Shred of Doubt (1/9)
Jo-Ann Lassiter and
Vickie Moseley

FBI Headquarters 
Washington, DC 
April 30, 2000 
8:05 am 

"Good to be back?" Scully leaned against the 
doorjamb, looking and sounding even more 
delectable to Mulder's tired eyes than she had when 
she'd called to tell him goodnight the night before -- 
and checked to make sure he'd taken all his meds. 

"Beats the alternative," he rasped. He hated how his 
voice sounded to his ears and could tell Scully 
didn't much care for it either; by the grimaces she 
kept throwing his way. He sat back in the computer 
chair and tried to convey how much better he felt 
with just a look. It must have worked because she 
smiled at him. 

"Well, you'll be interested to know that Morley 
Tobacco has subpoenaed all of our files on the case. 
They seem extremely interested in your recovery." 

"What about Darryl Weaver?" Mulder croaked out. 

"He's well enough to be moved to the hospital ward 
at Raleigh Correctional." 

"It was the nicotine itself that was keeping him 
alive?" His voice wasn't going to keep up its end of 
the conversation for very long. He really hated it 
when he had to resort to passing her notes to get his 
thoughts across. 

"Well, his fingertips were stained yellow with it. He 
was a four-pack-a-day smoker -- far heavier than 
any of the focus group members who died. You 
know, nicotine is extremely poisonous. It's one of 
the oldest known insecticides." 

"Good for killing tobacco beetles," he grinned. 

"Well, once we loaded your system up with enough 
of it, it acted as a sort of chemotherapy -- except it 
almost stopped your breathing at the same time." 
Her eyes still had that haunted edge to them when 
she spoke of his time in the hospital. 

He sat there for a moment. He'd been told that 
confession was good for the soul -- but whose soul? 
Still, looking into her concerned face, he couldn't 
hide his dirty little secret any longer. "That's not all 
it did." 

He felt her eyes on his back as he walked over to his 
desk and pulled open the top drawer. Reaching in, 
he pulled out his 'prize' -- the little time bomb he'd 
purchased just an hour before. He held the 
cigarettes up for her to see clearly. "I bought these 
on the way to work." 

Her reaction was immediate. "You're not going to 
start smoking." 

He almost corrected her -- take up smoking again -- 
but thought better of bringing up a part of his life 
best dead and buried. "They say the addiction is 
stronger than that of heroin." He sniffed the pack to 
make his point. 

"Mulder -- " He could see the anguish in her eyes. 
He could almost see the little devil on his left 
shoulder preparing to do battle with the little angel 
on his right. No contest. The little angel had red hair 
and carried a Bureau issued Smith and Wesson. He 
unceremoniously dropped the pack into the trashcan 
at his feet. 

Scully nodded, hiding well her triumphant smirk. 
"Good. Well, Skinner's waiting for us up in his 
office." 

"I'll be right up," he assured her. As he heard her 
heels tap their way to the elevator, he leaned over 
and stared at the red and white Pandora's box at the 
bottom of the trash. Giving his head a shake, he 
reached behind him to gather his jacket from the 
back of his desk chair and walked slowly to the 
elevator and his salvation. 

Alone in the elevator car, he thought back on all 
that had transpired in the last three weeks. When 
he'd left DC for England that Friday just three 
weeks before, he was certain they were headed for 
the 'big goodbye'. Scully had finally had enough of 
his bullshit; he was sure that she would use the three 
days to write up her transfer papers. He'd heard 
there was an opening in Forensics and the higher 
ups had all but begged her to apply. Yes, finally, 
Dana Scully had come to her senses and was going 
to leave him in the dust. 

So when he did find her at the hospital after his crop 
circles had turned to so much scattered wild oats, he 
was shocked at the change in her disposition. She 
came to his apartment, told him of her journey 
during his absence. At any moment he was 
expecting her to tell him how much she'd enjoyed 
working with him, how she wanted them to remain 
friends. How he could always call on her if he ever 
needed her. But that moment never came, those 
words never passed her lips. He was confused when 
he awoke in the middle of the night to find her at 
the foot of his bed. He was certain she was going to 
tell him good night, that she was leaving to go back 
to her apartment. When she pulled off her shirt and 
pants and climbed in beside him, he'd still been 
confused, but ecstatic. 

That night was still more a dream than anything else 
to him. He pictured it in flashes. Her nails on his 
chest. His fingers caressing her thigh. Her hands 
gripping his shoulders. His mouth connecting with 
hers. 

He got breathless just thinking about it. 

Had it been a dream? One case, a prolonged 
hospital stay and two weeks home confinement later 
he could almost convince himself it had been one of 
his late night fantasies brought on by watching too 
many of 'those' videos. But no, he still had concrete 
proof. When he awoke that precious morning only 
to find her gone, he'd jumped out of bed in a blind 
panic. On hitting the floor his foot had landed 
square on one of her tiny stud earrings -- sticking 
straight up in the nap of the carpet. Extracting the 
needle like object from the ball of his foot, he poked 
it through the lampshade next to his bed. It was 
there still, an unnoticed souvenir when she brought 
him home from Asheville to recuperate. He sure 
wasn't going to give it back any time soon. It was 
the only proof he had that they'd had one night 
together. 

He shook his head as the elevator doors opened and 
he found the car had stopped on Skinner's floor. He 
knew they were waiting so he put on a little speed. 
Halfway to Skinner's office, which was only a few 
yards down the hall, he found himself seeing spots 
and gasping for breath. A young agent looked at 
him with alarm and reached out a hand to him, but 
he batted it away, choosing to lean against the wall 
for a moment. Damn it! When was he going to feel 
right again? He patted down his pockets until he 
came up with one of the hated inhalers Scully had 
foisted on him. He took a quick puff and closed his 
eyes, waiting for the medicine to take effect. By the 
time he was pushing off the wall to start on his way 
again, a warm hand was on his arm. He looked 
down into his partner's eyes. 

"I was starting to get worried. Guess I was right," 
she said in a low whisper. 

He closed his eyes again -- god, how he didn't want 
to see that look on her face -- the terrified, worried-
she-was-going-to-lose-him look. Finally, he knew 
he had to face her so he blinked his eyes open. "I'm 
OK, Scully. Just tried to go too fast." 

"You have more than two speeds, Mulder. Try 
going a little slower than either 'too fast' and 'dead 
run'." Her scolding was softened by the wink she 
added. 

"Skinner ready to eat us for lunch?" he asked, trying 
to deflect her concerned look. 

"Nah, he's been on a call since I got here. I've been 
talking to Kim the whole time. I just noticed you 
hadn't arrived yet and thought I'd go hunt you 
down." 

"I wasn't that late," he groused, heading to Skinner's 
outer office door. Now that he wasn't puffing for 
air, he was alternately embarrassed and grumpy. 
He'd been good the whole two weeks he'd been a 
prisoner in his apartment; not once had he gone out 
for a run or a pick up basketball game or anything. 
He gave his body plenty of time to recover -- why 
was it betraying him this way? 

Just as they reached the door, Skinner stuck his 
head out and motioned them to follow him. They 
took their customary seats in front of his desk and 
waited for him to sit down. 

"Sorry to make you wait, Agents," he said 
regretfully. "That was the Director and it concerned 
the case I have for you." 

Immediately, Scully leaned forward in her chair. 
"Sir, Agent Mulder has not been cleared for work in 
the field yet," she said pointedly. 

Mulder cringed and had to hold his back ramrod 
straight to keep from slouching in his chair. He'd 
been in similar positions before in his life -- when 
he just wanted to disappear. He shouldn't have 
worried; neither Skinner nor Scully seemed to know 
he was even in the room. 

Skinner frowned and looked down at his desk for a 
second before meeting her gaze. "Technically, 
Agent Mulder is only in a consulting capacity on 
this case, Agent Scully. It's you they want." He 
picked up a folder and handed it over to Scully 
before leaning back in his chair. "Three murders, all 
occurring in locked rooms, no possible point of 
entry." 

"Suicides?" Scully offered before opening the file 
and glancing through the pages. 

"I don't think anyone could commit suicide in this 
manner," Skinner said, his face clearly showing his 
skepticism. 

Scully found the crime scene photos and winced, 
causing Mulder to lean over to look at the pictures. 

"Gives the word 'overkill' a new meaning," he 
quipped before taking the file from his partner's 
hand. 

"The victims were garroted to the point their heads 
were barely attached to the bodies. Rose petals were 
stuffed in their mouths -- one victim had almost 40 
petals crammed down his throat -- what was left of 
his throat." 

"Roses?" Scully asked. "In each case?" 

"A specific type of rose, actually," Mulder provided 
as he skimmed the report. "Silk roses, blood red 
with drops of glue to simulate dew drops. You 
know, Scully. The ones really cheap boyfriends 
give their girls on Valentines Day." His mind was 
working, taking in each facet of the crime scene 
pictures. No entry -- but he doubted it was anything 
like Eugene Victor Tooms. He longed to see one of 
the crime scenes up close -- 

Skinner's voice startled him out of his musings. 
"You're to meet with the San Diego Police 
Department and provide them with all necessary 
expertise." 

"Expertise?" Scully repeated. Mulder knew why she 
was asking that. It didn't take a superior pathologist 
to see the cause of death for each victim. 

"Because of the unusual nature of the crime -- the 
locked room, the fact that each victim died a 
horrendous death during hours when other people 
were nearby and could have heard any struggle -- 
the San Diego Police Department requested the X 
Files Division by name." 

Mulder cast Scully a concerned look. "By name, 
sir? Who asked for us, if I may?" 

"A Detective Kresge, Agent Mulder. Seems he's 
heard of your work. Do either of you recognize the 
name?" 

Scully licked her lip and exchanged another glance 
with Mulder. "Uh, yes sir. I met Det. Kresge when I 
was in San Diego a few years ago at Christmas, 
visiting my family." Mulder tried not to reveal too 
much in his expression. It was hard -- wanting 
nothing more than to comfort his partner, but at the 
same time, not wanting to give away too much in 
front of their boss. 

"He spoke quite highly of you, Agent Scully," 
Skinner said with a raised eyebrow. "I'm not 
familiar with any case you might have worked 
while on vacation." 

Scully chewed her lip and was about to speak when 
Mulder jumped into the conversation. "It wasn't 
really a case, sir. More of an entanglement of 
outside alliances, if you understand my meaning." 
He shot a look over to the couch along the far wall 
of the office. 

Skinner nodded in acknowledgement of the man 
who frequently graced that piece of furniture. 

"Sir, I still think Agent Mulder would be better off 
if he stayed here," Scully said, not looking over to 
her partner. 

He'd had enough. It was time to step into battle. 
"Scully, what's the big deal? I can't go out to the 
field, but I can stay in some office helping to 
compile the data. Do they have a profiler on this 
case, sir?" 

At that Scully turned in her seat to stare at her 
partner. "You're volunteering to profile? Are you 
nuts?" 

Why did she always assume that every profile was 
going to make him spontaneously self-destruct? 
Now that he'd seen the file, he was itching to get 
back to work -- real work. Not just writing up old 
expense reports. Why couldn't she see that he 
needed this? "It's an interesting case. And the San 
Diego PD is a big enough force that I doubt I'll be 
chasing down any perps while we're out there. The 
doctors in Asheville cleared me to travel -- " 

"To travel to Washington from Asheville, not all the 
way across the country," Scully shot back. "Mulder, 
I just don't think this is a good idea." 

"Well, I think this is just the kind of case we're good 
at. And I'm cleared for deskwork, Scully -- you 
know that. Unless you have some other reason you 
don't want me out there." He was tossing the 
gauntlet at her feet. 

She shook her head slowly and he knew he'd won. 
"OK, I guess we both go. But Mulder, if you don't 
obey every single one of your doctor's orders, so 
help me -- " 

"I can make that grounds for insubordination, if it 
would help," Skinner suggested and both agents 
cast their eyes in his direction, realizing they'd been 
having their argument with him in the room. 

"That won't be necessary, sir. I'll be good," Mulder 
assured him. 

Skinner gave Scully a few seconds to come up with 
a good counter argument, but she'd obviously run 
out of ideas. "Well, I suggest you make travel 
arrangements with Kim on your way out. Kresge 
requested your assistance as soon as possible." 

Scully's Apartment
11:46 a.m.

Scully sighed as she fastened the latches on her 
suitcase. Half an hour before she had to leave for 
the airport and San Diego. Case notwithstanding, 
San Diego meant family: Tara, Matthew . . .

Bill.

Tempted though she was to steer clear of any 
contact at all with him, she couldn't in good 
conscience pass through town without letting them 
know she was there. Besides, her mom was at Bill's 
for a couple of months, catching up on missed time 
with her grandson. Maggie would be very upset if 
she found out that Scully had been to San Diego, 
and hadn't had the courtesy to even call.

Of course, if she did call, a visit was unavoidable. 
She should be looking forward to seeing her brother 
and his family again, yet she wasn't. Though it'd be 
wonderful to see Tara and Matthew, seeing her 
oldest sibling was always such a strain.

Bill was no fan of Mulder's, and never passed up an 
opportunity to let her know it. Wouldn't he be Mr. 
Congeniality when she showed up at his home with 
her partner in tow?

Mulder didn't look to be any picnic, either. He still 
wasn't a hundred percent -- hell, he wasn't even fifty 
percent -- but he was too damned stubborn to admit 
it, to her or to himself. Skinner may have bought 
that 'I'll be good' line, but Scully knew her partner.

Oh, he'd try, just not hard enough. Something would 
crop up that only he and he alone could handle -- or 
so he'd believe. It was her job to make him see 
otherwise. Trouble was, she'd be in the field while 
he . . . wouldn't. It was hard enough to convince 
Mulder of anything he disagreed with in person; 
long distance, it would be near impossible.

Then there was Detective Kresge. Asking for them 
by name. For her.

She knew he'd been somewhat enamored of her 
during that Christmas two years ago. Hopefully, 
he'd moved on, and his interest in her was purely 
professional. The last thing she needed was some 
guy showing an interest in her at this stage of her 
relationship with her partner. Although, given that 
the detective ended up in the ICU because of her 
involvement in the case, that was probably the 
furthest thing from his mind. She sincerely hoped 
that it was.

She and Mulder were still testing the waters, so to 
speak, and while she was certain of her feelings 
toward him, he wasn't. Not that she'd had a chance 
to do any convincing. Since that one night together, 
it seemed like it had been one calamity after 
another, as if the fates themselves were conspiring 
to keep them apart. She seriously wondered if her 
brother had an 'in' with The Powers That Be.

At least Mulder wasn't making their room 
reservations this time; the San Diego PD was 
picking up the tab for that. She hoped that they 
would put them up in a better class of motel than 
the gems Mulder usually found. Which shouldn't be 
too hard. With any luck, she could score adjoining 
rooms for them. She wanted Mulder right under her 
watchful eye, especially since he'd be profiling.

God, she hoped they'd catch a break this time, for 
Mulder's health and her sanity.

She really should have known better.

**

Dulles International Airport Terminal
1:26 p.m.

Mulder sat slumped in his seat, waiting for their 
flight to begin boarding. Next to him, Scully 
pretended to be absorbed in her paperback. Mulder 
had caught more than one worried glance directed 
his way in the ten minutes they'd been seated at 
their gate, and the last time it had happened, he'd 
scowled at her. Her eyes had been glued to her book 
ever since.

While he realized she was only concerned for his 
welfare, it felt too much like he was being babysat, 
and he hadn't been happy with that scenario. He still 
wasn't, but after the scare he'd put her through -- put 
them both through if he was being honest with 
himself -- she had every right to be a little over-
protective. If he never saw another beetle for the 
rest of his life, it would be too many.

"Hey," he said, nudging her knee with his. When 
she looked over at him, he was startled at the hurt in 
her eyes. He swallowed the excuse he had made up, 
the joke he was going to follow it with, and said 
simply, "Sorry." Why, oh why, was he such an ass 
toward her? Why she even cared about a jerk like 
him was beyond his comprehension.

He'd been thinking about Kresge, about Kresge and 
Scully, in particular, and their relationship and 
whether he should be worried. If he carried on with 
this attitude, he wouldn't have to wonder. He'd be 
handing her over on a silver platter.

Suddenly aware that she'd made no response, 
Mulder focused his attention upon her. She was 
studying him, and when he finally met her gaze, she 
gave him a slight smile, just enough of one to show 
he was, if not forgiven, at least understood. A 
corner of his mouth quirked his thanks, and he made 
sure his eyes conveyed just how much he regretted 
his behavior.

She kept his gaze for another second before she 
turned back to her book, and Mulder was upset to 
see that the hurt still lingered in her eyes. He looked 
away, at a loss as to how to fix this. It had been so 
long since he'd been in a relationship -- if that was 
in fact what he and Scully were in -- and he couldn't 
recall ever causing so much damage with just a 
look.

He couldn't say he'd never hurt her before, because 
he knew damned well that he had. Many times. Yet 
it had never bothered him the way it did now. Was 
it because he hadn't cared before? he wondered, and 
then told himself that no, that wasn't it. He'd cared 
for Scully since the beginning of their partnership, 
and loved her almost as long.

When the reason hit him, he didn't know whether to 
jump for joy or crawl into a hole. It had never 
bothered him because he hadn't known. He hadn't 
known because she hadn't wanted him to know. 
What did it mean that she allowed him to see those 
feelings now?

Was she letting him in, or had she finally given up 
on him? Mulder couldn't get the idea of Scully and 
Kresge out of his mind. Had she decided to stop 
hiding her feelings so that when the time came to 
cut him loose he would know that he was the cause, 
not her?

He knew he had probably gone off in entirely the 
wrong direction, but he was always sort of a worst-
case-scenario kind of guy when it came to his love 
life. What if she really was looking forward to 
seeing the detective again? What if she planned to 
see him socially?

That one night that he and Scully had spent together 
meant the world to him, but he couldn't say what it 
meant to Scully. At the time, he thought he knew, 
but it had happened so long ago, and they'd never 
mentioned it again. He thought she loved him, but 
was that enough? If he wasn't able to give her what 
she wanted, what she needed, would she look 
elsewhere? Would he, if the situation were 
reversed?

He already knew the answer to that before he asked 
it. She hadn't, and he didn't. For him, Scully was the 
only one, no matter how unrequited his love had 
been. He honestly didn't know if he could say the 
same for her.

Yet her love wasn't unrequited. She knew he loved 
her. Even if he didn't show it at times, he knew she 
knew. He looked over at her. Just as he knew that 
she loved him. God, he was such a twit. Of course, 
she loved him.

He reached over and covered her hand with his, 
startling her. When she looked at him, surprise and 
confusion in her expression, he gave her a small, 
sad smile. "I really am sorry, Scully," he said 
quietly. "I'm such an asshole sometimes."

She didn't laugh, though he'd hoped she would. 
"Yes, you are," she said.

He pulled her hand off her book so he could grasp it 
in his. "I love you," he said in his raspy voice. "All 
the time. No matter what. Even when I'm being an 
asshole to you. Even when you hate me." His throat 
was killing him after all that, but it was worth it to 
tell her how he felt. How much he loved her.

"It's not hate, Mulder. It's anger. For the way you 
treat me sometimes, the way you react to genuine 
concern for your well-being. I don't like it, and I 
don't deserve it."

Mulder was a little shocked. He'd been trying for 'I 
love you, too,' and he got 'why I don't like you.' "I . . 
." What could he say? She was right. He didn't 
always consider her feelings before he spoke 
against or reacted to something he didn't like. More 
often than not, he thought of no one but himself.

Yet he'd changed a little. Mellowed a lot. And he 
felt ashamed. For the first time in a long time, his 
self-righteousness failed to justify his behavior to 
himself. He was in the wrong, and he knew it.

"No, you don't," he said softly, releasing her hand. 
He had no right to be holding it, no right to expect 
she'd want him even touching her.

When her hand covered his where he'd laid it in his 
lap, he looked up in surprise. "I love you, too, 
Mulder."

He smiled weakly. He heard the unspoken, 'I just 
don't like you right now.' Still, she didn't have to tell 
him, and he appreciated hearing it. Every time he 
screwed up, the fear that she no longer loved him, 
that she was thinking of leaving him, reared its ugly 
head. He was totally bereft of confidence when it 
came to how Scully felt about him. No matter how 
many times she told him she loved him, he felt like 
it would never be enough.

He wondered if they would ever reach a point in 
their relationship where he wouldn't question her 
feelings toward him. God, he hoped so. This 
uncertainty was going to kill him.

"Mulder?"

He blinked. Had he been staring off into space? 
"Yeah?"

About to ask him something -- whether he was all 
right, he'd bet -- she changed her mind and shook 
her head. "Nothing."

He turned his hand over so he could interlace his 
fingers with hers. "I *am* sorry, Scully," he said as 
sincerely as he could in his scratchy voice. He 
winked at her. "And I'm fine. Just . . . reflective."

Her smile was one of amusement. "I was going to 
tell you that they were about to call our row to 
board, but then they announced a delay, so I 
changed my mind." She gave him a wink of her 
own. "But I'm glad you're fine. And reflective."

He felt his face growing warm, but he didn't mind. 
She was smiling at him. Joking with him. Forgiving 
him.

For the moment, all was right with his world.

** 

United Airlines Flight 209 
30,000 feet 
5:43 EDS Time 

"Excuse me. Ma'am?" 

It took Scully a moment to re-orient herself as she 
was jolted out of the streets of Istanbul and back 
into the belly of a 757. She looked over to find the 
meal cart in the aisle beside her, and a flight 
attendant smiling down at her. "Oh! Yes?" 

"Chicken or lasagna?" the woman asked. 

Scully thought for a second, then chose what she 
always chose. "Chicken, please." Closing her book 
and laying it to the side of her open tray table, 
Scully accepted the meal from the airline employee. 
"Thank you," she said, meeting the woman's eyes 
with a smile. 

Nodding her response, the woman's gaze moved 
past her to focus on Mulder, his head leaning 
against her shoulder, his hand on her thigh, and fast 
asleep. "Would your . . ." 

"Partner," Scully supplied automatically. 

"Would your partner like a meal?" she asked. 

Scully turned her attention to the man snoring softly 
beside her. He should eat, but she didn't have the 
heart to wake him. She supposed he could always 
eat it later, though. "Could he have lasagna, 
please?" she requested, thinking it'd be easier on his 
throat. Moving him off her shoulder carefully, she 
leaned across him to the empty seat by the window, 
and released the tray table. When she turned back, 
the flight attendant handed her a meal with the 
cover still on it. 

"That should keep it warm for a little while, 
anyway," the woman told her in a kind voice. 

"Thank you," Scully answered, a little surprised by 
the conscientious gesture. "I'm sure he'll appreciate 
it."

With a parting smile, the flight attendant focused 
her attention on the next row, and Scully took the 
opportunity to gaze at her partner and what had 
softened the woman's profession demeanor. 

Mulder's obscenely-long eyelashes resting against 
his too-pale face demanded her attention first. How 
many times had she railed against the unfairness of 
those lashes on the face of a man? Of course, being 
gazed upon by the beautiful hazel eyes beneath 
those lashes, she got to view them on said man quite 
often. Oh, yeah, they were on the right person, all 
right. 

Next, without a doubt, were those luscious lips. 
Slightly parted, they looked oh-so-kissable. How 
long had it been since she'd felt those lips on any 
part of her body? How long before she did again? A 
pang of longing hit her just then, and she knew it 
wouldn't go away for some time to come. 

Damned case. Damn Kresge for requesting them 
before Mulder was healthy. Damn Skinner for 
approving it. Damn Mulder for pushing himself 
before he was ready. And damn her for changing 
gears in the blink of an eye, no longer able to look 
at him through the eyes of a woman, but through the 
eyes of a physician. 

Where before she saw only lovely eyelashes, she 
now saw the bags under his eyes from too many 
nights with too little sleep. Through those parted 
lips came the wheeze of a man still walking around 
with a bronchial condition. 

Suddenly angry and fearful and frustrated, Scully 
turned her attention to her meal. She really hated 
being a doctor sometimes. 

** 

United Airlines Flight 209 
30,000 feet 
6:28 p.m. 

When his bladder could be ignored no longer, 
Mulder opened his eyes and tried to suppress the 
hideous tickle threatening to throw him into an 
embarrassing coughing fit. His eyes alit on the 
small bottle of water on the tray table beside him, 
and he frantically tore the cap off and took a swig. 
The sensation eased, but only for a moment. 
Quickly locating the nearest unoccupied lavatory, at 
the very back of the plane, Mulder slipped into the 
aisle, vaguely aware and very grateful that Scully 
was not in her seat. 

Another two sips, and he reached the bathroom 
door, entering the tiny room and sliding the lock 
home. He downed the rest of the water, then held 
his breath, trying to keep the tickle at bay until he 
had emptied his bladder. He had barely finished 
when the coughs erupted out of him. He threw his 
arm up in front of his mouth, trying to muffle his 
coughing with the crook of his elbow. With his 
other hand, he patted down his pockets in a frantic 
search for his inhaler. 

Feeling light-headed by the time he managed to 
grab hold of it, Mulder tried to bring his coughing 
under control so he could take in the needed 
medicine. Shaking the inhaler frantically, his lungs 
feeling like they were trying to climb up his throat, 
he breathed in as slowly as he could while pushing 
down on the canister.

When he could take a breath without (literally, he 
thought) coughing his lungs out, he became aware 
of the pounding on the door. As if he wasn't 
embarrassed enough, Scully was out there gathering 
the attention of those few passengers who weren't 
already aware of his condition. "All right," he 
barked. "I'm coming." 

He flipped the lock, yanked open the door, scathing 
remark poised and ready -- and froze. It wasn't 
Scully. Irrationally, all he could think was 'Why the 
hell wasn't it her? Where the hell was she while he 
was coughing up a lung and turning blue from lack 
of air?' 

"Are you all right, sir?" a flight attendant asked. 
Upon her pleasant face, she wore the worried look 
he should be seeing upon Scully. 

"I'm fine, thank you," he reassured her in the hated 
raspy voice, digging out the inhaler and holding it 
up as if that should explain everything. "Just a tickle 
. . ." He pointed to his throat. "Got the better of me, 
I'm afraid." 

She nodded, and he felt uncomfortable while she 
ascertained whether or not he was telling the truth. 
"Can I get you anything?" she finally asked, 
apparently satisfied. 

He held up the empty bottle. "Water? A couple of 
bottles?" 

"Certainly." She only had to take a couple of steps 
into the galley to retrieve the requested items. "Here 
you go. Is there anything else I can get you?" 

Mulder accepted the bottles with a smile he didn't 
feel. "No, thanks." He indicated the water. "This 
will be fine. Thank you very much." He thought he 
should apologize for making a scene, but just 
thinking about it made him cringe, so he nodded a 
farewell and made his way back to his seat.

His eyes zoomed in on his partner in their row 
halfway down the plane. The anxiety was plain on 
her face; when he caught her eye, she tried to hide 
it. Although it usually annoyed him, he felt a little 
better to know she was concerned for him. 

"Hey," he said, upon reaching her. 

"Hey," she said, getting up to let him in. "What 
happened back there? Anything I need to know 
about?" 

Starting to shake his head out of habit, he shrugged 
instead. "Uh . . . I had a tickle in my throat. Lost my 
breath a bit, but a shot from the inhaler, and I'm as 
good as new." Another shrug. "Well, as good as can 
be expected." 

She nodded, biting her lip. There was something she 
wanted to say, but seemed hesitant to voice. "What 
is it, Scully?" he asked, tapping her lightly on the 
arm.

Her eyes looked into his, as if gauging his state of 
mind before she said what she wanted to say. Once 
again, he felt shame that she should have to assess 
his mood so she wouldn't get her head bitten off. 
"When I saw it was you back there, I wanted to be 
the one helping you." She looked down at her hands 
in her lap. "But I knew you wouldn't appreciate that 
gesture."

He started to protest, then stopped, sighing. "You're 
probably right. Although I -- " He lowered his head, 
looking up at her through his lashes. Should he 
admit it? He took a breath. "Although I'd wanted it 
to be you instead of her." His face got warm when 
he thought about what he was going to tell her next. 
"But I was all set to let you have it when I did think 
it was you." He scrubbed his hands over his face. 
"How screwed up is that?"

"Well. . ."

When she didn't say any more, he looked up, his 
question in his eyes.

She smiled shyly. "It *is* screwed up, but I'd 
probably feel the same. I'd want it to be you, but if 
it was you, I'd be angry with you. If it wasn't, I'd be 
disappointed." 

"God, Scully, that's scary," he said with a laugh. 
"Are you turning into me, or am I turning into 
you?"

He was pleased to see a genuine smile in her eyes. 
"We'll have to discuss that -- at length -- when 
you're better."

His eyebrows shot up. Did she mean what he 
thought she meant?

The slow smile spreading across her face was his 
answer. Only one thought went through his head at 
that exact moment:

Eat your heart out, Kresge.

** 

San Diego International Airport 
United Airlines Baggage Claim 
5:35 p.m. (PDT)

John Kresge looked at his watch and rubbed his 
face one-handed. It had been a long day and it 
looked like it wasn't going to end anytime in the 
near future. At least he was looking forward to 
seeing her again. 

Special Agent Dana Scully. 'Scully, FBI.' He could 
still remember her standing in his office that 
Christmas Eve, telling him his 'simple suicide' was 
more than likely a murder. At first he'd thought she 
was a nutcase. By the time he was out of the 
hospital from his mysterious illness, he'd come to 
think of her as the only sane person in a world gone 
mad. 

He'd put her out of his head not long after that. His 
caseload got heavy, he started dating the new 
dispatcher, which turned out to be a bad idea on so 
many levels, and his life went on. Until another 
confounding series of deaths, more than just 
unusual, had brought her name to his mind. He 
didn't even remember thinking about it before he 
found his fingers hitting the numbers for the FBI 
regional office, damning himself for losing her 
business card. 

He was about to look at his watch again when he 
caught sight of her. That red hair, impossible to 
miss, was like a beacon on a stormy night. She 
looked exactly as he remembered her, much more 
commanding than her tiny stature would indicate. 
She was looking around the concourse and he held 
his hand up to wave to her but she seemed to be 
looking away before he caught her attention. 

She was walking quickly over to a man near the 
carousel. John drew in a breath. Oh, right. That guy. 
What was his name? Mullins? Mueller? Whatever. 
He remembered him, slightly. He'd run into the guy 
right before John had come down with the 
mysterious illness that put him in ICU. According 
to the doctors, the guy saved his life. Called the 
ambulance, told them what to do for him. John 
found out later the guy was Agent Scully's partner 
at the FBI. Probably just tagged along for a chance 
to hit the beach. 

Something wasn't right. The guy was standing right 
next to the carousel, but it was Agent Scully lifting 
all the luggage onto a cart. What the hell? OK, sure 
feminism had its place, but this was just taking 
things a little too far. John squared his shoulders 
and marched over to give the little woman a hand. 
At least _his_ mother had taught him some 
manners. 

"Agent Scully, good to see you again," he said, 
grabbing the scuffed leather two-suiter out of her 
hands and placing it on the cart for her. 

"Detective Kresge, hi," Scully said, slightly out of 
breath. "Thank you -- for meeting us." She looked 
over at the man next to her. When Kresge got a look 
at the guy, he was sure the man was chewing on 
glass. 

"John Kresge. I don't think we were ever properly 
introduced," John said, extending his hand. 

The male agent looked John in the eye for a 
moment before accepting the handshake. "Fox 
Mulder," he rasped out just above a whisper. His 
grip was firm, maybe just a little too firm to suit 
John. "Sorry 'bout the . . . " Mulder motioned to his 
throat and grimaced. 

"S'OK, I know how dry it is on planes. C'mon, we 
can stop for dinner on the way to the hotel. Unless 
you'd rather have a chance to freshen up?" 

Again, Agent Scully sought out her partner's eyes. 
A look was exchanged, he shrugged, she smiled and 
turned back to John. "Dinner sounds wonderful," 
she beamed. 

"Great. I know a place near your hotel. Best seafood 
in the county, Anthony's on the Harbor. Oh, I 
booked you into the Embassy Suites, if that's all 
right," he said, pushing the luggage cart toward the 
exit for short-term parking. 

"Embassy Suites, wow," Scully said with a grin. "I 
don't think we've ever stayed in one of those before. 
That's a little more 'upscale' than we're used to, right 
Mulder?" 

"Well, we have a deal over there. They give a great 
government rate," John replied, trying to hide his 
slight embarrassment. 

"We'll have to remember that, Scully," her partner 
croaked out with patently false smile. 

**

Anthony's on the Harbor 
7:35 p.m. 

"So, the Sergeant goes back behind the desk and 
pulls out this big shopping bag and says 'is dis what 
you're lookin' for, Detective?'" Kresge had a hard 
time finishing his tale because he was laughing at 
his own joke, but the worst part was Scully was 
laughing with him. 

Mulder wanted the earth to open up and swallow 
him whole. Did they have earthquakes as far south 
as San Diego? 

"So, who's up for a sightseeing tour of the harbor?" 
Kresge asked, as he signaled the waiter for the 
check. When the young man arrived at the table, 
Mulder was quicker and had his card out before 
Kresge's wallet had cleared his pocket. 

"This one's on our Uncle," Mulder whispered, the 
sound grating his vocal chords. He'd tried, probably 
too often, to keep up his end of the conversation. 
For one, he was tired of not speaking and for 
another, he wasn't going to let Scully forget he was 
sitting at the table, even though she seemed to have 
managed it a couple of times during the evening. He 
just hoped she wouldn't notice when he handed the 
waiter his own American Express card rather than 
the Diner's Club MasterCard the Bureau issued all 
agents who traveled. No reason for her to know he 
wanted to beat the Detective in the old 'who's gonna 
pay' game. 

He had to smile when Kresge slowly put the wallet 
away. "OK, this time. But remember, you're here as 
our guests. The SDPD is really grateful for your 
help on this one." All this was said while the 
Detective looked directly at Mulder's partner. 
Mulder saw appreciation, all right. He also saw 
anticipation. 

"Thank you, John, but we really should be getting to 
the hotel. It's been a long day and Mulder -- " 

It wasn't a hard kick to her shin, but it was enough 
to cause her to look at him. Mulder just hoped he 
hadn't left a bruise. They exchanged a silent look, 
Mulder hoping his eyes could convey what his 
broken voice could not, nor did he really want to 
speak his concerns. He just didn't want her pulling 
out the old 'my partner is sick' line as an excuse to 
avoid the tour. 

Truth be told, it wasn't that much of an excuse -- he 
was dragging. Mulder had managed to grab five 
hours of sleep on the plane and he still felt like he'd 
just run a marathon. His throat was killing him, but 
it was his chest and lungs that felt like they'd been 
used as punching bags. He really just wanted to get 
back to his room and pull out his nebulizer. 

Scully gave him a sympathetic smile, but thankfully 
didn't vocalize her concerns. "I'd just like to get an 
early start tomorrow," she told the detective. 
"Maybe we can take a rain check?" 

"Certainly," Kresge said with a smile, but Mulder 
could hear the disappointment in his voice. Yeah, 
buddy. You lost this one, too, he mused silently. 

With the bill paid, the three made their way to 
Kresge's car and with only a minimum of 
conversation (because of the short distance), they 
were dropped off at the entrance to the Embassy 
Suites. 

This time, even though he felt horrible, Mulder 
made a point to send Scully in to the desk to get 
their keys while he watched the bellboy load the 
luggage on a dolly. With a firm handshake to 
Kresge, he saw the Detective drive off. No way was 
he going to let the young officer find out their room 
numbers, not until it was absolutely necessary. 

When he caught up with Scully, she did not look 
happy. "No, that's just not acceptable. The man has 
been ill -- " She stopped when she felt his hand on 
her elbow. 

"Something wrong?" he rasped. 

She sighed, a sure sign she was a minute away from 
pulling her weapon. "They don't have any non-
smoking rooms left." 

"I promise, Agent Scully, we'll move you both into 
non-smoking rooms first thing in the morning," the 
near frantic desk clerk assured. "It's just we've had a 
meeting of the American Lung Association here this 
weekend and all of the non-smoking rooms -- " 

Mulder held up his hand and tried to put on his best 
placating smile. "These will be fine," he ground out. 
Looking down at the card key envelopes, his smile 
turned into a frown. "Separate floors?" he croaked. 

"That's the other thing. Apparently they don't have 
any adjoining suites available all week. Foster 
parents group or something," Scully groused. "So 
even when we get new rooms, they won't be 
adjoining." 

"We do have a suite with two double beds -- " the 
clerk broke in. 

"No, thank you, that's totally unacceptable," Scully 
said sternly. 

"Hey, no big deal," Mulder whispered. "Let's just 
get up to our rooms." 

He was beginning to think he should have stayed at 
home after all. 

**

Embassy Suites Hotel
Scully's Room
8:30 p.m. PDST

Scully was pooped. She knew that the best way to 
acclimate herself to west coast time was, the first 
night, to tough it out until her usual bedtime, and 
then sleep her normal eight hours. She'd wake up at 
the right time in the right time zone.

Yet she was bone tired. Had she known that by 
nightfall she'd be 3,000 miles away from home, she 
wouldn't have gotten up at the crack of dawn. That, 
plus traveling all day, hauling suitcases around 
(she'd have to remember to thank Mulder more for 
that chore when he was healthy again), and 
worrying about her partner contributed to her 
wanting nothing more than to crawl under the 
covers and close her eyes.

She wanted to check on Mulder, though. She really 
ought to, she knew. Throat aside, he'd been very 
quiet all though their dinner with the detective. The 
only time he'd come to life was when he'd been 
asserting his place as alpha male by grabbing the 
check and paying with his own card.

Oh, yes, she'd caught his subterfuge, although she 
didn't let on since it had seemed important to him. 
She never would understand why men considered it 
a sign of masculinity to beat out another man for the 
privilege of paying the bill. Hell, she ought to invite 
other men to dine with them every time they ate out. 
She'd never have to pay for another meal.

She had to smile at that thought as she tested the 
softness of the mattress by sitting and then leaning 
back until she was lying flat. It was quite 
comfortable. And tempting. And she *was* in her 
pajamas already . . .

Glancing at the door guiltily, she shook herself out 
of her stupor and plucked her phone from the 
charger, pressing speed dial one.

"Mulder," her partner answered on the fifth ring, out 
of breath. 

Scully sat up straighter. "Are you all right?" she 
asked, one horrifying scenario after another running 
through her mind.

"I had one foot in the shower." She heard a husky 
cough. "I had to run for the phone."

"Sorry," she said, feeling guilty for causing him 
distress.

"Well, I didn't want you pounding on my door when 
I didn't answer." She couldn't tell if he was amused 
or annoyed, and he never did answer her question.

"I just wanted to say good night," she said, biting 
her lip as she listened to him gasping and wheezing. 
Finally, she couldn't take it any more. "Mulder, are 
you okay? Do you need me to come up there?"

"No! I'm -- " He broke off, coughing, and she ran to 
grab her sneakers, thrusting her feet into them 
without taking the time to tie them. "Gimme a 
minute," he choked out. She snatched up her coat 
and slid one arm in while holding onto the phone 
with the other. Though he'd apparently moved away 
from the phone, she could still hear him hacking 
away.

Rushing down the hallway, coat hanging off one 
shoulder, PJ's on display for anyone who cared to 
look, and tripping over dangling shoelaces, she 
heard Mulder's voice, calm as you please, say to 
her, "Sorry about that. I probably shouldn't have 
run."

"Are you okay?" She was almost to the elevators 
now.

"I'm fine," he said, sounding like he was, too. 
"Look, I'm gonna take a shower. You get some 
sleep, okay?"

Her hand outstretched and ready to stab the button, 
she slowly brought it back to her side. "Yeah." She 
felt like she'd run ten miles. Her knees were 
shaking, and she thought she might crumple to the 
floor if she didn't sit down.

"Okay. 'Night, Scully."

"Good night," she said, a little stunned and hurt by 
his brush-off.

He disconnected, and she looked up at the elevator 
doors, then turned and walked back to her room.

**

Embassy Suites Hotel 
Mulder's Room
8:37 p.m.

Mulder jabbed the "end" button, and the phone fell 
from his trembling fingers. God, that had been 
close. After his insistence that the 'smoking' room 
would be fine, he didn't want her to find out that 
he'd been coughing almost since the second he'd set 
foot in the room. 

The last thing he wanted was Scully rushing to the 
aid of her sickly partner. He was so tired of needing 
her as his caretaker. How long until she grew tired 
as well?

Never, if he could help it. After watching Scully 
enjoying the attentions of another man -- a healthy 
one -- he couldn't afford to appear weak in her eyes. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew she 
wasn't that shallow, yet insecurity had overruled 
reason, and fear had triumphed over logic. So he'd 
resolved to address his health issues by himself 
from that point on, and if that meant a little 
deception was in order, so be it. He had taken an 
extra hit of the Proventil, and now he was about to 
pay for it.

It had been worth it, though. Instead of having to 
wait a minute or longer for the medicine to take 
effect, the results had been instantaneous. For one 
brief minute, he had been in complete control, long 
enough to convince Scully that he was just hunky-
dory. True, he'd been brusque with her, but it had 
been necessary in order to ward off a visit. He 
congratulated himself as he collapsed onto the bed, 
chest pounding to beat the band, and not just 
aching, but *hurting*. A lot.

He could feel himself panicking, and knew he had 
to calm down, breathe slowly and evenly, and relax 
his tense muscles. Get it together, get it together, he 
told himself, over and over. Gradually, he felt the 
tightness dissipate enough that he could sit up. 
Glancing at the clock, he was shocked to discover 
that nearly an hour had passed since he'd spoken 
with his partner. Right then and there, he vowed 
NEVER to do that again. 

Christ, was he the sorriest son of a bitch on the 
planet, or what? Grimacing when he recalled that a 
visit to the man who'd bestowed that title upon him 
was in his future, he rubbed a hand over his sore 
chest. Maybe being sick did have some advantages 
after all, if it would get him out of having to see 
Billy Boy.

He took in as much of a breath as he could -- man, 
being unable to breathe deeply really sucked -- and 
frowned. No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't 
win. Strong-man Mulder had to put up with Bill; 
sick Mulder was a namby-pamby wussy weakling. 
There was no question as to which he'd choose to 
be. 

Grunting with the effort it took him to gain his feet, 
Mulder shuffled over to the file he'd tossed onto the 
desk earlier. He really ought to get some shut-eye, 
but he wanted to do a little work before he showed 
up at the police station tomorrow. He wasn't too 
thrilled at being considered extra baggage on this 
trip, and he was determined to prove his worth, both 
to the agency and to his partner.

 Besides, he was a little afraid to go to sleep with 
his heart racing the way it was. Falling into the 
chair (there was no other way to describe it), he 
flipped the folder cover open and stared at the 
contents. Try as he might, he couldn't concentrate, 
though. Throwing a glance at his phone, he was 
very tempted to call Scully, machismo and 'I told 
you so's' be damned. 

Propping an elbow on the desk, he lowered his 
head, which was beating in time with his heart, to 
his hand. He'd give himself fifteen minutes, then 
he'd call. 

After his allotted time had elapsed and he still felt 
like crap, he was still reluctant to call her, especially 
after he'd gone to all that trouble to alienate her with 
his curt behavior. Sighing, he forced himself to 
focus on the case in front of him; maybe all he 
needed was something to take his mind off his 
health (or lack thereof).

Half an hour later, he resigned himself to the fact 
that the pitiful amount of work he'd put into the 
profile was all he was going to accomplish this 
evening. Opening the sliding door to the 'patio' had 
freshened the room somewhat, but enough of the 
smell remained to make him miserable. At least his 
heart had slowed down enough that he didn't feel 
like he was going to have a stroke at any second.

He wondered if Scully had left a wake-up call for 
him. As he settled into the bed, fresh air wafting 
over him, he decided that he didn't really care.

He wanted it to be morning, and he wanted to be out 
of this room, but right now all he really wanted to 
do was sleep.

**end of part 1**