I Can Explain

DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Eddie van Blundht and the X-Files are property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and Fox. Reusing any of this without my express permission is a violation of federal law, 17 U.S.C. I give permission to repost, entire, to the web and FTP sites resident on any publicly accessible, no-fee server. No other use is legitimate without my express permission. ANY use for profit, however meager, violates Chris Carter's copyright and my copyright.

THANKS: Extra special thanks to my beta reader, Carol Wyatt <carolw@provide.net>, who signed herself up for hazardous duty, and kept the thoughtful comments and "go get 'ems" rolling in. Behind every good writer there's a very good editor--thanks, Carol.

PARENTS PLEASE NOTE: This story is rated R for strong language.

God, I wish we hadn't killed the last of that bottle of wine. I could use another glass right now, Dana Scully thought to herself.

Anything to keep her hands busy, anything to distract her mind, anything to keep from having to talk to her partner, Fox Mulder.

She had a small idea of what life must be like for her partner with his photographic memory. Her mind had a complete record--sensory, emotional, cognitive--of the moment her partner had crashed the door to her apartment to find her millimeters away from a most un-partnerlike kiss with Eddie van Blundht. Which wouldn't have been a problem, because van Blundht was not, in fact, her partner.

He just happened to be wearing Mulder's face, body, and voice as he had leaned ever closer to her.

He just happened to be leaning awfully close to her at the moment Fox had crashed the party.

Her mind kept throwing the memory up on her mental movie screen. Funny, it had only taken a fraction of a second for her to realize who was the real Mulder and who was the impostor.

It wasn't anything simple, or even obvious, like the strange fact that her wisecracking, emotionally guarded partner was suddenly putting the moves on her. If there was a complex, changeable person in this world, it was Fox Mulder. He was perfectly capable of ignoring a woman for four years and then suddenly becoming infatuated with her. And it certainly wasn't a difference in physical appearance--Dana quite possibly knew Mulder's body and distinguishing marks better than himself. 'If I ever have to write an APB on the man,' she thought wryly, 'every female officer in the country will be on his tail looking for that little mole on his left hipbone. And Eddie, from what I could see, was a perfect match.'

It was the small things--the shocked expression, like a little boy who's just seen his parents in a passionate kiss. It was the way he froze at the door, waiting to see what she would do, letting her have the choice. It was the quick, nervous glance at the flames dancing on the hearth, and the infinitesimal relaxation of his shoulders as he realized it was only a small domestic fire, well-corraled in the pit of the fireplace. It was some unique, subliminal expression of intelligence and darkness that she simply felt as "Mulder."

And the damned projectionist in her head kept looping the whole scene again: the warmth, the confusion, the intrigue, the fluttering pulse, yes dammit, the arousal as Eddie leaned ever closer. Oh hell, Dana, let's be honest: you were reacting to what you thought--or wanted to think--was Mulder.

The sudden adrenaline shock as the door slammed back on its hinges. The momentary confusion as her brain processed the information that there were two Mulder's in the room. The realization that there was really only one Mulder, and he was not the man whose mouth was hovering so close to hers.

She'd gasped, then, and eeled out from under the morphing masquerader. The embarrassment at what her partner must be thinking had hit then, but before she could do more than take a deep breath, Mulder was moving around the sofa, asking for her cuffs.

"Mr. Masquerader here boosted mine," Mulder said by way of explanation, "Oh, better phone the local cop shop to take this guy down to the lockup. I suspect there are a few couples in West Virginia that would just love to talk with him."

She snagged her cuffs from her end table drawer and passed them to him silently. Her mind registered the fact that Mulder was acting like he busted Morphing Masqueraders caught in flagrante almost-delicto with his partner twice a week. Which would represent a helluva improved social life for said partner, her subconscious noted.

"To say nothing," he grunted softly as he flipped van Blundht around to snap the bracelets on, "of a DA or two."

Then he began the Miranda statement.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say..."

The ritualistic near-singsong of the Miranda rights faded out of Scully's mind as she snapped into cop mode and punched up the Annapolis Police Department dispatcher. She felt like two people: one, the efficient, calm Federal agent who identified herself to the dispatcher, asked assistance, and give clear directions to her apartment; the other a rattled young woman who kept asking herself what the hell she was going to do now.

She managed to keep the calm facade securely in place while the bureaucratic machine cranked up to speed and and sucked up Eddie. The process was somewhat foreshortened by the fact that technically, Mulder was the arresting officer, and so she didn't have to give much of a statement beyond identifying herself to an Officer Clanahan.

"Well, thank you, ma'am," Clanahan said. He and his partner and Mulder had spent the last 20 minutes exchanging the necessary information to book Eddie. "We'll be getting out of your way soon."

Scully had a mad impulse to say "Please don't hurry on my account. I really don't have anything planned. Can I offer you something? Tea? Coffee? A four-course meal that I'll have to shop for?" <The truth is that you really don't have anything planned to say to your partner, Dana, and when these guys leave, you're going to have to face the music.>

Which would've been an easier prospect to contemplate if the ever-maddening Mulder hadn't chosen this occasion to be a by-the-book, calm, cool, give-nothing-away Federal agent.

He looks like a damn training film for Officer Comportment In Intra-Agency Dealings, she thought. Why couldn't he be his normal, impatient with anything that doesn't touch his interests, self? A professional poker player's face would give away about as much as Mulder's.

All too soon, though, Clanahan was guiding Eddie out of her apartment door, and the small thunder of two large cops escorting a small, self-effacing man down the hall outside her apartment was fading away.

As the sounds of their retreat faded out, so did Scully's cool. Her stomach started going through the bosun's manual of knots as Mulder eased the door of her apartment closed.

Still facing the now-closed door, he propped both hands on his hips and let out a tired-sounding sigh.

Without turning, he said "So, Scully..."

Left it hanging there.

God, Dana thought, I wish we hadn't killed the last of that bottle of wine.

Christ, she was going to be pissed, Fox Mulder thought. I think I'll just leave this one alone until she's had some time to cool off.

Or at least enough time to decide she's not going to take it out on me.

It was a pretty goddamned weird sensation, wanting to punch yourself out, Mulder decided. But then it was just a pretty goddamned weird situation all around.

Good thing his brain had lots of practice at picking reason and order out of seemingly illogical situations. As it was, what he saw when he crashed Scully's door registered on his brain but refused to make sense without some conscious effort on his part.

He saw a couch full of Scully, pressed into one sofa arm, with some guy hovering over her.

Some guy? Some guy, hell, that was him. And what am I--what was he--doing holding Scully down like that? Was the sonovabitch trying to get a sleeper hold on her? Had he flipped her on her back to get the advantage of size? Was he trying to slip her a mickey? Mulder hadn't heard any sounds of a struggle, but if Scully was drugged she might not've put up an effective resistance.

Both Scully and the guy were staring at him like he was a contradiction of every known law of physics.

And then Mulder got it.

The music registered. The dimmed room lights. The crackling fire. The empty wine bottle and pair of glasses.

The guy was not exactly planning on strangling Scully, or offering her any form of violence. At least, nothing that's not more or less socially acceptable under the heading of "enthusiasm," Mulder thought. He was planning on pulling the same cute little scam on her that had resulted in five tailed babies in one West Virginia town.

And the sonovabitch was about to do it again, only this time Mulder was going to get the repercussions, and Eddie would once again get all the satisfactions. Suddenly Mulder felt a strange kind of sympathy for four particular men--the ones who'd been yelling at a certain OB-GYN at an unscheduled meeting.

His eyes flicked to Scully's for a moment, and he saw the confusion on her face as she looked from the Mulder on the sofa with her to the Mulder who towered over them.

Christ, Scully, he thought, can't you tell this is really me?

Mulder looked away from the pair on the couch, directly at the flicker of flame on the hearth. He drew a tight breath, and then relaxed when he realized it was a little house-ornament of a fire, thoroughly contained in the fireplace.

He heard Scully make a sound somewhere between a gasp and a gag. He turned back to watch as she gave a small, but distinct shove at the shoulders of the man on the sofa, and then she was on her feet, wearing a somewhat horrified scowl.

That was when Mulder knew there was going to be Hell to pay, and while there might be no pitch hot, he'd be willing to bet his partner's temper would do. Special Agent Dana Scully, MD, scientist, and generally cool customer, had just been had. Big time. A small town janitor with slippery skin had just pulled one over on every major aspect of her character: as an FBI agent, a friend, and a woman.

Mulder hadn't done a Psych program at Oxford for nothing. He would've bet his sheepskin that one D. K. Scully was going to experience a series of emotions including anger at being fooled, professional chagrin at not exposing the faux Mulder, and maybe a little frustration at the interruption of what was, he reluctantly admitted , apparently a pleasant interlude. And yes, she'd feel that she'd failed him as a friend by not detecting the impostor. On top of that, knowing Scully, she was going to be embarrassed at being caught giving in to some perfectly normal human urges. She hated losing control. Scully was going to be reminded of all that every time she looked at her partner for a while. If she didn't deal with it, she was going to transfer her resentment and anger towards Eddie to Mulder.

Between the adrenaline surge at seeing Scully apparently pinned when he crashed in, the rush of having figured correctly where Eddie would head, and the realization of what Eddie had set him up for, Mulder felt a distinct desire to pound the guy's face. Even if it was actually, at the moment, his face.

He decided that it was the better part of valor to not precipitate any emotional outbursts--he didn't want to give Scully any excuses--so he simply slapped on the G-man mask he used for OPC hearings and pissy State Attorneys General, then walked around the sofa, asking for Scully's cuffs. He asked her to phone for prisoner transport, cuffed Eddie, and Mirandized him.

He vaguely registered Scully turning on lights and removing wine glasses and the empty bottle to the kitchen. Hiding the evidence, Scully?, he thought wryly to himself.

He moved over to meet her as she left the kitchen. He dropped a hand on the doorjamb, and leaned in close to keep Eddie from overhearing their conversation. She looked up at him, and her eyes widened. She didn't exactly flinch, but she seemed to tighten in on herself.

"Scully, are you as undamaged from your encounter with Eddie as you look, or should I be throwing a few more assorted assault accounts on his charge sheet?"

Mulder might have a carefully cultivated reputation as Mr. Smartass Wisecracker but that didn't mean he had no concept of tact or solicitude. Especially when it came to an upset Scully.

"No. No, I'm fine, Mulder." She met his eyes only briefly, then dropped her gaze.

<I'm confused as hell and my emotional equilibrium is totally shot, she thought, but I don't think that's what you're asking. And I'm damned if I'd know how to describe my mental state at this point, anyway.>

"Got any Dramamine?"

"Yes. What for, Mulder?"

"It occurs to me that Mr. Morpher here could change into something small enough to slip those cuffs. Maybe a muscle relaxant would--"

"--keep him from making use of that extra layer of stratiated muscle. Good idea--I've got some stuff in the medicine chest."

As she spoke, Scully's gaze had firmed up and she made a motion to move around him, apparently headed for the bathroom. Mulder, feeling a bit worn from the day's events, simply leaned on the doorway without making space for her, so she angled her body through the door, brushing the front of her shoulder and upper arm rather firmly against his side as she passed.

He might've heard her draw a quick breath as they touched. God, I hope not, he thought. I really don't want her to mix me up with Silly Putty face over there. Maybe it's just still-unsettled nerves. Hope so. Hope so.

The few minutes remaining until the police showed up were occupied with Scully taking no crap about getting some OTC drugs into Eddie and Mulder making a call to verify arrest warrant info on Eddie. She also wrote up a prescription for muscle relaxants.

Mulder made damn good and sure the officers got everything they needed in the shortest possible time. He kept the G-man mask firmly in place so that they were absolutely certain that van Blundht had crossed state lines, and he, as a Federal agent, was the arresting officer, and that Mulder and his partner had set up a sting to trap him here (fortunately she was making herself scarce. Although he had every faith she'd back him up first and ask him what the hell was going on later). He assured them that he and his partner would file all necessary forms and a full report ASAP. They had only to do the Feds the favor of providing prisoner transport.

Mostly, he made sure that nobody was taking a statement from Dana Scully as to what had transpired in her living room tonight.

Finally, Officers Archer and Clanahan were clumping off down the hall, assuring Mulder that they would administer the drugs Scully had prescribed.

The door snicked shut behind them.

Christ, she was going to be pissed, Fox Mulder thought. I think I'll just leave this one alone until she's had some time to cool off.

Or at least enough time to decide she's not going to take it out on me.

Mulder heaved a sigh and propped his hands on his hips.

Without turning, he said "So, Scully..."

Left it hanging there.

God, Dana thought, I wish we hadn't killed the last of that bottle of wine.

"Think we can bag the paper work on this 'til Monday, anyway? I think I've had about as much Eddie as I can take for one weekend."

Thank God, Dana thought, I may just get the damned monkey's-fist in my gut unraveled. Or better yet, unscramble the one in my brain.

And then her sense of duty kicked in. Well, somebody on this team had to have one, and when it came to an official sense of duty, it wasn't going to be Mulder.

"No, Mulder," she answered , one hand rubbing her forehead. There was a nagging headache trying to get started over her temples. "We're going to have to file an arrest report no later than tomorrow morning."

Damn, I thought we were going to avoid this, Mulder thought.

"Look, Scully, I can do it, I made the collar. You don't have to do anything on this one."

She knew she was going to have to face the music at some point. <I only wish I knew what tune's playing, she thought ruefully. Well, the sooner it's done, the sooner it's over.> She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.

"Mulder."

He sighed and dropped his head briefly at her tone. It was the patented Agent Scully let's-look-at-all-the-data Special.

"Yeah, Scully?"

"I can explain--"

He cut her off with a quick motion of one hand.

"Scully, it's not worth an explanation. You're not hurt, we caught the guy. No more surprise packages with tails. Let's just table this one for now."

Scully got the message. Loud and clear. He wanted to get away from her, the apartment, and the whole scene. He didn't like the idea of thinking about, much less discussing, anything that would put them in a physically intimate situation.

<Jesus, Dana, you can't say "doesn't want to think about us...touching... each other" in your own head? Nope, not if he's so obviously disdainful, you can't.>

The silence thickened.

"Look, Scully, I'll see you at the office in the morning. I'll do the forms and you can sign them.

"Oh, by the way--I told the home team players that we set up a sting to catch Eddie."

For a heartbeat, she considered blasting him for arrogance, unnecessary overprotectiveness, and treating her like a child. And then she decided that she would rather put the energy into sorting out what had happened. She'd take the out--she could chew Mulder out another day.

"Sure. Fine. Whatever."

He fumbled with the deadbolt a moment. Finally turned to look at her

"Look, you should get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow. 'Night, Scully."

"Good night, Mulder."

She leaned her head against the door after he'd left.

God, I wish I knew what just happened.

<Well,> a small voice in her head chimed in, <you just spent an extremely pleasant evening being quite charmingly seduced by a janitor who had you absolutely convinced he was your Oxford-educated partner in a strange, goofy, but sweet mood. You had what you thought was going to be a very nice little moment with said purported partner interrupted very suddenly by your real partner. Your real partner is now avoiding you and the whole subject of what he saw when he came through your door, and you are really, really confused about being attracted to said partner or simulacrum thereof. >

< And you have a headache from wine and tension. That about sum it up?>

God, I have been hanging out with Mulder too long. My damned subconscious is acquiring his smart mouth.

"Oh for God's sake! I'm going to bed--to sleep! Maybe this will all make sense in the morning."

She still wished they hadn't killed that bottle of wine.

It hit Mulder about the time he was plopping onto his sofa in sweats and socks. He sprawled, head tilted against the sofa back, one arm shielding his eyes, and pulled the pillow he slept with across his lap.

That fucking asshole van Blundht had invaded him: his life, his home, and his body. Finally, van Blundht had invaded his partner.

OK, maybe not Scully, exactly, but he'd certainly gotten into the emotional space that belonged to Mulder and the redhead.

For a while, the little morpher had been the one who called the shots on his life. He'd made a lie of it. Whatever of Mulder's he touched, whatever he moved, whatever he did or didn't do with Mulder's possessions, took those possessions away from the real man whose life he was stealing. Nothing that Eddie had touched in those hours while he walked in Mulder's skin was unaffected.

The less-keen edge on his razor, the missing bottle of beer in the refrigerator, the crumpled shirt in the corner. God, even the sweat in his clothes, the hairs on the pillow he held, even those had been usurped by the little weasel. They should be his.

And Mulder would answer for all of it, with no way of knowing what that might amount to. What had Eddie taken from him? What had he set him up for? Was the newspaper seller at the Metro Kiosk going to treat him the same? Was there a clerk at the coffee bar who would expect him to be abrupt, or wait for an apology, or think he'd left a few extra mental bricks off the barrow? Would he have to redo forms and reports and memos? Had the little prick screwed up his computer files?

Mulder sighed and shifted on the sofa, balling the pillow up and crossing his arms over it. He propped his chin on it.

Funny, in a way: Mulder normally didn't give a rat's ass what most people thought of him. But Eddie had been telling lies--lies in physical form, lies in conduct, lies in attitude and feelings and aptitudes--and Mulder's life was focused on truth. Eddie had committed the ultimate invasion, the ultimate emotional violation.

Eddie, on the surface, didn't seem assertive enough to give anyone grief. On the other hand, somebody who was willing to take on another man's sexual prerogatives was not exactly Mr. Ethics. Who knew what he might pull?

And just what had Silly Putty man pulled in that emotional space that was his and Scully's?

Whatever in the hell you called that space. Mulder himself wasn't sure what it was, but it was his, and Scully's, and did not include some little broom-pushing bastard with a Silly Putty skin. It was up to the two of them--Mulder and his partner--to define the limits of that space and what went on it.

He thought of it as his "safe place:" it was the only place that he could rely on to shelter his feelings, his fears, his desires and his failures. It was the one place he had ever found to trust in. He could trust Scully with anything: to believe in him, to accept him, to fight with him and still care about him, to care about what he cared about, to cut his arrogance down to size when he needed it but never fail to recognize his strengths. It was the place where he didn't have to hide his feelings and build his walls.

Not that he let down the walls, or displayed his feelings like posters in a gallery, even with Scully. They were up, out of habit, most of the time. It was just that she knew the defense mechanisms, and saw the history of betrayals behind the facade. Scully understood, and accepted, and had some knack of seeing through the surface manner to the essential person behind it, like seeing through layers of gouache on a canvas. And for a miracle, she cared about and valued the man behind those walls.

He relaxed back against the sofa, drawing both feet up to sit cross-legged. He gripped the pillow loosely, and his face softened momentarily in a slight smile as he thought of Scully.

It was one of Mulder's private satisfactions that, for some unknowable reason, that space seemed to mean something to Scully too. She too, sheltered her fears and needs in that space, and relied on Mulder to keep the cool, rational scientist from denying the warmth and genuine concern for others that were a very real part of her.

He often thought it was because he never failed to acknowledge and respect the learned and disciplined mind she had so carefully cultivated. At the same time he offered acceptance for the very human side of her that laughed and wept and raged. He even pushed her a little to indulge that side. All those teasing little remarks weren't just to keep his distance--they were his way of reminding her that her whimsical side was just fine with him. So she knew that whatever she chose to trust him with, that trust would be rewarded.

The way Eddie had gone about invading that space really galled Mulder. He had known what Eddie was up to as soon as he came to in the janitor's closet. Getting busy signals and out-of-service messages from Scully's phones only confirmed it. He was only pleased that he'd arrived at a relatively early point in the proceedings. It had been awkward enough as it was.

Chalk up another goddamned weird sensation--being jealous of oneself. Oh, he knew very well it wasn't him, but now his damned memory had an exact snapshot of himself and Scully in very warm and affectionate proximity. Mulder was only human, and he would admit that he was damned territorial about Scully. Being jealous because of her was a new one. For all the rumors about "Spooky and the Mrs.," the truth was even stranger. Not only was sex the only form of intimacy they hadn't shared, he'd never had any real interest in doing so. Wouldn't that surprise the gossips at the Bureau!

Come on, Mulder, he chastised himself. You're a damned psychologist, think like one. On balance, it is surprising that you haven't made any effort towards that complete intimacy. There is no one, no one, else, that you trust like her, or care about like her. You love her, and you don't think she's your sister. Sisters are for taking care of. They don't cover your back, they don't shoot you to save you from yourself, they don't go through hell and defy Congress to see you safe.

You have noticed that she doesn't exactly crack mirrors. Shit, she's pretty as a little porcelain ornament. Or one of those delicate Victorian china dolls <Don't ever let her know you think that>. So why bother with the 'hands off' routine? It sure ain't because you've got a bad case of "by the Book."

<Possibly because> he answered himself, < you tend to sublimate your sexuality into either your commitment to the X-Files, or simply redirect it towards one-night stands. You can't transcend your long-held self-image of being unworthy of love and affection, and you don't believe in your own attractiveness, Geek. You're too vulnerable when it comes to sex with an emotional investment and the potential of rejection. You're not about to take the risk of being rejected by the most important person in your life. >

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Psychologist," he said out loud. "No wonder I avoid shrinks. Unfortunately," he added on a sigh, "it's a pretty accurate analysis."

He pushed the pillow down on his lap and began punching it rhythmically, absently.

The old subconscious hadn't been stupid when it had decided to absolutely refuse to consider the idea of adding a sexual facet to his relationship with Scully. And it had done yeoman duty in providing the "she's not my type, doesn't do anything for me" escape.

But now Eddie had forced the issue, and it was evident that Dana wasn't repelled by the idea.

Wasn't repelled by him, Mulder. Or some simulacrum of him.

His subconscious was having a hard time keeping up the not-my-type mantra. It was instead thoroughly reviewing that image of Dana and him close and relaxed, almost lovers. Even if had been that little asshole van Blundht standing in for him,

"If he'd gotten an inch closer to her, I swear I would've popped him one."

<Oooh, protecting Dana? That could get you creamed by a pissed-off G-woman.>

"No. Just driven past reason by . . . envy."

<Try jealousy. Driven past reason by jealousy. Get used to it--goes with the sexual desire territory. Actually with the not-getting-any territory. You still get creamed.>.

"Fucking clinical psychologists. I knew I should've stayed in research."

He sighed. Mulder hated introspection. He tried to avoid examining his life--he knew how barren it seemed, so limited by the circumscriptions of his search for Sam, and the truth. He had long since decided what was important to him, and what could be sacrificed, and what the costs of that sacrifice were. He did not unnecessarily remind himself of those costs.

Just, sometimes, he wished life could be less cold, and hard, and empty.

Mulder pulled the pillow back against his chest, wrapping both arms tightly around it. He rocked a little, pushing his face down into the soft, worn pillowcase.

Damn Eddie for forcing himself into their emotional space, and pushing at its boundaries. He'd as much as told Scully that he could mess with her mind, and that maybe trusting Mulder was no longer such a sure bet.

The rhythm of his rocking changed, from a slight, smooth movement, to a strong, jerky one. His breath came more and more harshly.

He curled forward and slammed his right fist into the pillow, drew it back and slammed it again. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a rictus of anger.

His left hand bunched and slammed the pillow, braced it while the right hit.

Left, right, left, right, he slammed the pillow, keening and growling. It sounded like a mad dog sobbing, if mad dogs could weep.

The blows fell faster and faster on the pillow, leftrightleftrightleftright. Mulder's keening mixed with grunts, as though his gut were being punched instead of the pillow.

<She didn't try to make you leave>.

leftright. leftright. leftright

leftright. leftright. left.

leftrightl. leftright.

'She wanted to explain'

Leftright.

"Think what really happened. Not what could happen. What really happened. You remember the difference?"

The words came back to him, hidden in a corner of his mind from some long-ago therapy session.

Left. Right.

<You'll see her in the morning.>

Left.

With a final grunt, Mulder huddled over the crumpled pillow in his lap, one fist buried in the stuffing, the other clutching the pillow's opposite side. His feet dropped to the floor-- too much effort to keep them on the couch. He drug an arm across his forehead, wiping sweat from his forehead on his sleeve. He sat, gasping, staring at nothing.

Maybe Eddie's intrusion would be a change that was no change. Maybe it would set them up for a little healthy examination of that space and boundaries. Maybe she wouldn't stay pissed for too long.

Maybe she'd never be able to stand the sight of him.

Mulder didn't know, and he hated not knowing. Because deep down, he knew that if Scully was smart, she would've pulled out of their relationship long ago. Except--she was Scully, and he trusted her. If only he could talk to her, and hear her quiet, matter of fact tones reassuring him that she very well knew the difference between morphing rapists and one Fox Mulder.

He picked up the phone, started to hit the speed dial for her number. Then he pushed the OFF button. Better not, not tonight. Give her a chance to cool down and think it over. Don't push it.

His fist slammed the pillow.

"Damn you, Eddie, you cocksucker!" he yelled. He hit the pillow with his other fist, and then threw it across the room

It was going to be a long fucking night.

Scully hesitated before stepping to the counter at Starbuck's to place her order. Should she go for the the Grande Drip, Hot, double cream? Or should she just order some espresso ground Bella Vista, and prep a hypo to mainline some caffeine?

'Oh. Wait. I don't have the MulderMed kit with me,' she thought, 'no hypos, no field splints, no triangular bandages.'

She smiled to herself at the requirements for the care and feeding of Mulder's, then caught the cashier's eye.

"Grande Drip, hot, to go. Inch and a half of cream room, please."

She was indulging herself with a second Starbuck's run that week. She usually treated herself to the small indulgence only on Fridays, but she felt circumstances warranted the small splurge. Besides, she wasn't sure there'd be coffee at the office this morning.

She'd gotten a terse phone call from Mulder earlier. It hadn't sounded like comfortable office routines would be observed this morning.

"Scully, it's me," he'd announced himself in the clipped, G-man tones he'd used with the deputies the night before.

'God, Mulder, I have an FBI badge, too,' she thought as she listened. 'I can do this don't-screw-with-the-big-bad-FBI-agent routine better than you can.'

"I'll be in the office about 9:30. Forms should be ready for you to sign by 10:30. I'll leave them on your chair if you're not in by the time I leave."

"OK, Mulder, I'll be in about 10:00."

A moment of silence hung empty on the line, waiting for one of them to introduce the topic of Eddie. Neither of them did.

"Alright, I'll see you then," then the sound of his phone disconnecting.

She sighed. He wasn't going to be easy to deal with today--more like full-blown defensive. Hence the Starbuck's run.

She'd finally settled into a fairly good sleep last night, after a relatively short span of tossing and thinking.

It had taken a while to absorb what had happened, and sort out how she felt. The anger and disgust with Eddie were pretty obvious. And let's be honest, Dana, nobody likes being conned. Especially not if she's an FBI agent who's supposed to catch guys like that, not fall victim to them.

Considering the circumstances, though, it was completely understandable. If there was one person on this earth--maybe the only person on this earth--who she would trust unthinkingly, it was her partner. So she really had no reason to feel embarrassed for being taken in.

What was more difficult was the feeling of betraying Mulder. She wasn't quite sure how to sort that one out: how do you betray someone with his exact double? On the other hand, she hadn't been ready to kiss him just because of his beautiful hazel eyes <although God knows it wasn't in spite of them>. It was because it was Mulder, to whom she was closer than anyone, trusted more than anyone, shared a closeness that she couldn't even begin to define. So it was Mulder, the person, the individual, that she was leaning towards. Except it wasn't, and she should've known, and how was she going to explain that failure to him?

She was just going to have to admit to being fooled.

<Besides, if he'd give you some material to work with...>

"I am not going to argue with myself!" she announced to the dark of her bedroom, pounding one fist into the mattress.

<Who's arguing? It's a perfectly reasonable question: how are you supposed to validate a hypothesis if you have no data? How are you supposed to know how Mulder would act in a--pardon the expression--romantic setting if you have no data?>

She had to acknowledge the logic of that thought.

'Alright. So far we've established that a) I was embarrassed at being conned b) I felt like I was betraying Mulder because I did not recognize the impostor.

'The counter arguments, which I find valid, are that 1) there is no way I could've known that Eddie had assumed Mulder's appearance. Mulder--or at least, the person I thought was Mulder-- told me the case was closed. Therefore I treated what I thought was my closest friend in my customary manner. No reason for embarrassment there. 2) Since I have no information as to how Mulder would treat me in a similar situation, and Mulder has been much more affectionate and warm since my diagnosis, I had no reason to believe this behavior was out of character for him, and no basis on which to detect any missteps on Eddie's part.'

OK, what else? Well, it's pretty much a shock to the system to be cozied up on the couch with a nice attentive man, relaxed and warm from good wine and pleasant conversation, only to be interrupted rather violently by an FBI agent crashing your door. It's not a good substitute for a kiss. Not that I wanted to kiss Eddie, but . . . it's been a long time.

<So. Any other likely candidates for kisses?>

Dana tried to ignore that thought. Didn't get away with it.

<So? Anybody you know?>

She flopped over on her belly and pulled the pillow over her head.

Yes. Damn.

<Who?>

'Mulder, alright? We happy now? My goddamn crazy-ass partner, who's dearer to me than anyone, and whom I have quite happily overlooked as kissing material for the last four years, thank you very much, is now featured in my personal fantasies.'

She rolled over and pulled the pillow off her face

"Oh Lord. What do I do now?," she groaned aloud.

<Oh, the usual thing that grownups in this situation do. Exercise all that formidable strength of mind that took you through Quantico, med school, and Mulder on a tear more times than you can remember, and Do Nothing. Think about autopsies, and forms, and read medical journals. The Ice Queen routine.>

Scully considered it for a moment.

'No. No, I don't think so.

'I have terminal cancer. I have a few months, maybe a year left if we don't find a treatment. And for the little time I have left with this man, to whom I have always promised honesty, I'm going to lie and misrepresent my feelings? I don't think so."

<So--gonna jump those beautiful bones?>

'Good grief," Dana thought, "I guess it's hopeless, once the damned man starts writing dialogue for the voice in your head. No, I am not going to jump his admittedly lovely bones. Unless I get an invitation.

'I don't know exactly what I'm going to do, but I'm not just going to accept the status quo. I'm going to have to talk to Mulder, really talk to him.'

'Then he can damn well answer for the innuendoes, the warm looks, and the hugs and kisses.'

<Wow. Nothing like a little dose of self-confidence, eh? Guess there's something to be said for being seduced...>

"Enough! OK, what forms do we have to complete for an arrest report and prisoner custody transfer? And what information do we have to supply?"

Ten minutes of inventorying Federal law enforcement forms had Scully sound asleep.

"Good morning, Mulder, " Scully called as she entered Mulder's cave-like basement office. She was feeling surprisingly bright this morning, considering the events of last night. Nothing like a combination of a late start and a jolt of best quality, high-test coffee to lend a little perspective to life.

She expected that there would be a few moments of awkwardness to get over this morning, but she planned on meeting the subject of Eddie and his escapades head on. She wasn't going to tolerate any evasiveness or avoidance from Mulder in any form: he could be the big bad G-man, he could snap off one-liners like a Catskill comedian, he could get on his highest horse, but she wasn't going to let him get away with it.

"Morning, Scully." He didn't even bother to look up over the top of his glasses, merely handed her a neat stack of forms, with an uncapped pen clipped to the top one.

"Could you sign the booking form here, and take a look at this draft Statement of Arresting Officer? Once you agree to that, it can be printed for our signatures and the arrest and transfer process will be correctly documented, " he continued in the soft, uninflected voice he used for court hearings.

He continued typing after she took the papers.

<Aren't we Mr. Efficiency today,> she thought. She glanced up from the papers to look at him. <Boy, and I thought Skinner could look grim,>

"Mulder."

"Yes?" he answered, not bothering to look up from the keyboard.

"Mulder, listen to me. I'm sorry if you were offended by what you saw last night, but I can explain--"

"Offended. Offended? Offended doesn't even begin to cover it."

He pushed his chair back hard and stood suddenly, pulling his glasses off. He cocked his fists on his hips and stared at her. His eyes were dark and hard, the way they'd been in a storeroom in the Arctic.

Mulder hadn't passed an easy night. He was tired, and upset, and not choosing his words carefully.

" You'd have to add in disgust, violation, and insult to cover that little scenario I interrupted on your sofa. To say nothing--"

Mulder didn't get to finish his thought.

For a moment she was so surprised she could only stare at him, mouth open. She had expected anything from his wisecracks to stonewalling. She'd been prepared to return honesty and common sense and a dash of humor, if need be. But this--four years of "remotely hot" cracks and then he is disgusted with her? Then she interrupted him in mid-spate.

"Insult? You're insulted are you, Mulder? Don't like being made to look a fool?" she asked in a quiet, steady voice. One that was achieved through exercise of great will power.

<Good,> Mulder thought <she's being her usual analytical self. Maybe she's gotten over being mad.>

"And you're disgusted? And you feel violated, do you?"

With each word, Scully had taken a step towards her partner until she stood so close he could see the fine blue veins at her temples, hear her breathing. He thought he felt her shaking. He knew he saw her knuckles showing white on her clenched fists.

"I'm so sorry, Mulder. It must be awful to be just another man in the collection of that repulsive Dr. Scully," she added with deceptive softness.

<Omigod. She thinks I was disgusted by the idea of kissing her,> he realized.

"Scully--" He began. "I can explain--"

"And then to see her almost actually kiss you--my God, the horror knows no bounds. Even if it was just someone who looked like you. Because, now that I think about it, he certainly didn't act like you."

Her soft, sarcastic tone had been rising as she went on. Her eyes widened as her mouth tightened and she took deep, rapid breaths.

And then her Irish temper well and truly lit up.

"Well, if you think that's insulting and disgusting, you four-handed sonovabitch, let me tell you that it gets awfully tiresome being constantly manhandled by someone who makes a joke out of your femininity and dates a video machine! I may be disgusting but at least I have minimum social graces. Which include, for your information, a complete and total disinterest in having anything to do with any man who doesn't want me. Let alone one who's 'disgusted and insulted'!

She scribbled her signature on the forms he'd handed her and tossed them back at him. He didn't bother to catch them, just kept staring at her.

"And I'd appreciate it if said man would keep his damned hands to himself and off of me in the future! Now print the goddamned Arrest Statement and send it out. I don't care what it says, just as long as I get the hell out of this office."

With that, she powered through the office door, slamming it behind her.

Mulder stood, stunned, listening to the rapid click-tap of her heels fading down the corridor.

Suddenly the footfalls stopped, then he heard them getting louder.

Scully flung the office door open again. She stood glaring at him in the doorway

"And you can knock off your smartass innuendoes while you're at it, too."

With that, she slammed the door again. Mulder once again heard her footsteps rapidly retreating towards the elevator. This time they faded out and didn't come back.

Mulder spoke faintly to the empty office. It was no more than a breath, but it might have been a plea.

"Scully."

"I just hoped he hadn't upset you."

Slowly, he gathered up the papers she'd tossed at him. Slowly, he sat once more at his desk, staring unseeing at the screen.

She made it out of the lot before she let herself think about anything but the mechanics of driving home..

<I disgust him. He is insulted by the idea of touching me.> Such a calm, rational mental voice.

"How 'bout just intentionally?" she answered herself out loud.

"He probably doesn't even know how often he does it. And now he'll know, because I told him, and he--he won't."

It was funny--it hadn't mattered yesterday, it was just something Mulder did, neither good nor bad. Now it would be gone, and now it mattered.

She gulped, and fate smiled, and there was a parking space. She calmly and carefully parked the car, set the transmission and the brake.

And then Dana Scully had herself a good old-fashioned cry. She cried out the confusion with Eddie, and the constant battle to conduct their investigations, and the derision of her colleagues for "Mr. and Mrs. Spooky," and her fear and grief of dying from cancer. She cried out her loneliness, and she cried out the hurt of Mulder rejecting her so harshly, so coldly.

When she was done, she methodically put herself back together with HandiWipes and Kleenex from the contingency stash in the glovebox. Then she drove home to a silent apartment, where there were two empty wineglasses in the sink.

"Mmmm--a fresh raspberry croissant and a double cappuccino. Agent Mulder, you couldn't have done better if you took orders!"

Kimberly, Walter Skinner's administrative assistant, closed her eyes and sighed in satisfaction as she took another sip of hot coffee. The tall, slender man standing in front of her desk smiled and winked at her.

"Hey, anybody who has to set up 8 a.m. weekly status meetings on Monday morning deserves a little spoiling. Thanks for getting the overhead in, Kim."

"Anytime, Mulder, anytime. Hey, let me know if those office supplies you ordered don't show up by tomorrow."

"Sure thing, Kim. Thanks again."

As Mulder finished speaking, he was joined by his partner, Agent Dana Scully. Scully had been chatting with another agent after the weekly meeting of Skinner's section heads, which she attended as Mulder's backup. She smiled warmly at KIm.

"Morning, Kim. Getting the caffeine levels up?"

Kim hurriedly finished the bit of croissant she was chewing.

"Good morning, Agent Scully. Sure am, thanks to your partner. You should keep this guy--he really knows how to pick out coffee."

"Yes, Mulder does understand coffee requirements, I'll grant him that."

Kim paused a moment in her consumption of pastry and coffee. Was it her imagination, or had Scully seemed rather...cool...about her partner? Ah, well, Scully was usually a cool one, and maybe she hadn't had her blood caffeine levels topped off this morning, either. Kim mentally shrugged it off and went back to lapping up more of Starbuck's finest.

Then something happened that caught her eye.

Scully had turned to her partner, apparently to say something to him.

Mulder had simultaneously shifted back a half-step, leaving him a full two feet away from the short redhead.

Odd, that.

"Congratulations on the speaking engagement at the clinical psychology convention, Mulder."

Now even for Scully, that's a pretty cool tone, Kim thought. It's like she knows she ought to say it, but she really wants to say something else.

"Thank you, Scully. See you later, Kim, " he added as he began walking toward the door.

"Mulder, let me walk with you," Scully said, matching action to words. "I want to talk to you about the Wheeling case--"

The tall agent stopped with his hand on the door.

"Of course, Scully." His tone was. . .missing something? Another oddity, Kim thought.

"The x-rays are ready for you to look at, if you have time now."

Kim waited for the wisecrack. They were ostensibly out of her earshot--Skinner had a large reception area--but her "20/15 hearing" was a standing joke. She couldn't wait to hear what he'd come up with. Mulder's racy little lines to Scully when they were "out of earshot" had lightened many of Kim's mornings. She loved watching Scully try to pretend they weren't funny or flattering. She could just hear him now --<Oooh, Scully, does this mean spending time with you in the dark?>

"Certainly, if now is convenient for you."

'Huh?' Kim thought, 'This can't be Mulder.'

He reached for the door, holding it courteously to let his partner pass. Once she was in the hall, he too walked through the door and drew it closed.

"Now that's funny..." Kim said aloud.

"What's funny? The Dodgers' chances in the playoffs?"

Her boss, Assistant Director Walter Skinner, had materialized beside her desk, holding a coffee cup with SEMPER FI emblazoned on the side.

"No, no. Well, yeah, that too, but--"

"But what, Kim?"

"Boss, I think something's wrong with Agent Mulder."

"Kimberly, I know several things are wrong with Agent Mulder."

"No, no, I mean bothering him wrong."

That got Skinner's attention. Kim was one sharp cookie, and she knew most of the Agents who reported to him better than some of their own section heads. Besides that, she could give lessons to the CIA in finding out hidden information--or at least in tracking the office grapevine.

"What do you mean, Kim?"

"Well, you know how when Scully and Mulder talk they always stand practically on top of each other, like God forbid she should have to strain to hear him? Or that he should have to talk in a normal tone?"

"Yes, Kim, I'd noticed that they tend to converse in close proximity."

"Well, she came over while he was talking to me, and when she turned to talk to him, he actually backed away, like, like a puppy does that's just been learning SIT and thinks he has to do it all the time. And you know how they usually have their eyes all over each other's faces when they talk? They both looked like they were talking to IRS inspectors--straight-in-the-eye poker faces, and that's it.

"And then, she fed him a straight line that Jerry in Ballistics could pull a laugh out of, and he just ignored it.

"And to top it off, he didn't get near her when she walked out the door. You know how he always does that hand on the back thing? I mean , he does it with everybody--I swear his mother sent him to charm school--but he always, always, especially does it with Dana. Not this time: he opened the door for her, he waited for her to walk through and get two steps into the hall, then he walked through the door.

"Boss, there is a big old stinky fish on the beach in Denmark."

Scully accelerated out of a curve on the path, legs flowing rhythmically, arms relaxed and quiet at her sides as she finished her third mile of running along the Potomac in Great Falls Park. It was a bit of a drive from Annapolis, but she loved listening to the music of the river while she ran.

One good thing about blowups with one's partner--it sure honed one's physical condition. She'd found herself at the armory shooting range so many times in the past 3-1/2 weeks--eight different occasions, to be exact--that the range officer was making jokes about her competition ambitions. After hours and on weekends, when she couldn't get to the range, she'd been giving her Nike Air Pegasuses major workouts. The activity seemed to be the only thing that really took her mind off the problem with Mulder, who had been absolutely businesslike and civil.

If Scully had given him written instructions on avoiding physical contact and racy remarks, he couldn't have fulfilled them more perfectly.

He wasn't ostentatious about it, made no big deal of it. He simply didn't get within two feet of her.

Oh, he still managed to open doors, help her into coats (without actually touching her, somehow), help with bulky evidence items. And he hadn't stopped making funny observations on everything from the usual DC plague of tourists ("Think we could trade 'em for locusts, Scully?") to Travel and Expense Reports ("They're called TAERs. Why can't I just tear 'em up?").

And absolutely no innuendoes targeting her own fair self passed his lips.

It was what she'd asked for, and what he deserved. She hated it .

She 'sat down' on her pelvis and let her legs reach out in a balanced, ground eating stride as she covered the straightaway to the next turn in the trail, a blind corner around a thicket of trees. She was well into a runner's high--she was aware of the sights and sounds and sensations of her surroundings, but they were distant wrappings around the calm, soothing pulse of her breathing and movement. She saw the sky and trees, heard birds and the sounds of other people walking, biking, blading, running, felt mild breezes and warm sun.

She began to take the curve, weight shifting slightly to her right foot on the inside of the curve. She supported her weight on her inside foot, lengthening the reach of her left leg, passed the apex of the corner, and then centered her weight over both feet and started to reach for her full stride.

Which was when the little two-year-old girl darted away from the side of the trail where she'd been waiting for her mom to tie her older sister's shoe. She dashed directly in front of Scully, and then stopped.

Smack in the middle of the narrowest part of the path, with a tangle of trees and vines on one side, and a small shoulder and quick drop to rocky rapids on the other side.

Scully did the right thing. She crashed to the path, and did not mow down the child.

<It's a damn good thing Scully decided to blow up at me in spring and not winter,> Mulder thought , <because otherwise I would've gotten pneumonia from exposure with all the running I've been doing. Ah, well, at least I'm getting out of the basement and into the sunshine, for once.>

Mulder had done more running in the last three weeks than he had in the last three years. Not that he was exactly a piker in the running department at any time, but hitting a runner's high seemed to be the only thing that could get his mind off the whole blasted Eddie van Blundht -induced fiasco.

He just couldn't quite figure out how to clear the air, and he wasn't even positive that he was ready to do that. <Nah, but you're perfectly happy to beat the hell out of your joints running from the problem.>

He was, frankly, pretty pissed and more than a little hurt by that "dating videos" remark. Besides, Scully seemed to be perfectly happy with the current situation. He, on the other hand, was having to devote an inordinate amount of mental energy to making sure that he stayed well outside her personal space, and that he said nothing whatsoever that could be taken as an innuendo about her.

He was getting really sick of it.

<I'm not gonna think about it now>, he reminded himself. <I'm just gonna sweat and feel good.>

Mulder shook his head in frustration. He took a longer stride with his left leg to pass a couple of teenagers too wrapped up in playing kissy-face to move faster than an amble, then shifted weight to round a curve in the path. He heard a slight commotion up ahead.

Before he could make sense of the sounds, he came out of the corner and saw a small girl standing in the middle of the path. She was staring round-eyed at someone huddled at her feet--

Directly where Mulder's next step would fall.

Mulder did the right thing. He relaxed every muscle and dropped like an empty sack to the path.

Directly on top of the huddled person at the girl's feet.

He did a good job of it, too. There was no way he could completely prevent the impact, but he managed to twist as he fell and take some weight on his forearms and the sides of his legs (not the knees and wrists, thank you). His arrival thus produced only a surprised "Ooof!" from the small body beneath him. Didn't sound like he'd knocked the wind out of her. Yup, definitely a her, he noticed.

"Sorry to drop in like this," he said, sitting up. "I don't usually tackle women until we've been introduced." He grasped the woman's shoulders to help her sit up.

"Like hell you don't, Mulder. I've seen you tackle female suspects without even yelling 'Stop!'" The voice was breathy, from surprise and and a bit of battering, but it was definitely familiar.

"Scully!" He snatched his hands off her shoulders and started to scoot away from her. She swayed a little where she sat, and grimaced as something twinged.

Mulder was back in an instant.

"Hey, you OK, Scully?" He started to run his hands over her right arm--she was holding it with the other hand. That was the side she'd landed on.

She felt him put one hand under her right elbow, and start to probe her arm with his other hand. Suddenly he stopped, and she felt the firm touch of his hands slacken and become hesitant.

"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, "we can worry about sensibilities after I find out if you're hurt." His touch firmed up again.

"Mulder."

He didn't answer.

"Mulder. Look at me."

Reluctantly, his eyes turned to hers.

<Damn,> she thought, <if the SPCA could bottle that look, there would be no homeless puppies. How does a 6-foot man make himself look like he's 8 inches tall at the shoulder and more helpless than anybody in the vicinity?>

Suddenly, it all struck her as funny--here they had carefully avoided touching each other in any way, even in private, and now they were sprawled all over each other in a National Park. <But it's not funny that he's so concerned about making me angry that he's hesitant to check me for injuries. Wouldn't that be a lovely situation in the field? Time to knock this crap off, Dana.>

"Mulder. If you're worried about what I'll do to you for manhandling my shoulder, think of what I could come up with for patting my leg."

He looked scandalized.

"Dammit, Scully, that's unfair. I have never patted your leg, and I--"

"You're about to, though. You're also going to get your arms around me and sweep me off my feet." If you didn't look closely at her eyes, she appeared to have a deadpan expression.

"Scully, I have had it with you blaming me for things I haven't done and misinterpreting what I have done. First you accuse me of leading you on, and then you accuse me of having intentions I for one am not aware of. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Mulder's face was turning dark and his voice was rising. They were gaining an audience of the little girl, her mom, her sister, the teenage couple Mulder had passed, and a couple of hikers who looked like they were set to take notes.

"Mulder, keep your voice down," she hissed at him. "We're turning into the Bargain Matinee. And you're about to sweep me off my feet because I managed to turn an ankle when I took a dive to miss that little girl. So dust yourself off and get me out of the pathway."

"Oh." He visibly deflated.

He rolled up to get his feet under him, then reached over and pulled Scully against him, pulling her uninjured left arm over his shoulder. He straightened up, bringing her with him. He hooked an arm around her waist and started to lead her out of the path, but it quickly became obvious that the jarring of her hopping gait was causing her discomfort. He hooked his left arm under her knees and scooped her up.

"Jeez, Scully, don't you ever eat anything? You're skin and bones," he informed her as he headed for a small opening in the trees.

She hit him with a Look.

<Whoops. Maybe not the best time for hyperbolic statements, Mulder, old man.>

"OK. Not skin and bones, Scully. Definitely not."

He got the eyebrow.

"Nope. No way. No details--you'd have me up on charges. Just--you're little, you know? I don't notice that very often."

That got a tiny ScullySmile.

He got them off the path and stopped by a fallen tree that would make an adequate bench. He carefully set her on her feet, keeping his right arm around her. He put his other hand on her left shoulder, keeping her half beside him, half leaning back against him.

It suddenly occurred to him that he literally had Scully in the best position to clear the air a bit about their fight: she couldn't get away, she couldn't slug him or get him in an armlock, she didn't have her pistol. OK, that left yelling, but hey--

"Mulder?" she asked over her shoulder.

He looked down at her, drew a deep breath, and plunged in.

"Scully, I think you may have misunderstood something I said recently. I was indeed feeling disgusted, violated, and offended by that little scene with van Blundht, but not because of his taste in women."

"I'm happy to hear that, Mulder. I would hate to think I wasn't up to standard," she said in her coolest tone.

" I was upset by what he was going to make me answer for. Believe me, there are far more disgusting things in this world than having to stoop to kiss short redheads."

She eyed him coolly.

"Not a good time for puns, Mulder."

"Aren't many good times to be called a 'four-handed sonovabitch who dates a video machine,' either," he shot back.

"No, I don't suppose there are, Mulder. By the way, you're doing it again."

"Doing what, Scully?"

She said nothing, only looked rather pointedly at first his left hand, then his right, then back up at him.

He got it.

"Yes, Scully, I have my entire human-normal complement of two hands on you.

"At your request, I might add. Do you mind telling me where you get off, first ordering me to quote 'sweep you off your feet,' unquote, and then giving me dirty looks for following directions? Dammit, Scully, I'm sick of constantly having to think about where you are, and if I'm too close to you, if there's any chance I might accidentally touch you. You told me you weren't interested in men who didn't want you--how do you think I feel about being around a woman who's disgusted by casual contact? Ah, to hell with it!," he said, throwing up his hands and turning away in disgust.

<Oh, delightful, Dana,> she thought, <Let's see you get out of this one. Sounds like you jumped the gun a little when you went off at him. And what are going to do now--tell him you miss all those little touches and trying to keep a straight face in spite of his best lines?>

The thought of the probable effect on Mulder's ego, and its probable effects on his behavior, undid her.

She chuckled. Softly, but definitely.

Suddenly his face was inches from hers.

"I take it your grasp of the social graces does not extend to consideration of the feelings of men, only whether or not they're interested in you," he hissed.

She was suddenly serious: she hadn't meant to hit a nerve. "Mulder--" she began softly. She reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away.

"Mulder. We need to get over this. We're letting a relatively minor incident--"

"You call potential rape and real psychological violation MINOR?!"

"As I said, relatively minor. We're letting it have far too great an effect on us."

"No, Scully. No way. I'm not going for it. What that little shape-shifting bastard did Was. Not. Minor., and don't try to make me discount my feelings. Don't try to belittle my experience, and don't tell me not to be upset about what he did to both of us."

By the time he finished, his fists were clinched and he was hissing at her through gritted teeth. She said the first thing that popped into her head.

"You really were upset, Mulder." She felt as though she had been woken from sleep and was trying to make sense of a conversation while still half-dreaming.

"Bet you're good at finding the round things in a bowl of CheeriOs, too, Scully," he snapped back, "Yes, to put it mildly, I was upset."

"Oh."

They were both motionless and silent for a beat, blue eyes gone wide locked on sparking hazel ones. Then she reached out and slowly placed her hand, very very softly, on his shoulder again.

He flinched again, but not as hard.

"Scully, you said you didn't like being manhandled by 'someone who belittled your femininity.' I sympathize--I don't like being touched by someone who doesn't like me to touch her. Not exactly a mutual desire kind of thing, y'know.

"I believe that's called sexual harassment."

Dana stared at him. His eyes were cold as lumps of coal. He was not joking.

She lightened the pressure of her hand on his shoulder, so that it was no heavier than the weight of a dried leaf.

"I can understand why you would feel that way. That's exactly how I felt when we were talking in the office the next morning.

"But I was wrong, then. Wasn't I?"

She dropped her eyelids for a moment, and reminded herself that she had faced off psychopaths, her own demons, and held a gun on her own boss. She could face taking a chance on Mulder, no problem.

"Because you weren't disgusted by me, were you?"

He understood. Why she was wrong then, and he was wrong now.

"I've already told you so, Scully," he said, in the soft voice she was used to.

She dropped her hand on his shoulder momentarily, patting him once.

He rolled his eyes down at her hand, then arched his eyebrows at her.

"So does this mean I actually get to pat your leg, Agent Scully?" he asked in his best innocently bantering tone.

"It means you get to check my twisted ankle very carefully, and if you do it wrong, I'll hurt you," she answered, sitting on the downed tree.

"No woman's ever complained about the way I've handled her legs, Scully, trust me," he said as he knelt to carefully lift her right ankle

"Can you substantiate that statement, Agent Mulder?" She was letting the interchange take her mind off the ankle which was starting to protest its recent mistreatment.

She was just starting to let herself enjoy their return to an easy, comfortable banter when she saw him tense for a moment . His eyes locked with hers.

"I have videos." His expression was completely serious.

Then Mulder bent back to examine her ankle.

Scully just bent her head, and told herself she had nothing of which to be ashamed.

"I don't see what's to be accomplished by such a visit, Ms. Walker. Did he say anything more specific about the purpose of the meeting?

"I see. Right. Very well, let me look at my schedule and I'll see what I can work out. Sure--good-bye."

Dana Scully entered the X-Files office just in time to catch the tag end of Mulder's telephone call. She watched him rehook the handset and then scrub his hands over his face.

"What, did you draw tour guide duty, Mulder?," she asked as she sat at her desk.

"That was the staff psych counselor at the reformatory that is currently serving as Eddie van Blundht's residence."

"Oh."

"She's asked me to come and have a little chat with Mr. van Blundht. Seems she feels he would benefit from 'acknowledging the individuals he's harmed.' Damned social workers," he added in an under-the-breath grumble.

Scully chose to ignore his last comment, chalking it up to professional rivalry.

"So--are you going?" she asked cautiously. Her partner's reactions to the mention of Eddie's name were still unpredictable, at best. Their run-in on the trail had cleared the air, but there was still some lingering awkwardness.

He sighed and dropped his head back against his office chair. He exhaled heavily and stared into the middle distance.

"There've been some reports of erratic, bright lights appearing in Ivyton, just about 40 miles from the reformatory. Might as well stop by and see Eddie on the way.

"You got anything on, or you want to come along?"

"Actually, that works out really well for me. I don't have anything scheduled today, and I'd like to talk to the prison physician about Eddie. He's made some interesting observations I'd like to get some more detail on."

Mulder slapped both hands on the chair's armrests. "OK, let's roll."

The trip to the reformatory had been uneventful. They hadn't got stuck in traffic getting to National, the commuter flight had been on time, there was no mixup at the car rental agency. They had argued genially about which radio station to listen to, but the hills had won the argument by limiting their choices to Christian rock radio and a country station.

Almost like any other of a hundred trips they'd taken.

Except when he'd reached into the overhead for their coats when the plane stopped--and pulled back, ever so slightly as she had stood, moving toward the aisle almost inside his arms. She had stopped, leaned back, waited. Let him hand down her coat. He moved back in the aisle for her to get out, put a hand on her back--and drew it back.

That had been the pattern of the last week. Things were almost normal between them, the air was almost clear--but not quite. Mulder wasn't quite confident that he could touch her in all the hundred little ways he always had before. She was not sure that he wouldn't flinch away from her. They were easing back into their usual patterns, but sometimes, she would notice him stiffen or pull away instead of absently placing a warm palm on her back.

<Damn--about the only way to get over this is to grab his hand and drag his arm around me, and he's certain to misinterpret that,> she thought.

The drive to the reformatory was quiet. Mulder had retreated, and she wasn't going to push him.

She watched from the corridor as the innocuous little janitor played her partner like a piano.

She wanted to wipe the arch look off Eddie's face with her fist when he asked if she was around. Then she wanted to hold Mulder when Eddie accused him of being a loser by choice.

By the time he told Mulder that he should treat himself and live a little, Scully just wanted to crawl into a hole, and pull it in after her.

<Scully is not a subject you want to pursue, asshole,> Mulder thought as he stared silently at Eddie.

<I'm a loser? At least I don't have to hide behind another man's face to get laid.>

"On what do you base that astute observation?," Mulder replied to a remark from Eddie.

"Experience."

<C'mon, Eddie, don't pull any punches here. Tell me what you really think about my home, my partner, my friends. . .>

"Treat yourself. Live a little--God knows I would, if I were you."

<Yeah, I know how you'd live if you were me. Antagonizing my boss and tricking your way into my partner's pants. About the only non-sleazeball thing you did was pick out a decent Merlot, judging by the empty bottle.

>God--this little con man is feeling pity for me. Enough!>

He avoided meeting Scully's eyes back in the corridor, busying himself with the sign-out process instead.

Suddenly, the awkwardness of the days following Eddie's arrest returned full force. Scully's hostility the next morning, her cutting remarks, and Eddie's condescension--Eddie's!--hit him all at once.

There was nothing else to do but join Scully and walk back to the car.

'I don't imagine you need to be told this, Mulder, but you're not a loser.'

But he didn't say what he was thinking, just let the silence gap between them.

"Yeah, but I'm no Eddie van Blundht, either, am I?," he asked her, with his hands twisting together, eyes lowered.

She offered him no answer at all.

-30-

Minor revisions to syntax completed 26 July 97. Please send comments to <phetsy@earthlink.net.>.