XxXxX Chapter Four XxXxX Detective Bertelli ordered a gin and tonic with orange, not lime. She sipped it twice before giving him a sideways glance. "You know, I have half a mind to haul your ass down to the station and arrest you." Mulder's blood-shot eyes flickered over her once. "Is that your standard opening line?" he asked, dead pan. "Because if it is, you might have better luck at Leather Leon's up the street." She gave him a humorless smile. "No, I save it for smart- assed FBI agents who lie to me about their relationship to my homicide victim." Oh. He swallowed the rest of his beer, watching as the remnants of foam slid back down the inside of the glass. He was not sure he had the strength for another Elizabeth discussion that evening, with his emotions still in tatters after his talk with Scully. "I plead temporary insanity," he said finally. Bertelli sighed and leaned her elbow on the bar, facing him. "You shouldn't be anywhere near this case, Agent Mulder, and you damn well know it. What the hell were you thinking, accepting this assignment? If Englehart knew about this..." The mention of the Chief's name irritated him. "Hey, Englehart was the one who yanked my chain, not the other way around! I never asked for this assignment." "Yeah, but you didn't exactly say 'no', either, did you?" He turned away and began tracing the smooth rim of his glass with one finger. "I couldn't," he answered thickly, shaking his head to himself. "I couldn't walk away this time." She stared at him hard for a minute, then nodded. "You're right...I don't think I could have left it alone, either." She paused. "You still should have told us." "Sorry," he replied, even though they both knew he wasn't. "There really isn't much to tell. Liz and I were married for a little over a year, and I haven't seen or spoken to her since 1991." "When she tried to kill herself." He stiffened and nodded tightly. "Yeah." Detective Bertelli sipped her drink in silence, as if lost in thought. Then she tilted her head at him. "Does it bother you?" she asked softly. "Does it bother you to think like the guy who killed her?" He made a sound that was somewhere between bitter laugh and choking cough. "It always bothers me." "Then why do you do it?" Her eyes were huge and dark in the dim light. He held her gaze steadily. "Why do you?" She squirmed a bit on her stool, sitting upright again and rubbing the edge of her cocktail napkin with one fingernail. "It's not the same thing. I just interview the suspects, I don't try to read their minds." "Oh no?" he asked mildly. "I think it is the same. I think that since this case started, you've become a different person. Maybe not on the outside so much--just a little lost weight, dark rings around the eyes--but on the inside you're jittery and tense. Irritable. You don't talk to your friends anymore, because they don't understand. They want to discuss their families and politics and the last episode of 'ER'. Maybe they ask about the case out of morbid curiosity, but you know better than to tell them about the horrible things you've seen. You don't want to give your nightmares to anyone else. "You live on scorched coffee and stale pastries from the precinct basement. It makes your stomach hurt to eat that crap, but if you don't get the caffeine you start to shake, and then your partner might think you can't handle yourself. "You have pictures of the victims in your house. Not taped to the wall, but somewhere you can see them often. Maybe stacked on your dresser. The sound of the phone in the middle of the night makes your bones rattle, because you know it means they've found another one, cut up and left in the snow. "And the worst part is that you remember back to when they found the second one--Laurie Scofield, wasn't it? Yeah, when they found her, you were excited at first...a serial murderer in town, and he was all yours. You had caught the big one, the case that was going to make you famous." He paused. "How do you feel about seeing your name in the papers now, Detective?" She clenched her hands on top of the bar, her breathing shallow as she turned to stare at him in wonder and horror. "My God," she whispered, "can you do that to just anyone?" He did not reply, instead fixing his gaze on the empty beer glass in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bertelli down the rest of her drink in one gulp. Then she withdrew a pack of cigarettes from her suit pocket and held them up. "Do you mind if I...?" He shook his head. "Of course not." "I was trying to quit when this whole thing got started," she said after she had taken a few shaky puffs. Her mouth twitched in self-deprecation. "But then you probably already knew that, too, didn't you?" Despite himself, he was amused. "Mind Reading 101," he said, tapping the side of his head with one finger. "You learn stuff like that on the first day." She blinked in surprise, then laughed. "I'm beginning to think my partner was right about you FBI people having a low opinion of the locals' brain power. He smiled, too. "There were three unopened packs of gum on your desk, and I saw you smoking this afternoon in the station parking lot. Not exactly a hard conclusion to reach." She stretched over him for the ash tray and tapped her cigarette gently into it. "Okay, so I believe you've got a good read on people. What have you figured out about the killer?" Mulder rubbed his face with his hands, trying to call to mind what he had learned during the day. Instead, he heard Scully's voice..."When you do profiles...do you actually think like the killer?" The words haunted him as he mentally flipped through the photos of the dead women. His stomach began to quiver. "Agent Mulder?" Bertelli was watching him curiously. "He's invisible," he stated abruptly. "Excuse me?" "The killer. People don't tend to notice him, even in a small crowd. His face is the kind that's gone from your mind within minutes of meeting him, and part of him likes it that way. It's what allows him to take the women with a hundred witnesses around and yet never be seen." "Terrific," groused Bertelli sourly. "So how the hell do we catch him?" Mulder was quiet for a minute. "I'd like to see any reports you have on people who have come forward as possible witnesses." She snorted. "I can assure you we've checked every one that seemed even remotely connected with this case. There's nothing there." "Except maybe the killer." "What?" She gaped at him. "You think he would actually walk into the station and file a report?" Mulder gave a wry smile. "He'd have to be insane, now wouldn't he?" Bertelli shut her mouth with a snap. Then she nodded. "Okay, point taken. But you really think he's been inside? I thought that kind of crap only happened on TV and in the movies." "I don't know for sure," he answered, "but it's a strong possibility. Killers like this are often obsessed with their own investigation, and sometimes they even want to talk directly to the cops on the case." A strange look passed over Bertelli's face. "Why on earth would they want to do that?" He shrugged. "It's frustrating to commit the perfect crime and not be able to have anyone to share it with. Who better to appreciate their hard work than the cops who find the body? The killer feels superior to the lead detective--after all, he's stumped him good so far--but he also desperately wants validation from him. It's your classic love/hate relationship." Bertelli's gaze skittered away, and he suspected she was remembering what he had said about her being secretly thrilled to catch the case. "I'm the lead detective," she whispered after a long minute. "Do you think he's ever come to talk to me?" "I think it's worth looking into," he replied softly, not wanting to shake her up any further. "And remember that it's just a theory." "But if he did come, how would I know if it's him?" she persisted. He sighed. "You might not. But sometimes he'll ask more questions than he answers, wanting to know about your progress on the case, if you have any prime suspects...he might ask to see pictures of the victims." "That's sick." She shook her head. "I just can't believe that the guy would have the balls to come right into the station." "It often happens that way. When the case gets solved, the killer turns out to be closer that anyone would have ever dreamed possible." She gave a breathless laugh that was tinged with anxiety. "Then maybe I should take a hard look at Jacobsen." "Your partner?" Mulder shook his head. "He's bottling a lot of stuff right now, but I wouldn't corner him in the investigation room quite yet." "Can you imagine that?" Bertelli asked dryly. "If he was the perp, I'd go down as the stupidest cop in history." "But think of the money you would make from the movie rights," he pointed out, and she chuckled with real humor. "I can't believe we're even talking about this, let alone laughing," she remarked. "It's positively ghoulish." "Hey, defense mechanisms aren't always a bad thing. If the guy doing these murders had chosen black humor over black rage, we wouldn't be here right now." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I'll tell you this, though-- if I don't get some sleep now, I'll be drowning more than my sorrows in this beer." Bertelli's warm fingers circled over his wrist. "You're sure I can't talk you into another? It's only a little after nine." She leaned a tad closer, and he caught a whiff of her perfume. It made him want to find Scully and wrap himself around her. "Uh, thanks, but I'm dead on my feet. Another time." He reached into his pocket for some money. "Sure," she answered hollowly, retreating back into her own space. "Another time." Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she added, "Maybe Agent Scully could join us." Mulder froze for a microsecond, his hand hesitating just an instant as he tossed the bills on the bar, but he knew it was enough to give him away. Suddenly uneasy, he turned to her. "It's not what you think..." "Oh, please." She waved a hand at him. "Don't even bother. You're not the only one around here who can read the obvious. It doesn't matter, anyway." That's where you're wrong, he thought. It matters more than anything in the world. Bertelli was still staring at him. "Scully didn't know about Elizabeth, did she?" He didn't answer, but she did not need him to. "Yeah, something was definitely off between you two back in Englehart's office. I just didn't know what it was until now." She folded her arms across her chest. "I was wrong about you, Agent Mulder." This remark stopped him cold. "What do you mean?" "I thought you must be the staunchest person on this team, with nerves of steel if you could work your ex-wife's homicide." She retrieved her overcoat from the stool behind her and rose to her feet. "It seems I picked the wrong agent." Her words followed Mulder up into his quiet room, where he lay under the stiff sheets and dreamt that Scully was dead. The doctor broke the news with a long, solemn face and a tangle of cold, gray wires. "It was her nerves that did it," he said, dropping the mess into Mulder's lap. Like snakes, they came writhing to life, sliding up his body until they wrapped tightly around his neck. XxXxX He's gone now, but the pounding in my chest has not stopped. I close my eyes and tell it go away, because I can't do the cutting now. It's too soon after Elizabeth. But inside, I can feel the blood pushing to get out, my heart pumping it closer and closer to the surface of my skin until I feel that I might burst right here in the bar. The image of red streaks running down the walls only feeds my hunger. How exciting it would be to take one right here, right out from under them while they were sleeping. I touch the knife to make sure it's still there. It is. Sometimes after he had been angry, Father would bring me and Helen a treat to make nice again. Helen always forgave him right away, hugging him around his prickly neck and planting big, wet kisses on his cheek. One day instead of candy, he brought us oranges from the store where he worked. "These are special oranges," he told us with a smile. "They've got a secret inside." We peeled them fast, right there on the front porch. The skin fell away, and we saw the inside sections were dark red. "Blood oranges," said Father, rubbing his hands together at the surprise. Helen was horrified, but not me. I ate them both. Blood oranges, with the red secret inside. Just cut them open and you'll see. There is a woman smoking in the rear corner booth who looks a little bit like Helen might have, if she had been allowed to grow up. Dark hair and wide-set eyes. So small you could fit five of her on one side of the black leather booth. I think I'll go and introduce myself. XxXxX Continued in chapter five... XxXxX Chapter Five XxXxX Mulder left the room with his tie on crooked because he could not wait any longer to see her. Even though the disturbing dream had faded with the gray light of dawn, it still left him with the hazy memory of her coffin and a sickening feeling that there was much more at risk than he had originally realized. Downstairs in the breakfast room, the smell of black coffee and muffins reminded him of his words to Bertelli the evening before, making his nose quiver and his insides roil in acid. He rubbed his stomach uncomfortably and scanned the quiet room for Scully, spotting her small form easily amidst the bulky business men. She was sitting motionless in front of a giant window, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, her eyes unfocused, as if she were lost deep in thought. He exhaled deeply. The dream of her death still floated around in his head as his feet propelled him automatically over the thin carpet to her table. In her black suit, Scully was a stark contrast to the brilliant morning sun pouring through the gauze curtains at her back. He wondered if she had dreamed of death last night as well. She glanced up sharply at his approach, and he slid into the seat across from her. "Hey," he murmured, his eyes probing her for any lingering distress from the evening before. But like the winter that had crystallized overnight, Scully was pale and frozen on the outside, her ice chip eyes giving no hint of what lay beneath the surface. She did not give him a verbal greeting, but pulled back her plate so that he had a full half of the shiny, black table. He placed his palms on the smooth top and stretched his fingers out to give her coffee cup a gentle, stroking caress. The lukewarm porcelain was a poor substitute for the soft skin of her wrist, but he knew better than to reach for her right then. He glanced around the breakfast room and then down at the half-eaten bagel on her plate. "Hey, this is the VCS budget we're on here, Scully," he told her with an affectionate, worried smile. "You're allowed to go all the way up and have a croissant." She frowned at the bagel. "I'm not very hungry." "Scully, you've got to..." Leaning forward abruptly, she cut him off. "Where were you last night, Mulder?" "What?" He jerked upright, sending a nearby butter knife skittering to the ground. She folded her arms over her chest and regarded him with a level gaze. "I tried calling you, Mulder. Once around eight, and then again at eight-thirty. I even tried your cell phone, but you weren't answering. Where were you?" He had not lied, not this time, but he flushed a bit anyway. "I couldn't sleep so I went to the bar for awhile." Scully looked horrified. "Mulder, you didn't go over to Dempsey's by yourself, did you?" "No, no," he assured her quickly. "Just down here. I had a beer and went back up." The waitress appeared with his coffee then, and Scully watched his face throughout the pouring, obviously trying to discern if he was telling her the whole truth. And obviously, he wasn't. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Detective Bertelli dropped by to see me," he said when they were alone again. "We had a quick chat." Scully's eyes narrowed. "Why you? Why not both of us?" His mind flashed back to the feel of Bertelli's hand on his arm, enticing him to stay. He shook his head to clear it, keeping his eyes trained on the table as he said, "She, uh...she found out about me and Elizabeth." Scully sighed. "Oh, Mulder. Did you really think she wouldn't?" The trace of hurt in her words made him twist uncomfortably in his chair, reminding him of his lie and their unfinished conversation. He gave a rueful shrug. "It's like the psychologists say, Scully. Denial is not just a river in Egypt." He paused. "At least Bertelli agreed that my marriage to Elizabeth probably doesn't have much bearing on this case." Scully's lower lip twitched, and he could feel her biting back the words, "That's no excuse." No excuse. Well, of course not. There never had been, not for him. No excuse when he was a paralyzed twelve year-old unable to get the damn gun, no excuse when he was a trained psychologist unable to see his wife dying inside every day, and no excuse when he was a hot-shot FBI agent unable to reach Skyland Mountain fast enough to save his partner unmitigated horrors. No, he did not make excuses, he made corrections. That was why they were here, after all, when justice was the only thing he had left to give. He leaned forward again toward Scully, wondering whether he would ever be able to give her a similar gift. "Why were you calling last night?" he asked softly. She blinked, apparently just remembering there had been a reason she had wanted to reach him. "About the victims..." She took a deep breath and met his eyes. "There was one other woman who had attempted suicide before the murder. Kimberly Gallagher." He chewed his lower lip, trying to put the image of Elizabeth's blood-red bath out of his mind and concentrate on the facts. "The wrists again?" Scully nodded. "According to Dr. Atkins, her scars were more recent than Elizabeth's, perhaps a year or so old." "Well, I guess it fits pretty with the overall image of the victims. Maybe this is the link we've been looking for. You think there might have been other attempts that we don't know about?" "We'll know by this afternoon. I already asked to see the medical and psychiatric histories of all the victims. It probably wouldn't hurt to questions their families again, either." He nodded distractedly, still thinking about this latest twist. A killer who carved his victims. Scars on the wrists. No, something was not quite right... Just then, Scully pushed her sleeve up to check her watch. "We should probably--" she began, but stopped short when he reached out to grab her. "When was Kimberly killed?" he asked quickly. A puzzled wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. "She was the fourth victim, found on December sixteenth. Why?" "Long sleeves, Scully. See?" He held her wrist with one hand and used the other to push up her cuff. "Both the women were killed in the thick of winter, when their scars would not have been visible to most people. If the killer was specifically targeting suicidal women, he would have needed some way the to get a look at their arms." Scully dropped her eyes, her arm going limp as her pulse fluttered beneath his fingers. "Scully?" He squeezed her gently, but she pulled her arm away and hid it in her lap. Lines creased her forehead, and she screwed her eyes closed. "Scully, what is it?" She shook her head faintly, as if replying to words only she could hear. "I don't think he needs to see them," she whispered finally, the words small and strange, as if pried from deep inside. He felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he strained across the table closer to her. "What do you mean he doesn't need to see them?" "I mean..." She broke off and opened her eyes, drawing in a deep breath as she met his gaze. "I think he just knows." "Knows?" he repeated hoarsely, his eyes wide. She nodded slowly. "Yes." His heart pounded its way into his throat. He licked his lips, not sure he wanted an answer to his next question but decided to ask it anyway. "And you, Scully?" he questioned softly. "How do you know?" She turned away. With the seconds measured out by the throbbing in his fingertips, he waited. And waited. And waited. Her fingers skimmed the edge of the table several times, her eyes still focused on her plate. At last, she opened her mouth to speak. "Mulder, I..." His cell phone rang. Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second before he moved reluctantly to answer it. He had just flipped it open when hers called softly from the coat on her chair, and their eyes met again with unwelcome understanding; he turned in his chair, head down. "Mulder," he said curtly into the phone, and then listened in silence to the news he already knew. There had been another murder. XxXxX The freezing rain had been pushed out overnight by a blustering cold front that froze the city of Cambridge under a thick layer of ice. Pale and powerful against the cloudless sky, the sun bounced blinding white lasers off each encrusted object. Scully kept her head bowed against the rushing wind as they crunched their way toward the latest murder scene, where the usual gruesome circus was already underway. Mount Auburn Cemetery, normally dreary and quiescent in the winter months, was abuzz with color and motion. Six black and white units were parked inside the iron gate with their lights flashing dizzily around the graveyard, while outside a curious crowd jostled one another for a better view. Yellow police tape was strung about like party streamers, and dozens of uniformed officers traipsed around the perimeter. At least the victim is spared this, Scully thought, feeling slightly sick as she took in surrounding cacophony. It was almost enough to wake the dead. Their identification granted them access to the inner circle, where Englehart, Bertelli and Jacobsen stood over a slender, dark-haired woman who lay unblinking in the snow. Englehart, in the midst of a tirade, barely acknowledged their arrival. "People in this town are scared shitless, and they're angry as hell. Who can blame them? This animal has been slashing women for nine months now, and we've still got our thumbs up our ass! Not one piece of forensics, not one eyeball witness. Seven dead women and no one has seen a goddamn thing!" He turned away in disgust, kicking the snow at his feet. "May as well put out a warrant for the Invisible Fucking Man." His detectives turned away, digging at the snow with their boots, saying nothing. Scully followed Bertelli's gaze to Mulder, but he was oblivious to her attention. He stood transfixed at the dead woman's feet, his eyes wide and his face ashen gray, as if he had been cast in stone by the terrible sight. Jacobsen noticed, too. He smirked. "Hey, man, you're not going to puke, are you?" Mulder did not answer. He swallowed convulsively but did not even look up. Even the rookies stopped their jawing to snicker behind their notebooks, and Scully frowned in their direction before taking a protective step closer to him. "Mulder, are you okay?" she asked gently, in a voice too low to be heard by anyone else. He nodded automatically, his eyes still locked on the woman in the blood-stained shirt. There were ice crystals on her eyelashes. Scully felt her heart clench with sympathetic pain as she watched him take in every detail of the ugly scene. She shifted position slightly to block out the prying eyes. With everything else that had happened, it was easy to forget he had lost someone he'd once loved. "Mulder..." She touched his arm lightly. "Huh?" He jumped at the contact, blinking rapidly, as if trying to focus on her face. She tightened her fingers on his sleeve. "Mulder, it looks like he got in through the smaller gate over there," she said calmly, nodding toward the area of fence taped off in the distance. "Why don't you go check it out?" He glanced distractedly at the point of entry, then nodded. Rolling his shoulders back once, he seemed to regain a little bit of his color. He lowered his eyes once more to the dead woman. "Check her wrists, will you, Scully?" he murmured. "The sooner we know, the better. She nodded and watched closely as he loped off toward the back gate. Turing around again, she found the uniformed rookies still gaping with barely-contained amusement, obviously relishing the sight of a seasoned agent becoming unglued at the sight of blood. *Assholes* She fixed them with an icy glare and walked slowly around the body. Their smiles faded at her approach. Hands on her hips, she pulled back her overcoat so that her identification was clearly visible. "Those reporters over there by the trees," she demanded evenly, "are they supposed to be inside the gates?" The younger, blonder one craned his neck around to see. "Uh, no, Ma'am." She paused significantly. "Then might I suggest you attend to your own job before you start evaluating others?" "Yes, Ma'am," they muttered together, nudging their caps lower over their eyes before trotting off toward the rogue photographers, already shouting orders. Shaking her head, Scully moved back to the where the body lay. Jacobsen hovered nearby, looking uncomfortable. He touched her arm. "Hey, Bertelli filled me in about your partner," he said awkwardly. "Sorry if I was out of line." She looked up at him silently, letting him squirm a little longer. "I've, uh...I've got an ex-wife myself. No major love lost there, but I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to her, know what I'm saying?" Holding his eyes with her own, Scully kept her tone neutral. "Then you must understand how much Agent Mulder would prefer that everyone remain focused on the task at hand." He grimaced at her gentle rebuke. "Yeah, I get it. Sorry." She moved past him to crouch down by the dead woman, neither accepting nor rejecting his apology. "Okay to touch her?" she asked without looking up. "Yeah, she's been snapped from all angles by now." Exchanging her black leather gloves for latex, Scully gently picked up the woman's arm. It was cold and stiff, her hand tinged blue and encased inside a plastic bag. Scully raised the sleeve a few inches and tilted the woman's wrist toward the light. No scars. She let out a slow breath and replaced the arm in the snow. "Any identification yet?" she asked as she pulled back the V- neck on the woman's blouse, revealing the edge of a long, deep cut. Jacobsen moved around until he stood at the woman's head and flipped open his notebook. "According to her driver's license, the victim's name is Marianne Maubry, age thirty- two. Her address is listed as Metuchen, New Jersey. We don't know yet what she was doing up here." "She's not a local?" Scully glanced up in surprise. Bertelli had reappeared to stand with Jacobsen. "It appears not," she answered, holding up a plastic evidence bag. She withdrew a small, black leather purse. "We found this not three feet from the body, cash and cards all untouched. Her wallet had this plastic thing inside, and Jacobsen thought it looked like a hotel key." Scully squinted at the gray rectangle in Bertelli's hands, then rose slowly to her feet. "May I see that?" Bertelli handed it over. "If it is a hotel passkey, we can probably get the name from her recent credit card purchases." Scully stared at the maroon striped key for a moment before closing her fingers over it tightly. "That won't be necessary," she answered, surprised by how calm she sounded. She held out the card to Bertelli. "It's the Charleston Hotel." The other woman understood the reference immediately and gave a choking cough. "Your hotel?" she managed hoarsely. Scully nodded, digging through her pockets for her own key, a direct match to Marianne Maubry's. The plastic glinted mockingly at them in the sun. "Wait a second," said Jacobsen, glancing between the two women with confusion. "You're saying the perp took Maubry from your hotel last night?" "It's not possible," moaned Bertelli, shaking her head. She turned haunted eyes on Scully. "You were there, Mulder was there, I was there...how could this have happened?" "We don't know he took her from the hotel," Scully said, but the words were a lie. She knew. Bertelli was still shaking her head, her hands clenched in frustration. "If he was there, I would have known, dammit! After all this time, I would have *known*!" She spun around angrily and stalked off toward the main gate. Jacobsen squinted in the direction she had gone, then turned his eyes to Scully. He searched her face assessingly. "Would you have known?" he whispered. She blinked twice, startled. "What?" Jacobsen did not answer. He looked her up and down slowly and then left her alone with the body, the ice breaking under his feet as he wove between the headstones into the distance. XxXxX Continued in Chapter Six. XxXxX Chapter Six XxXxX "Scully!" Shivering, she turned to the sound of Mulder calling her name. He waved her over to the gate. "Did you find something?" she asked when she reached him. "No footprints, that's for sure. This guy is good, Scully. See the pine branch leaning against the gate here? He used like a broom to erase his tracks in the snow." Mulder pointed at the swishing marks that had frozen fossil-like on the ground overnight. "There's not one usable print." "What about outside the gate?" He shook his head. "Too much foot traffic from pedestrians." He stepped through the narrow gate to the slushy sidewalk, and she followed him. "Any prints he might left have been obliterated. We are going to look into the tire tracks over here, though. And there is one other thing..." He crossed in front of her to the curb. "What is it?" "Imagine that I'm the killer. I've pulled up as close as I can to the gate which would be about...here." He stood six feet from the gate. "Marianne would likely be in the trunk, so I'd have to go into the street to get her out." Moving to the back of the imaginary car, he pantomimed opening the trunk. "Not wanting to leave any prints on the body, I pull my gloves out of my coat pocket." Scully walked around to where he stood. "And?" "And maybe I'm like other people--I have lots of junk in my pockets. Loose change, ticket stubs..." He withdrew a plastic evidence bag from his overcoat. "...a match book." "You found that here?" she asked, moving closer for a better look. "And you'll never guess where it's from." "Dempsey's." The gruff voice came from behind them, and Mulder and Scully turned in unison to face Chief Englehart, who had materialized on the sidewalk. He held out his hand with a frown. "Let me see that." They waited in silence as he studied the red cover with the black lettering. After a minute, he raised blood-shot eyes and scowled, thrusting the bag back at Mulder. "This is the last one get gets, do you hear me? The very last one." Scully turned her face into the wind, looking back through the iron bars to where Marianne Maubry was being zipped into a black plastic bag for transport. Within seconds, she had disappeared from view. XxXxX Walking down the dark halls of the Cambridge morgue, she tried to tell herself that it would be better today, when the body awaiting her was not Mulder's wife...when she would not be slicing skin that he had once caressed. Marianne Maubry was a blessed stranger, no different the countless victims she had examined in the past. Except... Scully inhaled sharply at the onset of sudden nausea, halting half-way down the corridor. Closing her eyes, she leaned weakly against the cool wall. Right from your hotel, whispered a voice in her head. Her eyes flew open as she recognized it as belonging to Detective Bertelli. *I would have known* Would she? Scully took several, calming breaths and turned her head toward the end of the hall. Light spilled into the hall from the square windows of door to the autopsy room, casting an eerie shine on the black floor. Slowly, she followed the path up and into the bright room. Haley Atkins was already inside. So was Marianne Maubry. "I hope you don't mind that I got started," Dr. Atkins said, switching off her tape recorder. "Englehart was climbing all over my people by nine thirty this morning. Poor Howard really got an earful." Scully shook her head, actually glad that she had been spared the unveiling of Marianne's terrible wounds. Easier to take them in all at once. She draped her coat over a nearby chair and pulled out some fresh scrubs from the cabinet. "Anything notable so far?" she asked as she joined Dr. Atkins by the autopsy bay. The other woman shrugged. "It's the definitely the same killer, if that counts as notable. Twenty eight cuts in all. I'm guessing that the extent of the blood loss will show that her heart was still beating through most of it." "Mmm," replied Scully, circling around the body to the other side. There was something familiar about the patterns of the cuts, something that had been nagging at her before, but she could not figure out what it was. Perhaps it's all victims photos blurring together, she mused. He probably cuts them the same way every time. Dr. Atkins cleared her throat, pulling Scully out of her thoughts. "I, uh...I heard what you did at the crime scene today." Scully glanced at her, puzzled. "With those rookies?" Dr. Atkins clarified. "Steve and Jake, the guys who brought her in said you really put them in their place." Scully hesitated. "I wouldn't put it that way." "I would," replied Atkins solemnly. "And thank you." She smiled a bit. "I've wanted to give them a piece of my mind for a long time now." Inwardly, Scully felt a twinge of guilt. If it had been anyone other than Mulder, she doubted she would have stepped in. "I just think people should show a little more compassion," she murmured finally. Marianne Maubry had not been Mulder's wife, but she had been someone's daughter, someone's friend. She deserved better. Dr. Atkins smiled again. "Exactly." And then with as much care as possible, the two women commenced the autopsy. It was three hours before they had catalogued every cut and sampled every smear. Scully accepted a chair with relief as Dr. Atkins went to make a phonecall in her office. A few minutes later, Howard entered the room. "Dr. Atkins said you had some samples to send to lab?" Scully made an effort to hide her fatigue, giving him a tight smile. "Yes, thanks. They're right here on the table." She handed him a sealed, styrofoam box containing the evidence they had collected. "I need your signature here," he said, handing her a pink form. He stood patiently while she scanned the content. As she added her name to the bottom, he cleared his throat. "That other woman, Elizabeth...you knew her?" Her head snapped up. "Who told you that?" she demanded curtly. He blinked at her with wide dark eyes, apparently unfazed by the sudden change in her demeanor. "Uh, no one really. I just heard some guys talking about it in the hall. They said she was your partner's wife." "Ex-wife, yes. But I never met her." She gave him back his form, but he did not move to leave; she frowned. "Was there something else?" He hesitated, the paper crinkling in his hands. "I can tell you're a good doctor. You care about the women, just like Dr. Atkins does." He broke off and looked at the floor for a minute. For some reason, Scully felt her heart start to pound as he raised his head. His eyes bore straight through hers. "Sometimes...sometimes you can care too much." Her mouth dry, Scully was unable to respond. They stared at each other for several seconds, the clock ticking loudly, until her cell phone rang across the room. She snapped abruptly out of her fog and licked her parched lips. "Excuse me," she murmured, passing him with her eyes lowered. He picked up the box of evidence and turned to watch her as she answered the call. "Scully." "Hey, Scully, it's me. Apparently the noon news conference was a disaster. Englehart's even popped a blood vessel in his eye, but he refusing to go to the hospital. We're all supposed meet in his office in an hour to review the latest evidence." Turning her back to Howard, Scully lowered her voice. "I hate to say this, Mulder, but it's going to be an awfully short meeting. We didn't find anything new on Marianne Maubry." "I'll second that." He paused. "I get the impression that Englehart's got something up his sleeve." "Any idea what?" "Not a one. But the way he's been acting, it could be we're calling in the National Guard to storm the gates of Dempsey's bar." The matchbook. She had almost forgotten. With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead. "An hour, then?" "Bring your fatigues." She clicked off the phone and turned around to find Howard had left. Fine by me, she thought, repressing a shiver. What had he said again? Sometimes you can care too much? She made a mental note to have Dr. Atkins deal with Howard and the lab samples from then on. There was something about the way he looked at her...like Jimmy Ranovski in the eighth grade. Always watching, with eyes that never changed expression. Jimmy had been sent away that year for setting fire to the boys' locker room. As she took her seat, she wondered idly what had happened to him after that. "That's odd," she murmured a moment later, picking up papers on the counter in search of her pen. "It was here just a second ago..." XxXxX Howard placed her pen under his nose and inhaled deeply. It smelled of plastic and latex, just like the ones that Dr. Atkins always used. He went to his office and opened the top drawer on his file cabinet. In the back, behind the folders, was a gray metal box. He unlocked it and added his latest treasure. It fit nicely next to the one from last night. Picking it up, he smiled faintly at the maroon lettering. "Charleston Hotel." XxXxX It was still stiflingly hot inside Chief Englehart's office, causing his face to flush nearly as red as his right eyeball. He leaned forward on his desk, bracing himself on his arms as he scowled at the agents and officers collected in front of him. "What I hear you all telling me is that we don't have anything new. Is that correct?" Bertelli and Jacobsen shared a long, uncomfortable look with Mulder and Scully. No one wanted to be the one to say it out loud. At last, Jacobsen cleared his throat. "Well, there's the match book..." "That's not new!" hissed Englehart. "We've had our eye on that goddamn place for six months now. Why the hell hasn't anything come of it? If you all think the bartender is guilty, get his ass in here, for Chrissakes!" "It's the same story as before, Sir," Bertelli said reluctantly. "On paper, Joe King is a terrific suspect, but we've questioned him three times now and even searched his house. There's nothing concrete that links him to any of the murders. Short of round-the-clock surveillance, I don't know what more we can do." "If that's what it's going to take, then that's what I'll authorize. I would like something--anything--to tell Maubry's parent when they arrive here tomorrow from L.A." "Just give me ten minutes alone with him, Chief." Jacobsen's tone was angry and grim. "If he's the perp, I'll get you your confession." Englehart rubbed his ruddy cheeks and sighed. "I'd almost like to step into the box with him myself, but there is no way on God's Sweet Earth that I'm going to let this one get tossed on a 10-17." He shook his head. "No, we do this one by the book." Mulder, chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick, moved from where he was leaning against the wall. "I might have a suggestion." The Chief threw his hands in the air. "By all means. Let's hear it." "He's feeling bolder now and more confident. Maybe we can use his arrogance to our advantage." "And just how do we do that?" Englehart crossed beefy arms over his chest. "I don't know if Joe King is the guy or not, but if he is, he might be willing to talk under the right circumstances. Maybe brag a little about what he's done." He glanced at Jacobsen and Bertelli. "You're not going to get anything by charging in there like the last reel of a John Wayne movie. He's just going to answer aggression with aggression." Bertelli looked skeptical. "You want us to *sweet talk* him into a confession." Mulder's mouth twitched in a near-smile. "Something like that. I would suggest wiring up someone and sending them into Dempsey's near closing to engage him in a little conversation. With a couple of drinks under his belt, he just might let something slip." "Anyone?" Jacobsen's eyes lit up as the gears started turning. Mulder shook his head. "Not you. Someone he hasn't had dealings with before...someone less threatening." "Well, that leaves me out on both counts," Bertelli sighed. "King always looks like he wants to take my head off." Scully, quiet until this point, put her folders aside. This is what I've come for, she thought, ignoring the pounding of her heart. Bertelli's voice echoed in her head once more: "I would have known." Will I? Scully wondered as she turned her eyes to Mulder. He recognized her intent immediately and opened his mouth to protest. She cut him off. "I'll do it. Where do we start?" XxXxX Continued in Chapter Seven. NC-17 Warning: Naked characters ahead. Please read responsibly! XxXxX Chapter Seven XxXxX The stairway down to the morgue was dark and smelled like most old municipal buildings, a mixture of dust and cheap floor wax. At nine p.m., the heat had been turned off for several hours, so Mulder protectively pulled the large warm paper bag he carried into his side, shielding it from the drafty air. He was practically underground by the time he reached the morgue, but its basement location was not surprising. He had learned a long time ago that this was where people put the things they did not want to think about too hard. Me, Scully, and the dead guys, he thought with bitter humor as he eyed the line gurneys in the corridor. Out of sight, out of mind. He walked down the hall to where light shone through the autopsy room doors. Pushing one open, he poked his head inside. A petite woman with a blonde bun and librarian's glasses turned from the counter. She frowned at him, looking pointedly at his bag. "I'm sorry, but there's no food allowed in here." He shifted so he held the bag in his other hand, outside the autopsy room. "I was just looking for Agent Scully. Is she still around here some place?" The woman's face softened a bit and she nodded. "Down the hall around the corner," she said, laying her pen aside and stepping closer to him. "You must be Agent Mulder. The Profiler, right?" Amused by her wide-eyed interest, he ducked his head a bit and smiled. "Do I look like I have my own Saturday night series?" The woman wrinkled her forehead in confusion, and he suppressed a sigh. Someone with a life, he thought ruefully. He tried again. "I've done some profiling, yes, but I'm here to help with the investigation in whatever capacity I can, Dr..." He trailed off when he realized he was not sure of her name. "Atkins," she supplied quickly. "Cambridge M.E. I've done all the examinations on the victims." "Scully mentioned. She said you do good work." Instead of appearing pleased by the compliment, Dr. Atkins pulled a face. "I'm glad to hear that somebody thinks so," she murmured. "Chief Englehart has been less than thrilled with my reports on this case. I think that's probably why--" She halted abruptly and looked at the floor. "Why he asked for an FBI pathologist?" Mulder guessed. She nodded, her eyes reluctantly meeting his once more. "Hey, don't kid yourself about why he asked us in here. He'd love it if we could nail this guy, but mainly it's something to distract the media. It's not your fault that you couldn't find anything in the autopsies." "Isn't it?" she asked in an odd voice. "Seems to me that there's always enough blame to go around." Mulder shifted uncomfortably, his eyes sliding to the stainless steel drawers on the far wall. She caught him looking. "I'm sorry for your loss." He jerked from his thoughts, meeting her steady gaze. "What?" "Elizabeth." She turned slightly to glance at the shiny refrigerated chambers. "I heard she was your wife." "Was, yeah," he agreed, already retreating further behind the door, bumping awkwardly against its mate in the process. "It was a long time ago, so..." He cleared his throat. "So now I just want to help...her and the others..." Dr. Atkins inclined her head slightly. "As do we all." He groped for the words that would let him end the conversation gracefully and was reminded of the bag in his hand. Glancing down the dim corridor, he asked, "You, uh...you said Scully was down this way?" "Around the corner on the left, room three. You can't miss her." "Thanks," he muttered, and then breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung closed on the autopsy room. He turned the corner and walked down the echoing hall until he reached a partially open door labeled "003". "Scully?" he murmured, pushing the door open with his palm, but there was no reply. "Scully?" He stepped a little further inside, and stopped short when he finally caught sight of her. She was slumped sound asleep at the desk with her head pillowed on her arm, nose buried in her white lab coat and glasses curled under her fingers. Her hair was almost unnaturally red under the glare of bright desk lamp, contrasting sharply with the gray shadows cloaking the rest of the room. Photos of the dead women were spread in disarray across the desktop. Oh, Scully. He swallowed the lump his throat. What are you doing? Crossing the small room quietly, he set the bag on a nearby plastic chair and gently touched her shoulder. "Scully." She sat up with a gasp, pulling away from him as photos went sliding off the desk from all angles. "Jesus, Mulder!" She glared at him, breathing hard, and then bent to retrieve the pictures. He crouched next to her to help. "Sorry," he murmured, stacking a set of now-gritty photos back on her desk. "I didn't mean to scare you." She nodded distractedly, and he watched as she busied herself by rearranging the pictures, making sure the edges were carefully lined up and back in order. By the time she met his gaze, all her edges had been lined up, as well. "What are you doing here, Mulder?" she asked, her voice still gravelly from sleep. "Is there more news?" He shook his head. "Nothing since the meeting." He reached one hand behind him to the chair and produced the bag of food. "When you weren't in your room, I figured you might be here." Giving her what he hoped was a peace-offering smile, he pulled out two cardboard containers of soup and several hunks of crusty French bread. He dragged the chair closer to the desk, plopped down and nodded at the food. "Woman does not live by vending machine alone." She looked almost amused. "Food bribes two nights in a row? You're worse than my mother, Mulder." Off his querying look, she sighed, "Mom always handled bad news with food. If we were moving again, or if Dad was going to be delayed at sea for another week, she would break out the cake and cookies." He opened her soup container for her and pushed it toward her on the desk. Nudging, he knew, but if he got some food in her, it would be worth it. He smiled at her. "And yet you managed to stay so fit and trim, Scully...I'm impressed." "Yeah, well." Her eyes grew sad as she stared at her soup. "After I figured out what it was for, I couldn't bear to eat the stuff anymore." He was quiet for a long time. "I'm not trying to fix you with food, Scully," he said at last. "I just want to make sure you're okay." "I'm okay." The edge in her words dared him to argue. He did not have the energy. "So eat the soup and then I'll be okay, too, all right?" She picked up the plastic spoon and sampled the creamy orange soup. "It's good," she said, sounding surprised. "What is it?" "Sweet potato. It's from the place on the corner." She took another few bites. "You know you're not going to change my mind about tomorrow, if that's why you're here." He gave a gentle snort. "Scully, when have I ever been able to change your mind about anything? I know better than that. I can't say I love the idea, but I'm not going to try to stop you." "What do you mean 'you don't love the idea'? It was *your* idea in the first place!" "I never mentioned your name." "Oh, please. You might as well have. I was the only one in the room who fit that description, Mulder, and you damn well know it. Someone less threatening than Jacobsen who has had no prior dealings with King? Tell me, just who else was supposed to take the assignment?" She set aside her half- eaten soup in disgust. "Maybe you needed it this way, Mulder, I don't know. Maybe this way you can tell yourself that I'm not doing exactly what you wanted me to do." The possible truth in her words made him squeamish. Certainly no one wanted the killer caught more than he did, and it *had* occurred to him that she might be chosen for the undercover work, but... "Maybe you're the one who needs to think that way," he said quietly. "That I'm the reason you're pushing yourself so hard on this case." She stiffened visibly. "Seven women have been murdered, Mulder. What more reason do I need?" "I don't know," he answered, searching her eyes with his. "I was hoping you would tell me." She held his gaze for a long moment, then wordlessly picked up the stack of autopsy photos from her desk. Her face became hidden behind a curtain of hair as she stared silently at the top image, which he recognized as Laurie Scofield. "There's something I'm missing in these pictures," she whispered at last. "I just don't know what it is." "What do you mean?" he asked, bending his head for a closer look. She took a deep breath. "There is something vaguely familiar about the pattern of the wounds. I don't think their placement is entirely random." "You think the killer is carving some kind of message?" He took the photos from her hands and began flipping through them slowly. "I don't know," she answered, rubbing her face with fatigue. "I can't decipher any specific words or pictures, if that's what you're asking." Mulder laid one photo of each woman out on the desk, reaching past Scully to adjust the lamp for full illumination. "I don't see any obvious pattern," he remarked after a minute. "There are superficial similarities, such as the large cut down the center here, but they're definitely not complete replications of one another." "I know, I know." She sighed. "I'm beginning to think maybe I imagined the whole thing." He picked up the picture on the far right, a full body shot of Elizabeth as she lay naked on the autopsy bay. Her wounds were dark red lines that sliced at odd angles all over her body, and he imagined the rivers blood that must have flowed at her death. Blinking back sudden tears, he remembered what Scully had said, that Liz had not wanted this kind of death. "Is she...is she still here?" he asked thickly, his eyes still on the photo. "Yes." Scully's voice was hushed. "There was no one to claim her body." No one to claim the body. Of course. He squeezed his eyes shut and allowed Elizabeth's picture to slide from his hands. Not even Scully's gentle tone could take away the isolation inherent in her words. Elizabeth had died utterly alone. "Can I see her?" he managed finally. She studied him carefully for a moment and then nodded. "Of course." They made the short trip back to the autopsy room in silence, and Mulder was thankful to see that Dr. Atkins had disappeared. He followed Scully determinedly but with lead feet, reluctantly stopping in front of the gleaming wall of refrigerated chambers. She looked up at him questioningly, and he gave a short nod. The sounds of the rubber seal pulling free and the sliding of the metal drawer echoed through the room as Elizabeth slowly emerged, covered head to toe by a white sheet. He clenched icy fingers together and swallowed with difficulty. Scully still hovered by his arm. "Would you like me to do it?" she murmured after a moment. "No." The word came out as a hoarse whisper. At last, he reached up to lower the sheet from her head, leaving it to settle around her shoulders. His first thought was how colorless she was; in his mind, she was always be linked with dark, wet hair and a bright red bath of blood. Now her skin was gray and nearly translucent, like thin winter clouds. "I'll just be outside," said Scully as she moved to leave. He stopped her with a vice-like grip on her arm. "No, stay." She froze, and he turned haunted eyes to hers. "Please." After a beat of silence, she acquiesced and returned to stand beside him. "Okay, Mulder," she murmured, and he slowly relaxed his hold on her arm. A few moments later, he took a shaky breath, tinged with giddy humor. "It's funny, but the thing I remember best about the good times is her laugh. She had this amazing laugh..." He broke off with a shake of his head. "Deep and full, like it was coming from all the way down inside, but kind of dangerous too...like Mae West's was, you know?" He turned to Scully and she gave him a small smile. "And what did she laugh at?" she asked, encouraging him in his memory. "Me, mostly." He smiled, too, his eyes warming as he recalled some of the lazy afternoons they had spent together. "I remember this one time she tried to teach me to paint. It was in this field on the Vineyard--must have been spring, there were so many damn flowers out. We were on a picnic, and Liz was painting an old fisherman's cottage about twenty yards away. Some tall grass, a few trees, a box for the house...didn't look too complicated to me." "More challenging than you thought, huh?" Scully remarked dryly. "Let's just say that somehow my cottage ended up with five sides and my trees resembled giant green lollipops sticking up out of the ground." Scully smiled. "It sounds like a wonderful afternoon." "It was." His smile faded as he stared at his ex-wife's lifeless features. "I don't understand where it went wrong, Scully," he murmured after a minute. "She was happy that day, and other days as well...I know she was. When did it change? What happened to make her want to die?" Scully joined him in staring at Elizabeth. "I don't know, Mulder," she said softly. "I guess she must have been hurting in ways she couldn't articulate. She dealt with her pain the only way she knew how." He shook his head. "I'll never understand it. I'll never understand how some people can just give up like that." "It's not about giving up," Scully murmured after minute, speaking almost to herself. "It about making it all go away, about feeling like you finally have some control over your life again, even if that control comes at the price of self- destruction." A chill chased down his spine that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature of the room. "Scully..." he breathed, unable to form further words. "Mmmm?" She did not look up, apparently still lost somewhere in her own thoughts. He was not sure he wanted to go there with her. "Scully, the things you know about this case..." He broke off again, swallowing convulsively, and at last she turned to meet his eyes. He tried again to speak. "What you know, is it because you..." The words screamed in his brain, but he was literally unable to get them out of his throat. Fortunately, Scully grasped the question. "No, Mulder. I've never attempted suicide." Oh thank God. He felt weak with relief. But it was a short- lived relief. "But I understand it," she continued softly, and he felt the fear creeping back up his neck. "Even though it's never been that bad for me, to the point where I felt like I had no other options, I can see how a person could reach that place. Especially when I was sick, I came to understand how it could be comforting to control your ultimate fate...to take power over your own death." "That's different," he protested weakly. "When you've got a terminal illness, it's not the same thing." "It is, in a way, I think." She turned back to Elizabeth. "Terminally ill patients who choose assisted suicide are doing it to save themselves and their families the last few weeks of agonizing pain. I think the young people are doing the same thing..ending a life that has become unbearable to live." She drew an unsteady breath and then faced him once more. "I'm not saying I agree with it, just that I understand it." His mouth set in a grim line, he glanced at his wife. "How could it have been unbearable?" he asked, his voice raw with pain. "She had me...I would have listened. Whatever it was, she could have told me and I would have listened." Scully slipped her hand through his and squeezed. "She couldn't see you, Mulder. Not really. She had too much going on inside." He nodded dumbly, trying to believe it. They stood in silence for another few minutes before he released a shuddering breath. "Okay, then," he murmured finally. "We can go now." He reached out and gently stroked Elizabeth's forehead in a silent "good-bye", and then slowly covered her back up. XxXxX In the hallway outside her hotel room, Scully turned from the door to say good night. Mulder was only inches away, so close she could feel him breathing. He touched her face with one gentle finger. "Let me come in?" She lowered her eyes. "I don't think that's a very good idea, Mulder." Exhausted inside and out, she did not feel equipped to deal with his emotional turbulence, as well. Residual pain and anger still simmered at her core, bubbling out his lies. "Just for tonight," he coaxed urgently, moving a little closer. "I don't think I can take an empty hotel room right now." She closed her eyes, torn. She should have been upset at him for such blatant manipulation of her sympathy, but the truth of the matter was that she did not really want to be alone, either. How irrational is it, she wondered, to crave comfort from the very person who hurt you? His warm hand moved to cup her cheek and she instinctively turned into his touch. He stroked the side of her face gently with his thumb. "Please, Scully?" Another look at his tired, haggard face and she felt herself relenting. What did it matter if they took some time out to comfort each other? Wasn't this part of being together? Wordlessly, she took his hand from her face and led him inside. With only the bedside lamp for illumination, they shed their clothes silently, Mulder stripping down to boxers and an undershirt, Scully slipping into her green flannel pajamas. She took the bathroom second, scrubbing away the fine layer of dirt on her face that she had acquired during her hours in the dusty basement office. Mulder was already under the covers when she emerged, but his eyes tracked her movements as she straightened her clothes on the chair and then walked around to her side of the bed. She slid carefully under the covers and turned out the light. "Good night, Mulder," she said softly, turning on her side away from him. He rustled under the sheets. "Night, Scully." She blinked in the darkness for several minutes before his voice floated out to her again. "Scully...you can see me, right? You know I'm here if you ever need to talk." Tears burned her eyes and she squeezed them away. "I know," she whispered, wishing that it were that easy. Most of the time she just didn't have the words. He rolled over suddenly, wrapping himself around her from behind and holding her tight. She gasped in surprise at the sudden contact. "I'm sorry," he said brokenly, and she felt her chest swell inside with answering emotion. His arms tightened around her convulsively. "It's okay," she murmured, allowing her hands to creep up and stroke the fine hair on his forearm. "It's okay, Mulder. I'm not going anywhere." They rocked gently back and forth on the bed. "I love you," he rasped in her ear, his hands rubbing her through the soft flannel. "I love you so much." I know, she thought sadly. Me, too. That's what makes it so hard. It means I'm going to have to find a way to stop hurting and forgive you. She leaned down to kiss his arm. "It will be okay," she said thickly, reassuring herself as much as him. Still rocking almost imperceptibly, he made a crooning noise and started planting desperate kisses wherever he could reach--her hair, her neck, the underside of her jaw. The contact was warm and wild, and Scully felt a hot flush spread down to her toes. "Mulder..." She meant the word as an admonishment, but it came out more as painful longing. "Love you," he murmured again, shifting their rhythm to a more fervent pace, holding her hips and thrusting firmly so she could feel his arousal even through the layers of clothing. She shifted restlessly on the sheets. Shouldn't do this, angry voice whispered inside her, even as she pushed her breasts into his stroking hand. It's for the wrong reasons, and it won't fix anything. Mulder blotted out the voice with his own. "Scully," he breathed into her neck, still rubbing his hardened penis against her ass. "Let me...let me love you..." She moaned softly as he rolled one nipple between his fingers, torn between the outside pleasure and the inside pain. We don't have to do anything, she told the voice. We just lie here and forget. Like this...oh...oh, yes. His hand slid underneath the elastic waistband on her pajamas, finding her where she was damp and swollen. She bit her lip and buried her hot face in the pillow as he stroked her through her panties. After a moment, she took his hand and guided it under the cotton, laying her palm over his to show him where to touch. They pleasured her together with short quick movements, limited by the restrictive clothing. Then he stopped abruptly, withdrawing his stroking fingers and tugging awkwardly on her pajama bottoms. She lay panting into the pillow as he worked the flannel and cotton combination down her hips to tangle at her knees. His penis had somehow come free of his boxers, brushing hotly against the tops of her thighs. She scissorred her legs to help him get her pants all the way off, drawing her knees up immediately so he could be inside her. "Scully," he murmured again, his voice more urgent than tender. She closed her eyes. Just do it, she thought desperately, needing the feel of his body moving inside her. His penis nudged her opening. "Yes," she hissed, quivering in anticipation. His arm around her as an anchor, he pushed forward so that the tip of his erection slipped inside. Scully stopped breathing, her heart pounding in her ears as he slowly pushed all the way inside her body. He fucked her slowly for only a few strokes, his hips quickening and his thrusts deepening almost immediately. It was exactly what she had wanted. Not time to think. No way to feel anything but the force of his penis entering her again and again. Her mouth went slack with pleasure, her tongue sliding out to wet her parched lips. No kissing. No holding. Only fucking. She moaned into the pillow and clenched fistfuls of the sheet. Release was coming, she could feel it. Her thighs tensed for its arrival, and she reached down between her legs to help it along. Another few seconds...soon...yes... "Oh!" She cried out sharply as the waves buffeted through her, coming in hard contractions that clenched his pumping cock. Everything inside her let go at once. She gulped in huge breaths of air as tears pooled hotly in her eyes. They escaped in tickling trails as Mulder gave a tortured moan and thrust one last time inside her. Sounds of his harsh breathing filled the room. She sniffled quietly, her limp arms feeling suddenly very empty. Instead of the warm lassitude that usually followed these interludes, she felt raw and vulnerable. Sad. She snuggled back against him, swiping at the tears that continued to fall. I miss you, she thought miserably. I miss the person I trusted more than anyone in the world. "Scully?" His voice was tired and scratchy. "Are you okay?" She nodded, burrowing her face further into the pillow. "Fine," she managed to whisper. After a moment, she felt his hand rub the back of her neck, his touch loving and tender. He brought his face down next to hers. "It'll be all right," he whispered, repeating her earlier words. She nodded and turned in his arms. Their eyes met for the first time since they had begun making love. "It will be all right," he said again, and kissed her gently on the mouth. It was almost enough to make her believe. XxXxX Continued in Chapter Eight.