Note: This story originally appeared in June 1998 on the alt.tv.x-files.creative newsgroup and X-Files Fanfic Mailing list. Due to reader demand, a sequel seems likely. :) *** Rising From the Ashes *** AUTHOR'S BABBLE: Hi, everyone! This story is a sequel to my "The End" post-ep called "Among the Ashes". (This is on my webpage, Email me if you would like a copy by Email.) As it turns out, I think there will eventually be a part III, also (Much to my personal surprise.:D) so be forewarned.;-) This story assumes that "Fight the Future" has taken place BETWEEN story one and story two, and would definitely qualify as a Flickfic. Enjoy!:) DISCLAIMER JAZZ: "The X-Files" and its characters are the creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. I am, of course, using them without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. All other concepts or ideas herein are mine. SUMMARY: A few days after "Fight the Future", Mulder and Scully try to deal with the repercussions of recent events (both those in the movie, and in the previous story "Among the Ashes"). TITLE: Rising From the Ashes AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale RATING: (PG) CLASSIFICATIONS: (SA) KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST SPOILERS: "The End", "Fight the Future" ARCHIVE: Yes, Please, Everywhere!:) Just tell me, please. RISING FROM THE ASHES (Sequel to "Among the Ashes") by Elizabeth Rowandale Copyright (c) 1998 *Did you love her?* *Why did you ask me that? Scully....* She was cold for days after they returned, weeks it seemed, but surely it wasn't so long as that. But he saw it in her. Even in the mid-July heat, she just couldn't get warm. She shivered in air-conditioned hallways, cupped her hands, warmed them with her breath. When he dropped by her apartment that one evening to update her on their latest "hot tip" from the Gunmen-- a half-assed excuse to see her, really--he'd seen the pile of afghans strewn carelessly across her plush couch. His own couch often looked the same, but he spent most of his nights there. Scully slept in her bed. Safe and warm. He hoped. She was sleeping now. Still fully dressed. Curled up on his couch, probably not even aware she had dozed off as they read through endless pages of tepid testimony, dragging their feet through a case that was nothing but an exercise. The X-Files were open again, true. But it was as if the Bureau considered them on some kind of probation, handing out one meaningless case after another until they could begin their real work again. It was frustrating as hell. Insult upon injury. But part of him was grateful for the respite. Not for himself, but for Scully. Her body had been through too much. She wasn't ready for field work yet, though she would never admit such. She hadn't regained her full energy. They didn't know what had been done to her. The obvious symptoms had been treated--dehydration, a slight iron deficiency, frostbite, exposure. But what other damage had been inflicted upon her body that the doctors didn't know to look for? What long term effects might there be? For now, Mulder couldn't think ahead. He could only watch her. Keep her warm. Keep her safe, let her rest. He had spread a blanket over her sleeping figure. She was breathing softly, evenly. Her dark lashes fluttered against her pale skin, showed she was dreaming. The pink blotches on her cheeks were fading. He had watched them pass through the tedious stages of healing, trusting her past resilience would come through once again. Injuries to Scully's face were always the hardest for him. Such gentle perfection should never be marred. Why did everything he pursued end up hurting her? He had tried time and again to push her away, push her to safety, keep her at arm's length. But it took so little from her to topple his fragile resolve. And as he had told her not so long ago, *"This is your work now, ready or not, and it should be acknowledged as such."* He knew he needed her. That without her, there would be no quest for the truth. And now she knew it, too. He had spelled it out for her in full Technicolor and Dolby stereo, right outside in this hallway. And as he'd spoken, she'd started to cry. *Scully...* *How long had she needed to hear those words?* *My God, Scully, I had no idea...I am still left guessing...* In desperation, he had lain himself open before her, bared his soul as he had never thought possible, and dropped his heart in her gentle hands. And to his utter shock and wonder, she had given him an equal gift. For the first time since they'd met--without a death in her family, without a gun at her head, without an electronically induced hysteria, or a fatal illness--something Fox Mulder had said to Dana Scully had made her cry. Something deeply personal, something about what she meant to him, and ultimately what he meant to her. She hadn't even turned away. Scully hadn't spoken a word. Her tears, her touch, had told him more than he'd ever known of how much of her life he had touched. Or at least he hoped he understood. He had never been this far through her defenses. He hadn't wanted to let her go, never wanted her far away again. In that moment, her delicate, warm body nestled in his awkward arms, he had realized--her coldness, her seemingly detached distance the past few days, her clinical appraisal of the practicality of splitting them up--these had been nothing but lies. To herself and to him. Her defense mechanism against an attachment she knew had grown too strong, and apparently against her fear that that attachment wasn't reciprocated in kind. *Oh, Scully...don't you know?* He couldn't let go. All of this, this sudden wave of knowledge and feeling and warmth and simplicity had given him the utterly unexpected courage to kiss her. *GODDAMN THAT BEE!!* He had been so ready for rejection, so primed to be pushed away, that when she had ducked his lips, he had been certain he had done something wrong. That he had hurt her or offended her, or somehow tragically misstepped. And he had apologized at once. But, no... *"No...something stung me..."* *"What?"* It wasn't him at all...wasn't him... *"Mulder?...Something's wrong."* And his thoughts had drowned in his agony as he watched his lifeline sinking in his arms. *"Scully--"* "My motor function's being affected..." "...anaphylactic shock..." "...I have no allergy..."* He closed his eyes and shuddered, willing the nightmarish memory into the fearful shadows of his mind. He opened his eyes and gazed upon Scully as she slept, reassuring himself she was all right now, she was safe, she was breathing. Mulder released a weary breath and tossed the case file onto his disheveled desktop. Scully was asleep on the corner of her part of the printout. He wouldn't move it for fear of waking her. The stillness of his apartment settled heavily upon his shoulders. His focus sank to the floor, the row of dust kitties at the edge of the couch. His little area rug beneath the coffee table didn't match the fabric of his sofa. The garbage can beside the desk was overflowing with crumpled papers. They had been kicked into a pile on the floor. So little of his time and effort had been given to this place. It was a place to exist, a place to sleep, a place to eat. Nothing more. Most of the time he never saw his surroundings. Until quiet moments like this one. Dana Scully. A drastic incongruity in this den of mediocrity and neglect. A soft dignity in the unworthy chaos. She didn't belong in a place like this. And yet she was there with him, time and again. Quietly...or sometimes not so quietly...by his side. Something brought her back each time. *I said you owe me nothing, Scully. You never answered me. Do you owe me something? Do I give you something?? Is there something here you need that brings you to my side?* She slept. Mulder ran a hand through his hair, unaware when he'd last checked a mirror. Some things were so easy to forget when no one seemed to care. He glanced at his watch. Good God, it was after eleven already. Scully often went to bed early when they weren't on a marathon case. He knew he had awakened her on more than one occasion, calling around 11:20 or so... No wonder she was tired. She should go home. But he hated to wake her. Mulder pushed up from his computer chair and took the few steps that separated them. He stooped down beside his couch, catching sight of the corner of an old potato chip sack beneath the overstuffed chair. Scully's stocking shimmered against her ankle in the uneven light. She had kicked the blanket askew. What kind of stockings were they? Did women notice that kind of thing? Did Scully always choose the shimmering kind? Did she want him to notice? His gaze swept the length of her figure. The gentle curve of her hips, the way her fingers rested across her stomach. Her blouse, pulled to the side by her position to expose a thin edge of her white lace bra. And for a moment she wasn't Dr. Scully, his partner, but a beautiful woman who trusted him so completely as to fall asleep alone with him in his apartment in the middle of the night. His computer beeped and Mulder shoved to his feet, stretching his long arm to shut off the sound before Scully could wake. She shifted, burrowing into his worn couch cushion as if it were her own fresh linens. A moment later her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty," he said softly. She lifted her head with a start, drew a sharp breath. "What time is it?" she asked, still sleepy, still fuzzy...still soft. Would her cheek be warm to the touch? He glanced at his watch. "It's 11:15." Scully frowned, pushing back the blanket as she rose to a sitting position. "I slept over half an hour?" She pulled off her reading glasses, wiped gently at the corner of her eye as she tucked her hair behind one ear. "Out like a light," he said with a gentle smile. She sniffed. "Sorry." Her eyes were lowered, his smile lost on her. She drew a slow breath through her nose. "I should go." Mulder nodded. Goosebumps. It was his turn to be cold. Not the cold of winter drafts or icy air. But the cold of lost warmth. Of a comfort taken away. Only a moment ago he had been close enough to feel her breath on his hand, wrapped in the tender memory of her body nestled in his embrace, her tears moistening his shoulder. But the moment she woke, a distance had risen between them like a wall. Formality. Self-containment. Cold. *Did I imagine it all, Scully? Were you merely pitying me? Indulging me? Or have you chosen to forget?* "Are you sure you're awake enough to drive?" he asked, riding the much-rehearsed line between professionalism and a friend's concern. She nodded, snapping shut her laptop, stretching to retrieve her suit jacket from the arm of the overstuffed chair. "I'm fine." *He had learned to hate those words.* "You're sure? I can get you some coffee--" "No, I'm fine, Mulder." She shrugged her jacket into place, freed her auburn hair from the collar. Her cross flickered in the lamplight. "I phoned the prison, set up a time for us to visit Nealy tomorrow," he said. "What time?" "8am. It was the only time I could get that the warden would be there, too." Slinging her briefcase over her shoulder like a flight bag, Scully picked up her laptop and started toward the door. Her high heels clicked on the bare floor. "I'll meet you at the office in the morning, then." He nodded, but she was looking the other way, her hand already on the doorknob. "'Night, Mulder." "Goodnight, Scully. Don't let the bed bugs bite." She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a dry-witted smile as she slipped through the doorway--the first real eye contact she had offered since she awoke. The temperature had moderated with the nightfall, but the humidity still thickened the air like fog, pressing her jacket against her skin. She didn't mind. Even humid warmth was better than cold. She never wanted to be cold again. It was worst when she was tired. Twilight land, half-sleepiness, made it easier to remember--and harder to forget. She had tasted the acrid slime for days after the rescue. Chewing gum, toothpaste, mouthwash--nothing helped. Even food had lost its joy for the first week after her return. Only tomato sauce was hard for her now. Something about the acidity...or maybe the smell. Scully tossed her briefcase onto the passenger seat of her car and slid the laptop to the floorboard. She rubbed her eyes again, drawing a few deep breaths before starting the car. She *was* tired. Mulder was right to check on her. But she was all right to drive. The nap had helped, and the fresh air was reviving her. She switched on the radio and flipped through the presets. Nothing too loud, just something to keep the road from lulling her back to sleep. *You make me a whole person, Scully.* *I never answered you...I'm sorry...* A light rain sprinkled across the windshield and she switched on the wipers. Stoplight after stoplight. So much traffic, so many people with somewhere to go...and so late... Mulder sniffed the milk once more, then gave up and poured it down the sink. Mental note: Stop for groceries tomorrow. Carrying his box of stale Rice Krispies, he trudged back to the living room and flopped on the couch. He picked up the remote and circled through the channels once again, this time landing on an old Peter Cushing movie. He reached out instinctively for the piece of the trial transcripts Scully had been sleeping on. This was insane. He'd be doing as much toward making the world a safer place by burying his nose in the Sunday Crossword. Nealy was in jail. The murders were over. One killing in a suburb of Richmond, Virginia that fairly closely resembled Nealy's technique and the brass all had their shorts in a bunch screaming Copycat Killer. So, now they had him analyzing the hell out of the ashes of a buried case, looking for anything to connect the recent murders to a former accomplice...anything. Anything to keep him hidden away in the basement and smelling of soot. Their excuse for giving the case to Spooky Mulder? Unsubstantiated rumors during the trial, claiming Nealy was a shape-shifter. More than likely, he'd had on some kind of animal costume during the murders, something he'd hidden too well for the local PD to trip over. Mulder stuffed in a mouthful of Rice Krispies and crumpled up the top page of the transcript. He missed his shot for the overstuffed garbage can, startled by the ringing of the phone. He almost didn't answer it. Scully wasn't likely to be calling so soon after leaving. If it was his mother calling so late, it would be bad news he didn't want. Anyone else would be calling about work. Something else he wasn't in the mood for. Habit will out. "Hello?" "Agent Mulder." He glanced at the Caller ID. *Out of Area*. Big surprise. "Who is this?" Was that a laugh? A car horn in the background. "You should know. You've been reading about me for days. Am I really as interesting as all that? I really thought myself quite the ordinary, run of the mill serial killer. Yet we're all artists, aren't we." Mulder's gaze sucked toward the crumpled page of the transcript that lay at his feet. Nealy...Not possible. "I don't know what you're talking about. Who is this?" Definite laughter. "Agent Mulder, you insult your own genius. You know who I am. But I'll humor you. Suppose you were currently investigating the Thomas Nealy murders. Who was Nealy's second victim?" "You sound like a man who reads the papers. You tell me." "Let me think, now...the original investigating officer was a man named Dawes, wasn't it? Det. Anthony Dawes of the drooping ear lobes, yes that was it. And the second victim. Denise Dawes, I believe. Anthony's wife." "Tell me something I don't already know." No laughter this time. Mulder's stomach tensed. Something had changed. Something was wrong. "Well then, Mr. F-B-I. A little deductive reasoning, please... If you do indeed have a 'copycat killer' on your hands, now wouldn't you *assume* said copycat might COPY the original pattern?" "Det. Morrow was the investigating officer in the most recent Richmond murder. He's single. Not even a girlfriend. His mother died two years ago, and he has no sisters." "Very true, Agent Mulder. So it seems logical this 'copycat' as you folks insist upon referring to him, might move on to the next investigator in line, does it not?" Mulder reached out and switched off his desk lamp, extinguishing the silhouette he had been projecting to the alley below. "Meaning me." "Meaning you." "But I'm not married either." "Close enough." "Excuse me?" Click. Mulder tapped the hook, waiting for a dial tone and punched in Star 69. One ring...two rings...three...four...five... *Dammit!* He slammed down the phone. And as he turned his gaze landed upon his empty couch, the blanket still crumpled as Scully had left it when she pushed it away. Scully. Asleep on his couch. In his apartment until after eleven at night...*Jesus*... He grabbed the phone on pure instinct, his fingers dialing her number in the dark. One ring...two rings...three rings..."Hello, you've reached 555-6431. I'm not in right now, but if you leave your name and number I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Bye." Silence. A beep. "Scully?? Scully, are you there? Scully, pick up! Scully, it's important, pick up the phone!!" Silence. Another beep. Dead air. She must still be on the road. He dialed her cell phone. Connecting, connecting... "What the *hell*?" He jumped and whirled around at the ringing sound. Behind him, in the dark. Was that his cell phone? Was she calling him? But no, the line was ringing in his ear... He reached for his own cell phone on the coffee table. But the ringing came again just as he lifted it. Not coming from there...coming from further away. On the floor, beneath the coffee table...below the arm of the overstuffed chair where Scully had tossed her jacket...*Dammit!* Scully's cell phone lay on the floor of his apartment. He was out the door with only his gun and his keys. Dana Scully stretched her neck as she took the stroll up her walkway at a leisurely pace. Her shoulder was crinked from sleeping on Mulder's couch. And her hair smelled faintly of sunflower seeds. Maybe a shower tonight. The air smelled sweet. The petunias and jasmine beside the entrance steps were in full bloom. At least the rain was doing *them* good. The apartment building's outer door was unlocked until midnight, no need for her keycard. Scully yawned as she walked the last few steps to her door. She stooped to pick up the newspaper from the doormat. The new paperboy was late too often. She seldom had the paper to read over breakfast anymore. Just as well. She'd been sleeping too late recently to have time for anything more than a Pop-Tart on the fly. She turned the key, wiggling it past the place it liked to stick, pushed open the door, and stepped into the lovely warmth. She left the air-conditioning off during the day, telling herself it was to keep the bill down. But once she was home, the stuffiness would get to her, and she would be forced to turn on the central air and bundle up in blankets. Home sweet home. It felt good tonight. She needed to let down, unwind. Scully dropped her things beside the kitchen counter and headed for the bathroom. Returning, she stepped out of her high heels as she crossed the kitchen floor, shedding her professional persona as she walked. She reached up to unfasten her earrings. The left one had rubbed a sore place on her neck from her nap at Mulder's. She rubbed her earlobes and dropped her earring on the counter with a gentle click that echoed through the empty rooms. *Why did you try to kiss me, Mulder? Was it just an impulsive moment of closeness, a grateful dependency in your hour of need? Or was it because of what I said...because I let my tongue slip in the charred remains of our basement office? And if it was...do I want it to be...?* It had been so hard for her to go to him that night, to drive to his apartment, walk up the stairs, ride the elevator, knowing all the time she was traveling there to drop a bomb on her best friend. *"I debated whether or not to even tell you in person."* She might just as well have slapped him in the face as spoken such icy words. But she hadn't meant it that way, not at all. Her world had been turned upside down that week. She'd been flailing for something to cling to, something to ground her. And as always, solitude had been her security. Scully stretched to pull her favorite mug from an over- counter cupboard and poured herself some apple juice. Sipping the cool, sweet juice, she slipped out of her suitcoat and tossed it over the back of a kitchen chair. Yes, a shower would feel good. Then sleep. Preferably dreamless. He had already phoned 911, sent the police and an ambulance to her apartment. But at the speed he was driving he might beat them there--if he didn't crash first. His surroundings were surreal. He couldn't focus on the road, the controls of the car. He was functioning on pure instinct, taking the turns too wide, changing lanes without checking his blind spot. Redial. Endless ringing. The answering machine no longer picking up. Implications he dared not consider. *Scully...wait for me.* She had only half unbuttoned her blouse when she caught sight of the shadow on the living room wall. A creeping movement in her peripheral vision. A stealthy shift. Just enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck. She was too far from the living room light switch to dispel the shadows without moving closer to the source. Her weapon-- where was it? Still in its holster on the dining room table. Though her heart fluttered in her chest and adrenaline tingled her fingers, she struggled to stand still for a moment. Moonlight and the passing headlights could cast deceptive shadows. Somebody's lost cat outside the window perhaps? The shadow's movement seemed somehow...animalistic. But as she stood, the shadow shifted again, and this time she caught a hint of movement in the dim recesses of the living room. One slow, deep breath through her nose, and Scully made a hard dive for both the light switch and her gun. She caught the light. But even as her hand met with the cold steel of her weapon, she felt the movement in the opposition. A wild, screeching cry scraped her ears as the heavy weight slammed against her back. "Dammit, Scully, answer the phone!" He kept dialing and dialing, telling himself the fact the answering machine no longer picked up didn't mean anything. Telling himself the line hadn't been deliberately snipped. Telling himself she had stopped somewhere for coffee. Only a block to go. No, here, this was her street. Wasn't that her car in the distance? But no sirens. No police yet. The initial impact bruised her ribs and pinned her body across the dining room table. She struggled and squirmed, but the force above was stronger than she was. She couldn't see her attacker, couldn't free herself enough to turn her head. She still had hold of the gun. Hot breath against her ear. Rancid odor. "Surprise." "Get off of me!" A hand grabbed hold of her wrist, working to wrench the gun from her fingers. His grip pinched and burned her skin, but she could see the hand. Thick, hairy, heavily tanned. Human. *Did that surprise her?* "I'm a Federal Agent!" she shouted, her mouth smashed against the smooth maple. No response. She got in a good solid kick to his shin, wishing she hadn't taken off her high heels. He flinched, but his grip didn't slacken. "You know...You're gonna be a lot more fun to kill than Mrs. Dawes. She wasn't near so pretty." His tongue drug up the base of her cheek, along her hairline. Scully took a chance. She let go of her gun with a jerk of her wrist meant to send the gun sliding a few inches across the table. As her attacker dove for the freed weapon, his grip on her slackened just enough to let her twist to the side and jab at his eyes with her fingernails. It worked. For a split second his hands flew to his face, just missing catching her own in his grip, and Scully snatched the gun off the table on a dive roll to the floor. The thick carpet burned her elbows, but she was on her feet in a second, her gun trained on her target. "Freeze! FBI!" She was facing him head on now. Seeing his crooked smile, his ragged two-day beard, his too dark eyes. Nealy. No time to contemplate the insanity of that observation. He wasn't moving. She was breathing hard, not even aware her blouse still hung half open. She took a tentative step to the side, never looking away from those dark eyes. The phone was in reach now, but she would have to leave the gun in her left hand, reach out with her right. She prayed he hadn't researched well enough to know she was right-handed. She was a decent shot even with her left. The phone was dead. So much for hopes this was an impulsive attack. Nealy laughed. A low, resounding chuckle that should have belonged to someone's favorite uncle, and not to a serial killer. The wonders of genetics. He took a step forward. Scully tightened her stance. "I said freeze!" She was amazed how confident her voice sounded. Her hands weren't shaking. Only her stomach. She cocked her gun for effect. "One more step and you're a dead man!" He tilted his head in condescending appeasement and raised his hands. "All right, all right, my dear, don't get excited. But may I ask, what exactly is your plan? Your handcuffs are still over here on the table. You'll have to go past me to get them. And that just might not work out for you. You can't call for back-up, and you're not likely to be missed until morning...what to do...?" She tightened her jaw and cocked her head defiantly. "I could always just shoot you now and claim self-defense. Who would question it?" That uncular laugh again. "My, yes, you *are* a fun one to- -" But his sentence was cut short by a shout from the hallway. "*Scully!!*" "Mulder!" Her one word was all he needed before he turned the key in the door and popped the safety chain with one swift kick. A second before the room flooded with blue uniforms like ink across her carpet, Nealy locked eyes with Scully and smiled at her. "I'll be back for you. Bars are no detriment, you know that..." "Arrest this man," Scully ordered as the faceless uniforms moved between her and the haunting smile. She lowered her gun, passing the authority and feeling the inevitable mixture of relief and nausea wash over her. And among the melee, one single face took form for her, one clear figure. "Scully?" "Mulder..." Just one word through her door, his name. It was all he had needed to make his heart resume its beat. She was breathing, fighting, surviving. Where there was breath, there was hope. She was alive inside, not a dead body already laid out on display--as the others had been. He should have known he'd find her with the upper hand. It wasn't so easy to subdue Dana Scully. He counted on that every day of his life. "Scully, are you okay? Are you hurt?" He closed a protective hand over her shoulder, watched her as she watched Nealy submit to handcuffs. She shook her head briskly. "I'm fine." She was breathing so hard, consciously forcing air through her nose to slow her pulse, exerting control over her body as always. She rubbed absently at her wrist. "Are you sure?" He touched her wrist, glanced at the red marks. "Yeah, I'm fine." A mild air of annoyance in her he ignored. Nealy was being led out now, crossing over her threshold and disappearing down the hall. Mulder moved his gaze down the length of Scully's figure. No shoes. No wonder she seemed so small. Her blouse was half open. *Jesus, what had Nealy tried to do to her?* The image that flashed through Mulder's mind made his stomach grind on the dry Rice Krispies. "It was Nealy," she said. "How the hell did he get here?" Mulder shook his head. "I called the prison on my way over here. Nealy was missing at bed check. His cell was locked and the guard at the exit to his block says he never left his post. They have no idea how he pulled it off." She was rubbing her neck, stretching it, wincing slightly. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch her pale skin, as though his touch could heal. "How did you know to come?" she asked, making brief eye contact. Her mascara was smudged just a bit at the corner of her eye. So rare for Scully. Had it happened in the struggle? Or sleeping on his couch? "Nealy *called* me." Her eyes widened. "He called you?" Mulder nodded. "Warned me he was targeting you." "Why didn't you call my cell phone?" "I did. You left it at my apartment. It must have fallen out of your jacket when you threw it over my chair." She closed her eyes and breathed out through her nose. Tired. Weary. It made him feel sick. Made him want to look away. *Did he scare you, Scully? Will you dream of him tonight? Of Pfaster, of Barry? I wanted so badly for you to have this night to rest. Do you see the ugly, deep pores of his skin when you close your eyes? Would you ever tell me if you did? You know that I would listen.* "What happened, how did he get in?" Mulder asked. Uniforms moved in and out and around them. All he could see were pale blue eyes, the slightly lowered left lid that could express so much if you knew how to look. "I don't know, I haven't looked yet. My door was locked. I think he was already inside when I came home." She was so rational, so calm. This woman who barely glanced his way when he reached out and pulled her blouse discreetly closed, smoothed the silk into place. "Somehow I doubt I'll be surprised if no obvious point of entry presents itself," he said dryly. He expected a sarcastic response, a Scully quip jabbing his gullible nature and implying his belief in the shape-shifter rumors. Maybe he even wanted it. But she didn't respond. Her gaze pulled toward the place on the carpet where Nealy had stood. "Scully? Are you sure you're all right?" "Yeah." No thought behind her response. Nothing. He reached out and cupped his hand to the side of her throat, caressed her soft cheek with his thumb, surprised by the boldness of the gesture. "Yeah?" "Yeah..." She glanced up at him, fleeting eye contact, then back again, caught by the intensity of his gaze. He felt the transition he had been waiting for since she first opened her eyes in his apartment--the shift from surface response to genuine connection. A silent moment passed in communication. And suddenly Mulder was acutely aware that Scully, too, was acutely aware--of a certain familiarity of pattern, of their physical nearness, of his hand against her neck, of the way he leaned so attentively over her, of her own hand on his wrist, of the intimacy of their contact, of her softly trembling lips--of the forgotten NOT forgotten memory of the hallway--of the now so much more real possibility that in this moment when the room had temporarily cleared and Scully's pulse throbbed against his hand, he might move just a bit closer...might lean down...might touch her lips just to be sure she was speaking the truth... Two uniformed cops moved into the room. Mulder's hand sank slowly to his side. Scully hooked her hair behind her ear, looked away, swallowed. *Had she been about to cry? Scully, why do you live so far away...?* "Agent Mulder? You want to say anything to this guy before we head him downtown?" "No...thanks, we'll question him later." "Whatever you say." "I should get my coat," Scully said softly. "I'll make my statement tonight." Mulder nodded. "I'll drive you." She slipped past him, her hair brushing his shoulder. She could have stepped further away. Through the kitchen toward her bedroom. A shout in the hallway. A siren in the distance. The low whir of her air-conditioning. The carpet beneath his feet that blended so beautifully with the plush sofa. He stood in the dimly lit room and waited for her. As he had long been...waiting for her. ************* Well? Feedback?? Please??:) bstrbabs@yahoo.com