Shred of Doubt (4/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley 

Bill & Tara Scully's Residence

7:12 p.m. 

Mulder closed the door to the bathroom and sank down onto the closed toilet lid. As expected, after an hour in the presence of Scully's older brother, he had a splitting headache. Too bad it didn't take his mind off the roiling in his stomach and the fire in his throat. 

Tonight had been 'taco night' at the Scully household -- apparently a tradition begun by Maggie Scully twenty or so years ago -- and though Mulder had been just as alarmed and dismayed as his partner at the thought of what that spicy, crunchy food would do to his tender constitution, he'd flat-out refused to allow Scully to utter one word in his defense. He absolutely would not show any weakness in front of Scully's evil sibling. 

The look of disappointment on Billy Boy's face as Mulder attacked the filled tortilla with gusto was worth the torture of swallowing the damned thing. The hard corn shell had done a number on his throat while the hot sauce and tomatoes wreaked havoc with his digestive system. That burrito he'd eaten earlier came back to haunt him as well. 

Glad that all the water he'd downed gave him an excuse to leave the table, Mulder resolved to spend the rest of the evening right where he was. After a few minutes of trying to calm his somersaulting stomach (with not much luck), Mulder made full use of the facilities, washed his hands, then plonked back down on the lid. He was beyond caring what the family thought. He felt crappy, and he just wanted to be left alone. 

"Mulder?" Scully's soft rap forced him to gather his reserve strength, what little he had left. 

"I'll be right out," he called as loudly as he could, igniting the fire in his throat once more. 

"Are you all right?" Her concern made him embarrassed. Here he was, a grown man, hiding in a bathroom. How wimpy was that? 

"I'm fine," he answered. Pushing to his feet, he checked his appearance in the mirror. Christ, what did he do to his hair? He looked like Alfalfa on a bad hair day. Opening the door, he smiled tiredly. "Hey, Scully." 

She returned his smile, but hers was tinged with sympathy. "Are you sure you're okay? Everyone's been worried about you."  

He cringed at the thought that his absence had been a matter of discussion amongst Scully's family.  

Her eyes softened in concern. "Sorry. But you've been up here for twenty minutes." She shrugged. "They noticed." 

Twenty minutes? Was that all? He'd hoped it had been more like an hour, and they could leave. "I, uh…" He laid a hand over his mid-section. "…had a little stomach trouble." Oh, God, he couldn't believe he'd admitted that to her. 

"Is that all?" She laid a comforting hand on his arm, and he wanted to curl up in a ball at her feet and tell her how rotten he felt.  

That, of course, was out of the question. He was Man. He was strong. He did not whine. Usually.  

"Yeah," he finally croaked out, unable to prevent a wince when he swallowed. 

"Throat hurting?" 

What, could she see right through him? (Well, duh, Mulder; he knew right well that she could.) "Nah," he bluffed. "I can still taste that burrito from lunch." He made an appropriately disgusted face. 

She laughed. "You sure? Because if you're not feeling well, we can leave." 

Whoa. Really? That changed everything. "I… uh… Yeah, that'd be good. But not right away! I mean… I don't want them to think…" Oh, crap. Like they didn't already guess. 

She nodded. Thank God she understood without his having to actually voice it. "We'll give it about fifteen minutes, then I'll make up some excuse about the case," she said, and God, did he love her for it. 

Recalling the bird's nest that was his hair, he motioned to the mirror. "I just need a minute to…" He tilted his head to indicate his unruly locks. 

She blushed and looked down at the floor. "Oh. Okay," she said, pulling the door closed. 

Certain that she'd misunderstood that he only needed to neaten his hair, he stared at the door a moment, then took out his comb and smoothed the recalcitrant strands into place. Much better. Quickly pulling the door open, hoping to catch her on the stairs, he took a step -- and froze. 

His Scully had been replaced by the least desirable one. 

"Are you *finally* through?" Bill demanded. 

"Sorry," Mulder mumbled. "We got a little caught up in the case." That was all the information he was about to volunteer to this ignoramus. 

Bill gazed at him with disdain. "And what 'case' did you dream up this time, Mr. Mulder?" 

Huh. Like he'd tell this prick. "I'm sorry. I can't discuss it." He attempted to walk past Bill, but the man's hand on the door frame blocked his path. Mulder let out a sigh; he so did not need this right now. 

"Can't, or won't?" Bill sneered. "So what is it? Are you chasing after aliens? Are aliens on the loose in San Diego?" He chuffed a laugh at his own 'joke.' 

Mulder sighed. "No." 

"Well, come on. What is it then? Some kind of monster?" 

Mulder thought about it. "Yes. It's a monster." 

Bill shook his head. "You're a piece of work, Mister. You know that? Chasing your monsters and little green aliens all over the world, and dragging my sister along with you. Does it give you some sort of feeling of power over her that my very scientific sister would follow you all the way across the country to chase after a monster?"  

Mulder studied Scully's brother for a moment before he said, "You know, Bill, some monsters are men." 

Bill snorted. "Yeah, right. Is that what you tell her to get her to follow you?" 

Mulder sighed. Right over his head. He supposed that innuendo wasn't Scully's pig-headed brother's strong suit. "Actually, no. I followed her." 

Bill looked taken aback, but only for a second. "She came here on a legitimate case, and you tagged along?" 

Mulder felt his hackles rise. "All our cases are legitimate." 

Another snort. "Right. Our government authorizes you to chase after monsters and your little aliens." 

Mulder gritted his teeth. "Yes." 

Bill's gaze was pure malice. "Then they're just as nuts as you." 

Mulder stared at Bill for a second. "Apparently so," he said, pushing Bill's arm out of his way, noting with satisfaction that it caused the other man to scramble for his footing. 

Not bothering to wait for Scully's dim-witted bully of a brother, Mulder made his way back to the dining room. 

"Oh, Fox, there you are." Maggie Scully gave him a worried look. 

He met her eyes very briefly, then sank down into his seat, too embarrassed to look at anyone. 

"Dessert!" 

His head snapped up at the joyful announcement. Tara Scully entered bearing a tray upon which were six individual silver-plated bowls. She handed one to her son, and with a tilt of her head, granted him permission to eat it in the living room in front of the TV. Matthew took off like a shot. 

Mulder wondered what culinary torment awaited him now. At his anxious look, Scully whispered, "Ice cream. We always had ice cream on taco night." 

He was feeling somewhat relieved until he got a look at what was actually in the bowls. It was ice cream, all right but there were chunks of chocolate and other unidentifiable but equally deadly-looking confections. God help him. 

His throat was crying out for the soothing cool that ice cream would afford him, but it balked at the obstacles he'd have to overcome. He forced a smile when Tara placed his bowl in front of him, mumbling a soft, "Thank you." 

Tara smiled back. "I hope everyone likes Heath Bar Crunch." She glanced at her husband, who'd just taken his seat. "Bill insisted on it." 

"What a surprise," Scully muttered, shooting a dark look at her brother. 

"What do you mean, Dana?" Maggie Scully asked her daughter. "Is this a flavor you don't like?" 

Scully shook her head. "Nothing. Forget it, Mom." 

That would have been the end of it if Bill hadn't snickered, then looked at his sister with a smarmy smile on his face. 

She stared hard at her brother, then turned to her mother. "All right, Mom. Do you want to know what's going on?" 

Mulder was horrified. She was going to tell them everything. While he was sitting right there. "Scully, don't," he rasped harshly. 

"I'm sorry, Mulder, but enough is enough." She gave him a sympathetic smile, then looked at her sister-in-law. "Tara, is tonight your normal taco night?" 

Tara seemed puzzled by the question. "Um… yes. It is. Why?" 

Scully looked as surprised as Mulder felt. After Bill's self-satisfied smirk on his choice of ice cream, Mulder would have made book that Bill Scully had moved 'taco night' so Mulder could 'enjoy' having his throat torn out by both dinner *and* dessert. 

"Oh, I just… It's just…" His partner glanced at him then, and he could see her switching gears, changing her mind on the fly.  

When she sent him a silent apology, he knew that whatever she'd thought up was going to be at his expense; he prayed an alien ship would pass by and beam him aboard. "Scully, please…" he pleaded. 

To no avail. She ploughed on ahead. "It's just that Mulder is still recovering from that lung infection, and his throat and stomach are still a little delicate -- " 

"Oh, God, Dana," Tara cried. "I didn't even think -- " 

Delicate. She called him 'delicate.' Told them about his stomach trouble. Mulder felt hot enough to melt the ice cream in his bowl by mere proximity. He glued his eyes to the table, unable to look at any of the faces he was sure were staring at him. 

"Dana, I'm so sorry," Tara apologized. "I forgot all about Mulder's condition. Mulder, I'm so sorry." 

His condition? Christ, now he knew what Uncle Bertram felt like while the family discussed his 'condition' right in front of him. At least Uncle Bert had been deaf; Mulder wasn't that lucky. 

"Did anything happen? Is that why…" Tara trailed off, thankfully tactful enough not to actually voice her suspicions. 

Maggie Scully had no such inhibitions. "Fox, honey, is your stomach bothering you? Were you sick earlier?" 

Mulder could feel the sweat running down his back, and he seriously felt like he was going to pass out from the heat if he didn't get out of there, and right now. There was nothing he enjoyed more than Scully's mom making inquiries into his digestive problems. Oh, God, please. Just one bolt of lightening, that's all he was asking for. 

"Fox?" Maggie pressed when he didn't answer. 

"I'm fine, Mrs. Scully," he mumbled to the table.  

"You look a little pale, dear. Dana, doesn't he look pale to you?" 

Scully didn't answer, and Mulder prayed that she wouldn't. He wasn't pale, dammit, and he wasn't delicate.

"A little," his partner finally said. "You do look a little flushed, Mulder." 

Although she was addressing him, he couldn't look up. Was it possible to die of mortification? He felt sure that it was, and that he would if this continued any longer.  

"Maybe we ought to go," Scully said. "After all, you were -- "

His hand whipped out to grasp her wrist. "Don't…" he grated out.  

The silence in the room was almost as unbearable as the conversation had been. He wished someone would say something, anything -- except about his health.  

His redemption, when it came, was from the last person on earth Mulder would have expected to come to his rescue. That it was unintentional made no difference whatsoever. At that moment, he loved Bill Scully. 

"Godammit!" 

All eyes (even Mulder's) focused on Scully's brother. 

"Bill!" Maggie and Tara both admonished. 

"What?" Looking up from his ice-cream-stained shirt, Bill's expression of anger and confusion almost made Mulder smile. It did make him sigh in relief now that the attention was away from him and on Scully's brother.  

Still holding onto his partner's wrist, Mulder tugged her closer to him. "Let's go." 

He waited not so patiently while she appraised him, then she nodded. "Okay." 

By this time, both mother and wife were discussing how to best remove ice cream stains while Bill grumbled to himself, dabbing at his shirt over the sink. 

"Um… We're going to get going," Scully said in the direction of Maggie and Tara.  

As if struggling to remember what was being discussed before Bill's 'incident,' the two women stared at Scully, then Maggie's eyes shot to Mulder. "Fox, are you -- " 

"Fine," Mulder rasped out before she could say any more.  

"He's okay, Mom," Scully said, and Mulder sighed when she didn't offer any more information.  

"Well… if you say so," Maggie said. 

She opened her mouth to say more, but Mulder beat her to it. "It was great seeing you, Mrs. Scully, Bill, Tara." He nodded to each in turn.  

"We'll say good night to Matty on our way out," Scully said, standing.  

Mulder followed suit; he couldn't get out of that kitchen fast enough. 

Once they were safely in the car, Mulder turned to his partner, still angry and upset at what she'd put him through. 

"I'm sorry," she said, and she said it so heart-wrenchingly remorseful, that he just couldn't find it within himself to give her the tongue-lashing he'd wanted to not a second earlier. 

He swallowed hard and nodded. Yelling at her would only have made his throat hurt anyway. 

** 

May 3, 2000

6:30 a.m. 

Awareness came slowly partly because she was so darned comfortable. She was warm, in a soft bed, a strong arm encircled her waist and a gentle snore whiffed breath right near her ear. Was that a wheeze she heard underneath that snore? 

Scully shifted her hips so that she was lying on her back. In that position, she could see her partner's face more clearly. Two nights in a row, waking up in his arms, it was definitely becoming a habit. Just the kind of habit she wouldn't mind -- provided they weren't on a case and staying in a room that was being paid for by a local police department. 

'Same old same old' had greeted them when Tara had dropped them off at the hotel the night before. No, there wasn't another room available for Agent Mulder, the desk clerk had politely informed them. Mulder, a bit peevishly, had told the clerk to cancel his room. Scully hadn't thought much about it, other than the fact that they would save the SDPD a few bucks. But as she got out of bed, letting her partner continue to sleep, she had second thoughts.  

Mulder just didn't get it. He'd made that abundantly clear when she'd tried to broach the subject last night. Scully thought maybe they should try to find another motel -- maybe a nice Micro-Tel, which was supposedly ALL no smoking. But Mulder had waved off her concerns, telling her that finding a new motel, without the use of a car, was going to be more hassle than it was worth. And, as usual, she'd acquiesced. Well, maybe not that meekly, but finally, she'd agreed with him, especially when she noted the time as nearing 11 o'clock and both of them were dead on their feet. 

When they got to the room, he'd taken a quick shower and dressed in his yellow pajama bottoms and the grey tee shirt that never failed to turn her insides to jell-o. She'd spent more time than she normally did on her turn in the bathroom, hoping he would be asleep when she came out. He was, so she was spared the embarrassment of him seeing (and commenting on) the flush of red cheeks as she made sure the A/C was set at a decent temperature. (No, 60 degrees was not going to make her feel any less 'warm' under the circumstances, she'd finally convinced herself.) When she couldn't hold off any longer, she crawled into bed -- her side of the bed. She drifted off to sleep wondering if there was a store nearby that sold bundling boards and if they would fit a king size bed.  

So here they were, sharing a room, no, sharing a BED, on a case, and not even the pretense of having two rooms to cover their tracks. She groaned as the images hit her -- some accounting clerk here in San Diego contacting the Bureau's accounting department, then that clerk alerting the OPR. Next thing would be Skinner, reaming them both new orifices and an OPR hearing where they would try and explain, but no one would believe them because somewhere along the line a hotel maid would testify that even though there were two beds in Scully's room, only one ever had to be made in the morning. And as a direct result of all this, if they weren't fired outright, she would be transferred to Minot, North Dakota while Mulder would inevitably be promoted to Bureau Chief. All that and they hadn't even had sex while in San Diego! 

She fumed about it all through her shower. Minot would be too easy, she'd probably find herself packed off to Nome, Alaska. If they didn't already have a Regional Office in Nome, she was certain they would start one -- just for her. And Mulder wouldn't just get to be a Bureau Chief, he would get an office, with a view of the Capitol Mall. He would call her, once, just to see if she got settled in, and then he would promptly forget she ever existed. By the time she'd worked her fingers to the bone to get the higher ups to forget her indiscretion, Mulder would be Assistant Director, taking Skinner's office, and have an administrative assistant named, yes, Bambi White!  

By this time, Scully was scrubbing her teeth so hard, her top gum started to bleed. She spit, rinsed and went out to give her partner what for. 

Only to find him coughing up a lung. Mulder was sitting on the bed, leaning over his knees, coughing and hacking painfully. Scully ran to his side and started thumping his back, something she hadn't done in at least a week. It helped break up some of the phlegm that accumulated in his lungs when he was first released from the hospital. 

"Mulder, are you all right?" she asked, more as a defense mechanism than because she didn't already know the answer.  

He glared at her as the coughing bout slowed to a few chuffs. "Just peachy," he rasped, swallowed and coughed once again. "Excuse me," he added and got up to enter the bathroom. 

"Stand in the shower with the water running hot for a while, it should help," she yelled through the closed door. He didn't reply, but she hadn't expected him to anyway.  

So much for being mad at him. Another scenario tripped through her mind as she pulled on her suit for the day. Mulder would continue getting weaker until finally a strain of antibiotic resistant pneumonia took hold in his lungs, incapacitating him for months, leaving him with asthma so severe that he would not be allowed out in the field, forcing him into early retirement. She would go through a string of partners, culminating with a former NYPD detective who would prove to be so utterly obnoxious she would be forced to resign from the FBI. She and Mulder would move to Arizona (the only place he could breathe) and there she would end up becoming the county coroner in a town so small the local funeral parlor would serve as the morgue. Mulder, in between hospital stays for breathing treatments, would write articles for the Fortean Times to pay the medical co-payments and deductibles. 

She startled when a hand landed on her shoulder. "Could you hand me my suit, please," he asked, standing in his tee shirt, boxers and socks. 

"Sure, which one?" she replied, burying her flights of fancy -- or more likely bad dreams, and looking into the closet to avoid looking too closely at her partner. 

"The charcoal one," he said. She plucked the appropriate hanger from the rod and handed it to him. 

"How are you feeling, Mulder? And please, I'm just concerned after the way you woke up." 

He turned halfway to the bathroom and smiled sadly at her. "Yeah, I knew you would be," he said in a whisper. "The shower helped a lot. Thanks for reminding me. I'd used the inhaler and must have done something wrong -- I started coughing and couldn't stop. Better now," he rasped out before he ran out of voice -- and air. 

She looked at him critically as he left to put on his dress shirt and tie and then pulled on his pants. He did look a little better than when she found him red-faced and choking. But 'better' was a relative term with Mulder especially in the last few weeks. When he reappeared, dressed to the nines, she bit her lip and chose her words carefully. 

"You know, maybe you could consider staying here a while this morning. We're still interviewing witnesses, you'd be stuck in that room -- " 

He turned and she saw a flash of heat in his eyes before he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. "Scully, I'm fine. I'll sit in the chair and I'll only breathe when I go into the hallway. I'm still not convinced this Dodds guy is the killer."  

God, if he didn't get better soon, she would be forced to just lock him in a cheap hotel for a long weekend and screw him senseless! That voice, every time he spoke to her, it sounded like he was inviting her to bed -- not to sleep, either. She swallowed, reminding herself of her earlier musings. Minot, North Dakota, Minot, North Dakota she repeated in a mental mantra.  

"Mulder, I really don't think there is another possible suspect. The man has a history of violence, he had opportunity -- it would be irresponsible of us to ignore him completely and continue to look for an UNSUB at this point." 

"I know. You look for Dodds -- while I look for the UNSUB," he offered, smiling at her with a pleased as punch expression before moving off to find his shoes. 

"OK, you continue to look, but in the office," she countered. Not a second after the words left her mouth did she realize what he'd done. She had wanted him to stay in the room. He had efficiently changed the subject of the conversation and then managed to get HER to tell HIM that he had to pursue his investigation AT the station. She groaned. He did it all the time, why did she expect him to act any differently now? 

"Scully, you ready? We can grab breakfast before Kresge gets here if you hurry." 

** 

The Streets of San Diego

8:10 am. 

This time, Kresge didn't go into the hotel, he waited patiently under the valet awning. At precisely 8:00, both agents came out of the double sliding glass doors. Agent Scully, Dana, looked absolutely beautiful in a dark blue pantsuit that seemed to set her hair on fire. Agent Mulder, Kresge noted with a hint of glee, looked a little under the weather. Maybe they could finally ditch the loser and get this investigation under way. 

Kresge had already put in a call to the station, finding out that there was finally a solid lead on the whereabouts of Darren Dodds. John had breathed a sigh of relief; at least the guy hadn't slipped over the border. Although the Mexican Police were usually cooperative when it came to murder investigations, the red tape involved in actually going over to Tijuana to interview anyone, much less apprehend him, was mind-boggling. If the guy was still in the US, and better yet, last seen in the San Diego area, all the better. 

He glanced into the rearview mirror to see Dana Scully, looking like an angel in the back seat of his car. It still irked him that her partner had grabbed the front seat, after opening the back door for her. John kicked himself mentally; he should have gotten out of the car to open the car door for her. Then she would be seated next to him, instead of behind him. The detective had also noted the smug look on Mulder's face as the agent settled in and buckled his seatbelt. Bastard knew what he was doing. John would have to wake up and start paying attention if he was going to sway Dana to his side. 

"So, do we have any places to start looking this morning, Detective Kresge?" Her melodious voice came to him from right behind his ear and he had to stifle a shudder.  

"Ah, yeah, actually. A data search came up with a girlfriend. She works at a store in Horton Plaza. I thought you and I could go over there and question her, see if she can come up with any other places he might go to ground." 

"Mulder, what are you planning to do this morning?" Dana asked, but for some reason, John thought it sounded more like a command than a request. Good, the old boy was in the doghouse already and it wasn't yet 8:30 in the morning. 

"Oh, you know. Drink coffee, eat donuts. Make myself at home," Mulder said in that smoky-husky-sounded-like-he-spent-his-off-time-in-a-bar voice. 

"Mulder, I don't need to remind you that you really need to stay at the office while you look into your theory." 

"Yes, mother," came the smart-assed response.  

Kresge's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Didn't this asshole know the meaning of the word 'respect'? 

That was all right, though. That was just fine. Let him disrespect her, let him belittle her concern for him, however misplaced it was. It was going to be very different when he, Detective First Class John Kresge, solved this little serial murder case, with Special Agent Dana Scully there in a ring side seat to watch it all go down. Oh, yeah, the old boy would have a very different look on his face when Kresge and Dana brought Dodds in for interrogation. It wouldn't be smug, that was for certain! It would be crestfallen. And the look on Dana Scully's face would be pure adoration. Oh, yeah! 

". . . store open, where the girlfriend works?" Kresge almost ran a light when he realized Dana had been speaking to him while he was fantasizing.  

"Um, ah, 10, I think. Yeah, 10 o'clock," he answered, forcing more confidence into his voice with each word. "Yeah, 10 am. The store is the Iron Butterfly, they sell, uh, women's clothing and stuff." 

"Your kind of place, Scully," Mulder rasped with a smirk. "Maybe you'll find the shoe department." 

"Keep it up, Mulder. You're gonna be wearing my shoes -- sticking out of your eardrum," Scully replied. 

Good for her, Kresge thought, but when he looked over at the man seated next to him, all he saw was the guy's shit-eating grin. What a moron! Kresge couldn't wait till it was time to go to the interview with Dana, leaving Fox Mulder all alone. 

** 

San Diego Police Station

1:27 p.m. 

The slamming of the door against the wall of his 'office' startled Mulder, and his sharp intake of breath set him to coughing once again. Kresge's shouted, "What the hell do you think you're doing?" barely registered as he fought to get air into his lungs. It had been so bad earlier that he'd taken a hit from the dreaded inhaler, but because of the less-than-ideal atmosphere in the room, the beneficial effects had started wearing off after about only forty-five minutes; he'd been trying desperately to refrain from taking another hit so soon. 

But as the day wore on he was feeling worse, not better as he'd hoped. If he took a shot every time he needed it, he'd have to request a refill, and then Scully was sure to know about it. He'd never get to work on his profile if she knew how truly awful he really felt. 

And now that damned Kresge caused him to lose control. There was no way Scully wouldn't find out now. 

As if his thinking it had been her cue, his partner appeared at the door, pushing her way past Kresge. "Dammit, Mulder. Where's your inhaler?" 

His vision graying from lack of air, Mulder no longer cared that he had an audience. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and grasped the canister, presenting it to his partner. He heard her say something to the detective, and figured she'd asked him to leave when he heard the door slam once again. 

When he felt her thumping on his back, he grabbed his handkerchief from his other pocket, holding it over his mouth. He didn't know how much longer it was before he felt something loosen and he coughed it out. As disgusting as this always was, at least he could breathe now. 

His senses returning to normal, it was still several minutes before he no longer felt the panic not being able to breathe always instilled in him. Scully handed him the inhaler, and he gratefully held it to his mouth, depressing the plunger. A few seconds later, his airways opened, and he took in a much-needed drought of air. 

"Okay now?" Scully asked, a lot more gently than he'd anticipated. 

He nodded. "Kresge just caught me off-guard." What the detective had said to him finally penetrated. "What was he yelling about?" 

Scully huffed out a sigh. "You had Wendy contact the victims' friends and family again?" 

"Yeah. They were questioned before we knew about the connection to the club. We need to talk to them to see what they had in common with our UNSUB." 

Scully pressed her lips together in what Mulder knew was a precursor to unpleasant news. "Mulder, as far as Kresge is concerned, Dodds is our UNSUB. He's what the victims had in common." 

"And you? What do you think?" She'd spent the entire day with a not-bad-looking detective who was obviously smitten with her. Mulder was afraid he knew what she thought. 

"I'm not as convinced as Detective Kresge thinks I am," she said, surprising him. "But Dodds is a killer, and I can't discount the fact that he may have had something to do with these murders." 

Mulder nodded slowly. "So you're going to continue working with Kresge to find this guy?" The very thought turned his stomach, and he couldn't look at her any longer. 

Out the corner of his eyes, he saw her shake her head. "I'm going to help you with the interviews." 

He looked up at her unexpected response, but didn't get to express his pleasure as the door opened, and Kresge's head poked through before the rest of him followed. The detective eyed Mulder warily before apparently deciding that it was safe to resume the rant he'd begun earlier. "Agent Mulder, I understand you've scheduled several interviews with people we've already talked to." 

"Yes, I did," Mulder confirmed. 

"We already have a suspect. Why the hell do you have to bother these people again?" 

Mulder opened his mouth to reply, but Scully placed a hand on his chest to stop him. "I know you believe Dodds is our killer -- and I'm not discounting that he very well may be," she added quickly when it looked like the detective was about to interject his rebuttal. "But Agent Mulder is a trained profiler with the F.B.I., and if he believes someone else is responsible for these murders, then it's our duty as law officers to investigate that possibility." 

Kresge scowled, and Mulder was very tempted to smack the sour look off the detective's face. "I still think it's a waste of time." 

"I think you'll find it's not." Scully's quietly-delivered pronouncement filled Mulder with a warmth he hadn't felt in a long time.  

He allowed that warmth to show in the gaze he directed her way and the smile he couldn't have stopped even if he'd wanted to. 

"Yeah, well, that remains to be seen." Although in response to Scully's statement, Kresge's growl was directed at Mulder. 

Mulder had just about had it with Kresge's attitude toward him. "Look, Detective," he rasped out, "why did you ask us on this case if you had no intention of listening to us?" 

When Kresge laughed, Mulder looked at Scully with a 'what gives?' question in his eyes. Had Mulder driven the man over the edge? Scully's answering look told him that she had no clue as to the detective's strange behavior, either.  

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Agent Mulder, but I didn't ask for you." 

Mulder became very still; he knew where this was going. 

"Well, who the hell did then?" Scully said hotly. 

"I requested *you,* Agent Scully," Kresge said with a sideways glance at Mulder.  

"The San Diego Police Department requested the X-Files *team.* Agent Mulder and I are the X-Files team." 

Kresge coughed nervously. "I, uh, didn't realize that. I only requested your assistance." 

"Well, you got both of us, and you're damned lucky that Mulder's here. You won't find a better profiler in the F.B.I." 

Kresge looked Mulder with an appraising eye. "I didn't realize that," he said, mockery evident in his voice. 

Scully's gaze shot over to Kresge. "Look, John, if you feel you've got this case in hand, we'll be happy to leave on the next available flight. You've identified your killer, you're satisfied with that… fine. We won't waste your time any longer." 

Mulder would have protested this plan of action if he'd thought it was necessary. As it was, he just settled back to watch. 

"Now wait a minute, Dana. I never said I didn't need your help -- " 

"You sure as hell did," Scully cut him off. In his mind, Mulder applauded the look of fear she'd brought to his adversary's face. 

"Okay. Wait a minute. I may have been a little hasty. I didn't mean to imply that Agent Mulder's contributions weren't welcome…" 

Scully gave him the eyebrow at that statement. 

"Well, I guess I did," he back-pedaled, "but…" Mulder was so enjoying the detective's introduction to the firebrand that was his partner. Kresge gazed balefully at Scully, then forced himself to look at Mulder. "Agent Mulder, please continue with your line of investigation. Even though your interviews will only confirm Dodds as our killer, further evidence could only help our case." 

What. A. Jerk. "Well, gee. Thanks for allowing me to further your case, Detective. You'll forgive me if I don't buy that particular crock of shit." His eyes met Kresge's squarely. "We both know the real reason for the about-face." 

Kresge looked like he wanted to throttle Mulder to within an inch of his life, and Mulder reveled in it. Yeah, that's right, Kresge, he thought. She chose her crazy, voiceless partner over some over-eager boy scout. 

When Mulder removed his gaze from the red-faced detective and looked at Scully, he had to fight the urge to hug her when he saw the confusion in her eyes. She really had no idea that Kresge had swallowed his words just to keep her in his clutches. "Mulder?" 

Mulder shook his head; no way was he about to clue her in on the detective's amorous intentions. "It's nothing, Scully." 

Although he could tell she was less than thrilled by his brush-off, she didn't pursue the matter, instead addressing herself to Kresge. "I'm going to further your case as well, John, since I'll be working with Agent Mulder on the interviews." 

Kresge shot a death glare at Mulder before the detective schooled his face into an expression more befitting the pleading Mulder knew he was about to engage in with Scully. "We still have those leads to follow up on, Dana. Don't you think -- " 

"We had the girlfriend, and that went nowhere," Scully cut him off. "Besides, you don't really need me right now, and Mulder does. He can't very well conduct an interview with no voice." 

The black look was once again focused on Mulder, and the agent tried, admittedly not very hard, to keep the victory he was feeling from showing on his face. 

Finally, Kresge sighed. "I guess," he said without conviction. "If I get another lead, will you go with me, or should I go alone?" 

Oh, please. If Kresge thought he could sway her with the 'poor me' routine, he was barking up the wrong tree -- which was confirmed a second later when Scully gave the detective her fake smile. "Why don't we wait and see what develops? If it looks like you'll need my help, and I can get away, I'll go with you." 

Kresge didn't answer, looking undecided. 

Take it, buddy, Mulder thought. Because that's as good as you're going to get. 

"Yeah. Sure. That sounds okay. I'll keep you updated on the search." 

"Fine," Scully said. "That'd be great." 

Mulder badly wanted to add, "Good doggie," to the end of her sentence. He swore Kresge's tail was wagging again. 

"Thanks, John," Scully said, and Mulder caught the dismissal in her voice. 

Proving he wasn't as dense as Mulder thought he was, Kresge nodded and exited the room. 

Now that they were alone, Mulder felt a little ashamed by the pissing contest in which he'd just participated. He sneaked a peek at his partner, and found her watching him. "Thanks," he said softly. "And, um… sorry." 

Her smile for him was the genuine article. "Don't worry about it, partner. There's nothing like a little testosterone-fueled scuffle to make a girl feel wanted." 

Mulder's eyes narrowed. Huh. Maybe she wasn't as oblivious to Kresge's advances as he thought. 

*** 

San Diego Police Station

1:38 p.m. 

Detective First Class John Kresge was fuming. How could a day that had started out so promising take such a nosedive into the crapper? 

After they'd gotten rid of Dana's crude partner, John had treated her to tales of some of his more colorful cases, most of which she seemed to heartily enjoy. Only when they were approaching the plaza did she suggest that they concentrate on their interrogation strategy. 

Since he always enjoyed playing the 'bad cop' and because he couldn't possibly imagine Dana ever playing that role, he allowed her to take the lead in questioning their suspect's girlfriend. Dana was damned good at it, he had to admit, which only made him wonder why she continued to work with such a no-talent loser like that Mulder character. 

Unfortunately, no matter how much she excelled at her job, she couldn't obtain information that wasn't there. Roberta Dellarusso had only gone out with Dodds twice, and had never spent any time at his place, nor he at hers. After their first date -- drinks and shooting pool at a local pub --she'd accepted his invitation to dinner in the hopes that the evening would turn out a little differently, and that she would feel a little less uncomfortable in his presence. 

It didn't, and though they'd left any notions of a third date up in the air, she'd come to the decision that she really didn't want to spend any more time with him. However, that had been over a week ago, and he hadn't contacted her, something for which she was grateful. He and Dana hadn't even had to press the matter of what about him made her uncomfortable -- she was more than willing to tell them on her own. 

"I felt like he was watching me -- all the time," she'd told them. "Not just watching. More like studying. Yeah, that's it. It was like he was studying me." She looked up at Dana, fear on her face. "What are you looking for him for? Does he… do things to women?" 

Dana and he had exchanged a glance at that point, and Dana had very tactfully advised the young women that it would be in her best interests to contact them if Dodds should get in touch with her -- and that under no circumstances should she agree to meet with him. Dellarusso had gotten the point. 

They had been able to warn her about Dodds, but the interview had gotten them nowhere. Dana seemed to take it in stride, while John had been utterly frustrated that their best lead so far hadn't brought them one iota closer to their suspect's whereabouts.  

So with his best lead so far shot to hell, he'd gone from hero to bum in the space of a few short hours. As if he wasn't feeling low enough, Dana had to add insult to injury by wasting her time helping her useless partner with his cockamamie ideas. 

God, what a smug bastard! John had been sorely tempted to belt the guy more than once during their brief confrontation. Where did he get off trying to tell John how to catch bad guys? John had been at this job for over 15 years. Mr. 'One Case at a Time' couldn't have anywhere near that much experience. 

The only reason Dana was working with Mulder on the interviews, John knew, was because the guy had no voice. How convenient. How very fucking convenient. Well, no matter. Dana would soon find out how much she was wasting her time on that venue. 

Very soon, John would find another lead -- one that would pan out this time -- and she'd forget she ever had a partner. 

** 

The Palace

4:55 p.m. 

Poor Mulder, she thought as she watched him getting out of the car. She didn't like the pallor to his skin or the dark circles under his eyes. She really didn't like the way he held himself, hunched over as if every cough ripped at his chest. He should be in bed. Hell, he should be in a hospital, she corrected herself and immediately kicked herself mentally. If there was one thing she'd learned in seven long years, Fox Mulder hated to be seen as weak -- even to himself but especially to her. 

He pushed and pushed until he collapsed. Then he would struggle against his body's attempts to heal until his mind and body came to a Mexican standoff, usually resulting in his coming back to work too early. The current situation was a perfect example. He should have stayed back in DC; for that matter, he should have still been at home, in bed. But instead, he was here in San Diego, having more frequent asthma attacks, opening himself up for a secondary infection in his lungs. Didn't he know that he was putting himself at risk for permanent respiratory problems? That he could lose his field status just as easily from a chronic cough as from his imaginary peg leg? There were times when she just wanted to throttle him! 

Kresge certainly wasn't helping matters. If they'd been working the case alone, she could have kept a better eye on Mulder, made him rest when he looked about to keel over. But Kresge seemed to resent Mulder's presence, which just made Mulder want to be around the guy more. She felt like a chew toy between two terriers. Mulder was being territorial and Kresge was being a schmuck! All those Sylvia Plath novels she was forced to read in high school were beginning to make a lot more sense. 

"Who's next on the list?" Mulder rasped out. His voice was worse than it had been when they arrived. It now sounded more like gravel and broken china tossed in a blender. 

"Um, Douglas Kocin AKA 'the Great Kocini'. He's a part-time performer. The only address we have on him is the Palace," she said. 

They walked into the building and back behind the stage. There were a couple of dressing rooms, one with a rather wilted star thumb-tacked to the wood reading 'Enter at your own Risk'. Scully chanced a quick glance over at Mulder and shrugged. He smiled and winked at her as he knocked loudly on the door. "Mr. Kocin, FBI. We called earlier," Scully called out. 

The door opened suddenly and a man of medium height and slight build looked at them with a grim expression. "May I see some identification?" he requested formally. 

Mulder pulled out his ID wallet and Scully pulled out hers, both agents holding them up so that the man could view them. After reading even the fine print, Kocin stepped aside, allowing them to enter the room. 

There was a large make up mirror on the wall with lights around it, but aside from that fact, the room looked more like a storage closet -- or the janitor's closet. Brooms and mops along with mop buckets were tucked next to the door and rolls of bathroom tissue sat on shelves along the wall. The furniture consisted of wooden warehouse crates. Kocin directed the two agents to sit and Scully wondered idly if she'd end up with splinters in her dress slacks. 

Mulder whipped out his notebook and pen before giving Scully a nod. She rolled her eyes, but smiled at the man standing impatiently before them. "We just have a few questions to ask, Mr. Kocin." 

"Is this about those murders? The 'flower murders', I think the newspaper called them?" Kocin asked, turning from them to sit at the make up mirror. "I hope you don't mind, I have a show in two hours and I really need to get ready." 

"No, that's quite all right. We'll just stay out of your way here. Yes, it's about the recent deaths. Were you acquainted with any of the victims?" Scully continued, not at all ruffled by his attempt to brush them off. She handed him photos of the victims -- snapshots, not crime scene. 

"Acquainted might be too strong a word. I remember seeing them, at least the last one. George was the nighttime janitor here. Used to come in and rifle through my pockets for spare change," he said dourly, handing the photos back. "Sorry, I didn't know much about him -- or any of them for that matter." 

"How about this one?" Mulder rasped out, showing him a recent photo -- a mug shot from LA, of Darren Edward Dodds. 

"Eddie? He's a bartender here. Is he dead too?" 

"No, sir. We're just trying to locate Mr. Dodds to ask him a few questions." 

"You know," Kocin said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Eddie has always been a mean sonavabitch. You might ask him if he knew all those people." 

Mulder smiled his patent 'no comment' smile at Kocin and closed his notebook. "Thank you, Mr. Kocin. That's all the questions we have." The magician escorted them out of his room and into the backstage area. 

Mulder watched as Kocin closed his door. A loud snick was heard, indicating that the same door had been locked. "Real Emily Post," he whispered hoarsely. 

"He was just anxious to get ready for his performance, Mulder," Scully said with a sigh. "Well, there are two more performers to question -- a juggler and a belly dancer." 

Mulder's eyes lit up. "Let's divide the list, go faster," he suggested in his best gravel and sawdust murmur.  

"Oh, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Scully shot back, holding the notebook with the two names out of his reach. "No, I think we better stick together o