyes. "Maybe I could rent a car. It's only a four hour
drive to D.C."

Two hours later, all three were covered with a fine layer of dust and grime,
but virtually half the basement offerings had been sifted, sorted, and
tagged for either storage, charity, or the trash. Mulder's mood was subdued
-- a step back from his early morning banter but a far cry from the
emotional wreckage of the previous day. Scully closed up a box of old
clothing destined for the Salvation Army and sat back on her heels to search
out her partner.

He was seated near the alcove that ran beneath the stairs, an open box
before him and some sort of book cradled in his hands. After a moment Scully
realized he hadn't moved to open it. Her eyes scanned his features, but his
face remained an enigma. She stood slowly, taking time to brush the grit
from her knees and stretch the kinks from her neck before weaving through
the clutter to his side.

"Mulder?" she questioned, voice as soft as a caress. "You okay?"

He tore his eyes away from their contemplation and raised them reluctantly
to her face. "I'm fine, Scully."

That was their catch phrase, used and abused by them both to duck a painful
issue rather than confront it. Scully would have been irritated by the
response if she were not as equally guilty of employing it. *People who live
in glass houses...* she thought ruefully.

She leaned closer to scrutinize the object that had Mulder so bemused. Its
pages were slightly yellowed with age, the cover made of red leather with a
single word embossed in gold: *Memories.*

"Whatcha got there, partner?" she asked.

Mulder smiled, but it was a cutout pasted on for show. "It's my scrapbook,
Scully. You know, full of keepsakes to remind me of my happy childhood."

Scully winced at the acid in his tone. She had a similar book filled with
photos, school papers, and small treasures. It hadn't been easy, but despite
raising four children with her husband frequently away at sea, her mother
had doggedly completed one for each of them.

"Can I see?"

With a small shrug he handed it over. Scully seated herself on the floor
beside him so that he could look over her shoulder. She carefully folded
back the cover to expose the first page. A wrinkled newborn face sporting a
shock of dark hair gazed back at her. A tiny hospital I.D. bracelet was
affixed beneath the photo and someone had carefully recorded Mulder's vital
statistics: the date and time of birth, his weight and length.

Scully looked over her shoulder. "Hey, Mulder. I can tell it's you in
there."

"Yeah. And you thought this nose was big on a man," Mulder said dryly.

"Actually it's the expression. That's the same look you get whenever you
come across an X-File."

She was gratified when he chuckled, and proceeded to turn the page. A photo
of Mulder in a high chair with what could only be birthday cake smeared all
over his face along with a toothy grin.

"I see your table manners haven't changed much either," Scully smirked.

"Ha, ha. Just wait until the next time we're at your mom's and I ask to see
*your* shining moments captured on film."

Each progressive page held more of the same. A lock of baby fine dark hair
from his first haircut. A scrap of paper with "Fox Mulder" written in
straggling letters. Four-year-old Fox sitting on a sofa with newborn
Samantha in his arms, eyeing the camera solemnly. A second grade report on
dinosaurs that Scully could see was far beyond the average seven-year-old's
ability.

She flipped through each slowly, savoring the glimpse into Mulder's
childhood and treasuring the return of his wry sense of humor. Until the
memorabilia ended abruptly, leaving a full third of the book blank. Mulder
turned away to resume rummaging in the box, withdrawing from her.

"She stopped after Samantha was taken," he said gruffly.

Scully narrowed her eyes, a familiar spike of anger piercing her. She could
see by the tense set of his shoulders that Mulder had no wish to discuss the
meaning of those blank pages and she grudgingly honored that desire. Still,
she continued to turn blank pages while thinking that they represented the
pivotal moments in Mulder's childhood much more accurately than those Teena
Mulder had filled. She wondered what her partner would be like today if all
those pages had been completed.

An object slipped into her lap, startling her out of her musings. It was an
envelope -- sealed and inscribed in the same flowing cursive that had
recorded Mulder's birth weight.

*Fox: to be opened in the event of my death*

Scully's stomach did a slow roll. Though it was irrational, her initial
impulse was to slip the envelope back into the book and pretend she'd never
seen it. Logic won out, and she reached over to tap Mulder lightly on the
shoulder.

"Found something you need to see, Mulder."

His open and curious expression vanished at the sight of the envelope. She
watched as he read the inscription not once, but twice. His brow furrowed in
distrust and he pursed his lips. "That's my mother's handwriting," he said
unnecessarily.

"Well, go ahead and open it." Scully tried to keep her voice light, but
failed miserably. She could tell from the way her partner began chewing his
lip that he was just as apprehensive of the contents as she. "It's not going
to bite you, Mulder."

"How do you know?" he muttered darkly, but slid his finger under the flap
and removed two hand written sheets of paper.

Rather than begin reading, he closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. Scully
reached over to twine her fingers with his, giving his hand a brief squeeze
but remaining silent. He opened his eyes at the gesture, and she could see
excitement warring with fear.

"My mother refused to talk about anything that mattered for over twenty-five
years. What could she possibly have to say to me now?"

He lowered his eyes to the letter and began to read. Scully watched his eyes
dart rapidly back and forth until they froze, the pupils dilating until
they'd nearly swallowed up the gray. Every ounce of color leeched from his
face and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The paper shook wildly in his
suddenly trembling grip.

"Mulder?"

He didn't reply, and seemed nearly as oblivious as he had on the swing,
swearing softly under his breath in a voice that repeatedly broke with
anguish. Though he certainly wasn't above using colorful language when
angry, he uttered words she'd never before heard pass his lips.

"Mulder, what is it?"

Skinner, who had been working at the opposite end of the basement, was
suddenly beside her, alerted by the panic in her tone. Before he could
speak, Mulder broke off his diatribe and opened his eyes. Scully inhaled
sharply at the intense fury and sorrow they revealed. When he spoke, his
voice was like granite.

"Congratulate me, Scully. I have a brother."

Basement
Friday
9:00 a.m.

Dear Fox,

If you are reading this letter I can make two assumptions: first, that I am
no longer living; and second, that I have successfully prevented this letter
from falling into the wrong hands. I was recently reminded of my own
mortality, and the temporary reprieve granted to me brought with it certain
responsibilities, hence this letter.

Our relationship has never been what either of us would have hoped. I know
you have questions -- about your father's work and your sister's
disappearance -- which I've refused to answer. Yes, I did say refused. If
you cannot find it in your heart to forgive that refusal, please try to
accept that I had your own best interests in mind. The silence I kept I will
continue to keep -- in all areas save one. You always loved a good story,
didn't you, Fox?

In 1955 your father's work with the State Department assumed a direction
that was unexpected and not entirely welcome. I won't go into detail --
suffice to say that he recognized an increasing manipulation of not only his
work but also our personal life. It was during this critical time that I
accidentally became pregnant. Bill panicked. He saw the baby as a pawn, a
tool that his colleagues would use to increase their already substantial
control over him. Or worse yet, that they'd want to use our child for their
own agenda.

After countless arguments and tears we agreed upon a plan. For six months we
carefully hid my condition -- not as difficult as you might think in those
days. I never went to an obstetrician, a risk we felt justified in taking.
Finally, when the signs could no longer be camouflaged, we took an extended
vacation to Europe.

When it was time for the baby to arrive, our closest and oldest friends,
Linda and Doug Mackenzie, joined us. Doug and your father had known each
other since grade school, and he was the best man at our wedding. We'd spent
much of our free time together until they'd moved to North Carolina three
years earlier. Linda was a registered nurse.

Linda delivered our baby in a hotel room in England. Yes, Fox, you have a
brother. I held him for five minutes before Linda took him from my arms and
from my life. We didn't see him again for over two years. The McKenzies
raised him as their own, and the only right I asked them to grant me was to
name him. I chose Grey, after my grandfather.

By the time you and Samantha came along, our lives were no longer our own.
Even your conceptions occurred outside our control. It's ironic that not one
of my three pregnancies was planned. After Grey, Bill and I were determined
to remain childless, yet I became pregnant again -- not once, but twice.
I've always had my suspicions about that.

Why tell you this now, after all these years? I'm not sure myself. There
were so many times when I wanted you to know, but never more than when I
watched you aching over the loss of your sister. Yet I remained silent even
as our family slowly disintegrated. Perhaps you've thought me cold and aloof
all these years; but you see, I'd lost two children. One I gave up
voluntarily, a sacrifice you may never understand. The other was taken
despite my attempts to prevent it. Maybe you can comprehend now why the risk
of emotionally investing myself a third time terrified me.

As for Grey, he knows only pieces of the truth -- parts of the whole. He
realizes he is adopted and that Bill and I are his biological parents. He
knows we gave him to Doug and Linda to protect him, but no more. He knows
that he has a sister who disappeared and a brother who lives in Washington
D.C. Most importantly, he understands that exposing the truth about his
parentage could endanger his life.

That's the end of my story. Grey lives in Eagle Rock, a suburb of Raleigh.
How you use this information is completely your decision. I'd like to think
you would at the very least inform him of my death. Should you choose to
contact him, you must do so with the utmost caution. There are those who
watch you carefully, Fox, continually seeking the leverage necessary to
control you. You know whom I mean.

I won't ask for your forgiveness, though I know I've hurt you -- first by
withholding information and then by imparting it so suddenly. I can only say
that I tried to make the right choices in a situation that was wrong from
the start. I stand by those choices.

Love,
Mom

Scully turned to hand the page to Skinner, who was still reading over her
shoulder. Her jaw ached, and she realized she'd been clenching her teeth as
she absorbed the impact of Teena Mulder's words to her son. Her own thoughts
were reeling. What must Mulder be feeling right now?

Scully searched the basement for her partner, only to find that he'd
disappeared. She'd been so riveted by the letter that she'd missed the
creaking of the wooden steps. Skinner finished reading and sighed, removing
his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Scully accepted the pages as he
handed them back.

"What do you think?" he asked quietly, after he'd scanned the basement in
the same manner she had.

"I think the Mulders give the word dysfunctional a whole new meaning,"
Scully replied, unable to keep the venom from her voice.

"That goes without saying," Skinner agreed dryly. "What I meant was, how do
you think he's going to handle this?"

Scully closed her eyes against the sudden rush of tears. "The way he's
handled all the lousy cards that life has dealt him. Mulder has an amazing
set of coping mechanisms, sir."

"Even a rock can crumble if asked to bear too much, Scully."

Scully opened her eyes and smiled at him crookedly. "I think that's where we
come in."

Skinner squeezed her arm encouragingly. "I think I heard the back door. I'll
be down here if you need me."

Scully climbed the stairs slowly, her mind desperately attempting to
formulate some kind of response to Teena Mulder's devastating revelation. It
was a daunting task. She and Mulder had always shared a connection, an
ability to intuitively know just what each other was thinking and feeling.
Scully had to admit that right now she had absolutely no clue as to what
might be going on in Mulder's head. That scared her.

The thunderstorm had passed and the rain ceased. Mulder stood on the back
porch, leaning on the railing with his hands clasped. She mirrored his
position, turning her head to gaze up at his face. So many emotions were
written there, shifting in predominance even as she watched. Yet the one
that seemed to surface most was not the one she would have expected --
anger.

Mulder didn't acknowledge her presence at first, but simply continued to
stare out across the lawn. Scully waited, the shred of insight that remained
telling her to keep silent until he chose to include her. Five long minutes
ticked by, each agonizingly painful in the charged silence. She could see
physical manifestations of his mental and emotional turmoil -- shoulders
stiffly hunched, hands twisting and clenching, jaw clamped tightly shut.
Even his breathing was rapid and shallow, as if he had just returned from a
long run.

*His blood pressure must be through the roof* she thought, then cursed the
doctor in her for the clinical nature of the observation.

"I ought to be hurt," he said suddenly, his voice husky and carefully
controlled. "My mother basically just admitted to the fact that she
refrained from loving me. Hell, that she never wanted me in the first place!
Not to mention the fact that she kept the little secret of my brother's
existence from me."

He fell silent, leaving Scully to wonder whether he would continue or if he
expected a response. Going on gut instinct, she remained mute.

"I suppose the hurt will come, eventually," he resumed. "But all I feel
right now is anger, Scully." He chuckled, but there was nothing humorous
about the sound that passed his lips, jagged like broken glass. "That's a
serious understatement. I think I may never have known what anger was before
today. It's a blackness that I can't see over or around, but only through so
that it colors every thought and feeling. I want to break things! To grab a
baseball bat and just swing and pound and destroy. To crush the things
around me the way she crushed the things inside of me. And God help me,
Scully, but I think I hate her for what she did."

His voice, which had risen steadily as he spoke, cracked and then broke. The
sobs that followed belied his earlier denial of hurt. Scully pulled his head
down onto her shoulder and just let him cry, one hand at his waist and the
other cupping the back of his neck.

The release of sorrow was brief and he soon pulled away, swiping his eyes
with the sleeve of his shirt. Scully gave him a moment to compose himself
before speaking.

"Mulder, the anger you're expressing isn't only justified, it's healthy. You
need to be able to let it out, whether that means crying, swearing, or
throwing something." She flashed him a small grin. "Just don't punch Skinner
this time."

Mulder exhaled a small puff of air and his mouth curved slightly. Encouraged
by this small victory, Scully continued.

"As for your mother... Just let yourself feel, Mulder. Don't try to define
it or label it, and don't feel guilt over it."

Mulder nodded grudgingly, then seemed to notice for the first time that she
was shivering from the cold. Without speaking, he took her by the elbow and
steered her back into the house. He'd seated her at the kitchen table and
poured her a cup of the leftover coffee when Skinner entered, a box of trash
in his hands. He paused, leaning against the door to the garage.

"You going to be all right?"

The fact that he'd said "going to be" didn't escape Mulder's attention.
Skinner remained a bit of a mystery to him. Every time he thought he had him
pegged the man did or said something to surprise him. It was
almost...spooky. That thought actually brought a faint smile to Mulder's
face.

"Eventually."

"What are you going to do about your brother?"

Leave it to Skinner to cut to the chase, the man always expected a plan of
action. Once a marine, always a marine.

"You don't shy away from the tough questions, do you, sir?" Mulder said
caustically. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I've searched
for my sister for over twenty-five years with little or no luck. Now I'm
suddenly handed a brother. I know it's irrational, but I'm mad at him for
not being who I wanted. For not being Samantha. Warped, huh?"

"Understandable," Scully murmured.

Mulder shot her a grateful look before going on. "Right now he means nothing
to me -- nothing except further evidence of my parents' deceit and betrayal.
Maybe he never will. But I have to see him, to meet him. Otherwise, I'll
always wonder."

Skinner nodded. "I've managed to get on a four o'clock flight back to D.C.
I'll make sure you're granted some additional time off." His tone was gruff,
but his eyes were full of compassion. "I meant what I said before, Mulder.
You need anything, you call."

"You could see that Scully's time off is extended as well," Mulder said. He
looked at his partner uncertainly. "That is, if..."

Overwhelmed by his rare admission of need, Scully swallowed hard against the
lump that formed in her throat. She smiled at him without reservation. "Try
and stop me."

Mulder, however, remained grim. "You may wish I had, Scully. I can't promise
I'll be very good company on this trip."

Scully stretched her hand out to lace her fingers with his. "I'll take it
under advisement, Mulder. But after six years, I think I know what I'm
getting into, and it's never stopped me yet."

She couldn't have chosen a better response. Some of the tension seeped out
of Mulder's face and he smiled a real smile. "I rely on that, partner. More
than you know."

127 S. Cambridge
Eagle Rock
Saturday
1:30 p.m.

Scully pulled the rental car smoothly to the curb and turned off the
ignition. Mulder sat woodenly in the passenger seat, one hand picking at the
frayed edge of the shoulder belt while the fingers of the other drummed
nervously on his knee. His eyes drifted over to Scully's window, taking in
the small, two-story house, lips pressed tightly together. With the
cessation of the engine, the silence in the car was deafening.

"You can do this," Scully said quietly, plucking his hand from his knee and
surrounding it with hers.

Mulder let his head plop onto the seatback and squeezed his eyes shut. "You
sure about that, Scully?"

"Mulder, you've survived flukemen and liver-eating mutants. One long-lost
brother will be a piece of cake." Her tone was light and teasing, but her
eyes held a deep empathy.

"This is much scarier, Scully."

"What are you most afraid of, Mulder?" she asked gently.

A wry twist of his lips and he stared at the townhouse. "You mean besides
another sibling telling me I'm not wanted?"

Over a year, and the wound was still raw. Scully remembered vividly when
Mulder haltingly recounted his experience in the diner with his alleged
sister. Though recent events indicated she may have been a fraud, the
rejection had cut Mulder more deeply than a knife.

*No wonder you hesitate to share yourself, Mulder. How many times has what
you've offered been thrown back in your face?*

She stroked the palm of his hand with her thumb, saying nothing. She'd
learned through time that nurturing Mulder's silences, not killing them with
her own words, encouraged him to continue. Sure enough, his eyes left the
building to fasten on her face, exposing an openness that took her breath
away.

"I've always been somewhat of a disappointment to my parents, Scully. Never
quite what they hoped for or needed. Maybe I'm afraid he's everything I'm
not - and never will be."

The courage of his admission coupled with his heartbreaking sincerity robbed
Scully of the ability to respond for several seconds. When she did, her
voice was thick with emotion.

"Mulder, our partnership and your friendship have been more than I ever
hoped for or needed. You've pulled me back from the edge more times than I
care to count. Don't discount everything that you are. Don't sell yourself
short."

Mulder brought their joined hands to his lips and pressed a brief kiss to
her knuckles. Then he took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let in out
in a rush. When he released her hand his vulnerability had vanished,
replaced with stoic determination.

"Let's get this show on the road."

Scully got out of the car and waited for him to walk around. Though they'd
only traveled a few hundred miles from Teena Mulder's house, Eagle Rock was
far enough south that spring had established a foothold. The air, while
still cool, felt downright balmy after the Connecticut chill and the sun
shone brilliantly. Scully folded her arms across her chest, an appraising
glint in her eye as she watched Mulder approach.

"What?" Mulder asked defensively. He flung his arms wide and gave himself a
quick once-over before looking up with a puzzled frown. "I've got ketchup on
my shirt? Something stuck in my teeth? What?"

"Just... behave yourself, Mulder. Play nice." Her tone was stern but her
lips twitched with repressed amusement.

Mulder adopted the look he'd perfected -- that of a wide-eyed innocent. "Me?
Surely you're not suggesting I'd mess with his head?"

"All I'm saying is give the man half a chance," she returned, then
deliberately cocked an eyebrow. "And don't call me Shirley."

He caught the reference immediately, of course. His unbridled grin of
delight banished the gloom of the past few days and bolstered her spirits
for whatever lay ahead. Mulder smiled, he smirked, he leered -- but a
full-fledged grin was a rare occurrence indeed, and she cherished each one.

They walked slowly up to the door past a neatly trimmed hedge and three rose
bushes. The neighborhood appeared to be populated by families with young
children. Yards were littered with bikes, balls and other toys, and a group
of kids were playing a boisterous game of baseball in an empty lot down the
street. Scully observed that Grey's house lacked any such paraphernalia, and
wondered idly if Mulder had a sister-in-law and nieces or nephews. She
attempted to picture Mulder as a doting uncle, and to her surprise found
that it wasn't that difficult.

Mulder paused on the front step, seemed to steel himself against the
consequences of his next action, and rang the doorbell. Scully felt her own
heart begin to pound as they waited, and looked over to catch Mulder wiping
a few beads of sweat from his upper lip with the back of one hand. He tried
to smile reassuringly, but it came out merely as gritted teeth.

No one came to the door.

After several minutes and two more presses on the button, Mulder sighed and
dropped down to sit on the step. He leaned back, bracing his palms on the
rough concrete, and turned his face up into the warm sunshine with eyes
squinted shut. Scully sank down and nudged him with her shoulder.

"Guess we should've phoned first."

"Hindsight," he muttered without opening his eyes.

A moment later he sat sharply forward, face intent. "What if he's out back
and can't hear us?"

Scully shrugged. "So go check."

Mulder stood and looked down at her, deliberately blocking the sun until she
opened her eyes to glare at him in annoyance. "Don't get up, Scully. I'll
go," he said sarcastically.

She watched him amble around the side of the building, his shoulders too
stiff to pull off the casual attitude he tried to project. He'd barely
disappeared when a black SUV rounded the corner and pulled into the
driveway. Scully sprang guiltily to her feet, her emotions a cocktail of
excitement, apprehension, and curiosity. She dusted off the seat of her
jeans and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

The man behind the wheel eyed her curiously as he got out of the car, a
briefcase clutched in one hand. He was easily as tall as Mulder, though
heavier and more muscular where Mulder was lean and rangy. He was casually
dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, dark hair partially concealed by a
baseball cap worn backwards. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of
sunglasses, which he removed when he'd drawn near enough to speak to her.

"Can I help you?" The words were spoken with a slight drawl, but she barely
noticed.

For just a moment time ground to a halt while Scully stared, knowing she
must look like a complete idiot but unable to stop her jaw from dropping
slightly and her eyes from widening. The face before her was a stranger's --
and yet beloved. From the generous lower lip, to the larger than average
nose, to hazel eyes her gaze shifted and compared only to repeat the
process. True, there were obvious differences -- no mole on the cheek, a
little more silver in hair that was longer and slightly wavy, the hazel orbs
closer to brown than her partner's conglomeration of color. But the family
resemblance was unmistakable.

"Miss?"

Scully snapped her mouth shut, feeling the blush spreading over her cheeks
and cursing her fair skin. *Snap out of it, Dana, before he calls for the
men in the white coats.*

"Are you Grey McKenzie?" she asked, knowing the question was unnecessary but
buying another few seconds to compose herself.

"Yes, that's me."

She opened her mouth, her brain still working furiously to come up with just
the right words when her response was rendered moot by Mulder's reappearance
from the backyard.

"No luck, Scully, I..."

Seeing them together was even more unnerving, and Scully found her head
bouncing back and forth between the two faces like someone watching a
particularly fascinating tennis match. Mulder's words evaporated at the
sight of his brother, and Scully was both amused and gratified to see Grey
exhibit the same graceless astonishment she'd shown not two minutes earlier.

"I'm Dana Scully," she said, not offended when Grey continued to stare at
Mulder rather than turn his attention to her. "And this is..."

"Fox," Grey finished, but there was some uncertainty to his statement.

Mulder nodded, closing the gap between them and stopping at Scully's side.
"Fox Mulder. Nothing like a little impromptu family reunion to spice up your
day, huh?"

"Good thing I wore clean underwear," Grey said, missing Mulder's startled,
then appreciative, grin as he moved to the front door and unlocked it. He
stepped aside and gestured for them to precede him.

The small foyer opened into a cozy living room on the left and a staircase
to the right. Grey passed both as he continued down a hallway to a great
room that featured a kitchen, dining area and family room. Tossing the
briefcase onto the kitchen table, Grey removed the baseball cap and ran his
fingers through his hair in a manner so familiar that Scully had to struggle
not to gape again.

"I think I could use a drink," Grey said, opening the refrigerator. "You two
care to join me?"

Five minutes and some small talk later, Mulder and Scully were seated on a
large couch in the family room with Grey in the chair opposite, each holding
a cold bottle of beer. They'd reached the point where niceties like "please"
and "thanks" were no longer required and the ensuing silence was awkward and
tense. Mulder sighed heavily.

"I guess there's only one way to start this," he said, staring out the patio
door rather than meeting Grey's questioning gaze. "I'm sure you're wondering
what I'm doing here. My - our mother is dead. She had a stroke on Tuesday.
She left me a letter that explained about you and where I could find you. It
was important to her that I let you know."

He finally pulled his eyes from the view and looked over to gauge Grey's
reaction. His brother's face held only regret.

"I'm sorry. I know she had a stroke once before and was worried it might
happen again."

Grey's calm acceptance of an event that had rocked his world made Mulder's
stomach churn. The rational psychologist in him knew that his brother's
reaction was understandable. Teena Mulder was a mother to him in genetics
only -- not the one who had dried his tears and tucked him into bed at
night. This knowledge, however, didn't stop the knee jerk reaction of anger
toward the man.

"I can see you're really broken up about it," he growled, the urge to break
something returning with a vengeance.

Grey's eyes narrowed and his relaxed posture turned rigid as he leaned
forward. "She wasn't *my* mother. *My* mother lives less than thirty minutes
from here, in Bailey -- I visit her every couple of weeks. Teena was a
friend who brought me presents when I was little and took me to lunch when I
got older. Nothing more."

Mulder slapped his half-full bottle onto the coffee table with a resounding
thunk and sprang to his feet. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides
and his face was pale and still.

"Well, you were a hell of a lot more to her. Pity she didn't have your
detachment." He stalked from the room, muttering something about meeting
Scully at the car, and a moment later the front door slammed.

Scully looked over at Grey coolly. "That could have gone better."

Grey sighed and slumped back into the chair, rubbing his hand across his
jaw. "What did you say your name was? Dana?"

"Dana Scully."

"And you two are..."

"Partners," Scully finished quickly, wondering how many times in her life
she would have to cover this territory. "We work together."

Grey's eyes sparked with interest. "Are you cops?"

"FBI."

Grey nodded, assimilating the information. "This is kind of above and beyond
the call of duty, isn't it?"

"He's my best friend," Scully said, an edge creeping into her voice. "He's
dealing with a lot right now."

Seeing Mulder's pout on a stranger's face was unnerving.

"I only saw Teena and Bill about once a year. I can't pretend to feel
something that I don't," Grey said defensively.

"No. But you don't have to be an ass about it either."

His face went blank with shock for a moment before a grin slowly took over.
Scully's heart fluttered a little at the sight. The expression that graced
Mulder's features so rarely seemed to come easily for Grey. This was going
to take some getting used to.

"I like you, Dana Scully. If you're Fox's best friend, then I guess he can't
be too bad."

"He's worth the effort," Scully said, her lips quirking slightly the
declaration. She stood and Grey followed suit. "You hold all the cards,
Grey. You already knew about him. He's still scrambling to catch up while
grieving over the death of what was, up until twenty-four hours ago, his
only remaining family member. You may have a mother in Bailey, but you're
all the family he has left now."

"I'd like to get to know him," Grey admitted quietly. "I always tried to get
Teena and Bill to talk about him. I've got two sisters, but no brothers. I
used to picture us playing catch or shooting baskets together."

"Don't tell *me,*" Scully said, tilting her head toward the door.

Grey snorted at her tenacity. "Were you two planning on staying in town a
few days?"

Scully pursed her lips. "That all depended on how things went. We came
prepared."

This time it was Grey's turn to gesture toward the front door, and Scully
followed him back into sunshine that felt twice as bright after being
inside. They walked to the car where Mulder sat staring fixedly ahead, hands
clamped tightly on the steering wheel. Grey opened the door for Scully, then
shut it and leaned in her window. His jaw tightened when Mulder didn't
acknowledge his presence, but he blew out a small puff of air and plunged
on.

"Fox, I'm sorry things got off on the wrong foot between us. If you're
willing to try again, I'd be glad to give you both dinner tonight. I'm no
gourmet, but I promise it'll be edible."

Scully held her breath, relieved when her partner's shoulders slumped and he
finally looked over at Grey. "What time?" he asked gruffly.

"How about six? That should give me enough time to order the pizza."

The tension broke, and Mulder actually smirked. "Sounds like we had the same
cooking teacher. We'll be here."

"Six it is, then."

Grey stepped back and watched as Mulder pulled away from the curb. He was
still watching when Mulder turned the corner that removed him from sight.

Scully leaned back into her seat, suddenly exhausted. "See, what did I tell
you, Mulder?" she said ruefully, closing her eyes. "Piece of cake."

127 S. Cambridge
Eagle Rock
Saturday
6:15 p.m.

The "pizza" turned out to be homemade lasagna. At Scully's suggestion they'd
stopped for a bottle of wine which they now sipped while leaning against the
counter and watching Grey prepare some garlic bread and a salad. The aroma
of tomato sauce and herbs filled the kitchen, and to Scully's relief the
earlier animosity between Mulder and his brother had faded to simple
wariness.

Mulder had been a bear that afternoon, the combination of sleeplessness,
tension, and raw emotion manifested in sharp mood swings. On the way to the
motel he'd been distant and unresponsive to her attempts at drawing him out,
only to turn irritable and snappish once they'd checked in. Scully had held
her own temper only so long before showing him the door -- the connecting
one anyway -- and announcing she was taking a shower. He'd evidently gone
for a long run and then passed out on his bed where she found him two hours
later, dead to the world with his sneaker-clad feet hanging off the end.

Realizing she'd been drifting, Scully gave herself a mental shake. Grey was
laughing softly while spreading a mixture of garlic powder and butter onto
two long slices of bread. Mulder's expression was somewhere between petulant
and amused.

"No, I will *not* call you Mulder," Grey said in mock outrage. "Why the last
names? You call her Scully, she calls you Mulder -- what's up with that?"

Mulder shrugged, glancing briefly at Scully before replying. "We're
partners. We work for the FBI."

Grey didn't respond at first, just continued smoothing butter onto the
bread. "So?"

"Huh?"

Grey looked up, a quirk to his lips, and pointed the knife at each of them
for emphasis. "Look, anyone can see you two are more than just work
partners. You're obviously good friends, or Dana wouldn't be here. I don't
call my partner 'Preston' when we're shooting hoops. Are you telling me you
*never* use first names?"

Scully just raised an eyebrow at Mulder's silent plea for help. Realizing he
was on his own, he began fiddling with his wineglass as he fumbled for an
answer.

"I hate the name Fox. And Scully...she's...I don't know. She's Dana to her
family, to her friends, but she's Scully to me." His disconcertion turned
abruptly to irritation. "Are you telling me you *like* the name Grey?"

His brother shrugged. "It has the virtue of being original. I never had to
put my last initial on papers in elementary school."

He popped the bread into the oven and took a swig from his own glass. "I'll
admit there were times I wanted to be a Michael or a Chris. I guess I've
made my peace with it. So I'm not calling you Mulder. If I have to put up
with Grey, you can deal with Fox."

"You said something about a partner," Scully spoke up. "What do *you* do?"

Grey grinned. "I was wondering if you were going to pick up on that. I guess
law enforcement runs in the family. I'm a detective with the Raleigh PD --
homicide."

He gestured toward a sliding glass door and led them outside onto a spacious
deck. The evening was cool but clear, and the view revealed a yard that was
small but impeccably landscaped.

"I've had contact with the bureau now and then. What division do you work
for?" Grey inquired, sinking into a lawn chair.

Scully perched on a bench but Mulder remained standing, gazing at a bed of
crocuses and daffodils with his hands stuffed into his pockets. She waited
for him to field the question, sensing the tension in him ratchet up a
notch.

"It's called the X-Files. They're cases the bureau was unable to close
through standard investigative techniques. Cases that usually have a
paranormal slant." Mulder's voice was deceptively casual and he left off his
contemplation of the flowers to study Grey's face.

Both eyebrows climbed until they'd disappeared under the sweep of Grey's
dark hair. "Paranormal? You mean like ghosts and psychics and Stephen King
kind of stuff?"

Mulder's lips thinned and his eyes glinted dangerously. "You left out
aliens," he said with false humor. "Saving the world from alien colonization
makes up a major portion of our job description."

Oblivious to the hidden bitterness, Grey chuckled. "Very funny. If you'd
rather not talk shop just say so. I'm going to check on dinner." He was
still shaking his head and muttering "aliens!" in amusement as he
disappeared inside.

"You aren't being fair, Mulder," Scully said quietly. She got up and moved
to her partner's side, not touching him but standing very close. "How did
you think he'd react? Other than the circumstances of his birth, his life
has been the epitome of normalcy. Shadow conspiracies and little gray men
aren't exactly within his frame of reference."

"Unlike his brother the monster boy -- Spooky to his friends," Mulder
retorted sourly.

"Mulder..."

"Dinner's ready," Grey called cheerfully from the doorway, oblivious to the
strain.

And that was the problem, Scully mused as they sat around the small kitchen
table and began to eat. Grey had existed in a bubble of blissful oblivion
his entire life, while Mulder was left to bear the brunt of his father's
choices.

"This is delicious," she said around a bite of pasta. "You cook like this
very often?"

"Not much opportunity when you live alone," Grey admitted, helping himself
to more salad. "But I like to cook. Mom always let me help her when I was
little. I used to love cracking eggs." He smiled at the memory. "My sisters
and I used to eat the cookies almost as fast as she could bake them. Anyway,
I guess she was the one who taught me to feel at ease in the kitchen. She
rarely used a recipe, but she'd come up with some great concoctions."

"I know what you mean about baking cookies," Scully said when Mulder
continued to dissect a noodle, head lowered. "Except in our family, my mom
was lucky if they made it to the oven. We'd snitch the dough whenever she
turned her back."

An expectant silence, until finally Mulder lifted his head.

"I'm more of a take-out kind of guy," he said, deadpan. "Ask Scully."

"Teena wasn't much of a cook?"

A look of profound sadness coupled with bitterness crossed Mulder's face and
his eyes darkened.

"Not even before Samantha was taken. After... Well, let's just say her
favorite meal was a couple of Valium. It worked out all right since Dad's
was a bottle of Chivas."

The animation left Grey's face and he put down his fork to lean across the
table, eyes locked with his brother's. "I'm sorry, Fox. I didn't know."

Something passed between them in that moment -- an almost tangible though
tenuous bond that linked them as true brothers for the first time. Until the
connection snapped.

"No, you had no idea. You still don't."

Scully knew her partner well enough to discern the deep pain behind the
sarcasm that dripped from his words. Grey, unfortunately, did not.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Forget it."

"No, I want to hear it," Grey demanded, brow furrowed in anger.

"Look, I can't talk to you about any of this, okay? I never should have
brought it up."

"But you did. You can't just drop a bomb like that and walk away, pretending
it won't go off."

Mulder ripped the napkin from his lap and tossed it onto the table, pushing
himself to his feet. "You don't get it! You could never understand what it
was like growing up in that house! You and your perfect little world with
all the sharp corners padded! While you were eating cookies with your
sisters, mine was abducted right in front of me. While you were dabbling in
the kitchen with your mom, mine was so hazed on pills I was lucky if there
was any food in the house. Sometimes I was actually grateful. At least when
she was passed out, they couldn't fight."

Grey shot to his feet, ignoring the fact that the movement toppled his
chair. "You think I enjoyed knowing that I was given up like some puppy no
one wanted?" he snarled, stabbing his index finger at Mulder's chest. "How
do you think it felt to be told my own mother and father couldn't raise me
for reasons they wouldn't explain? Danger? What a crock! I notice they kept
*you* in spite of this supposed threat. You think it was easy to sit there
and hear Bill -- my real father -- brag about how smart you were, what a
great athlete you'd become, how Oxford was falling all over you? Think those
corners weren't sharp enough to draw blood? Guess again, little brother."

Scully had been watching the exchange, forcing herself to keep silent. She
recalled more than one verbal sparring match between her own brothers that
had resulted in physical blows, and hoped she wasn't about to witness a
similar occurrence. Instead she saw Mulder grab for the back of his chair as
if to steady himself, his face pale and blank with an emotion that looked
suspiciously like shock. The peculiar reaction caught Grey's attention as
well, and some of the fire faded from his eyes.

"Mulder, what is it?" Scully asked quietly.

He didn't acknowledge the question, didn't even seem to hear it. His eyes
were riveted to Grey's face, and he licked dry lips.

"What did you say about Dad?"

The words were barely above a whisper, a sharp contrast to the shouting.
Grey looked perplexed, the confusion diffusing his anger. He squinted at
Mulder as if trying to decipher a particularly difficult puzzle.

"About Dad? How he was always telling me how great you were? Anyone would
have thought you were the world's most perfect kid, the way he went on about
you."

Mulder bit his lip savagely and turned away, but not before both Scully and
Grey observed the tears. He clenched his eyes tightly shut in a vain effort
to conceal them, his hand gripping the chair until his knuckles were white.
Grey opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp glare from Scully stopped him.

"He never..." Mulder's voice was thick with unshed tears. "I tried so hard
to please him, to make up for Sam. Nothing was ever enough for him. The only
time he came close to saying he was proud of me was the night he died."

Grey reached out hesitantly to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder, clearly
afraid of being rebuffed. Mulder didn't show anger or gratitude at the
action, simply swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and took a shaky
breath.

"Then let me," Grey said gently, with a trace of remorse. "I don't know why
he could tell me but not you, Fox. But I do know that he was proud of you.
Never doubt that."

Mulder turned slowly, sending Scully a look of reassurance. The compassion
and love in her deep blue eyes sparked a returning prickle of tears behind
his own, and he tore his gaze away quickly to maintain his fragile
composure. When his eyes found Grey, he realized with something akin to
wonder that he actually liked this man, this brother who both terrified and
intrigued him.

"Then you have to take my word on this. Mom and Dad would never have given
you up unless it was the only way to keep you safe. The danger they spoke of
is real, Grey. You may not like the truth, but I think it's time you heard
it." Mulder looked to Scully for confirmation, and after only a moment's
indecision she nodded.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to believe this?" Grey said dryly,
motioning them to the deck.

Mulder grinned. "Sorry, that's Scully's job."

127 S. Cambridge
Eagle Rock
Saturday
9:48 p.m.

Silence. Like a heavy blanket on a summer day it was oppressive, smothering.
Mulder, his voice rough after speaking for almost two hours, leaned back in
the cushioned deck chair and stared up into the sky. The stars glittered
brilliantly and a crescent moon peeked through the branches of an old oak
tree. As always when contemplating the heavens, Mulder wondered if Sam was
out there somewhere in the vast expanse. The all too familiar ache squeezed
his chest and he sighed.

They'd told Grey everything. Scully let Mulder do most of the talking,
occasionally interjecting a comment or taking over to add specific
information. Grey had listened, silent but for an occasional question. His
face revealed nothing, and Scully thought wryly that Mulder's trademark
deadpan was just one more thing the brothers held in common.

"Aliens, abductions, genetically-engineered cancer, smallpox-carrying bees,
clones, black oil and a sinister group of old men intent on running the
world. Have I left anything out?"

"You have a gift for simplification," Mulder said sardonically.

Grey groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. "Either you are *both*
certifiable, or *I* am for considering that even a portion of what I just
heard could be true. I don't suppose you have any proof? Something
concrete?"

Scully and Mulder exchanged a look. "Evidence of this has a way
of...disappearing," Scully admitted ruefully.

"With a little help," Mulder growled.

Grey leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees, and looked searchingly
at Scully's face. "How much of what Fox has told me do you accept?"

Mulder abruptly ceased his stargazing to scowl at his brother. "What are you
trying to say? Why ask her that?"

"Because she's a scientist," Grey replied with a calm that stoked Mulder's
anger. "You said so yourself. By your own account she was partnered with you
to debunk your work. She's been trained to look at the facts from a
technical standpoint. And..." He hesitated as if unwilling to finish.

"What?"

"I don't have to be psychic to see how emotionally invested you are in this,
Fox. I'm not saying that Dana isn't. God knows, she's suffered her own
losses. But this has taken up over twenty-five years of your life. It's
become inextricably linked with who you are."

"You don't think I can be objective."

So much lay within those simple words -- fury, cynicism, frustration,
disappointment. Grey waited for him to stop mangling a plastic cup and meet
his eyes.

"I don't think *I* could be objective." He turned to Scully. "Well?"

She pursed her lips, feeling the steel of Mulder's stare. "I believe there
is a conspiracy against the American people. I know there have been
abductions for the purpose of performing tests on unwilling subjects. I've
been a part of that agenda." She paused and unconsciously touched the back
of her neck. "As for the existence of extraterrestrial life... I guess you
could say that the jury is still out on that one."

"So you think it's conceivable."

Scully looked over at Mulder, her lips curving slightly. "I like to think
I'm open to extreme possibilities," she murmured.

Mulder's eyes twinkled. "Scully, I just got very turned on," he said in a
low voice. He stood and stretched before moving toward the door. "I need a
drink of water."

"Help yourself," Grey said easily, watching him disappear into the darkened
kitchen before turning back to Scully.

"Now's your chance," she said, amusement coloring her voice.

"My chance?"

"To ask me what you didn't want to ask in front of your brother. I know
something else is on your mind, and so did Mulder. Why do you think he gave
you the perfect opening?"

Grey darted an uneasy look at the house and licked his lips. "Dana, I know
he's grieving over Teena and shaken by my existence. But... Are you sure you
can trust his judgement about any of this? I'm sorry, but he doesn't impress
me as being the most stable person. Are you sure you aren't being sucked
into a delusion?"

An enigmatic smile graced her face. "You mean folie a deux?" she asked, and
when he looked baffled added, "A madness shared by two?"

Grey nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

"Be clear on this, Grey. Any pride your dad had in Mulder's intellect was
deserved. He's hands down the most brilliant mind I've ever encountered. The
FBI recruited him straight out of Oxford -- no small honor. He became a top
profiler for VICAP and from what I hear, they're still using some of his
cases for instruction at the academy. He can sift through an unbelievable
amount of data and piece together a cogent solution to a case that's had
everyone else spinning their wheels. Add to that the kind of courage that
has risked death to save me on more than one occasion.

"Is he emotionally sound? Grey, *nothing* in that man's life has ever been
stable. But he's remained standing through circumstances that would bring
most people to their knees. He'll never be a poster boy for emotional
health. But I trust him. I trust him with my life. I may not believe in
everything he does, but I believe in *him*."

Mulder came back while Grey was mulling over Scully's words. He tried to
appear nonchalant, but she could sense the wariness beneath his glib
exterior. His hands moved restlessly, first fiddling with the zipper on his
leather jacket, then toying with the potted plant in one corner of the deck.
Her partner's fidgeting coupled with Grey's reticence spurred Scully to yawn
exaggeratedly.

"Ready to hit the road, Mulder? I'm tired."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed softly, sneaking a look at his brother. "Me too."

Scully took in the lines of weariness around his mouth and the shadows under
his eyes, realizing that Mulder at least was not feigning fatigue. The
stress of opening himself to Grey so completely had taken its toll, and Grey
looked more than a little shell-shocked himself. Best they all had some time
to process the day's revelations.

Grey stood and followed them into the house, where Scully collected her
purse. He remained silent until they'd reached the front door, startling
Mulder by putting a restraining hand on his arm before he could open it.

"It took a lot of guts to do what you did tonight," he acknowledged. "I
wouldn't want you to think I don't appreciate it. I just need a chance to
think it all through. Hope you can understand that."

Mulder nodded.

"There's a park down the street with some basketball courts. I go there most
weekends when the weather's nice to shoot baskets, sometimes join a pickup
game. You interested?"

Mulder was too startled by the offer to notice Scully's small smirk. *Wonder
which gene is responsible for the love of basketball,* she mused.

"Sure," her partner responded, too off-balance for a witty remark. "What
time?"

"Come by after lunch -- about one o'clock or so." Grey suddenly seemed to
remember Scully's presence. "Dana, you're welcome too, of course."

She smiled brilliantly at the obligatory invite, noting Grey's appreciative
stare and the way Mulder bristled in reaction to it. "Thanks, but I'll pass.
I think I'll drop Mulder off and do a little exploring in Raleigh."

"All right. But if you change your mind..."

"We'll see you tomorrow," she said quickly, taking Mulder's arm and steering
him out the door.

She could recognize the signs of Mulder becoming territorial and was in no
mood for his alpha male routine. No sense ending what had basically been a
successful evening on a sour note. Mulder mumbled his own goodbye, eyes
still narrowed in irritation, and followed her to the car.

"I think it's remotely plausible he finds you hot, Scully," he said once he
slipped behind the wheel.

Scully rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, Mulder. You're more than enough man
for me."

She was rewarded for playing by a delighted leer. "Ooh, Scully! Can we test
that theory once we get back to the motel?"

Reducing her laughter at his antics to a mere quirk of the lips, she pointed
straight ahead. "Just drive, Mulder."

"Yes, ma'am."

Eagle Rock
Sunday
1:05 p.m.

Scully glanced at her partner out of the corner of her eye as she drove,
trying to take his emotional temperature. She'd heard the television droning
and sounds of movement well into the wee hours of the morning, so it was a
good bet he still wasn't sleeping. They hadn't talked much after leaving
Grey's house, and at the motel, Mulder had retreated immediately to his own
room -- though he'd left the connecting door slightly ajar as was their
custom.

It was hard not to press him about his feelings. Scully wanted desperately
for Mulder to open up to her and share what was on his heart. She could see
how heavily he was burdened, both by the death of his mother and the
discovery of a brother who was little more than a stranger. But as much as
she longed to comfort him, she respected his need for space. She could only
hope that when the time was right he would turn to her.

Scully thought about Grey, about the many subtle similarities to Mulder
she'd already glimpsed -- his dry sense of humor, the way he ran his fingers
through his hair when frustrated, the quick temper that was oddly coupled
with gentleness and empathy. Yet for all the shared traits, for all the
physical similarities, there were glaring differences. He smiled easily and
often. His life was frighteningly normal -- a standard (though admittedly
dangerous) job, a house in a quiet neighborhood, and pick-up games in the
park down the street. He exuded an aura of peace that was completely at odds
with Mulder's edgy restlessness. Looking at Grey gave Scully a hint of what
her partner might have been without Samantha's abduction and his father's
betrayals.
Though the thought made her wistful, she couldn't help wondering how much of
what she loved about Mulder had been created by adversity.

"Sure you don't want to stay, Scully?" Mulder spoke up suddenly, his tone
deceptively light as he gazed out the window.

Knowing what was bothering him, Scully smiled. "I'm not exactly dressed for
basketball, Mulder," she reminded him, referring to her black slacks and
emerald green silk blouse.

"I didn't mean you had to play, that's for us manly men. You could be the
cheerleader," Mulder said in his best he-man voice, looking at her slyly
from beneath dark lashes.

"Pass," Scully said, refusing to rise to the bait. "You're talking about
more excitement than my little heart could stand."

She pulled up in front of Grey's house and turned to face her partner. "I'm
here for you, Mulder. You know that. But you and Grey need some time alone."

"Hope we're both still standing when you come back," Mulder muttered
sarcastically.

"Me too. I'm not sure how I'd get you back to the motel."

Mulder pouted, his lip stuck out belligerently. "Why do you assume *I* would
be the one down? Are you insinuating he could kick my ass?"

"You're stalling," Scully said, neatly sidestepping his question. She
sobered. "Are you handling this okay, Mulder? You haven't said much, and I
promised myself I wouldn't pry."

Mulder sighed and leaned his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I don't
know, Scully. I'm not sure I'm handling it at all. My feelings are all
tangled up, and I can't seem to separate them. I loved my mother, and it
hurts to know that she's gone. But those emotions are so entwined with anger
and betrayal that I can't decide how to react. Why didn't she tell me,
Scully? I was her *son.* I deserved that much. Why did she leave me a damn
letter like some casual acquaintance? Couldn't she just once have let me
in?"

Scully's throat felt tight. "I guess she loved you to the best of her
ability, Mulder -- maybe the only way she knew how."

Mulder blinked rapidly. "I know it isn't his fault," he continued in a husky
voice, indicating Grey's house with a tilt of his head. "But it bugs the
hell out of me that he knew. He knew about me and about Sam, and I knew
*nothing*. And yet side by side with that anger is the desire to know him,
to be able to call him brother and have the word mean something -- to not be
alone." He blew out a small puff of air. "Pathetic, huh?"

Scully slid her hand across the leather seat and twined her fingers with
his. "It isn't pathetic. And you aren't alone."

He gave her hand a grateful squeeze just as Grey loped out to the car,
dressed in sweats with a basketball tucked under one arm. Mulder opened the
car door and got out only to have Grey lean in the window and smile at his
partner.

"Hey, Dana. You look nice today."

"Thanks, Grey. You two behave yourselves, okay? No rough stuff." She smiled
warmly at him, then shot Mulder a "be nice" look. He rolled his eyes,
obviously irritated with his brother's attentiveness.

"Rough stuff? Now why would you say that?" Grey asked, his drawl becoming
slightly more pronounced as he raised an eyebrow.

Scully locked eyes with Mulder and gave him a full grin. "Well, I've seen
Mulder play basketball. Let's just say he can get a little...intense. I
don't suppose that runs in the family, though."

"Not a chance," Grey assured her. "This is the South, after all. We're
civilized down here."

"Come on, Rhett. You're keeping Scarlet from power shopping," Mulder said
dryly.

They watched as Scully drove off, then Grey turned to head in the opposite
direction. Mulder fell into step beside him.

"She's something else, Fox," he said admiringly. "If she's half as good an
agent as she is beautiful, she must be a great partner."

"She's all that, and more," Mulder murmured, then seemed to catch himself as
if he'd said more than intended.

He could feel Grey looking intently at him but chose to ignore it. He really
didn't want to discuss Scully, especially since in his opinion his brother
was entirely too friendly toward his partner.

"So what's your relationship with Dana?" Grey asked, evidently not put off
by Mulder's attempts to avoid the topic. He fiddled with the basketball as
they walked, spinning it on his finger one moment, bouncing it the next.

"We're partners. And we're friends," Mulder said, lips thinned with
annoyance.

"*Just* friends?"

"Best friends." Mulder glowered at the skeptical look his brother gave him.
"What?"

"Look, you don't owe me any explanations," Grey said breezily. "If you'd
rather not talk about her, that's okay. Just don't try to snow me."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm telling you the truth."

Grey's skepticism turned into disbelief. "You mean things between you are
strictly platonic?"

Mulder looked away, unable to answer. Images of the dim hallway outside his
apartment flickered through his mind -- her tearstained face, a long overdue
declaration from someplace deep in his soul, eyes locked, her face cradled
in his hands as he leaned slowly in to...

He hated bees.

"I don't know how things are at the Raleigh P.D., but the FBI frowns on
partners becoming romantically involved," he said instead, hating the
defensive quality of his voice. "I'm not about to screw up the best
partnership I've ever had."

Grey raised his hand, palm up. "Don't get your panties in a twist! I'm sorry
I brought it up. It's just... seeing you together I kind of assumed
something more between you. You have this whole unspoken communication thing
going that's a little spooky."

Mulder shrugged, letting go of his anger as they approached the courts.
"We've been together for six years. It's only natural, I guess." He neatly
stole the ball from Grey and went for a lay-up, sending it through the hoop
with a satisfying swish.

"Yeah. And denial's just a river in Egypt," Grey muttered under his breath
before getting the rebound and making his own shot.

Despite the beautiful weather, they were the only two on the courts. They
took turns for a while, the shots becoming more and more exotic. Mulder
performed his trademark "reverse lay-up with a twist" and Grey actually
managed to sink one while lying on the asphalt, using only his feet.

"One on one," he finally suggested. "Fifty points."

"You're on -- if you're sure you've got the stamina. After all, you do have
five years on me."

Grey favored him with a wolfish grin. "Don't worry about me, little brother.
I think I can keep up."

Three quarters into the game, with Grey trailing by a mere four points,
their random conversation hit rocky ground. Mulder had the ball and was
bouncing it slowly while Grey leaned forward with his hands braced just
above his knees. Both were breathing heavily and drenched in sweat from
their exertions.

"You really believe everything you told me last night?" Grey panted.

Mulder feinted to his left, then dodged right, driving hard to the basket.
His shoulder caught his brother sharply in the ribs, knocking him backwards.
He sank the basket and turned to Grey with his face carefully neutral.
"Forty-four, thirty-eight. And the answer is yes."

"These men, the Consortium, in league with aliens?" Grey twisted his body
back and forth, keeping it between Mulder and the ball. "Responsible for
Dana's kidnapping? For giving her cancer?" He punctuated his words by
spinning around, delivering a brutal check to Mulder's side with his elbow
before making a jump shot. "Forty-four, forty."

Mulder's eyes darkened in anger, but he accepted the ball. "Yes. All of it.
They've tried to make a deal with the devil, regardless of who they had to
sacrifice."

He charged for the basket, plowing through Grey and sending him to the
ground. "Forty-six, forty," he said tightly, rubbing his side while he
watched his brother climb to his feet.

"If any of it is true," Grey sneered, "what makes you think you can stop it?
What makes Fox Mulder the world's only hope?"

He moved the ball down the court, this time not attempting to disguise the
elbow used to block Mulder's attempt to steal. Mulder staggered but kept his
feet as the ball hit its mark. Grey's arm had slammed full force into his
face, and he wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.

They faced each other gasping for air, the game forgotten.

"Because someone has to," Mulder snapped, his voice rising with barely
contained fury. "Because I won't let them win. I've lost too much, and
Scully... They've nearly succeeded in killing her more than once. You think
I can just let that go? Do you know what it was like, seeing her in the
hospital surrounded by machines that were the only thing keeping her alive?
Enduring nosebleeds so severe that she needed transfusions? Watching her
slowly eaten away by cancer *they* gave her and unable to do a damn thing to
stop it? Do you have the slightest idea what that felt like?"

"Yes!" Grey yelled, his face contorted with fury. "I do! My wife died of
cancer two years ago. It was slow, and painful, and by the time it finished
with her I could barely recognize the woman I'd married. And there was no
miracle chip to stop it."

When he saw the stricken look on Mulder's face, Grey's anger abated. "You
aren't the only one in this world who's suffered, Fox," he said, his voice
weary. "Even we ordinary, everyday shmucks can lose the thing we treasure
most."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Grey picked up the basketball and began walking back toward the house. "Now,
you do."

TITLE: Blood Ties(2/2)
AUTHOR: Dawn
E-MAIL: sunrise@avenew.com
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know
SPOILERS: Mild through season 6
RATING: PG-13 for violence and disturbing imagery
CLASSIFICATION: S, A -- with a case file thrown in
KEYWORDS: MulderTorture, Mulder/Scully UST, M/S/Sk friendship
SUMMARY: Upon the death of his mother, Mulder learns a family secret that
will change his life forever.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter and 1013
productions. I only borrow them for entertainment purposes. Grey McKenzie is
all mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Undying gratitude to my beta reader, Laurie, and beta
reader/collaborator Donna. You guys have a way of offering encouragement
just when I need it the most. Thanks for keeping me going. This story is the
first in a possible series - you tell me what you think!
FEEDBACK: Is the icing on the cake. I'd love to hear from you!

Blood Ties (2/2)
By Dawn

127 S. Cambridge
Eagle Rock
Sunday
3:10 p.m.

Mulder leaned against the counter, watching Grey rummage through the
refrigerator. He was tired -- not just the pleasant physical fatigue of
well-used muscles, but an almost mind-numbing weariness of spirit. They'd
walked back from the park in silence, a wall replacing the bridge between
them. Mulder was still trying to figure out how he'd managed so quickly to
alienate a man he'd begun to like and hoped to respect. The look in his
brother's eyes when he spoke of his wife was a look he'd seen in the mirror
on numerous occasions. He longed to take back the angry words, but knew it
was impossible.

"Hey."

He looked up, startled from his inner ramblings, only to have Grey toss him
two objects in quick succession. The first was a bottle of water, the second
a small ice pack.

"Put that on your lip, it'll take down the swelling," his brother said
gruffly.

The cold stung at first, then felt soothing. "Thanks," he said quietly.
After a moment he added, "Scully's going to kill me."

To his intense relief, Grey grinned. "Bet she can be a real spitfire."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "You have *no* idea."

"Kate was like that," Grey said, a wistful note creeping into his voice
though his smile remained. "The little bit I've seen of Dana reminds me of
her. She was the gentlest person I've ever known -- but hell on wheels if
you crossed her."

"How long were you married before...?"

"Four years. Sometimes I regret that we never had kids. Most times I think
it's for the best." He sighed. "We thought we had plenty of time."

"Scully can't have children," Mulder said, setting down the ice pack and
opening his water. "They did something to her when they abducted her."

He seemed to miss the significance of his own remark, but Grey didn't.

"I have to say this once, Fox, and then I'll let it lie. Life is too short
to wait for a perfect moment. Tell her."

Mulder looked at him sharply but didn't pretend ignorance. "It's
complicated."

Grey chuckled. "*You* make it so, little brother. It's actually very
simple."

"I'm sorry about what I said earlier," Mulder said, attempting to change the
subject. "I didn't mean to open an old wound."

Grey shrugged. "It's all right. I'm doing okay now."

"I didn't notice any pictures of her."

A little of the sadness crept back into his brother's eyes. "Not *that*
okay." He downed a few swallows of water before continuing. "I've got a
picture upstairs in the bedroom. I'm not ready to see her everywhere yet."

He deposited his empty bottle in the sink and stripped off his shirt,
rolling it into a ball. "I'm taking a shower. Make yourself at home, I'm
sure Dana won't be back for a little while yet."

With that he ambled down the hallway and Mulder heard the thud of his feet
as he ascended the stairs. Still sipping his water, Mulder wandered into the
living room, idly taking in the comfortable furniture that was surprisingly
free of knick-knacks. Something told him that more than just pictures had
been packed away after Kate's death.

A large coffee table sat in front of the sofa, and he saw that it was
littered with file folders, their contents spilled out over the surface.
Curiosity piqued, he drifted closer, not really surprised to discover that
they were case folders. Almost without thinking, he sat down and began to
read, spreading out crime scene photos and autopsy reports.

A serial killer, with four victims to date. All dead from blood loss caused
by deep slashes inflicted to the forearms from elbow to wrist. The bodies
were mutilated post-mortem, gutted to remove the heart from the chest
cavity. The selection of victims appeared to be random -- males and females,
various ethnic backgrounds and professions, ranging in age from twenty-seven
to fifty-eight. The Raleigh P.D. had consulted with the local bureau to
obtain a profile of the killer, and a suspect was presently in custody.

Completely immersed, Mulder never heard Grey's footsteps on the stairs.

"Hey, Fox, I can loan you a pair of sweats if you want to shower."

Grey broke off, frozen in the doorway when he saw how his brother had been
occupying his time. A momentary flash of annoyance crossed his features
before he walked into the room and plopped down onto the couch.

"I'm not sure how ethical it is for you to be doing that," he said.

"I'm FBI. It's not like I'm a civilian," Mulder murmured, never lifting his
eyes from the report he was reading.

"Doesn't matter, I suppose. We caught the guy yesterday. I was downtown
filling out the paperwork when you first arrived."

"You've got the wrong guy." There was no hesitancy, no uncertainty in
Mulder's voice. He continued to flip through the folder that he was holding,
oblivious to the thunder in his brother's face.

"The Raleigh bureau gave us a profile. He fits it perfectly," Grey said
tightly.

"I know. The profile is wrong."

"It's wrong, huh? And you were able to determine that after reading the case
file for all of twenty minutes? We've been working this case for *three
months*! I think you should stick to aliens."

*That* grabbed Mulder's attention with an almost physical jerk. His head
whipped around to fix Grey with a furious glare and he clenched the papers
in his hand until they crackled. His brother didn't shrink from the venom in
his stare, arms folded belligerently across his chest.

"I'm not an idiot. I used to be a profiler," Mulder said, teeth clenched so
that the words came out like slivers of ice.

"And we aren't just a bunch of stupid good ole boys who don't know how to
run an investigation," Grey retorted, his accent thickened by his anger.
"You aren't profiling any more, Fox, and you're out of your jurisdiction.
Leave it alone."

He began shoving papers and photos back into the folders, his movements
rough. Mulder bit back another retort, breathing deeply in an effort to calm
down. When he spoke again, he kept his voice reasonable and detached.

"Grey, listen to me. I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds, but the files
just caught my eye. You have to believe me when I say that I know what I'm
talking about here. The man you've arrested did not commit those murders.
Your killer is still out there, and he'll kill again."

Grey looked at him, his eyes still narrowed in annoyance, but his own anger
in check. "Because the profile is wrong," he said sarcastically.

Mulder ignored his skepticism and nodded. "Look, the profile assumes that
the killer is a middle-aged male, probably thirty-five to forty-five, who
didn't finish high school and works a manual labor job. It also supposes
that his motivation for the murders stems from a sense of inadequacy. That
he picked the victims because they were all well educated and in successful
careers -- something he wanted but could never attain."

"I've read the profile."

"So you arrested..." He trailed off picking up a folder and consulting it.
"Patrick Booker, thirty nine, an assembly line worker at a local company
that makes plastic containers."

"That's right. A company that just happens to be within five miles of where
three of the four victims lived and two miles from one of the dump sites,"
Grey said defensively. "He never graduated high school, and his co-workers
said he's always mouthing off about people in white-collar jobs thinking
they're better than he is. Plus he knew two of the victims personally. He
had Janet Lange's business card in his wallet."

"But the autopsy results say that the victims all had large amounts of
Ativan in their bloodstream, most likely injected. Patrick Booker wouldn't
have access to that drug or the smarts to use it. His I.Q. is barely above
one hundred. In addition, the profile presupposes that the UNSUB murders out
of rage. I just don't see that from the presentation of the bodies. The
victims were essentially anesthetized before their arms were slashed, and
the mutilations were performed after death."

And *your* theory is?" Grey uttered the word with derision.

Reining in his temper Mulder continued, his voice becoming more detached and
clinical the longer he spoke. Scully would have recognized the signs that he
was distancing himself from the horror of exploring the killer's mind.

"The killer is younger, probably in his twenties. He was severely abused --
physically? Sexually? I'm not sure, though, since none of the victims were
violated I'd suspect the former. Whatever the case, the system let this guy
down and the abuse was never exposed and stopped. He's out from under it
now, but he can't move on. The victims represent the people who should have
been able to help him, but didn't. A teacher. A doctor. A school counselor.
And a social worker. All jobs that come with the obligation to report child
abuse. Even his method reflects his state of mind during the years of abuse.
Think about it, it's the classic means for committing suicide by slashing
your wrists -- vertical cuts so that the blood won't clot as easily. It
speaks of my sense of despair, hopelessness. I'm trapped and alone and this
is the only way out for me. Cutting the heart from the body is the ultimate
expression of my despondency."

He realized he'd been drifting, caught on the in between plane where only
his own mind and the mind of the killer existed. He brought himself sharply
back to focus on his brother, only to see Grey watching him as if he'd grown
a second head. Mulder flushed, mentally kicking himself for going in so
deep. Before either one could speak the doorbell rang.

Still scrutinizing Mulder as if he were a particularly interesting bug, Grey
got up and returned a moment later with Scully. Her relaxed smile froze when
she sensed the tension between them and her eyes narrowed as she took in
Mulder's split lip.

"I thought I told you boys to play nice," she said, eyes darting from one to
the other.

Grey had the good grace to flush and duck his head. "Guess it runs in the
family after all. Can I get you something to drink, Dana?"

"Grey..." Mulder began, the folder still in one hand.

"I told you to let it go, Fox." Grey cut him off, scooping the papers off
the table and plucking the folder from his hand. "We have plenty of support
from the Raleigh bureau. Your input isn't needed or wanted on this."

Mulder's temper snapped and he lunged to his feet. "Why are you being so
pig-headed? Why can't you just listen to what I have to say? Are you worried
little brother is going to show you up?"

"I did listen! All I heard was some half-baked idea put together in a few
minutes that completely contradicts a profile refined over several months!
Stick to your X Files, Fox, and leave real life to me."

The words hung in the air of a room that was suddenly very still. Mulder's
eyes shone over-bright in a face devoid of color. Scully reached out as if
to lay a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

"I knew this would never work," he said bitterly, and stalked out of the
house without looking back.

Scully turned a furious glare on Grey, only to see him squeeze his eyes shut
and bury his face in his hands. "I can't believe I just said that," he
groaned, honest regret in his voice.

Scully's face softened, but her tone was steel. "I can't either."

Grey dropped his hands and sighed, looking up at the ceiling in a "why me?"
gesture. "He can just be so...infuriating! It's like he pushes all the wrong
buttons in me, you know what I mean?"

"I've been his partner for six years, Grey. I think I can grasp the
concept."

"Then why do you put up with it?" he asked, and she saw it was not a
rhetorical question.

The answer came with surprising ease, leaving her to wonder what that told
her about herself. "Because he needs me. And although he can be boneheaded
and insensitive at times, he can also amaze you with acts of utter
selflessness and compassion. He's a truly good person, Grey, and
I'm better for knowing him. Give it a try."

Grey ran his hand through his hair and started for the door. "I need to
apologize."

"Don't."

The single word stopped him with its intensity, and he turned back
perplexed. "Don't?"

"Give him some time to cool down and call him in the morning. You know where
we're staying, right?" At his nod she continued. "We planned to fly home
tomorrow night, so you've got one more day to fix things. He wants it to
work, Grey."

"So do I, Dana. It's just not going to be easy."

She smiled and squeezed his arm as she moved past him to the door. "Well,
you know the clichÄ. Nothing really worthwhile ever is."

The door snicked shut behind her and he stood in the middle of his living
room, staring at the file in his hand. Mulder's words, spoken in that odd
monotone, ran through his head and he shivered. Feeling foolish, he dropped
the folder back onto the table and went to make himself a sandwich.

Holiday Inn
Raleigh
Sunday
6:00 p.m.

"Let me get this straight," Scully said, fishing around in the cardboard
container until her chopsticks snagged another shrimp. "You basically told
the man that the last three months of his life have been a complete waste of
time -- professionally speaking anyway. You then followed that revelation by
enlightening him as to what he ought to have been doing instead. And all
after perusing the case file for less than a half-hour." She popped a shrimp
into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Does that about sum it up?"

"Scullee!" Mulder groaned from his position draped across the end of the
bed. "You make it sound so...so..."

"Insensitive? Inconsiderate? Tactless?" Scully finished, setting aside the
container and leaning back on the headboard.

"But it's the truth!" Mulder said petulantly, his lip stuck out slightly in
defiance. "Everything I told him, Scully. I'm sure of it."

Scully sighed heavily. "Mulder. A passion for the truth doesn't supercede
the need for simple courtesy. You sandbagged him. It's no wonder he closed
his mind to anything you had to say."

Mulder growled and flopped onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes.
Scully waited, expecting a rebuttal or at the very least a carefully thought
out defense. The response she got instead caused her mouth to drop open
slightly in surprise.

"I hate it when you're right."

Scully smiled softly, allowing affection to color her voice. "He'll call you
tomorrow, Mulder. You can work this out. As for the case, Grey was right.
You need to let it go and trust that they know what they're doing. Your
relationship with him may hinge on whether or not you do."

The shrill ring of a cell phone aborted Mulder's reply and they both fumbled
to answer before Mulder remembered that he was in her room. He watched in
amusement as Scully's relaxed posture snapped to attention, knowing that the
caller must be Skinner. The conversation was brief and one-sided, with their
boss doing most of the talking. The overall point of the conversation was
clear -- Skinner needed them in D.C. on the next available flight.

"He needs us back." Mulder stated, scanning her face as she closed the
phone.

"Not us, me. There's an autopsy he wants me to handle. He was sketchy on the
details, but he's faxing the report now, so that I can read through it on
the plane. Kim booked me on a seven-thirty flight." She climbed off the bed
and began packing her suitcase as she spoke.

Mulder sat up and swung his legs over the edge. "I'll just get a seat on the
same flight, Scully. We can fly back together."

She startled him by stopping her flurry of activity and staring at him
intently. "Don't, Mulder. You have to make things right with Grey. If you
get on that plane tonight, you won't come back. We both know that."

Mulder met her gaze silently for several moments before expelling a large
puff of air. "You're on a roll tonight, Scully. Finish packing and I'll go
check on that fax."

An hour later they stood outside the gate, waiting for the call to board
Scully's flight. She finished running down her mental checklist, reassured
she'd remembered everything, when she realized Mulder was staring blankly at
the plane. She knew that look.

"Mulder."

He blinked and looked down at her, though several seconds passed before he
was really all there. "Hmm?"

"Where were you just now?"

His eyes slid away from hers, a sure sign that he was hiding something. "I
was right here, Scully. I just got distracted for a moment."

"You were thinking about that case."

She hid her amusement as he practically began shuffling his feet, looking
like a little boy caught snitching cookies.

"Mulderrr..."

"I heard what you said before, Scully. It's just hard to turn it off."

She considered the words, touched by his candor. An image of her partner
during the Mostow case surfaced -- gaunt from skipping meals, eyes shadowed
from lack of sleep but burning with determination that had crossed the line
into obsession. "Hard to turn off" was an understatement.

The call for boarding interrupted her thoughts and she reached out to grasp
his hand, giving it a squeeze. "Good luck with Grey. I'll pick you up at
Dulles tomorrow night."

To her surprise, he used their linked hands to draw her into a hug, tucking
her head under his chin. She stiffened momentarily, then relaxed into the
embrace, his tee shirt soft against her cheek and the steady beat of his
heart soothing.

"Thanks, Scully," he said softly, the words a rumble in the ear pressed to
his chest. "I don't know what I would've done without you this week. You've
been my anchor."

Flustered by his uncharacteristic profession of gratitude, she fell back on
the easy response. "That's what partners are for."

Mulder surprised her yet again by pulling away to gaze into her face, his
hazel eyes green with emotion. Slowly he shook his head. "Grey was right.
This was above and beyond the call of duty. And I want you to know, Scully,
that it means everything to me that you were by my side through this."

Scully tried to swallow the sudden lump in her throat. "It was my pleasure."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, but before he could remark the flight
attendant repeated the boarding call. This time Mulder was the one startled
when Scully reached up to cup his cheek with one hand, pressing her lips to
the other. She let her hand linger a moment longer before scooping up her
laptop and heading for the line of passengers.

Scully had disappeared from sight before Mulder realized he was still
standing in the lounge area, an idiotic grin plastered on his face. He
hastily removed it, fighting the impulse to look around and see if anyone
had noticed.

With Scully gone there was little to occupy his thoughts on the way back to
the car, so they inevitably returned to Grey's case. Mulder's conviction
that the wrong man was in custody had only strengthened with time, as did
his foreboding that the killer would strike again soon. Who would be the
next victim? A mother? A policeman? A vivid image of Grey, lying in a pool
of his own blood with his heart torn out caused him to freeze, his key
poised in the ignition. He shook his head as if to banish the thought and
started the car, knowing what he had to do.

Raleigh Police Department
Sunday
7:45 p.m.

The cop behind the front desk was reading the paper, his feet propped up on
a chair. He hauled himself reluctantly to his feet when he noticed Mulder.

"Can I help you?"

The slight growl to his voice made it plain that he'd rather not. Mulder
feigned ignorance, pulling out his I.D. and holding it up for inspection.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder from the bureau in D.C. I'd like to see any
information you have on one of your current cases -- a serial murder."

"You mean the San Francisco Slasher?"

At Mulder's quizzical look he shrugged. "Hey, I didn't think it up. Some of
the homicide guys started it. Because of the way the killer cuts out the
hearts."

When Mulder still looked at him blankly, added, "You know, like that old
Tony Bennett song. "I left my heart..."

"In San Francisco," Mulder finished. "Very funny. Could you get me those
files, Officer..." He squinted at the man's nametag. "Gardner?"

Gardner's eyes narrowed. "I don't get it. They have a suspect in custody.
What's the Washington bureau's interest?"

Mulder fought his impatience. "Suspect. That's the key word. I just want to
review everything, make sure we're on the right track." He deliberately
stressed the word "we," insinuating that he was just another member of the
team. When Gardner still seemed reluctant he added, "Look, I've already
talked to Grey McKenzie about this."

They guilt he felt at the half-truth was assuaged by Gardner's quick
capitulation with his request. With a "why didn't you say so in the first
place" he was set up in an empty interrogation room, the pertinent folders
spread before him.

The more he read, the more Mulder was convinced that Booker was not the
killer. The man had displayed none of the classic triad of symptoms common
to most serial killers. His childhood, while poverty-stricken, lacked
anything that could be termed abuse. His contact with the victims was
suspicious, but circumstantial.

Mulder worked his way meticulously through the autopsies, crime scene
photos, and witness testimonies, making notes on a yellow legal pad that
Officer Gardner had supplied. He chewed on his lip, a frown of concentration
darkening his features. Soon his focus narrowed to a pinpoint that
encompassed only the files and his own notes. The rest of the world
virtually ceased to exist, the only sound in the tiny room the scratching of
lead on paper.

As he checked and cross-checked information, one name continued to pop up.
Jackson Ross. An EMT, he was at the scene when the first victim was
discovered. He occasionally worked with Karen Abbot, the doctor and third
victim. Intrigued, Mulder pulled out his cell phone and dialed for help.

"It's Mulder. Turn off the tape."

"Mulder! We were beginning to think you'd dropped off the face of the
earth," Frohike said. He hesitated a moment. "Sorry about your mom."

"Thanks. I've got someone I need you to run a background check on, and I
need the results ASAP."

"No problemo. Who is it?"

"Jackson Ross. An EMT who lives in Raleigh."

"Raleigh? Where are you? I thought you were in Greenwich."

"Never mind, just get me anything you can on this guy. You can reach me on
my cell," Mulder said abruptly, his mind already returning to the
casefiles."

"Will do."

By the time the phone rang again, Mulder had absorbed all the available
information and constructed his own profile. He was shaking out a cramp in
his hand and wishing for his laptop when the shrill buzz from his pocket
nearly caused him to drop his pencil. Cursing under his breath, he flipped
the phone open while continuing to flex his fingers.

"Mulder."

He listened intently, the pain in his hand forgotten as it flew over the pad
of paper to record Frohike's findings. The crease between his eyes deepened
and his mouth straightened into a grim line. When the gunman had finished he
let his eyes slip shut, feelings of validation and revulsion warring within
him.

"Thanks Frohike. I owe you."

Frohike must have heard something in his voice, since his own became
probing. "You okay, Mulder? Is Scully with you?"

"I'm fine, Frohike. And believe it or not, Scully and I actually can be sold
separately." The sarcasm was uncalled for after everything his friend had
done, but he was too weary to care.

Luckily, Frohike seemed to let it slide. "Take it easy, man. Let us know if
we can do anything else."

Ashamed, Mulder injected gratitude into his voice. "I will."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and ran a hand over his face. His
eyes felt sticky, he had a crick in his neck, and a percussion ensemble was
playing in his head. But the information on the pad superceded his petty
physical discomforts. Jackson Ross was the San Francisco Slasher. He was
certain of it.

Mulder folded his arms on the table and dropped his head onto them, longing
for a cup of coffee and one of Scully's back rubs. His satisfaction at
identifying the killer was tempered by the knowledge of what came next. It
would be like swimming upstream -- a very cold stream with lots of sharp
rocks. He doubted he'd emerge unscathed.

The door to the room flew open so hard that it crashed against the wall,
sounding like a gunshot in the room's silence. Mulder's head flew up and he
spun around to face the intruder, wincing as the pain between his eyes
doubled. Grey stood in the doorway, face twisted with anger, hands clenched
into fists, his voice a barely contained roar.

"What the *hell* do you think you're doing?"

Raleigh Police Department
Monday
7:00 a.m.

Mulder found he'd suddenly acquired a rare condition -- he was speechless.
His brother stepped into the room and slammed the door shut, then simply
glared. Grey's hands twitched at his sides as if he longed to be using them,
most likely by wrapping them around Mulder's throat. He walked slowly over
to where Mulder was seated, his eyes wandering over the files and the
notepad with deliberate care. Mulder forced himself not to fidget, clamping
down on the feeling of being caught stealing.

"Well?"

The single word sounded as if Grey were biting through steel. Mulder
flinched in spite of himself, then felt his own irritation emerge. *It isn't
as if I'm seeing his girlfriend behind his back* he thought defensively. *If
they don't arrest the right killer, someone else is going to die*.

He was denied righteous anger, however, by the simple fact that he'd gone
around Grey, against his wishes. It was a form of betrayal, and necessity
didn't change that.

"Grey, I'm sorry. I know you didn't want me to pursue this, but I had to."
The contrition in his voice was real, but his brother seemed unimpressed.

"You aren't sorry. You'd do it again, if the situation arose. Admit it."

How could he answer that? It was true. And the hell of it was, he wasn't
sorry for his actions, only their impact on his brother.

"I couldn't just stand by and let someone else die," he said aloud, hating
the pleading note that had crept into his voice. "I had to do something
about it."

Grey looked at him as if he was an exceptionally slow child. "We have the
killer in custody," he growled, speaking each word slowly and with
exaggerated clarity. "No one is going to die."

"Please just listen to me. I know who the killer is, and it isn't Booker.
Just give me five minutes and I can show you I'm right."

"I won't give you five minutes, I'm not even giving you five seconds! Do you
actually think I would want to hear what you have to say after finding out
you've been sneaking around behind my back?"

Mulder's temper sparked. "I wasn't *sneaking*! I have the right to gain
access to these files if I decide it's necessary. Or have you forgotten that
the bureau outranks the local P.D.?"

He could almost hear Scully groan as soon as the words left his mouth. *The
truth doesn't supercede the need for simple courtesy, Mulder.*

Grey, if it was possible, became angrier. Rather than increasing in volume,
however, his voice became quiet and controlled. Mulder was eerily reminded
of his father.

"Get out. If you plan on exercising your authority here you'd better get
your A.D. to call me. For now, I want you out of this station and out of my
life."

Mulder, who had been about to apologize, stared dumbly at his brother.
Grey's eyes were ice and his teeth clenched as if to prevent himself from
saying more.

"Grey..."

"You said it yourself, Fox. It isn't going to work. We've both existed
without a brother this long, we'll be just fine. Leave the files on the
table, I'll get someone to take care of them."

He'd left the room before Mulder's paralyzed brain could even begin to
formulate a reply. He stared at the door with his stomach churning, a
depression settling over him that was so deep and thick he could barely
breathe. In that moment he was granted an epiphany -- he hadn't just
*wanted* things with Grey to work. A part of him, the part that had ached
for his sister every day over the last twenty-six years -- had desperately
*needed* it to work.

Mulder dragged himself wearily to his feet, muscles that had been confined
by his stint in the wooden chair screaming in protest. When his eyes found
the wall clock he was stunned to realize he'd passed the entire night
hunched over the files. The loss of his ability to judge the passage of time
gave him an uneasy feeling, but the urgency of his findings wouldn't allow
him to grant it more than a passing thought. He'd alienated his brother, but
a killer was still out there. The drive to prevent another death
superimposed his own grief, banishing it to the back of his mind.

He picked up his profile and strode purposefully out of the room, ignoring
the inquisitive stares he felt following his every move. If Grey wouldn't
listen, he'd see this through alone.

1616 Merton Avenue
Monday
10:00 a.m.

Mulder got out of the car and stared up at the house, wishing for the
professional armor of a suit. When he'd left the Raleigh P.D. he'd gone back
to the motel to shower and shave, but the clothing items he'd brought with
him on this trip were exclusively casual. He felt oddly vulnerable in his
jeans and navy V-neck sweater, weapon concealed by his leather jacket.

The house was absurdly normal in a neighborhood like any one of thousands
across the country. The fact didn't surprise Mulder. He'd learned long ago
that a monster could hide under the most innocuous faŻade. He recalled a
case from his days with Violent Crimes -- a six-year-old who had removed her
baby brother from his crib while he was napping, strangled him and hid the
body in the woods behind her home. He shuddered, recalling the complete lack
of remorse in her cherub face when the body was discovered buried under some
leaves. She'd actually had them searching for a kidnapper she claimed had
entered through an open patio door, until they'd discovered prints from her
fingers around the infant's neck and traces of his skin under her
fingernails. It turned out the girl had been severely abused by a
disappointed father who'd wanted a son and not the daughter he originally
received.

A line from a Stephen King novel flitted through Mulder's head: "This
inhuman place makes human monsters." According to his information from
Frohike, that was precisely what had occurred at 1616 Merton Avenue.

He walked slowly up to the front door, noting that the house was set well
back from the street, and there were no neighboring homes within an acre in
either direction. The seclusion, coupled with older construction that tended
to be more solid and soundproof, made it entirely possible that the murders
could have been performed on the premises without detection. Mentally
preparing himself for anything, he pressed the doorbell.

A young woman in her early twenties answered the door, a wary look on her
pretty face. Her hair was blonde and cut short, her eyes a deep green. Those
eyes flicked quickly up and down Mulder's form, then came to rest on his
face.

"Yes?"

Mulder showed her his I.D. and tried to make his voice as reassuring as
possible. "My name is Fox Mulder. I'm a special agent with the Federal
Bureau of Investigation. I'm investigating a series of murders and I was
hoping to speak to Jackson Ross."

The wariness was replaced by uncertainty. "That's my brother. Is he in some
sort of trouble?"

"I just need to ask him a few questions," Mulder said in what he hoped was a
soothing tone. "Is he home?"

She shook her head. "He's still at work. He's normally home by now when he
has the graveyard shift, but sometimes there's a really bad trauma and he
gets held up."

"Would you mind if I waited a few minutes to see if he shows up? It's very
important."

Her eyes danced over him again, still cautious, but then she smiled
nervously. "I guess not. My name is Sara, by the way. Come on in."

She led him into a large living room and gestured for him to sit down on a
couch that was definitely made for show and not comfort. He watched her as
she seated herself gingerly on the edge of a chair, noticing that although
she was not particularly tall her arms and legs were muscular.

"You caught me during my workout," Sara laughed, as if recognizing his
assessment. "Jackson has some body building equipment in the basement and I
borrow it now and then."

"It's great you keep in shape," Mulder replied. "Jackson must be pretty
strong, huh?"

"Well, he often needs to be. Some of the calls his unit responds to are
pretty grueling. You said you're investigating some murders?"

Mulder nodded. "Jackson's unit was first on the scene after one of the
bodies was found. He also worked with one of the victims -- a Dr. Karen
Abbott."

Sara looked sad. "I remember. Jackson felt really bad about that. He liked
working with Dr. Abbott. She never made him feel inferior, you know? Some of
the doctors can do that. Jackson was already questioned though, so why are
you here?"

Mulder held out his hands, palms up. "I can't really discuss it with you,
Sara. It's confidential. You can understand that, right?"

For an instant he thought he saw irritation flash across her face, but then
she was smiling and nodding and he was convinced he'd been mistaken. He was
running on very little sleep, even by his standards, and it shouldn't
surprise him if his perceptions were a bit off.

"Can I offer you some coffee, Agent Mulder?"

He hesitated only a moment before nodding, thinking that some caffeine would
definitely help restore his edge. "Thanks, Sara. That sounds great."

She disappeared from the room and he glanced around, taking in the stiffly
formal furnishings and the large fireplace. The mantle held a small
collection of photos and he got up to take a closer look.

One picture was obviously current, Sara looking much the same with her arm
around a young man with the same color blond hair worn long and drawn back
into a ponytail. The eyes were hard and untouched by the smile on his face.
Jackson's arms were thick and muscular, certainly capable of hefting the
weight of a dead body.

Another picture was a family portrait, and Sara looked to be no more than
three. She was perched on what must be her father's shoulders, grinning
impishly down at him. Jackson stood in front of his mother, her arms draped
loosely around him and his face solemn.

"That's the only picture we have of my father," Sara said, startling him by
her silent return. "He died when I was three."

Mulder returned to his place on the sofa and accepted the mug she handed
him. The coffee was strong and a little sweet, but he sipped it gratefully.

"I'm sorry, I added some sugar before I could stop myself," Sara apologized
sheepishly. "I'm just so used to making Jackson's that way that I guess I
was operating on autopilot."

"As long as it's got caffeine, I'm not complaining," Mulder chuckled. He
took another drink and saw that she had relaxed, the apprehensive look gone
from her face.

"So what do you do, Sara?"

"Nothing as exciting as working for the FBI, I'm afraid. I do some
telemarketing out of the house. The money isn't great, but I get to set my
own hours. Have you been an FBI agent for very long?"

Mulder smothered the yawn that suddenly wanted to break free and took
another swig of the coffee, willing it to combat the fogginess that he felt.
"About twelve years now. Have you and Jackson always lived in this house?"

"Yes, this is the house we grew up in. Jackson talks about moving, but so
far I've convinced him to stay. There's a lot of memories in this old house,
some good and some bad." Her forehead wrinkled at some unspoken
recollection. "A lot of them bad, I guess. But all the good times with our
father were in this house. I can't help feeling that if I leave the house
I'll be leaving him, you know?"

Mulder blinked, feeling strangely disconnected from his body. While Sara had
been speaking he felt as if she'd been moving farther and farther away from
him, down a long dark tunnel. The fogginess had turned into an overwhelming
lethargy that left his limbs feeling heavy and his tongue thick and clumsy
in his mouth. His eyes slipped shut and with enormous effort he forced them
back open, though he was unable to prevent the empty mug from slipping out
of his slack grip. A little voice in his mind was screaming in panic, but
the cotton in his head muffled it.

"Whajudotome?" he slurred, losing the struggle to keep his eyelids from
falling.

Sara leaned over him, her face distorted by eyes that couldn't seem to
focus. "You came looking for the wrong Ross, Agent Mulder," she said, her
words fading in and out as if someone was playing with a knob that
controlled the volume around him. "But you found the right one."

Comprehension pierced the thick blanket that threatened to smother him just
before everything went black.

Dulles International Airport
Monday
7:00 p.m.

Scully watched the last passenger exit the plane, torn between feeling
concerned or pissed off. She'd driven to the airport, weary after a long
stretch on her feet in the autopsy bay, only to find that Mulder wasn't on
the flight. With very little trouble, concern won out, and she pulled her
cell phone from the pocket of her jacket.

After placing two calls, her concern increased to worry. His cell phone was
not responding and there was no answer at the hotel room. In addition, he'd
never checked out as planned.

Back in her car, Scully rummaged through her wallet until she found the slip
of paper where she'd jotted down Grey's number. She punched it in, trying to
ignore the gnawing sensation that something was terribly wrong. Grey
answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Grey, it's Dana Scully."

"Hey, Dana. What's up?"

Scully frowned, hearing something in Grey's voice that she couldn't identify
but knew didn't belong. She sensed a wall go up, a cautiousness he'd never
displayed with her.

"It's about Mulder..."

"Look, Dana, no offense but I think it's best that you just stay out of
this. What happened this morning was between me and Fox, and I'd prefer that
it stay that way."

She fumbled for some reply while her mind raced frantically to make sense of
Grey's words. Something had happened between her partner and his brother,
and Grey obviously thought that she knew about it. The defensive quality to
his voice suggested it wasn't good.

"Grey, I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about. I'm calling
because Mulder never made his flight home. I was hoping you'd know where he
is."

Silence, and she realized she'd just put *him* into the position of
scrambling for a response.

"Dana, I haven't seen Fox since about 7 this morning."

The warning bell in her head, the one activated whenever Mulder got into
trouble, was clanging loudly. He would tease her mercilessly if he knew
about the sixth sense she'd developed over the years, but it was never
wrong.

"I think you'd better tell me everything," she said quietly.

It didn't really surprise her that Mulder had gone straight to the police
station from the airport. She'd seen how deeply the case was affecting him.
The fact that he'd spent the night pouring over the files and constructing a
profile fueled her worry. Just like with Mostow, this case was consuming
him, eclipsing all other needs except that of catching the killer. While she
understood Grey's anger, she also knew that his reaction had only made
Mulder more determined. She knew without a doubt what he had done.

"He's gone after the killer," she told Grey in a manner that was deceptively
calm. "You wouldn't listen, so he went alone."

"I wouldn't listen because we already have the killer," Grey replied
sharply.

"Grey, I need you to hear me because your brother's life may depend on it. I
don't know who you have in custody, but if Mulder said you've got the wrong
man then I'd sure as hell take a second look," Scully snapped, her fear
getting the best of her temper for a moment. Taking a deep breath she
continued, "No matter what you may think of his beliefs, his ability to
profile a killer is unparalleled. I happen to know that the violent crimes
unit at the bureau would take him back anytime, no questions asked." Skinner
had told her as much after Mulder had assisted on a profile.

"You really think he could be in trouble?" Grey sounded shaken. "My God,
Dana, if he was right and I..."

"I'm catching the next flight out," Scully cut in, grateful once again for
the overnight bag she kept in her trunk. "I'll phone you with the arrival
time so you can pick me up. In the meantime I want you to go to Mulder's
hotel room and find his notes. He didn't have his laptop so he
probably wrote them longhand. Look for a legal pad."

"He did," Grey said quietly. "I saw it this morning."

"Gather up anything you can find on the case. Mulder will jot down notes on
whatever's handy. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've found case
notes on."

When Grey didn't answer, she made her voice deliberately authoritative.
"*Don't*, Grey. You can beat yourself up when this is all over if it'll make
you feel better. Right now I need you with me."

She could almost see him square his shoulders. "Yeah. I'm on it. See you
soon."

Scully pocketed her phone and swung her duffel bag onto her shoulder before
heading back into the terminal. A nagging voice in her head accused that she
shared responsibility with Grey, that she knew Mulder too well not to have
seen this coming. Her admonishment to put guilt aside was well founded. Now,
if she could only take her own advice.

1616 Merton Avenue
Monday
9:07 p.m.

Mulder awoke slowly to a body that felt coated in molten lead. He was
semi-reclined on something cushioned but firm, and for a moment he muzzily
thought that he'd fallen asleep on his couch. He tried to stretch, only to
find the cushions had somehow become fused to his body. In a split second,
reality flooded his mind with a flurry of sharp images -- his night at the
police station, Grey's furious reaction, driving to Jackson Ross's house,
Sara offering him coffee... Sara!

Mulder's eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, only to find that he was on
a gurney in full restraints. His sweater, socks and shoes had been removed,
leaving him clad only in tee shirt and jeans. Still not thinking clearly
with a brain fogged from the residue of drug in his system, he panicked,
fighting against the unyielding straps and yelling for help at the top of
his lungs. After several minutes he managed to regain control, raw wrists
and a hoarse voice the only products of his struggle. He worked to slow his
pounding heart and rapid gasps for air, recognizing from the tingling in his
extremities that he'd begun to hyperventilate.

He swept his eyes slowly around the room, evaluating his surroundings. He
was in a basement, dank with moisture and devoid of windows. The only
illumination came from a single bulb in the ceiling, its light pale and
cheerless. The walls were gray cinderblock and he saw two doors, one across
the room from where he lay and another that he could barely see by craning
his head as far to the left as possible. When he turned his head to the
right, however, all thought was driven from his mind and he barely avoided a
second panic attack.

A wooden table stood not more than four feet from his right hand, a
collection of items neatly laid out on its surface. He could see a Swiss
army knife, several vials and syringes, towels, and a hacksaw. Something
smooth and shiny caught his eye and he looked down to see that plastic drop
cloths covered the floor beneath the gurney. He slammed his eyes shut and
concentrated on each breath, unable to dispel images of the crime scene
photos.

The knob on the door he faced rattled, and a moment later Sara stepped into
the room. She walked slowly over to stand beside him, her eyes scanning the
length of his body and lingering on each set of restraints. Once reassured
that he remained incapacitated, she brought them to rest on his face. Mulder
was amazed at the transformation. No longer the meek, slightly nervous girl
he'd first met, she carried herself with calm assurance and met his gaze
without flinching.

"You're finally awake. I guess I must have misjudged the amount of Ativan I
needed. The others were only out for about six hours."

Rattled by the revelation that he'd been unconscious for so long, Mulder
refrained from asking the time. He needed to do the unpredictable, to throw
her off balance and interrupt her established patterns, or he was a dead
man.

"I have to admit, it never crossed my mind that you were the killer. Most
serial murderers are male, you know, so I naturally suspected your brother.
The fact that he'd had contact with more than one victim *and* access to
drugs and equipment... Well, I guess you can see how I made my mistake." By
some miracle he managed to keep his voice light and conversational.

Sara's lip curled in a sneer. "Jackson would never have the guts. He chooses
to pretend things don't exist, rather than face them head on."

"Like your childhood? The happy times ended when your father died, didn't
they, Sara." He phrased it as a statement, not a question, studying her
reaction.

Sara looked startled, then her eyes narrowed. "I should have guessed you'd
know. You cops can access all of a person's records can't you? Can find out
anything about them. You just don't *act* on that knowledge."

"I know why you're doing this, Sara," Mulder continued. *Keep using her name
to establish rapport. Make her see you as a person, not an object.* "I know
what he did to you and Jackson, and I know that the ones who could have
stopped him let you down. You're hurting and you're angry, and you want to
make them pay for abandoning you."

"You know nothing! Have you ever been forced to wear long sleeves on a hot
day so that no one sees the cigarette burns on your arms? Did your daddy
ever shove you down the stairs so that you broke your leg? Or lock you in a
closet for two days, refusing to let you have food or water or even to use
the bathroom? The son of a bitch made me clean up after myself after he
finally let me out! You know all about that, Mr. *Bigshot* FBI Agent?" She
spat the words, her green eyes wild and unfocussed.

"No. I can't know what it was like to be brutalized day after day and unable
to defend yourself. But I do know that brutalizing others won't make the
pain go away," Mulder said pitching his voice deliberately low in contrast
to hers.

Sara's lips curved in a smile that never reached her eyes. "I wondered when
you were going to get around to saving your own skin. None of the others
wanted to talk, they just screamed for help and begged me not to hurt them."
It was said clinically -- an observation lacking emotion. "Not that it
mattered. Did you know that when this house was built a lot of basements
were made to function as bomb shelters, Agent Mulder? You could bust a gut
screaming and no one would hear."

"Maybe not an outsider, but Jackson..." Mulder trailed off when he saw her
lip curl in contempt. He'd hoped that it might be possible to alert Sara's
brother to his presence, but the look on her face planted a horrible
suspicion in his mind.

"Jackson is *gone*, Agent Mulder, and he won't be coming back. I lied to you
when I said I was expecting him home."

Mulder's mouth went dry. "Where is he, Sara?"

For the first time her composure faltered and something flickered briefly in
her eyes -- guilt and possibly remorse. She shook it off quickly and glared
at him. "Jackson was worthless back when we were kids and he was just as
worthless grown up! He refused to talk about what that bastard did to us, he
just wanted to forget. 'Get past it, Sara. It's over,'" she mimicked.
"That's what he kept telling me!"

Mulder tried to lick his lips only to realize he didn't have enough moisture
in his mouth. Sara's hands curled into claws and her teeth were bared in a
snarl. She looked more like a wild animal than a human being, dangerous and
unpredictable.

"Where is he, Sara?"

"It wasn't my fault! He figured out what I was doing and he was going to
turn me in. He would have betrayed his own sister -- can you believe it? Did
he actually think I'd just stand by and let him?"

Mulder closed his eyes against the despair that washed over him. "Did you
kill Jackson? Is that what you're telling me, Sara?"

"I had no choice." In the blink of an eye Sara became eerily calm, her face
smoothing out until she appeared almost serene. "I'm through being a victim.
I won't let anyone make me feel that way ever again."

A strident buzzing interrupted his reply. Sara looked startled, but remained
calm. "That's the doorbell. My mother had a buzzer installed down here so
that she'd know if someone came to the door while she was doing laundry."

As she spoke she walked purposefully to the table and picked up one of the
syringes. "Our unfinished business will have to wait. Time you took another
nap."

"You don't need that, Sara. I won't make any noise, and besides, you said
this room was practically soundproofed. Don't do it, please, I promise I'll
be good. Just don't drug me."

He realized he was babbling but couldn't seem to stop. Sara was completely
unaffected by his pleas, as if she didn't even hear him. She simply pushed
up the sleeve of his shirt and sank the needle into his arm, efficiently
depressing the plunger. The drug hit his system like a truck. His head
dropped back onto the mattress and his eyes slid shut before she'd even
reached the door.

"Don't worry, Agent Mulder," he heard her say from the edge of the chasm
that swallowed him. "I'll be back."

1616 Merton Avenue
Monday
10 p.m.

Grey turned off the ignition and gazed up at the house speculatively,
pursing his lips. He could detect no movement within, but lights shone from
several of the windows on the first floor. He looked to his right in time to
see Scully remove her weapon and check the clip, then replace it. She kept
her expression carefully neutral, but he knew it was all for show. Her hands
had roamed restlessly during the drive from the airport -- shuffling
Mulder's notes, tucking a strand of hair behind an ear, placing a call to
her boss. She had been a constant blur of motion that revealed her anxiety
more clearly than words.

"You ready?" he asked quietly. When she nodded he continued, "We can't make
him let us in, you know. If we're going to get a warrant, we have to have
more to go on, even if what you say is true and Fox *is* a legend in his own
time."

Her mouth tried to curve at his attempt to ease the tension, but failed. She
started to open her door, then paused to lay a hand on his arm. "I know you
still have your doubts, Grey. Thank you for trusting me on this."

There wasn't much he could say to that so he simply got out of the car and
followed her up the long driveway. Scully rang the doorbell and turned,
looking first to the left and then the right. Lights from the adjoining
houses were visible, but just barely.

"Remote," Grey murmured as if reading her thoughts. "There's enough trees on
this lot to shield the house from view of the neighbors."

Scully bit her lip and turned back to face the door, tapping her foot.
Another minute passed and she was about to try the bell again when the door
opened a crack. She could just make out blonde hair and green eyes set in a
decidedly feminine face.

"Yes?"

"I'm Agent Scully with the FBI and this is Detective McKenzie from the
Raleigh Police Department. We apologize for bothering you this late, but
it's urgent that we speak with Jackson Ross."

The crack widened enough for the girl to view their identification, then the
door swung open. Scully did a quick assessment, hiding it behind a friendly
smile. The girl looked to be in her early to mid-twenties, average height
and sturdy of build. She looked both intrigued and intimidated by their
badges, and Scully felt a pang of sadness that she would be caught up in
what could turn into a very bad situation.

"I'm Sara Ross. Jackson is my older brother but he isn't home right now. Is
there something wrong?"

Grey shifted uncomfortably and shot Scully a questioning glance.

"We're looking for my partner, Agent Mulder," Scully explained carefully.
"He planned on coming to see Jackson today to ask him some questions
regarding a murder investigation. We're hoping your brother will be able to
tell us if he saw Agent Mulder, and if Agent Mulder indicated where he was
headed next."

Sara's face screwed up into a puzzled frown. "Would you like to step inside
for a moment? It's a little chilly out there tonight."

She moved back to allow them to enter, her arms wrapped tightly around her
middle. "I've been home all day -- I do telemarketing out of the house --
and I never saw your Agent Mulder. I would know if he'd stopped by."

It wasn't what Scully wanted to hear. Grey saw her look probingly at Sara
before quickly glancing away, her lips pressed tightly together. Sara's eyes
darted from Scully's face to his own, giving the impression she was afraid
she'd given the wrong answer.

"You said Jackson isn't home. Could you tell us when he will be? Where is
he?" he asked her, smiling reassuringly.

"He's on call tonight at the station. He's a paramedic. Did you know that?
Anyway, I called him earlier this evening and he said he was working a
double shift for someone who's sick. He won't be home until the morning, but
you could come back then."

Grey caught Scully's eye and inclined his head slightly toward the door. She
nodded reluctantly, casting one last look around the interior before turning
to Sara.

"Thanks for your help, Sara," she said, pulling a card from her pocket. "If
Jackson gets home earlier or you think of anything else, you can reach me at
this number."

The girl took the card as if it were a rare jewel, scrutinizing it carefully
before slipping it into her own pocket. "I sure will, Agent Scully. And I
hope you find Agent Mulder real soon."

Back in the car, Scully began pulling out papers and file folders, holding
them up to the dome light to see them in the darkness. Grey watched her for
a moment, noting the slight trembling in her hands and the set expression on
her face.

"What are you doing, Dana?"

"I'm looking for the address of the fire station where Jackson works. We
need to make that our next stop."

Grey took a deep breath, then let it out very slowly. "Dana, it's nearly
ten-thirty at night. He could be out on a call, or even asleep. We can come
back in the morning."

She rounded on him, furious. "It could be too late by the morning! If
Jackson has Mulder..."

"I don't think Jackson does have Fox," Grey said calmly. "Dana, you're
proceeding on instinct alone here. There's nothing to indicate that Fox even
came here other than some scribbled notes. Sara didn't know what we were
talking about. And for that matter, do you really think the man is
dissecting people in that house with his sister living right there with him?
How could he possibly hide something like that? You have to acknowledge the
possibility that Fox was just plain wrong."

Scully grit her teeth. "Then. Where. Is. He?" She annunciated each word so
that it was sharp as a dagger.

Grey winced at her anger but plowed on. "We had a falling out, he was upset.
Maybe he's somewhere trying to sort it all out. Hasn't he ever gone off
somewhere without telling you?"

He'd obviously struck a nerve because she snapped her eyes shut and spun
away from him. He stared at her back for several minutes, not sure whether
to speak.

Scully stared out the window, seeing nothing. She knew in her heart that
Mulder hadn't ditched her and was in serious trouble. She could feel it in
every cell, every molecule of her body. But Grey was right, she was
operating on intuition without proof. Mulder's face suddenly appeared
clearly in her mind, his eyes glinting with amusement. She could almost hear
the teasing note to his voice. "Is that the most *plausible* explanation,
Agent Scully?"

*Is this what it's like for you, Mulder? So certain of the truth, yet unable
to prove it?*

"Dana?"

Grey's voice pulled her back to reality and she turned to face him. She saw
regret in his eyes and knew that he felt badly for opposing her. Knowing
what she had to say next, she could only hope he'd come around.

"Grey, I hear what you're saying, and I know it makes sense. But I also know
Mulder. And I know that if he believed he knew the identity of your serial
killer, nothing would have stopped him from pursuing that knowledge -- not
even you. I need you to trust me on this. I would prefer you came to the
station with me, but I will go alone if that's what it takes."

To her relief, Grey didn't become angry. Instead he shook his head ruefully.
"You use the word trust a lot, did you know that, Dana? You don't ask that I
believe you, just that I trust you."

"Sometimes that's the only way to middle ground," she said, an enigmatic
look on her face.

Grey sighed heavily and started the car. "Let's go. I was sick the day my
class visited the fire station when I was a little kid. Guess it's about
time I got there."

Cary Fire Department
Monday
11:38 p.m.

Grey's concerns proved to be unfounded. Things at the fire station were in
full swing. Some of the men were watching television while others played
cards. The man who answered the door, Tim Reed, looked puzzled by Scully's
request to speak to Jackson Ross.

"Jackson isn't on tonight," he said, his eyes lingering on Scully before he
glanced over his shoulder. "Greg and Connie are handling this shift."

At the sound of their names, two paramedics looked up from the television
questioningly.

"Jackson wasn't supposed to work tonight, was he?" Tim called.

The woman, Connie, shook her head. "I haven't even seen Jackson in more than
a week."

"His sister said he was here tonight," Grey said. "Are you sure he hasn't
been in?"

Tim indicated the room with a sweep of his hand. "This is everyone. .It's
not like he'd be hiding."

Scully looked at Grey, a suspicion beginning to take root in her mind. She
turned the intensity of her gaze onto Tim. "Can we speak to whomever's in
charge of this shift? I think we have a problem."

"Captain's in his office. Follow me."

Captain Jim Bradshaw had hair the color of steel and bright blue eyes that
studied them carefully as he shook hands. Tim loitered in the doorway until
a stern glare from Bradshaw sent him packing.

"Have a seat," he urged Scully and Grey, moving to shut the door before
reclaiming his own chair. "Now what's this about Jackson Ross? Is he in some
kind of trouble?"

"We just need to speak with him about an ongoing investigation," Grey
explained.

"Must be *some* investigation to bring you out at midnight on a Sunday,"
Bradshaw observed shrewdly, tapping his pen on the desk blotter.

"There's more," Scully admitted, seeing the man would not be content with
half of the truth. "We believe my partner went to visit Jackson this
morning. He hasn't been seen or heard from since."

Bradshaw seemed to sense her worry and frustration. His brow smoothed and
his eyes softened. "Jackson hasn't reported for work in more than eight
days. We've tried calling his home but all we get is the answering machine.
If I don't hear from him soon he won't have a job to return to." He paused
as if thinking. "What made you so sure he'd be here?"

"His sister told us he was here, working an extra shift for someone that got
sick," Grey said, his lip curled in disgust.

Bradshaw ran a hand along his jaw, choosing his next words carefully. "Sara
Ross is...different. She's been around the station quite a bit since Jackson
came on board. She's a hard one to figure out -- sweet and friendly one day,
sullen and withdrawn the next. I'd take whatever she's told you with a grain
of salt. I don't think she's a particularly stable young lady." He sighed.
"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Scully stood and offered her hand, thoughts already racing in another
direction. "Thank you, sir. You've actually been very helpful."

Bradshaw raised an eyebrow at that, but merely escorted them to the door.
Scully kept silent until they'd reached the car, then spun to face Grey.

"I know what you're thinking," he spoke up before she could begin. "I'm just
having a hard time believing it could be true."

"It makes perfect sense, Grey. Mulder went there thinking that Jackson was
the killer and found only Sara. He let his guard down, and she took
advantage of it. All the elements that made Mulder suspect Jackson apply to
Sara -- the access to drugs and medical supplies, the history of abuse. He
just didn't expect the killer to be a woman. Who could blame him? Most
serial killers are male."

"Then I guess we'd better move quickly," Grey replied, tossing her the keys.
"You drive while I call for a search warrant." He grimaced. "No one's going
to be happy about being rousted out of bed at this hour."

Scully slipped behind the wheel, her face pale darkness. "Tell them they'd
better move quickly or I'm going in without it. If my suspicions are
correct, Sara's fixed it so that she's an only child. I don't think we have
much time."

1616 Merton Lane
Tuesday
2:30 a.m.

Mulder was submerged in a cold, black lake, struggling to break the surface.
A part of him became gradually cognizant of the restraints, the musty odor
of mildew, the chill, damp air. That awareness screamed that he should feel
terror and fight to free himself. But the drug in his bloodstream made it
difficult to care about anything, urging him to drift passively in those
dark waters. Trying to concentrate on any one thought took an extraordinary
amount of effort.

He'd already begun to sink back down toward sleep when he heard her voice,
as clearly as if she were speaking in his ear.

*Mulder, you've got to keep fighting. I'm coming.*

"Scully."

His own voice sounded alien, her name so thick and slurred by his clumsy
tongue that it was barely recognizable. He hauled open heavy eyelids, half
expecting to see a flash of copper hair or the bright smile reserved for
occasions when he narrowly cheated death. Instead he was met with the dull,
dreary walls of his prison and an itch on his nose that he couldn't scratch.

Mulder felt the sudden prickling sensation of being watched, and snapped his
head sharply to the right. Sara stood beside the table, blank green eyes
fixed on his face and the knife held in her hand. She ran her thumb back and
forth over the blade like a caress, heedless of the fact that she was
drawing her own blood in the process. With a chill, Mulder realized that her
gaze reminded him of the times he'd asked his father a question while he was
working. His eyes would be trained on his son, but his focus somewhere else.

"What are you doing, Sara?" he asked quietly.

"Almost over now," she murmured, her voice as detached as her gaze. "They'll
be back, and they'll want to take me away, lock me up. I have to finish
before they come."

Mulder's heart surged with hope. "Who? Who'll be back, Sara?"

Her eyes lost some of their blankness and she seemed to really see him for
the first time. "Your partner and that police detective. They were here,
looking for Jackson just like you were. I managed to fool them, but they'll
be back by morning. I have to finish before then."

*Scully and Grey!*

"There's another way, Sara. There are people who can help, who can stop you
from hurting all the time. You don't have to do this." He struggled to keep
the panic from his voice, to sound reassuring and soothing.

Sara shook her head, switching the knife to her left hand and wiping her
right absently on the leg of her jeans. Mulder tried not to look at the rust
colored streaks the movement left behind. Sara's face scrunched in
irritation and she passed the knife back to her right hand and pointed it at
him

"You don't care about *me*. You just don't want to die. You don't know
anything about what I feel. I can tell just by looking at you -- good looks
and a fancy job. Even a pretty partner to worry about you and come looking
for you. No one has ever made you feel worthless and alone, like they wished
you'd just disappear."

The flood of buried feelings that her words released took him completely by
surprise. The emotion must have shown on his face, since she stepped closer
to better gauge his reaction.

"What is it? What are you remembering?" she demanded, her eyes boring into
his.

Mulder forced himself not to turn away from the intensity of her gaze. "No
one's life is perfect, Sara. We all wind up with some baggage we can't seem
to put down."

She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them he saw a glimpse of
the real Sara, the soul at the core, beneath all the layers of pain and
abuse. Her eyes glistened with tears and her voice was very soft.

"I've become that baggage, Agent Mulder. I can't separate myself from it
anymore."

Mulder felt a kernel of hope at her confession, and pressed forward
cautiously. "Then let me help. I can see that you get someone to talk to,
who'll understand. You don't have to let what your stepfather did..."

Sara's response to the word was swift and violent. Her features contorted
with rage and she lunged forward, pressing the knife to his throat until he
felt the warm trickle of blood on his neck.

"Don't *ever* use that word to describe him! That piece of garbage was *not*
my father - my father was good and kind and he loved me. That... that
*thing* my mother married was not even human!"

"Sara, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"SHUT UP! No talking! I'm not listening to you anymore!"

She turned her back on him and set the knife down, fumbling to fill a
syringe with hands that shook with anger. The panic he'd been carefully
holding at bay broke loose and Mulder pulled impotently at the cloth straps
holding him down. This time the injection didn't cause him to lose
consciousness, but stripped him of what little ability he had to move. His
head sank back onto the mattress and he watched with glazed eyes as she
proceeded to use the knife to make three deep cuts on each of his forearms
from elbow to wrist. The pain was intense but came from a great distance,
and he could only watch stupidly as his own blood soaked into the sheet and
then pattered down onto the drop cloth on the floor. Sara just backed away
and watched the flow, a curious expression on her face.

In minutes Mulder began to feel lightheaded and nauseous, and he shivered
uncontrollably with cold that seemed to permeate every cell in his body. He
could feel himself slipping into a deep lethargy that had nothing to do with
the drug he'd been given, and tried to form words to keep it from swallowing
him.

"Sara...'s not too late. Stop...now."

The harsh sound of the buzzer interrupted his plea and Sara jumped as if
jolted with a current of electricity. Her eyes became wild and she muttered
under her breath, conversing with herself.

"Too soon. They're back too soon. No time to finish. Can't let them stop me
now or I'll never be free. Not going to be a victim. Never. Never again."

The litany continued as she got up and slipped quickly out the door without
giving Mulder a second glance. He battled against eyelids weighted with
lead, sure that it must be Scully and Grey at the door. Once again, he
seemed to hear his partner's sweet voice, urging him on.

*I'm almost there, Mulder. If you give up now I'll be really pissed off.*

"Hurry," he whispered through numb lips, teeth chattering. "Hurry."

Outside the house
Tuesday
2:45 a.m.

Scully forced herself to walk calmly up to the door and ring the bell, her
heart hammering wildly in a chest that felt too constricted to breathe. Grey
had managed to secure a search warrant in record time, but it had still
taken too long for her own comfort. Grey punched the doorbell a second time,
and she could see from the grim expression on his face that he was as
impatient as she.

When no one answered Grey motioned her aside and shot through the lock,
pushing the door easily open. A dog began barking frantically in the
distance and Scully raised an eyebrow while directing a pointed look at
Grey's gun.

"You know how sturdy they made front doors when this house was built?" he
retorted. "This thing is solid oak! I'm no fool."

She almost chuckled at that but the drive to find her partner reasserted
itself and she moved cautiously into the hallway, weapon held ready. Grey
tilted his head to the left and she nodded, moving off to the right. She
found herself in an empty living room filled with furniture that looked at
least twenty-five years old. Two pictures were perched on the mantle and she
gave them a cursory glance before moving on through the room. She'd almost
decided to continue through the doorway into the kitchen when something on
one of the chairs caught her eye.

She edged carefully over, continuing to sweep the room with her eyes. When
she realized exactly what she was seeing, however, she holstered her gun and
carefully sorted through the items, tears flooding her eyes. A hand grasped
her shoulder and she spun around, clamping down on the scream that rose in
her throat. Grey stepped back, holding up both hands.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you like that. What did you find?"

She hated the tremor that invaded her voice. "A pile of clothes -- a leather
jacket, sweater, socks, and boots. They're Mulder's."

Grey nodded, chewing on his lower lip. "This floor is deserted. There's a
door in the kitchen that must lead to a basement. Do we go up or down?"

"Down," Scully said immediately. She tried to smile, but it came out as a
grimace. "Don't you watch crime shows? The murderer is always in the
basement."

Grey snorted and followed her through the kitchen. Her gun in hand once
again, Scully nudged the door open and flicked on the light switch. She
descended the wooden steps slowly, Grey's bulk a comforting presence at her
back. The basement was cluttered with old cartons and pieces of furniture,
the smell of mold and mildew heavy in the air. She wove her way through the
catacomb of boxes, nerves jangling, ears attuned for the slightest sound
that would indicate Sara's presence. She was just beginning to think the
basement was empty, her heart plummeting with disappointment, when Grey
called out sharply.

"Dana! Get over here right now!"

She flew across the basement, honing in on the desperation in his voice. In
her haste she bumped into a stack of boxes, sending them toppling to the
floor with a tinkling crash that sounded like broken glass.

Grey's voice came from a doorway that led into a separate room. She darted
in, vigilance thrown to the wind, only to freeze at the sight that awaited
her. Mulder was lying on a gurney in full restraints, his face as white as
the sheet beneath his head. There was blood everywhere - both arms were
slick with it, the sheet they rested on soaked through with crimson that had
spilled over to pool on the floor. Grey had grabbed a couple of towels and
was in the process of trying to wrap them around the slashes on Mulder's
arms.

Scully shook off the shock that held her immobile and pulled her cell phone
from her pocket, pressing it into Grey's hand and inserting herself between
him and his brother.

"Call 911. Tell them they're going to need O negative blood -- a lot of it."

She winced at the slippery feeling of the blood beneath her feet but
resolutely continued where Grey had left off. It was a moment before she was
able to lift her eyes from the torn flesh of Mulder's arms to his face,
startled to find him still semi-conscious. His eyes were glassy and only
half open, but she saw that he was aware of her presence and attempting to
speak.

"Shhh," she admonished him gently, her throat constricting with the tears
she would not allow to fall in his presence. "Don't try to talk, Mulder.
Everything's going to be okay, the paramedics are on the way."

A shudder wracked Mulder's frame and his lips moved in spite of her advice.
"Cold."

It was barely spoken, so weak and colorless that she found herself losing
the battle with her tears. She bit her lip fiercely, turning to call to Grey
over her shoulder while stripping off her coat.

"Grey, we need some blankets right away. He's in shock."

Grey didn't waste time replying, just dashed out the door and pounded up the
stairs two at a time. Scully turned back to her partner and spread her coat
over his upper body. She was alarmed to see his eyes slowly slipping shut.

"Mulder! Stay with me!" she ordered sharply, reaching a trembling hand out
to rub her knuckles gently against his cheek.

His eyes fluttered for a moment before returning to half-mast, his tongue
slipping out to moisten lips so pale they appeared bloodless. He struggled
to speak again, and she leaned over so that her ear could catch the breathy
whisper.

"Knew...you...come."

A choking sob tore loose from her chest and she pressed her lips to his
forehead before straightening, hearing Grey burst into the room behind her.

"Here's two blankets, the EMTs are on their way in," he said brusquely,
moving around her to place one blanket over his brother's feet.

He'd barely said the words before she heard the sound of more footsteps on
the stairs and the two paramedics burst into the room. Mulder's eyes had
closed once more, and though it tore at her heart she moved back to allow
them access. She watched them move efficiently through their tasks, only
half comprehending their terse directions to one another.

"Get that I.V. in stat!"

"I'm trying! His veins are collapsed!"

"Then do a cut down! Just get that blood going or he's going to code on us!"

"B.P. is almost nonexistent already. He needs blood replacement product as
well."

"Let's move him on the count of three! One, two..."

Grey pulled his eyes from the scene, turning to Scully. She was staring at
Mulder's face, tears running freely down her own and fingers pressed tightly
to trembling lips. After only a brief hesitation he reached out to wrap his
arms around her. She folded into the embrace, shaking with silent sobs, her
tears hot through the fabric of his shirt.

"It'll be all right, Dana," he murmured soothingly. "No one that stubborn is
going to give up now."

He could feel the moment she regained her composure, and released her
willingly as she backed away. Her face was red and blotchy from crying, but
she was still very beautiful and he found himself envying his brother just a
little.

"He told me he knew I'd come," she said, her voice still broken. "I can't
help feeling I let him down, that I didn't come soon enough."

"You're the reason he's still alive, the reason those people are here
helping him right now," Grey said sternly. "You believed in him when I
wouldn't."

His words seemed to remind her of something and Scully frowned, swiping at
her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse. "We have to find Sara, she..."

Grey put a restraining hand on her arm and shook his head. "You don't have
to worry about Sara, Dana. I found her when I went upstairs to look for a
blanket. I guess when she realized we were coming she turned the knife on
herself. She's dead. Some of the local cops are up there with her, now."

Scully digested his words, too numb to do more than nod. The EMTs had Mulder
on their gurney and were moving him toward the doorway. "We're taking him to
Northwestern Memorial Hospital," one called over his shoulder. "You can meet
us there."

"I'm coming with you. I'm a medical doctor," Scully replied, already in
motion.

She flashed Grey an apologetic look, but he waved her on.

"Miss, it would be best if you..."

"I'm coming," Scully cut him off, the growl in her tone warning against
further argument.

Despite the horror of the last half-hour and his own worry, Grey managed a
small smile. "I wouldn't try to stop her if I were you, boys. It could be
hazardous to your health."

Scully sent him an irritated glare, but he just followed her up the stairs.

Northwestern Memorial ICU
Tuesday
10:08 a.m.

"At six months, the incidence of CMV disease was 45 percent among
seronegative recipients of placebo and..."

Scully sighed heavily and closed the journal, setting it aside and removing
her glasses. She admitted to herself that although the idea of catching up
on her journal reading was good in theory, her mind was occupied with other
concerns.

The focus of those concerns lay motionless in the hospital bed beside her,
heart monitor beeping and two I.V.s -- one containing blood and another with
fluids and antibiotics -- emptying into his arm. His skin was so pale it
appeared almost translucent, bruised looking shadows under his eyes. Scully
shook her head ruefully. The amazing thing was, he looked a hundred percent
better than he had when they'd arrived at the hospital six hours ago.

Her mind slipped back to the terrifying ambulance ride, the EMT working
feverishly to redo the tourniquet on Mulder's left arm while she held the
I.V. bag, squeezing it to deliver the maximum amount of fluids as quickly as
possible. He'd coded just as they reached the hospital, and Scully was
certain her own heart had stopped as well. The trauma team had been
incredible, working efficiently to pull him back from the edge so that his
damaged arteries could be repaired and his arms stitched up.

Both arms were now swathed in gauze from his wrists to just above his elbows
- she'd lacked the courage to ask just how many stitches had been required
to close the long, deep gashes. Mulder had yet to fully regain
consciousness, though he'd surfaced briefly twice, drifting back to sleep
once his eyes found her face and she'd murmured reassuringly that he was
safe. Scully winced at the thought of the pain he'd be in when he finally
did awaken. The doctor was uneasy about the residual Ativan in Mulder's
system and had elected to hold off on morphine until he was completely
conscious and coherent.

A nurse entered the room and Scully carefully schooled her expression to
hide the grimace she felt. Most of the ICU nurses had been great, offering
her a place to shower and some clean scrubs, bringing her a recliner to
replace the uncomfortable straight-backed chair that was standard equipment.
There was only one exception -- Nurse Attila the Hun who now cleared her
throat and eyed Scully impatiently.

The woman's name was Helen Eggerton and Scully had seen many like her during
her med school days. Probably in her sixties, gray hair and a perpetually
sour expression, nurses like Helen had lost the joy of the profession and
were now merely holding out for retirement. Helen alone had been vocal about
suspension of the rule that would normally limit Scully's visiting time to
five minutes per hour. She'd eventually given in ungracefully, shooting
Scully a venomous look that warned she'd best watch her step.

"Hello, Helen," Scully greeted, determined to ignore the obvious animosity
in the woman's gaze.

"Agent Scully." Helen was also the only nurse that used Scully's FBI title
rather than calling her doctor. "I need to check Agent Mulder's vitals and
redress the wounds. It would be best if you went for a cup of coffee or
waited down in the lounge. I'll be done in about fifteen minutes."

Scully grit her teeth, mentally counting to ten. "I'd rather stay, if you
don't mind. If he wakes up..."

"Actually, I *do* mind, Agent Scully. I know you've managed to secure some
special privileges around here, but I'm the one handling this procedure and
I'd prefer you waited outside." Helen's voice was cool, her gaze
challenging.

For just a moment Scully was tempted respond to Helen throwing down the
gauntlet, but she was exhausted mentally and physically and really did need
some coffee. Grey had left an hour earlier to wrap things up with the case,
so if she wanted some caffeine she'd need to fetch it herself.

"Sure, fine, whatever," she muttered under her breath, getting stiffly to
her feet. Refusing to be rushed by Helen's impatient sigh, she leaned over
and pressed a kiss to Mulder's cheek. "I'll be right back, Partner. Helen
will take good care of you." She raised her eyes to meet the nurse's as she
spoke the words, narrowing them slightly in warning.

Helen huffed her irritation but said nothing. Scully lingered in the doorway
for only a moment before heading down the hall to the elevators.

Fifteen minutes later she was headed back to the room, a steaming cup of
coffee in one hand, when the screams began. There was no question who it
was, and she flew down the hallway, slamming the Styrofoam cup onto the
counter at the nurses' station before running into his room. Helen and
another nurse named Amber were struggling to hold a thrashing Mulder steady
so that Helen could administer the contents of a syringe into his I.V.
Scully bulldozed her way between Helen and her partner, heedless of the
furious glance she received in response.

Mulder's eyes were wide and blank with terror as he struggled to sit up.
Tears spilled freely down his face and his hair was damp with sweat. Scully
immediately located the source of his panic -- both wrists were secured at
his sides by cloth restraints. White-hot anger mixed with a crushing sadness
but she pushed both aside. Mulder's words tore at her heart.

"No! Nononono! Stop! Scully! Scully!"

"Don't!" she said sharply as she saw Helen about to administer the sedative.
"Both of you back off and give me a minute with him!"

"He'll rip open those stitches, not to mention this behavior could cause him
to arrest," Helen argued, but the hand with the syringe dropped to her side.

Scully turned her back on the woman and leaned over so that her face was
just inches from Mulder's, forcing him to see her. She threaded the fingers
of one hand soothingly through his damp hair and slipped her other hand over
his clenched fist.

"Mulder, it's Scully. You're all right, Mulder. You're safe. Sara's gone --
do you hear me Mulder? She's dead, she can't hurt you anymore. I'm here.
You're safe now."

She murmured the same words over and over, keeping up a constant patter of
reassurances coupled with physical touches. His eyes seemed to finally focus
on her face and the screams ceased, though he still panted with fear and
pain. Scully wormed her fingers into his clenched fist until it opened
enough to close tightly around them.

"Mulder, I'm going to take off the restraints now. You have to lie still or
you'll pull out the stitches, okay? Can you do that for me?"

His head bobbed slightly, his eyes still huge, pupils dilated with barely
contained terror. Scully loosened first one wrist then the other, gently
massaging the flesh of each as she did so. She never ceased her gentle
stroking or the flow of calming words and his breathing gradually grew less
and less ragged, his muscles gradually relaxing.

"You going to be all right?" Scully asked softly, aware of Helen and Amber
still hovering in the background.

Mulder licked dry lips and nodded, the gesture stronger this time. She could
see him concentrating on slowing his breathing and she flashed him a
brilliant smile of encouragement.

"Mulder, I need to talk to the nurses for just a minute. I'll be right
outside, okay?"

This time she was rewarded with speech. "Yeah."

Giving his hand a squeeze Scully turned toward Helen and Amber, the smile
vanishing as her brow furrowed with anger. "Can I see you both outside,
please?"

Once in the hallway she rounded on them, unleashing all of the fury she'd
carefully hidden from Mulder. "Who put those restraints on him? I left
instructions specifically stating that under *no* circumstances was he to be
restrained, that I should be called if there was a problem."

Amber, young and soft-spoken, looked flustered by Scully's anger. "I just
ran in when I heard him start to scream, Dr. Scully. They were already on
when I got there."

"I put them on," Helen said belligerently. "He'd become more and more
restless and it was obvious he was waking up. I was concerned he'd pull the
stitches, thrashing around like that. As for your instructions, Agent
Scully, you are not his doctor and..."

"Would you please excuse us, Amber?" Scully said quietly, waiting for the
girl to return to the desk before turning to the older woman. "Do you have
any idea what you just did, what you put that man through? Would you like to
know *why* he reacted that way? The man was abducted by a serial killer and
almost lost his life. You might be interested to know just how she tried to
accomplish that, Nurse Eggerton. She placed him on a gurney, not so
different from that bed in there, in full restraints. Then she sedated him
-- not enough to knock him out, that would have taken away all the fun. No,
she gave him just enough so he couldn't fight back, and then she took a
knife and made those cuts you just bandaged. He lay there, unable to move or
struggle, watching himself bleed to death. Imagine what he must have felt
just now, waking up confused and disoriented only to find himself on *that*
bed in *those* restraints. Now do you think you have a clue as to why in the
*hell* I left the order I did?"

Helen had turned very pale at Scully's words, the righteous indignation
draining from her face. "I...I didn't think."

"No, you didn't. And I'd appreciate it if you allowed one of the other
nurses to handle Agent Mulder's care from now on. I'd hate to have to report
this incident." Scully's tone was icy, her eyes unyielding.

Helen swallowed and nodded, for once speechless. Not wishing to hear an
apology she would find insincere at best, Scully spun on her heel and
returned to Mulder's room.

His eyes were fastened on the doorway, waiting for her to reappear. The weak
smile that took over his face when she did caused a lump to form in her
throat and drove the last vestiges of anger from her system. She sank into
the chair and slipped her fingers around his, rubbing her thumb over the
back of his hand in small circles while carefully avoiding the I.V.

"Sorry," he said quietly, voice still raspy from his screams. "Guess I kind
of lost it for a minute."

"Understandable," Scully answered lightly. "It won't happen again."

Mulder grinned. "I'll bet."

He attempted to shift position a little, grimacing when his arms sparked
with pain. Scully pretended not to notice, knowing how much he hated to feel
vulnerable. Instead she fell back on their old standby for conversation when
waking from an injury.

"How do you feel?"

The slight twinkle in his eyes told her he understood. "Like I'm a few
quarts short."

"We're filling you back up," she said, indicating the bag of blood with a
tilt of her head. "We'll have you topped off in no time."

"Thanks." The humor disappeared from his voice and he looked at her
probingly. "You came through for me, Scully. Just like I knew you would."

Scully blinked at the tears that wanted to form. "It should have been
sooner, Mulder. I wish I'd been there to stop her."

"You *were* there," he said quietly. At her puzzled frown he continued, "I
could hear you, whenever I felt things were hopeless. It was like you were
with me, refusing to let me give up. You kept me going, Scully."

"Sara's dead," she replied, her voice husky with emotion, trying to move the
conversation to safer emotional ground. "She killed herself -- put the knife
right through her heart."

To her surprise, Mulder looked sad. "She was a victim too," he said, his
eyes distant. "She told me she'd become the abuse she'd suffered, she
couldn't separate herself from it the way Jackson had. I'm pretty sure we'll
find his body buried somewhere close to the house."

"We already did."

The deep voice startled them both, and they looked up to see Skinner in the
doorway. He moved cautiously into the room, his eyes scanning the various
pieces of equipment and then his agent's pale face. The genuine concern in
them left Mulder speechless for a moment.

"Scully called me once you were out of the woods," his boss explained,
coming over to stand beside her. "I came down to make sure the case was
wrapped up and to see for myself that they were treating you right." His
mouth curved slightly. "Not that Scully would allow anything less."

"I'm fine, sir." Mulder caught both Scully and Skinner giving him "The
Look," an unnerving experience. "Well, I will be," he added hastily.

He stifled a yawn that tried to sneak out and Skinner noted that his eyes
were drooping with fatigue. Scully must have noticed too, since she began
running the hand not linked with her partner's up and down his upper arm in
a calming fashion. Skinner hid a smile, wondering if
Mulder had figured out Scully's methods for lulling him into sleep when he
resisted.

"I have to head over to the crime scene," he said aloud. "I want to be sure
that forensics is thorough. They seem very competent, but their resources
are limited. I'll stop by later to see how you're coming along."

Mulder didn't answer, already slipping back under, but Scully nodded. Her
eyes clearly expressed her gratitude for his support and concern.

Skinner stepped out into the hallway and strode briskly toward the
elevators. As he passed the small lounge on his left, his eye landed on a
figure that looked very familiar, and yet not. He stopped, moving over to
get a better view of the individual who was pacing aimlessly with his hands
shoved deep into his pockets. Sensing his presence, the man looked up.
Skinner nearly gasped in surprise. Seeing the man's face left no doubt as to
his identity.

"You must be Grey McKenzie," he said, walking closer.

Grey frowned, evidently wondering how a stranger knew his name and why.
"Yes. I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"We've never met, but I've heard about you," Skinner explained, extending
his hand. "I'm Walter Skinner, Assistant Director at the D.C. bureau. Your
brother and Agent Scully report to me."

Grey pumped his hand, grinning a little. "Ahh. You're the person who causes
Dana to snap to attention whenever she calls you on the phone."

Skinner allowed a small smile at that. "Good to know it's working."

"I take it you just saw Fox. How's he doing?" Grey asked casually.

"He looks like hell, but I've seen worse. Dana said with the transfusions
and some rest he should be better in no time."

"He lost over two-thirds of his blood volume, did she tell you that?" Grey
said, leaning against the wall and studying the floor tiles with great
interest. "Over four pints. He was in hypovolemic shock by the time we found
him."

Skinner absorbed his words, watching the way Grey avoided his eyes. "You
know Mulder was awake just now, but he won't last long. You might want to
head on down there if you plan to catch him."

Grey nodded, looking less than enthusiastic. "Yeah. I should do that."

Skinner looked at him shrewdly. He was pretty sure he knew what was
bothering Grey. Scully had kept in touch with Skinner throughout the ordeal
-- had explained Mulder's belief that the Raleigh Police had the wrong
killer, his persistence in writing a new profile, and Grey's subsequent
rejection of it. He'd been in a similar position once, and recognized guilt
when he saw it.

"He won't hold it against you," he said aloud, keeping his expression bland.
"I ought to know. You aren't the only one to have doubted him only to learn
he was right all along."

Grey's initial expression of distrust shifted to interest. "You?"

Skinner nodded, deluged with memories of pinning a struggling Mulder against
a table, turning a deaf ear to his protests that Pinkus was a killer. "I'll
spare you the details, but I actually had him committed. Thought he was
spouting craziness, that he'd finally gone 'round the bend. Later I
discovered everything he'd claimed was true -- but not before he was almost
killed in the process."

Grey ran a hand over his face and sighed heavily before cocking one eyebrow.
"You wouldn't be making that up just so I'll feel better, would you?"

Skinner snorted and turned back toward the elevators. "Me? I'm the guy who
makes them snap to attention, remember? Do I seem the type to do that?" The
doors opened and he stepped inside, facing forward in time to see Grey shake
his head in amusement. "Go see him. You won't be sorry."

The doors shut, removing the need for Grey to reply.

Raleigh-Durham International Airport
Thursday
11:15 a.m.

"We've still got over a half-hour until they start boarding," Scully said,
watching Mulder settle gingerly into one of the hard plastic seats. Seeing
that he looked tired but relatively free from pain she continued, "I'm going
to go pick up a couple of magazines and some coffee. I'll see if they have
seeds."

"Scully, you *know* what I like," Mulder replied, waggling his eyebrows.

Scully rolled her eyes and turned to Grey. "Watch him. I can't think of any
trouble he could get into, but he'll always surprise you. Mulder, just keep
those arms elevated."

"I'd salute, but my doctor warned me against any strenuous movements."

Grey watched her disappear in the crowd before turning back to his brother,
shaking his head. "I still don't get it. I've never seen two people test the
water so many times and still avoid getting wet."

"I told you. It's complicated," Mulder growled, tugging at one sleeve.
Flannel shirts with the cuffs unbuttoned were all he could manage to put on
over the bandages at this point.

"Yeah, I remember. I still think you should jump in. Knowing Dana, I'd say
you'll find the water's just fine."

Mulder didn't answer, so Grey just sank into the chair beside him. He took a
deep breath, knowing that it was past time to air the unpleasantness between
them. Over the past two days he and Fox had begun to rebuild their
relationship, but his angry words still lay between them like a particularly
ill placed piece of furniture on which you keep bumping your shin. He was
certain that Dana's trip for coffee was a deliberate ploy to leave them
alone so they might talk.

"Fox, I'm sorry," he said quietly, wishing the words came easier. "You were
right and I wouldn't listen. Because of my stubbornness you almost died."

Mulder had turned toward him while he was speaking, but now resumed looking
out the large glass windows at the fueling plane. "It wasn't all your fault.
I pushed all the wrong buttons. I have a way of doing that."

Grey squinted at him, incredulous. "I can't believe you want to take any of
the blame! Fox, I ignored the educated opinion of a colleague because I
couldn't see past the fact that he happened to be my little brother!" He
paused a moment, then added, "I guess that jealous kid that used to listen
to Bill brag about his son never really went away. Hearing you so convinced
you had all the answers brought it all back."

Mulder brought his eyes slowly to Grey's face. "It was all just an illusion,
Grey. You were the one with the *real* family. Ours was just for show, like
a sitcom on T.V. Once the audience was gone, the faŻade crumbled and it all
fell apart. If anyone should be jealous, I think it should be me."

Grey considered his words for a moment, then grinned. "So I guess we'll just
have to *trust* each other and accept that neither of us had an idyllic
childhood."

Mulder raised an eyebrow at his emphasis of the word "trust."

"Dana told me that's the way you two find a middle ground," Grey elaborated.

Mulder looked up to see Scully weaving her way through the crowd, a cup of
coffee in one hand and a bag in the other. When she caught his eye and
smiled, his own lips curved in response and his expression softened.

"Yeah. I guess you could say that."

Grey traced the smile on his brother's face to its source, then leaned over
to murmur conspiratorially. "You know, getting wet can be a lot of fun."

Mulder rolled his eyes, but grinned. "I'll keep that in mind."

The call to board their flight sounded over the loudspeaker and his brother
grabbed his upper arm to help him stand. Scully surprised them both by
pulling Grey into a hug and kissing his cheek.

"Thank you. For everything."

Grey had a goofy grin on his face when he stepped back, and Mulder squashed
a small surge of jealousy. Any irritation he felt disappeared when Grey
glanced his way and winked knowingly.

Scully ran her hand along Mulder's arm and tilted her head toward the gate.
"I'll be in line."

Once she was gone, an awkward silence descended between them, and Mulder
shuffled his feet awkwardly. "That goes for me, too," he finally said.
"Thanks for coming after me."

Grey looked as if he would protest, but just smiled. "Anytime. You know, I
haven't been to D.C. since I was a little kid. Maybe I could come up for a
visit sometime soon."

"I'd like that," Mulder said, smiling. He sobered, some of the animation
leaving his face. "It's a risk, though, Grey. *They're* bound to find out
eventually, and it could put you in danger."

He still wasn't sure whether Grey believed much of what he'd been told
concerning the Consortium, but his brother's chin jutted out stubbornly.
"Screw 'em. If what you say is true, those men deprived me of my biological
parents forty-three years ago. I'm not letting them take away my brother too
-- not when we've come this far."

Mulder swallowed, blinking against the tears that threatened at his
brother's statement. He bobbed his head in agreement and stuck out his right
hand. Grey looked at it, shook his head, and pulled him into a hug just as
Scully had earlier. At first frozen with surprise, Mulder's arms came slowly
up to carefully return the embrace.

"Take care of yourself," Grey said quietly when he'd released him. "I'll be
in touch."

Scully had already boarded and was sitting next to the window, leaving
Mulder the coveted aisle seat. She watched him settle in, ignoring his
long-suffering look when she helped him with his seat belt. He could feel
her studying him, curious as to the status of his relationship with Grey,
yet unwilling to press him about it. He kept his face carefully neutral,
inwardly grinning at the knowledge that he was driving her crazy. He saw her
purse her lips, and knew she could stand it no longer.

"How are you feeling, Partner?" she asked, and in that one simple question
he heard all the affection and concern left unspoken.

He leaned back into the seat and smiled, turning his head so she could see
it. "Like I have a brother."

Scully's smile matched his own, and she reached out to weave her fingers
with his. The impact of his statement was obvious. There was really nothing
more that needed to be said.

The End.