The Face of Madness

This started out as a short vignette that follows the end of 'Grotesque'. Well, it sort of grew. But it was fun, anyway and I tried to stay more within the actual framework of the series. Therefore, Mulder is usually stable, he is not sleeping with Scully and they still hadn't quite 'shook hands and made up.'

Standard Disclaimer: Let me see now, how do these things go? Oh, right, I have no intentions of infringing on any copyrights, of Chris Carter, FOX, or Ten Thirteen Productions or any of the major castles and churches in Europe (where you are most likely to find REAL gargoyles). Don't sue me, I invested all my money in diaper stock and they are sitting in the baby's room right now :)

WARNING: THIRD SEASON SPOILER. Seeing the episode 'Grotesque' is a must before reading or a lot of this won't make sense. No romance, some strong language, no violence. Rated PG

I love mail, and my e-mail is working fine after all the hours of cursing I did at it, so please send comments to me at vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

The Face of Madness by Vickie Moseley

She found him asleep at his desk, the computer cursor blinking at the middle of a sentence in his report of the case. The blue screen cast an ghostly light on his head and bounced off his glasses, rendering them opaque. It did nothing to allay the fear for him that she had been trying to deal with for the last three days and nights. She walked across the small, cramped office hesitantly, as if the floor was covered in eggshells. Cautiously, she reached out to touch his shoulder.

"Mulder," she called softly. In some respects, she hoped just her touch would wake him up. Her voice was trembling and she didn't really want him to hear it. When he still didn't wake up, she took another step closer and shook his shoulder a little harder. "Mulder." This time it was more

forceful. It had an effect, but not necessarily the desired one. He jerked straight up in the chair with a start.

"I'm sorry," she stammered as she took in his wild eyed expression. "You were asleep and you were endangering evidence," she added, pointing to the charcoal sketch he had been laying on. During his sleep, his mouth had opened and a small pool of saliva was already marring the surface of the drawing. He looked down at the paper and bit his lip, but said nothing.

"Why don't you go home and get some sleep. You look awful," she said casually or at least she hoped it sounded that way to him. He turned a deadly gaze at her and then turned back to the computer screen.

"Can't. It's not finished," he growled.

<Well, so much for hoping he'd wake up in a better mood, Scully thought sadly. "You can finish it after you get some sleep," she tried again.

"Scully, don't you have your own office?" he returned, not even bothering to look up this time.

"No, they turned it into the copy room," she shot back. He was beginning to make her angry. That was not a good situation. He was half- crazed and now she was angry. <Perfect formula for some good old domestic violence, she pondered briefly before grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at her.

It was the first time she had looked at him closely in over a day. The cut on his face, by his right eye, was angry red and inflamed. The surrounding tissue was red, as well. <Dammit, it's infected, she noted in

her mind. But the eyes themselves were what scared her. His eyes were black, like the charcoal drawings. There was no Mulder in those eyes. Only the madness he had been living with the past three days was reflected there and it took her breath away. She swallowed hard to calm herself, and released his chin. She had to do something or she could lose him for good.

"That cut is infected. If you don't get some antibiotics, it could easily move to the eye socket itself. You wouldn't look that good as a pirate, Mulder. Time to go visit ole Doc Stephens." It was her 'doctor's orders' voice and usually he obeyed it. Not this time.

"I have a report to write and I'm sure you have some work to do _somewhere else_," he said, summarily dismissing her. When she didn't leave immediately, he stood up and took her elbow, roughly escorting her to the door. "I'll put something on it later. It's fine. Goodbye." He gave her back a shove and she was suddenly out in the hallway, with the door being firmly shut and locked behind her.

She stood in the hall for a moment in shock. He had _never_ done anything like this before. Sure, when under the influence of drugs in his water, he had acted irrational, even violent, but he had never thrown her out of the office before. She tried to think of what she should do next. She didn't want to stand there too long, either, for someone was bound to wander downstairs and notice her glaring at the closed door. She turned on her heel and stormed up the stairs. "May I speak with the Assistant Director, please. It's a bit of an emergency," she found herself pleading with the administrative assistant outside Skinner's office.

"He's on an important call with the Director, Agent Scully. He's not to be disturbed." The woman looked at her sympathetically and noted the concerned expression go to desperation. "How urgent is the emergency?"

Scully bit her lip. Was she over reacting? Mulder would kill her if she called out the cavalry and he was just tired and grumpy. But she couldn't get the look in his eyes out of her mind. And that cut was seriously

infected. He probably had a fever. That could explain the eyes and his

behavior. He was banged up and not taking proper care of himself. Being irrational with a fever was a lot easier to explain away than just being irrational and potentially violent after a case. <OK, Scully, you aren't over reacting and even if you are, you have just cause. Go for it.

"I think it is very urgent," she said firmly. The assistant gave her a shrug and got up to knock on the door. She entered, closing the door behind her and Scully paced in the outer office for what seemed like an

eternity. Finally, the door swung open and the assistant motioned her in.

"What's the emergency, Agent Scully," Assistant Director Walter Skinner asked gruffly. He was sitting behind his desk, his jacket hung over his chair, and was not looking like he was in a very good mood. <I need this like a hole in the head, Scully mused as she walked over to stand in front of the massive desk.

"Sir, may I speak off the record?" she asked timidly. The glare he flashed her made her certain her request was about to be denied, but the AD surprised her.

"Is this concerning your partner?" he demanded. She nodded. "OK, off the record. What's the problem?" His voice had softened considerably in just a few short sentences. So had his glare.

She had plenty of time to consider how to tell him about Mulder's bizarre actions while she had been cooling her heels in the outer office. She had decided to take the medical approach. It seemed to have fewer potential landmines.

"Sir, I just saw him in his office. The cut on his eye has become

infected. He's exhausted, he hasn't gone home yet. I'm certain he's

feverish. I want him to been seen by a doctor and I want him on antibiotics."

"So? Drag him over to Georgetown and see to it," Skinner replied, slightly confused. "What's the emergency? You do that all the time," he added, pointedly.

"He, eh, he threw me out of his office," Scully replied, suddenly finding a spot on the carpet to be particularly interesting.

Skinner was on his feet. "He did WHAT?" he demanded.

Scully was quick to respond. "Sir, I'm sure it's because of his illness. He's feverish, he's exhausted, he needs sleep. I don't think we need to make more out of it than that. But I do think that he won't go to the doctor on his own, and I. . ." she thought for a moment before proceeding. "I really need your help to get him there. He doesn't seem to be listening to me right now."

Skinner regarded her for a moment. She looked almost as exhausted as she claimed Mulder was. This case had effected more people than he could have ever imagined. <Thank god it's over, he thought to himself. <I hope.

"Scully, since when has Mulder ever listened to ME?" he asked half- joking as he pulled on his jacket and motioned to the door.

Mulder stared at the screen and then hit the 'save'. A second later, he hit the print icon and listened to the laser printer whir to life at his elbow. He closed his eyes just to see what would happen. Within seconds, the horrible pictures started flashing through his mind, in rapid succession, each one more appalling than the last. Then, mixed with the charcoal sketches of the devilish winged creatures, came the stills his own mind provided, the faces of the victims, incased in clay, distorted and mutilated. His eyes sprang open and he drew in a deep breath. He hadn't realized he was holding it. <Oh, God, I didn't want to do this again, he shuddered

silently.

He sat up straighter and looked around the room, as if just remembering where he was. He noticed the door, closed and locked. <When did I do that? he wondered. Then he saw Scully's purse, on the desk she appropriated long ago, so she didn't have to drag files up and down to her office. <When was she here? He couldn't remember. His only conscious memory was of writing the report, typing it in. He had to get it down on paper, out of his system, he had to be finished or it would never be over. And he wanted it to be over more than anything in the world. A loud knock on the door startled him.

"Agent Mulder, this is AD Skinner. Open this door, immediately!" It was an order, not a request. A little shakily, Mulder got up, unlocked the door and opened it. The Assistant Director was standing there with Scully and both were looking at him like he was a lion and the cage door wasn't secure.

"C'mon in," he said with a shrug and moved back to the desk. As he entered, Skinner flipped on the lights and Mulder clenched his eyes tight against the onslaught. His eyes hurt. His head hurt. <Hell, admit it, my whole body hurts, he thought as he slid down into his chair with a sigh. "I was just about to bring this up, sir," he said, motioning to the folder on his desk.

Skinner looked him over. He didn't look violent, but then, Scully was never one to fantasize, either. Just because he was pulled together now, didn't mean he hadn't been at wits end a while ago. Be that as it may, he did look like death warmed over. "Mulder, the cut on your face looks worse. Agent Scully thinks it's infected. I'm putting you on medical leave until you have it properly attended to. Effective immediately. Get your jacket, Scully will escort to the doctor's."

Mulder was quick to protest. "Sir, it's nothing. I just need to put something on it. Really, I'm fine." Skinner turned a steely gaze upon him.

"Are you intent upon disobeying a direct order, Agent Mulder?" the AD asked, sternly.

Mulder shot a look over to Scully, hoping for moral support. What he saw made it clear whose side she was on in this fight--and it sure wasn't his. He closed his eyes in defeat. "No, sir," was the terse reply.

"Good. Maybe you have learned something during the last ten years, Mulder. Now, I don't want to see you in this building until I have a signed statement clearing you for duty, is that clear?" Mulder nodded mutely. Skinner turned his attention to Scully. "I will be expecting you to ensure he follows orders, Agent Scully. Consider it 'guard duty'. I'll see you both in a couple of days." He turned on his heel and stalked out of the office.

Mulder sat there, stunned. "So, since when do you bring attack dogs to do your dirty work, Scully," he grumbled as she walked over to get her purse off her desk.

"About the same time you started being an asshole," she shot back, none too happy with the recent events, either. "Come on, you heard the man. He's prepared to back it up with security guards, if necessary. I don't want any trouble, Mulder. Let's just get you to the doctor and then home to bed, OK?"

He wasn't prepared for this. But then, he still couldn't remember Scully coming in and leaving her purse. He followed silently as she led him out of the building, racking his brain for a clue as to why she was acting so distant. Their relationship hadn't been a lot of laughs, lately, but he didn't remember it being quite this bad, either. She led him to her car and unlocked the passenger door, waiting for him to get in. He shivered in the cool air of the parking garage and gave her a confused look.

It was only after she had started the car and had driven out onto the street that he had the courage to ask her what had happened. "You left your purse in the office," he noted, hoping this would get her to talk to him.

"You didn't give me enough time to get it," she said tersely.

"I didn't. . .?" he asked, and truly sounded confused.

"Yeah, Mulder. When you threw me out of the office, you didn't give me enough time to get my purse," she shot back.

"I threw you out?" It was a definite question, not a statement. He laid he head against the seat back and tried again to remember even talking to her this morning.

"You don't remember?" she asked, her tone softening.

"If I managed to throw you out of the office, I would think I would remember it. I'm surprised I don't have another bullet wound," he added, lamely trying for a joke. She was not in a joking mood and her look confirmed that. "No, I don't remember," he said quietly. "But I'm sorry," he added.

"I wondered about it. You have a fever. I can tell it in your eyes. When was the last time you ate?" she asked. Now that she was sure he was rational, she could finally get some answers out of him.

"A meal?" he inquired, letting his lips curl into a sly smile.

"Something other than seeds and coffee, yes," she intoned seriously.

"What day is it?" he asked back.

"You are _not_ funny, you know," she replied. "I know you haven't slept in a couple of nights. Mulder, you're making yourself sick, you know. What is going on?" she demanded.

He closed his eyes as they pulled into bright sunlight. "I didn't want to do this. Not ever again," he murmured.

"Do what? What are you talking about, Mulder? For the last three days you've acted strangely. First, you find those corpses, then I find you sleeping in Mostow's studio, then you take off and I can't find you for a day--Mulder, what is this all about? Tell me, please, I want to know," she pleaded.

"Scully, I don't know what to say. This is, . . . it's just how it gets. I thought it was over when I left VCS, but it stays, I guess. Like an alcoholic or something, I can't let myself get inside their heads anymore." He sighed and leaned back again, as if the short speech had exhausted him.

"Mulder, I don't understand. You've profiled other criminals. It never effected you like this. This time it was. . .I don't know. You scared me, Mulder."

She turned toward him at the sound of the bitter laughter. "Well, I guess now we know what really scares you, huh, Scully," he said sarcastically. "It's me."

She took her hand off the wheel long enough to punch him in the arm. "I am _not_ afraid of YOU, Mulder!" she seethed. "I am afraid FOR you! You are not eating, not sleeping, you let that cut get infected, and all for what? What was it for, Mulder, I really want to know."

He sighed again. "Well, maybe finding out that Patterson was the killer and making sure he's behind bars is worth a couple of missed meals and missing a few nights sleep," he said, and closed his eyes and was silent for the rest of the ride.

Mulder's doctor worked out of the PromptCare at Georgetown University Hospital and he was not that happy to see his most frequent 'repeat offender' in the waiting area.

"I thought I was through seeing him for a while when you brought him back from Iowa," Dr. Stephens muttered to Scully as he ushered Mulder into a cubicle. "What is it this time?"

"Utility knife to the face," Scully replied. "I'm pretty sure it's

infected. And he hasn't been sleeping. Or eating."

"Sounds like you've been on a bad case," Stephens said, examining the cut next to Mulder's eye. "And yes, that is a nasty little infection." He stuck a thermometer in the patient's mouth while he peeled off the steri- strips to expose the cut. Mulder winced, but said nothing in his own defense. He knew it was useless with these two.

"Well, at least he doesn't look dehydrated. Plenty of coffee, I assume?" Scully nodded. "That doesn't help your insomnia, you know," Stephens said pointedly to Mulder who rolled his eyes to the ceiling and tried not to crunch the thermometer in half with his teeth.

The thin glass tube was whipped out of his mouth and Stephens leaned over so Scully could see it. "102. And you say he hasn't been eating or

sleeping. He looks exhausted. It probably wouldn't hurt to admit him for a day or two. At least I could monitor his food intake and sedate him to make sure he rests." Stephens was leveling his best 'I'm deadly serious' gaze at him. Mulder blanched visibly.

"Or, you could release him on his own recognance if he swears to follow orders," Scully suggested. She caught the look of undying gratitude in her partner's eyes, but chose to ignore it.

"Now, if I thought he would actually follow orders, Agent Scully, why would I make you come in here and act as my witness," Dr. Stephens harumphed. "Take him back to his apartment and sit on him. I know I can trust you." He hurriedly wrote out three scripts and handed them to

Scully. "I'll send Shelly in to give him a shot of amoxil before you leave, but I want him on the orals for 10 days just to make sure. The second one is for his stomach, which will probably be upset for a while and the last one is for a sedative, which is NOT optional," he added, for Mulder's benefit. "If you can think of anything else, just give me a call. I'll write out whatever you want."

"I gotta get a new primary care physician," Mulder growled as they headed out to the car.

"Good luck, Mulder. I'm afraid the word is out on you. You're lucky Doug Stephens took you when you dropped your last doctor. You are not known as the world's best patient," she smiled. "Look, you got off easy. Chances are real good that your fever will break in 24 to 48 hours and then I'll ask Stephens to sign off on your return to duty.

"oh, gee thanks, _mom_," he said through clenched teeth. "or maybe 'warden' is more accurate."

"I think 'Nanny' fits," she retorted, slamming his door shut and storming over to the driver's seat. She fumed while buckling her seatbelt, then could hold her temper back no longer. "Look, Mulder, I'm not thrilled with this detail, either! I have plenty of things I'd rather be doing than playing nursemaid to a 34 year old who can't keep a cut on his eye clean and dry. But I'm stuck with this, Skinner's orders, and so you are stuck with me. Let's just try not to do any permanent damage, OK?" She was furious with his attitude and it was starting to eclipse her initial concern.

"I don't like being 'babysat'," he growled.

"Then stop acting like a 'baby'!" she returned and they were both silent for the rest of the ride.

When they arrived at his apartment, Dana noticed that her partner had finally fallen asleep. Not surprising, except that it had only been a ten minute ride. <Never fails. The man can sleep absolutely *everywhere* except his own bed. She started to wake him, then stopped. He looked

so tired. She was used to seeing him like that, there had been more than their share of sleepless nights and stakeouts to know him as well this way as when he was rested. But there was something else. He wasn't really resting--he was just barely even 'sleeping'. He didn't look peaceful. He looked--haunted. She hated using the word, but it was the only one that fit. Haunted. This case had a deeper effect on him than she had imagined. Some of the wind went out of her sails and the anger left with it.

She climbed out of the car and walked around to his side. Quietly, so as not to startle him, she opened the door and gently shook his shoulder. True to form, he jerked awake, grabbing for his gun, but she already had her hand on his to stop him.

"Oh, we there already?" he asked, taking a deep breath and blinking at the sunlight.

"Yeah, we're there. Come on. You can crash on the couch while I run to the drug store and get your meds." He nodded in quiet acceptance and followed her to the building. He didn't bother pulling out his keys, he let her use the ones he had given her long before. She kept glancing back at him, an action that usually annoyed the hell out of him, but he made no notice. It was as if he were sleepwalking and he had no knowledge of the world around him. <I really don't like this, she thought.

After she had him safely on the couch, the remote, a glass of orange juice and an extra blanket all within reach, she headed off to the drug store. She stopped off at the grocery next door, knowing instinctively that 'the cupboards were bare', since they always were. Almost an hour had passed by the time she made it back.

Struggling with the grocery bags and her purse, she kicked the door with her foot when she made it off the elevator. No answer. It didn't surprise her, she figured he was so sound asleep that he hadn't heard. She put the bags down with a grumble and fished the keys back out of her pocket. Gathering everything up in her arms, she went into the apartment. In a moment, she knew something was wrong. It was empty. Mulder was nowhere to be found. ********

The pavement was broken near the alley and he stumbled for a second before righting himself. It was enough to shake him out of the fog that was surrounding his mind. The pictures, the gargoyles, hundreds of them in stone, wood, on canvas, on prison walls drawn in blood, all flooding his mind and his sight. But now, he looked around and realized he was not in his apartment. <When did I go out running? He glanced down and noticed he hadn't bothered to change clothes, and he was running in his street shoes. <No wonder I stumbled. He looked up and down the street and saw nothing familiar. A street sign on the corner revealed that he was almost two miles from his building. He sat down on the bench at the bus stop to get his bearings. His feet hurt from running in shoes not meant for that purpose. He shivered, he was in his shirt sleeves, he hadn't bothered to put on either his suit jacket or his raincoat. After a moment, he fumbled in his pants pocket and found enough money to take the bus back to his place.

It wasn't until he was at his door that he realized he didn't have his keys. He had left them in the apartment in his raincoat pocket. He was about to go to the building super and ask to be let in when he remembered seeing Scully's car in front. He knocked timidly on the door and waited for her to answer.

Dana had the phone to her ear as she answered the door, fully expecting to see the Assistant Director. When it was her wayward partner, she nearly fell over in an effort to drag him inside and secure him on the couch.

"Mulder, goddammit, where in the hell have you been? I've been looking for you for the last hour! Where did you go? You know you're supposed to be resting! I refuse to sit here and let you play 'hide and seek' just because you're offended at the prospect of being 'babysat'. Now, you better. . ."

He cut off her tirade with a feeble wave and kicked off his shoes. His socks were worn through on the heel and toe and she could see were a couple of blisters had formed and popped. He winced as he examined them. "Damn it," he muttered and laid back on the couch, only to stare at the ceiling.

Scully stared at him for a full minute before walking over to perch on the coffee table. She lifted one of his feet and then the other, checking out the damage. Without a word, she left to get the first aid kit she had bought him and went about putting antibiotic ointment and bandages on the worst of the blisters. Then she went to the kitchen, measured out the dosage of each of the three bottles of medicine and brought them to him with a glass of water. He had found the blankets and was huddled under two of them, looking completely miserable. "Would you like to tell me where you were?" she asked calmly.

"Gotta watch those mood swings, Scully. You're scaring me," he joked, or tried to, as he tossed back the handful of pills and gulped half the water. When she continued to stare at him, he decided it must be his turn to talk. "I woke up about two miles from here. I took a bus back. I had to transfer, that's why it took me so long." He regarded her serious expression and sighed. "I don't remember running. I don't remember going out. Scully, I don't remember us getting to the apartment." He closed his eyes and hoped the sedative was fast acting so he wouldn't have to answer the questions he knew she was about to throw at him.

She started to say something but a knock on the door interrupted her. Skinner was looking not the least bit happy at being dragged away from the office to intervene in what he could only assume was the second squabble these two agents had gotten in during the last 6 hours. "So you found him," he said gruffly, and glowered down at Mulder. "Where was he?"

"He went out running," Scully replied evenly.

"In a suit?" Skinner asked, a note of surprise replacing the angry tone of before.

"And good leather wingtips, apparently," Scully said.

"Is he asleep?"

"No, but I don't think he feels much like talking at moment." She got up and motioned for the door. Skinner took a long look at the 'fugitive' and followed.

"So what is it this time, Scully?" Skinner asked once they were in the building hallway.

Dana sighed. It _did_ feel like she was running to the principal to report a fight on the playground. "Sir, I'm sorry I called you about this. When I got back to the apartment, he was gone. He got back a few minutes ago. He claims to have no knowledge of leaving the apartment. He says he 'woke up' about 2 miles from here and took the bus back." She couldn't help but notice the concern registering on the Assistant Director's face. "I know, sir. You asked me the other day if I was worried about Mulder. At the time, I hoped it was just the stress of the case. Now, I'm not so sure. Now, I really am worried about him." The admission was more than she had intended to say, but somehow, she felt better getting it out in the open.

"Is this a psychological matter, Scully? Maybe we should be calling in EAP, rather than taking him to Georgetown," Skinner said pointedly. He had never considered Mulder crazy, although most of the rest of the Bureau hierarchy did. But in light of what had happened to Patterson, even Walter Skinner was beginning to see how thin the tightrope of sanity could be for someone as dedicated to justice and truth as Mulder. And how easy it would be to slip and fall from the tightrope.

Scully's heart dropped to her stomach. This is not where she wanted to go and she definitely didn't want the Assistant Director going there, either.

"No, sir. I hope it's a simple case of exhaustion. Things really haven't settled down since. . ." She hesitated to bring up the incident in Iowa. Mulder, running off to jump a train, stranded on a sidetrack, narrowly escaping a fatal explosion--that just didn't seem like much of a sanity defense at the moment. She was still wondering if she shouldn't have his water tested again because of it. But the Assistant Director was still staring down at her. "Sir, let me handle this, at least for the next day or two. I think Mulder needs rest and real food. If he disappears again, well, then maybe we should reevaluate the situation. But until then, I think we'd be overreacting if we called in EAP." In the final analysis, she just couldn't do that to him. It would be exactly what *they* wanted--to nail the coffin shut. And with that realization, she knew she would have to deal with Mulder alone, by herself.

He could see Bill Patterson's face, the horror of his deeds reflected in

his eyes. And the looks in the eyes of the other agents as Patterson was escorted to the waiting police car. The looks that said 'that could never be me, I'd never let that happen', the looks that showed just how easy it was to lie to yourself so that you could get up in the morning, go to work and do the same thing all over again. He saw Patterson being led to his cell, saw him cowering on the bed as the door was slammed and locked behind him. Patterson had his face covered with his hands, the hands that still had a covering of clay from the gargoyle model that encased his latest victim-- his partner. And then Patterson removed the hands from his face, let them fall to his lap and as he looked up, Mulder realized it was not Bill Patterson sitting in that cell--it was himself. And he screamed, just as surely as Patterson had done before him.

A hand came down on his shoulder and Mulder jumped. He tried to catch his breath, to calm down, to get the sweat out of his eyes. He blinked, and saw Scully, kneeling next to where he was laying on the couch in his apartment. She was talking, but he couldn't understand what she was saying, like the mute button had been accidentally hit on. All that he could hear was the faint echoes of his own screams, and Patterson's.

"Mulder. Mulder, it was just a dream. Just a dream. You're all right. You're in your apartment." She was running out of soothing things to say and he still didn't look like he knew where he was or even that she was speaking to him. <Oh, shit, please, don't fall apart on me now, she prayed. "Mulder, do you want something to drink, some water?"

Finally, her voice broke through the static in his mind. "water?"

"Yes, do you want me to get you some water?" she asked, and the relief was all too evident in her voice. He swallowed, his throat was dry and raw. He nodded weakly and she got up to get him a glass. She noted ruefully that he now bought his water from the grocery store, a jug was on the shelf in the refrigerator, next to the food she had picked up earlier. She shook her head sadly at the memory of why that would be important to him--safe water. Quickly, she put the jug back in the refrigerator and took the glass to him. He gulped it down but shook his head when she asked if he wanted more.

"You had a nightmare," she stated quietly. "Was it about Samantha?"

He let out a short bitter snort, not a laugh, more like a growl. "No. I haven't had that nightmare for a while. Not since before. . .long before New Mexico."

"Then what was it?" She hoped he would talk to her. There was nothing she could do if he kept it all bottled up inside of himself.

He ran a hand through his hair and stood up, only to wobble slightly before gingerly walking to the bathroom. "The drugs, probably. The sedative, or the stomach stuff, I don't know. It's was nothing, Scully. Don't worry about it, huh?" She wanted to protest, but knew it was useless. He would have to open up on his own.

When he came back into the living room, he looked around. The charcoal sketches were missing. "I see you chose to redecorate. I don't remember giving any orders to that effect," he said calmly and she almost thought for a moment that he might not be joking. Then he smiled faintly.

"I didn't think you'd mind. I put the pictures in a box I found. I figured they should go back to the office." She stopped just short of reminding him that they were evidence in a capital crime. She also didn't mention how terrified she had been when she had come looking for him two nights before and found the sketches, close to 100 of them, taped to every available surface in his apartment. It was the first clue she had that something was wrong, very, very, wrong.

"Yeah, thanks, they should go back." He sat back heavily on the couch and stared into space.

"Are you hungry? You've been asleep for almost 5 hours. And I don't think you had much breakfast. I picked up some lunchmeat and some tomato soup. Is that all right?"

He broke his stare to look over and grin at her. "Salami?"

"*Turkey* salami, yes," she grinned back. "And honey roasted turkey breast. I even picked up lettuce and a tomato for the sandwiches."

"Sounds good. Let's eat.

He had thought he was hungry, until he sat down at the little table in the kitchen. The sandwich stared up at him and the tomato soup was. . .it was far too *red*. It reminded him of the gargoyle sketch on the floor of Mostow's cell--the one the prisoner had drawn in his own blood. Mulder closed his eyes to try and forget the image, but it came back stronger than ever. Suddenly, he pushed his chair back and stumbled out into the living room. He sat down on the couch, breathing heavily, trying to calm himself. It wasn't working. All he could see were those damn sketches. . .

Scully had been busy fixing her own sandwich and hadn't notice her partner until she heard the chair scraping the floor. He all but ran past her to get to the living room. She followed him, called his name, but again, he didn't hear her. More than a little frightened, she slowly entered the room. He was staring the television, but it wasn't even on. Carefully, she moved over to stand a few feet in front of him, and again tried to get his attention.

"Mulder," she said softly. "Mulder, look at me." He made no move to comply. Her heart was thudding loudly in her chest as she walked around the coffee table and sat next to him on the couch. She put her hand to his face and turned it toward her. "Mulder, please look at me," she pleaded. Finally, as if he was coming home from a very long trip, Mulder found himself back in his apartment. Scully was staring at him, more scared than he could remember seeing her. "Scully?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

It would have been funny, if she hadn't been reaching to dial the paramedics. She took his wrist in her hand and checked his pulse, then looked into his eyes. He seemed fine, aside from the mild fever he was still exhibiting. She could tell he was back, she just had no idea where his mind had taken him. "Mulder, why didn't you eat? You need to eat something. Doctor orders," she said with a mock seriousness to her voice. She was relieved he was at least looking more normal.

"I'm not hungry," he swallowed. To be exact, the thought of food was turning his stomach. He was becoming more aware of his surroundings, and his own body. His head was pounding again. "My head hurts. Can I have an aspirin?" He was begging.

"Mulder, that's a really dumb idea on an empty stomach. And I don't want you taking the amoxil on an empty stomach, either or you'll just lose it in the bathroom in a couple of minutes." He closed his eyes and leaned back in the couch cushions. "Look, if that was too much, I'll get you something else. How about some dry toast, or some crackers and some tea?" He nodded weakly and she hesitantly got up to make it for him. When she came back, he looked no better than he had, but at least he seemed aware of her presence. She sat the crackers down on the coffee table and handed him the tea. He drank it down, ate four of the crackers and laid down on the couch, eyes closed.

"Can I have that aspirin, now?" he asked in a whisper. She bit back her fear for him and went to get the medicine. She brought back not only the aspirin, but his amoxil, stomach medicine and his sedative, and a glass of water to wash it all down. He threw back the pills without comment and laid back down on the couch. She pulled the comforter off the back and covered him with it, then sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the room and watched as he fell into a fitful sleep. *******

Dana sat in the chair and watched as her partner's face twisted and twitched in his sleep. It wasn't working. Just letting him get some rest was not getting rid of whatever demons were possessing him. <God, I'm starting to *think* like him now! she thought with a shake of her head. No, this was not demons, this was something else. This was Mulder himself and he needed help. Help she was becoming increasingly sure that she was not able to provide.

After letting the issue tear her apart a few more minutes, and getting tired of watching Mulder's tortured face, she finally made her decision. He was not going to like this, not one bit. But then, their relationship had been on the rocks for some time and if this was the last straw, she would just have to accept that. She could put up with his ditching her, she could put with his occasional flirtations with other women <well, maybe not Det. White. . .or that 'Bambi' woman, she could even put up with his taste in videos and reading material in addition to the women. But she was not going to sit back and say nothing while he quietly drove himself mad. That was something she could never forgive herself for allowing.

She dug through her purse and then her wallet. Finally, she came up with the little white card, the edges slightly dog eared. She picked up the cordless phone and walked into the kitchen, out of earshot in case Mulder woke up. She dialed the number that had been hastily scribbled on the back of the card.

"Karen Kossloff," the soft woman's voice said into the phone and Dana almost hung up. "This is Karen, is anyone there?" she asked again, and Dana sighed.

"Karen, this is Dana Scully," she said simply.

The voice on the other end lightened. "Dana! How are you? I haven't seen you in the cafeteria for a while. Have you been in the field?"

"Well, yes, now that you mention it, we have been gone a lot lately," Dana admitted. "Karen, I'm sorry to have bothered you at home, but I really need to talk to you."

"Now, Dana, you know I told you that you should call whenever you needed me," Karen chided. "There's no rest for the wicked and that goes double for Bureau shrinks," she added with a laugh. Dana smiled, in spite of herself. "So, what's up? Another bad case?"

"No, well, yes, in a way, but this isn't about me. Karen, you remember by partner, don't you?"

"You're still working with Fox Mulder, aren't you?" Karen's tone was neutral and that almost made Dana laugh. She very seldom heard those words in a 'neutral' tone. Usually they were said with much derision.

"Yes, I am. Karen, I'm at wits end. I think this last case hit a little too close to home for him. We were working on a case with ISU. . ."

"The Patterson case, yes I heard. Horrific case, I'm sure. As I understand it, your partner was personally responsible for solving the murders," Karen interrupted.

"Yes, he was. He spent the last week on that case. He spent every waking moment on it, and since he didn't really sleep much of that time, that was the equivalent of 24 hours a day."

"Not to mention the fact that he worked with Bill Patterson for 2 years in ISU. I'm sure having to arrest a colleague for those kinds of murders must have been very trying on him. I know it's effected several of the agents that worked in the unit. Everyone's asking themselves, since it could happen to Bill, when will it happen to me." Dana could hear the concern in the social worker's voice. "But Dana, I can't treat your partner third hand. Can you get him to come in to see me?"

Dana sighed heavily. "How *well* do you know Fox Mulder?" she asked.

"The myth or the man?" Karen said lightly. "I know that most of EAP runs screaming at the sound of his name. I know that several of the hierarchy were trying for involuntary commitment while you were. . .gone. They couldn't find any evidence that he was a danger to others, so they had to let it drop."

"I had no idea," Dana whispered.

"I'm sure you didn't. I don't think he even knows how serious they were. Or how close they came. After the incident in the hospital when you were found. . .well, Dana, if it hadn't been for your mother's account of the events, I don't think you'd be working with him now. I think they would have thrown away the key."

"So you think he's crazy," Dana said bitterly.

"I said nothing of the sort. I'm giving you the myths I've heard. I've see him in action. Just once or twice, when we've bumped into each other on consults. He's brilliant, he's driven, he's got some rough edges, but Dana, so do we all. I don't think he's any more crazy than you or I. But I do know that he has a much harder time accepting help. He seems like the type that keeps it all inside. Like someone else I could mention," she added, and Dana could tell that was meant for *her* benefit.

"Well, you're right on that one. He would bottle it up and just let it eat him from the inside out. But Karen, I think he's really scared this time. I don't know for certain what's going on, why this one's different than the other cases we've worked on, but it is. And I want to help him and I don't know how," Dana moaned.

"Dana, let me clue you in on a little secret," Karen said, now deadly serious. "Psychologist make the worst psych patients. I know that's true of medical doctors being the worst patients, but for shrinks, it's tenfold as bad. Because not only are they more likely to second guess the treatment, they are also more likely to deny the problem, ignore the symptoms, and avoid any and all treatment. But they will still 'play the game', so you think they're doing what you want them to do, but they aren't. You think you're making headway, and they are so far out on a limb that it makes you dizzy thinking about it and they're sawing the limb off behind them!" Karen stopped for a moment and caught her breath. "Sorry about the soapbox, but believe me, I know what I'm talking about. I've been there, Dana. And it's a scary, scary place."

"So what do I do?" Dana whined.

"Talk to him. Try and make him realize that you are very worried. Threatening won't work, it has to be his idea. And then call me. I know someone who specializes in the, well how can I put this, . . .the hard cases. His entire practice is made up of psychologists and social workers. People who deal with this stuff on a daily basis and should know how much easier it is just to sit back and let someone help them get better. But they don't. But that's OK, this guy knows all the tricks and won't let him get by with any of them. But it has to be your partner's idea to call him. Otherwise, we're spitting into a fan," Karen quipped. "So, call if you need me. This has got to be hard on you. Even if you just need to 'vent your spleen' as my old advisor used to tell me. I'm here, OK?"

"Yeah, thanks, Karen. I'll try in the morning. He's asleep right now. . ."

"Not really," came a voice behind her. Dana froze while a dozen excuses flooded her mind. Slowly, she disconnected the phone and turned to face him.

"Hi," she muttered. "Have a good nap?"

"Depends. I guess I didn't expect to wake up to a knife in my back," he seethed. "Who were you talking to?" he demanded.

"Karen Kossloff in EAP," she admitted. Then she squared her shoulders. "I talked to her during the Pfaster case. I called her because, . . . because I was worried about _you_," she said defiantly.

"EAP? The shrink dept.? Now you think I'm crazy," he cried and angrily started to pace. "Or maybe you just finally decided to do something about what you thought all along."

"Don't give me that crap, Mulder," she shouted. "I have never treated you with anything but the utmost respect! And there have been times when your sanity was the only thing I _was_ sure of. But I think even you have to admit that this is different. Mulder, you have blanks of time! You said yourself that you don't remember talking to me this morning. You can't account for how you ended up over 28 blocks from this apartment, in your street shoes, running for all you were worth. Now, tell me, if it was _me_ doing all that, what would you do?" she huffed.

He stopped and stared at her for a moment, then she saw the fear invade his shoulders. He remained silent, but he looked miserable.

"I thought so," Dana said quietly. "So do you see why I called Karen? I was worried. I AM worried. And I don't have the psych degree, Mulder. That's your department," she added with a faint smile. She watched him stumble awkwardly over to the couch and slump down into the cushions. "Talk to me, Mulder," she pleaded.

It looked like he was about to dismiss her, but he stopped. The pained expression was there in her face, he was really hurting her. All he really wanted was for the hurt to go away. But he knew it wouldn't. And he

knew why. Finally, he looked into her eyes as she sat across from him in the chair on the other side of the room. Her eyes were glinting the reflection from the lights of the fishtank, but for a brief moment, it looked like all the knowledge and wisdom of the world just might be there in her eyes. He took a deep breath and started.

"When you were teaching at Quantico, what happened when you finished with a class of recruits?" he asked calmly.

The question threw her for a loop. "Well, we got a new class," she said, hesitantly. She was just curious enough to want to go where this was leading, but she couldn't shake the feeling he was avoiding her original question.

"Was there any down time, any breaks, any time between one class and another?" he continued to hold her gaze. He looked rational enough, she noted.

"No, ah, not really. We usually finished classes on Friday. The next week they spent at the testing center, but that was all proctored by other agents. So, we just started with a new class. We had the weekend, of course. . .Mulder, why is this so important?" she finally got up the courage to ask.

"So you had two days to switch gears, learn new names, rework your lesson plans, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, about that. So what? What difference does that make?" She was trying not to get annoyed, but he had become so darned annoying lately. <We have to work on that, she reminded herself.

"You know, when I was back in Investigative Support Unit, working under Bill, I would have *killed* for a weekend. Two whole days, 48 hours, would have seemed like I'd died and gone to heaven! Oh, there were a couple of times. But more likely than not, if I did get a Saturday, on Sunday afternoon I'd get called in on another case. Or the case would last through the weekend. See, I was always the 'profiler of last resort', which meant that _every_ single time somebody got stuck, I got called." He put his feet up on the coffee table and regarded them as if they could tell him the mysteries of the earth.

"At first, Bill was real good at playing to my ego. 'You're needed, Mulder.' 'You're the best, Mulder, we can't do it without you.' But that was at the beginning and it sure didn't last long. Then, somewhere he decided that praise took too much time and so he just started throwing the case files on my desk and more or less daring me to solve them. That worked the best. Because basically I thought old Bill was an asshole and the praise had never really felt real. The dares, those felt real. So I 'rose to the challenge', so to speak." He got up slowly and went into the kitchen, coming back with a bottle of Gatorade she had bought that afternoon.

"Before I knew it, I was on this 'treadmill' of cases. All the really shitty stuff, that came to my desk. And not just my desk. I got the flu one time and was home throwing up my guts and when I could make it to the phone, it was Bill. He faxed the damn file over the modem and I wrote the profile right there, " he pointed to his desk. "And I threw up right in that," he pointed to his wastebasket. "Or rather, the one I threw out afterward. So you see, I didn't even get time off for good behavior." He chuckled bitterly.

He just kept talking, almost as if she wasn't even in the room, not looking at her anymore, looking off into space. "It went like that for a long, long time. I don't even know how long. Sometimes I would get hauled out to do field work, on the spot kind of stuff, but not really that often, not like now. That was the worst, the field stuff. I was the 'magic man', I was just supposed to come in, wave my wand and tell them to pick up this bastard or that bastard and then disappear in a puff of smoke. But to talk to somebody, have a beer, huh, that was forbidden. It was some sort of Frigging taboo or something."

"Then, this one time, I was sent out to California. San Diego, to be exact. And the agent who picked me up at the airport, well, he was a real hotshot at the wheel. The AIC had said to get me to the crime scene PRONTO, and he was going to do just that." He looked at her for the first time in a long time. "You know Scully, it really does rain in Southern California. I know that's a dumb song, but I have first hand, personal knowledge. Only it rains so hard, you can't see three feet in front of you.

And the highway is slicker than the BW Parkway after a January snowstorm. We spun out, got smacked by a florist delivery van. Passenger side collision. I was wearing my seatbelt, but it screwed up my back royally. Two weeks of traction at the base hospital. And you thought Alaska was fun," he added with a sneer. "Let me tell you, Eisenhower Field was Macy's at Christmas compared to the base hospital in San Diego with the bar fights and the drug addicts. . .ah well, that's not part of the story, or maybe it is." Now that he had started, he couldn't seem to stop.

"Well, the first week, I was on morphine or something like it and I was out of it, in another galaxy, really. So that wasn't so bad. Then, they didn't want me on stuff that strong for long enough to get hooked so they started to 'wean' me off it, you know the routine. And that's when it started. The black outs. I wouldn't remember these big chunks of time, sometimes two or three hours. But the nurses seemed to remember. I was a real pain in the ass during those times. Mean, let me tell you. I guess you saw some of it this morning. But I don't know, it was all second hand information to me. I guess they were telling the truth. So, in come the neurologists. I have to give them credit, at least they *looked* for a physiological reason first. Lots of x-rays, cat scans and MRIs later, I'm given a bill of health, brainwise, but the black outs are still happening. And I was still an asshole. Or maybe people were just starting to notice," he said, shooting her a wicked grin. She gave him her own 'Scully Look' and he went back to his story.

"So enter the psych guys. Starting with a MSW, just to test the waters. I blew her away. Next, they brought in a Ph.D. in Psychology. No contest. Finally, the resident Psychiatrist was about to put me on some really mean shit when the black outs stopped. Just like that. No more

problems. I'm cured," he had the biggest grin on his face, his arms thrown out in a gesture of victory. "I went back to DC and Reggie sort of 'scooted' me out from under Bill. And about that time, since I *knew* I wasn't Frigging cured, I started going to see Max, the hypnotherapist. In the short span of six months, I remembered Sam's abduction and found the X files. A couple of months later, I help nail Monty Props and the rest, as they say, is history." He finished off the Gatorade with one gulp.

"So, you're thinking that these black outs are caused by, what, profiling?" Scully asked, when she could find her voice.

"No, Scully, not the profiling, per se," he moaned. "A combination of the profiling, and working with Patterson and just getting too deep. I should have seen it coming. But to tell you the truth, Patterson played me like a cheap violin. He threw that case in front of me and 'dared' me to

solve it. Just like the good old days. And the bastard didn't even realize he was doing it," he said, lips pursed, staring off into the darkened window.

"So, you figure it will just go away," she asked tersely. <What was it Karen said, something about avoiding treatment.

"Or I could go wrap my car around a tree and hope it helps," he suggested in his best deadpanned expression.

"Lousy idea, and it would shoot your car insurance through the roof," she pointed out, just as seriously. "How about talking to somebody?"

"Oh, you mean like a real person, as opposed to you, my partner?" he teased.

"I mean, someone who can help you," she intoned.

He gave her his warmest smile. "You always help me, Scully. You're the only person I can think of who has ever consistently tried and definitely the only one who has ever succeeded."

His words made her smile in return. "But I don't know if it's enough, this time," she said, slowly shaking her head. "Mulder, I've been watching you. When you wake up from. . .where ever you've been. . .you're scared. Was it like that before?"

He was silent for a moment. The slowly he shook his head. "No. I don't remember being scared. Just confused."

"So this is different?" she prodded.

Suddenly he jumped up, pacing. "What do you want me to say, Scully? That this time is worse, that I really am in trouble this time?" She started to protest, but he waved her off. "Because that's. . ." he took a deep breath. "That's what I've been thinking myself." He stood at looking out the window on to the darkened streets, his back to her. "You're right. I am scared." Dana got up and stood just behind him, looking out the same window, but not seeing the same scene. "What is it? What's so scary?" she asked gently.

He gave a half laugh. "All my life, I've tried to be different. Not 'Spooky' different. Different than my role models. I never wanted to be like my father, but this year, I found out just how close to him I'd become.

And I hated Bill Patterson. I vowed I would never get that deep, never let it take over my life. And look at me, Scully. That's exactly what's happened."

She put her hand on his shoulder. "Mulder, that's not true." she

objected. "You are _not_ like your father. You are fighting to find the truth, not cover it up. You know that. And you are _not_ like Bill Patterson. And you never will be," she concluded.

"Bill never thought he would be like John Mostow, either, Scully, but it

happened. He spent his whole life fighting that and look what happened?" His shoulder's started to shake and she realized he was silently crying. "I don't want that to happen to me. That's what scares me. I keep having the same dream. . .that I _am_ Bill, that I did all that, the murders. That it was me. . ."

She took him by the arm and led him to the couch. She sat him down and then sat on the coffee table in front of him. He wouldn't look at her and so she grabbed his hands and forced him to look into her eyes. "That is _not_ going to happen, Mulder for one very simple reason." He let his eyes ask the question for him. <Why?

She smiled tenderly. "Because *I* am not going to let that happen."

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

Fox Mulder regarded his partner for a long time. "Funny, that's not the impression I got as we left Comity," he said sarcastically. The minute the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. He also knew he was not about to take them back.

Dana Scully's first reaction was to stiffen. Her second thought was that her fist would make almost perfect contact with his jaw from her current postion and he wouldn't be a problem for the rest of the night. Her third thought, the one she acted on was to finally have it out. This 'thing' had been brewing for far too long and now was just as good a time as any to get it over and done with. But in the back of her mind, she was more determined than ever to make him get the help he needed. The help he deserved.

"OK, Mulder. You want to get sidetracked," she said evenly. "Fine. I'm willing, *for tonight*, to get sidetracked. But we are laying down some ground rules. One, you can only say what you really mean, so don't say it in the heat of battle. We are going to be rational about this. Two, we don't leave this room until it is all out in the open, discussed, and over. Oh, and three, we hold hands." She almost laughed at the shocked look on his face. "Are you willing to abide by those rules?"

"Not exactly Marquis of Queensbury, but they'll do," he said, recovering quickly and matching her tone. He reached out and clasped her hands in his. "Ladies first."

She took a deep breath. She thought for a moment. "You still blame me for giving back the tape."

"That's a moot point," he countered. "The tape was stolen before we could give it back." But his eyes betrayed the fact that she had hit the mark.

"So what if it was stolen. You left the decision up to me and I made it and you didn't like it. And usually that would be the end of story. But the fact that it was 'that' tape and that you almost died to keep it away from them. . ." She clenched her eyes shut tight and took several breaths. "Mulder, I have had nightmares for months about that damn tape. And I wish. . .I wish that I had never told Skinner to give it back." He could tell that it was everything she could do to keep control of her emotions, but she was doing a darn find job of it, in his opinion. But he also noticed a decided increase in her pressure on his hands. "It didn't save Missy. It didn't get me there in time to see her. . .to see her before she died. We gave it up for nothing. And I'm sorry." The tears burned in her eyes. <Not now, Starbuck, don't you dare! Rational, you have to be rational. She swallowed again, and relaxed a bit, still every bit the Dana Scully he knew and admired. "I'm right, aren't I?"

His first impulse was to deny. Then he remembered the first rule. There really had been times, times when he was so tired and sad and wanted it all to be different, that he really hated her for being so weak. At those moments, that is how he saw it, a weakness. Then he would shake himself out of his self pity and realize who really was the weak one in this partnership and it wasn't his partner. "OK, you've got me. There have been times that I wished you hadn't done that. I wish we had kept the tape, deciphered it for ourselves, used it for more leverage, the truth,

whatever. But in all honesty, Scully, the result would have been the same. And instead of attacking Skinner in the stairwell, they might have murdered him in his sleep, or me or you or your mom. Face it, the price of human life is pretty cheap to these people. So, we need to get past it, both of us."

"Then you forgive me?" she asked.

He wanted to jump to an immediate 'yes' to reassure her, but that wasn't in the rules. He had to mean it. He thought for a moment. In all reality, he had already forgiven her for the act. It was the pain that the act inflicted that he still resented. And apparently, that was what was she was sorry for as well. "Yes," he said finally, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "I forgive you." He sat forward and looked her directly in the eyes. <I could lose myself right here, he thought, but steeled himself. "My turn."

She nodded and worked her shoulders a bit, waiting for the onslaught. After all their time together, she was pretty sure of what he was going to say. She just didn't quite know how she was going to answer.

"You blame me for Melissa's death," he said flatly. When she started to answer that, almost on instinct, he stopped her by tightening his grip. "And you blame me for all the pain you've been through. When I was lost and hurt, when you've been hurt, the pain your mom has had to endure. You blame me for all of it. I know you do, Dana, because any sane person would. And I blame myself. And I am very, very sorry." He broke his gaze with her, afraid he would be the one to lose control.

"Mulder," she said quietly, trying to draw him back. "Mulder, look at me, please," she pleaded. He swallowed hard and finally complied. "You did not cause Melissa's death. But I did blame you for my not being able to go to her when she was shot. I said that already. I'm over that. What hurts me more than anything is how much pain you cause yourself. I hate the way you take all this on yourself. It's not fair. And I deserve a good part of that blame. I took you off to New Mexico. I could have kept you right here in DC, at my apartment, or someplace nearby. I wanted to go on that quest as much as you did. I wanted to know what was in that tape. I sent you off to that boxcar. . ." she stopped and struggled with her own

emotions. "Whatever blame you think you deserve, the least you can do is share."

He didn't want to say the words, but he had to. It was as necessary for him to ask as it was for her to answer. "Then you forgive me?"

She didn't bother to hesitate. "Yes, Mulder, I forgive you." It gladdened her heart to see his shoulders relax and a gentle smile form on his lips.

"But Scully, one more thing. About that 'latex' remark," he said with mock innocence. For the first time that evening, her reserve was lost. She broke into uncontrollable giggles.

When she gained a little control, she countered, "Well, you were a pretty horny little beast, but I guess I can forgive you." She started shaking her head. "I still can't believe what you were doing with Det. White," she laughed.

"You mean 'protecting my manhood', Scully," he said in a perfect deadpan.

"Oh Yeah!," she howled. "And 'denial' isn't just a river in Egypt, Mulder." She looked down and realized they were still holding hands. "So, I forgive you, do you forgive me for all those little digs?"

"There's nothing to forgive, but yes, I forgive you." He released her hands and leaned back on the couch. "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted," he muttered as he closed his eyes. He was asleep before she knew it and she settled him down on the couch, covered him up and finally made her way into his bedroom to get some sleep herself.

The sun was high in the sky when Scully woke up enough to realize she was not in her apartment. She stretched and got up, padding down the short hall in sock feet. Mulder was still sprawled out on the couch, almost in the same position he had been in when she had left him. She glanced at the clock and noted that it was 11:15 am already. It had been 1:30 am when she had fallen asleep. <Finally, a decent night's sleep for a change, she thought with a smile. She sat on the coffee table to look at her sleeping partner.

The cut was responding to the antibiotics that had been given IM at the doctor's office. With a couple more days, it would be healed completely. She rested her hand against his forehead. The fever was gone, too or at least down to negligible levels. Still, she'd wait until the next day to call Doug Stevens about signing off on the return to duty. She was not about to let Mulder rush back to work this time. There was still some unfinished business to attend to. She started to get up to make coffee.

"Taking up voyeurism as a hobby, Scully," he muttered as he rolled over and pulled the comforter under his chin.

"It's more interesting than 'playing possum'," she countered. "Your fever broke sometime last night."

"Yeah, I got the sweats to prove it. I got up and took a shower about 7. Then I crawled back into bed like a good little invalid." He yawned and stretched as he sat up. "I'm hungry. Did you remember to get bagels at the store?"

"Mulder, do you *ever* shop for yourself?" she asked in mock indignation. He simply flashed he a big grin and wiggled his eyebrows. "I thought not," she responded to his antics and left him to hunt for his remote.

Giving up on his hunt, for the time being, he followed her into the kitchen and pulled out the bagels and cream cheese while she busied herself with his coffee maker. He ate three bagels to her one, she noted happily and drank two glasses of the orange juice she had bought as well. <Appetite seems to be back, she grinned to herself. "Feeling better," she asked.

"Don't look so smug," he warned her. "I would have crashed last night anyway. You really didn't need to drag other health care professionals into it," he said, stealing her last bite of bagel and picking up the plates to put into the sink.

"Oh, no you wouldn't, Mulder!" she shot back. "And you would have been in the office this morning at the crack of dawn. And once you keeled over from the amount of toxin in your bloodstream, we would have be treated to a nice ride in an ambulance," she said with mock cheeriness. "Face it, you don't take very good care of *you*."

"That's why I have you, Scully. That's your punishment for tormenting me so much," he said, and this time, she could tell he was joking. Still, it was the opening she was looking for.

"OK, then Mulder, let me torment you a little more. I want you to see

someone." She watched as his face took on it's stubborn set and he started shaking his head. "Hear me out, Mulder. We decided last night that what you've been going through is different than anything you've experienced in

the past. I think you need to talk about it with someone who can help you work through it." She watched him as he continued to shake his head and when he started to talk, she cut him off.

"Mulder, look, I know that last night we got a lot of stuff out in the open. And this morning, we both feel pretty darned good. But it's just like the antibiotic. If we both assumed that you were cured simply because your fever broke, and you tossed all the rest of the orals down the toilet, you'd be sick as a dog in a month. That's the way these things work. Outward appearances can be deceiving. And I don't know about you, but I'm tired of deceiving myself."

The gleam that formed in his eye was almost blinding. He had been wanting to bring this up for months, ever since New Mexico and he had always been afraid of her reaction. <All right, Dana Katherine, you asked for it. And you're gonna get it, right between the eyes! he mused. "So, your tired of deceiving yourself, huh?" He got a very self satisfied look on his face when she nodded, somewhat apprehensively. "Then, I'll make a little deal with you. I'll go talk to this person, whoever you and Kossloff dream up, on one condition."

"And that condition is. . .?" she asked, almost too afraid of the answer. But at this point, she was willing to do anything, give up anything, if he would agree to get help.

"*You* do something about *your* demons, Scully." He lifted her chin, which had dropped to her chest in realization, and looked into her eyes. "You try to find out more about what happened when you were

abducted. You told me that Melissa got you to see a hypnotherapist, but you bolted. Maybe that guy wasn't right for you. If I help you find one, you have to agree to give it a chance." She started to say something and then stopped when he held up his hand. "We'll be each other's barometer. If you want me to keep at my part of this bargain, you have to keep at your part of it as well. If I give up, you can give up, too. But if I stick with it. . ."

She didn't let him finish the sentence. She stuck out her hand. "Deal," she said.

Her readiness took him by surprise. "You're sure about this?"

"I'm sure, Mulder. You're right. I need to know. We both do. We have to if we're ever going to get beyond that. This way, at least I know we're helping ourselves and each other." And she gave him that precious smile that he drifted off to sleep visualizing. He took her hand and then pulled her into a hug.

"Then we have a deal," he said. "You call Kossloff and get an appointment set up for me. I'll call some people I know and get one set up for you. The first one with a set appointment gets to pick the movies tonight," he offered.

"And the loser has to cook," she countered. "Or at least place the order," she added with a laugh.

the end

and this time, I mean it. I wasn't a psych major, somebody else can write the sequel : )