"Shades of Gray"

RATING: PG-13

CONTENT: Angst

SPOILERS: Immediately follows "Irresistible"

Shades of Gray, Part One

by Rory D. Cottrell (CretKid@aol.com)

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

--Edmund Burke

"He sets the time for finding and the time for losing, the time for saving and the time for throwing away, the time for tearing and the time for mending, the time for silence and the time for talk."

--Ecclesiastes 3:6-7

____________________________________________________________

<You know, people videotape police beatings on darkened streets, they manage to spot Elvis in three cities across America every day, but no one saw a pretty woman being forced off the road in her rental car.>

Mulder impatiently drummed his fingers on the dashboard, willing the car to go faster. Moe Box insisted on driving, he knew the streets better than anyone else in Minneapolis. Enroute to the Pfaster home, Mulder could not stop thinking of his last conversation with Scully.

<Are you staying on there, Scully?>

<I'm okay with it, Mulder. Anyway, you could use my help.>

Always, he said to himself, over and over.

The car hydroplaned around another corner.

Agent Box coordinated the operation from the CB in his car. Half a dozen agents and twice as many local law enforcement officials followed them. An ambulance was five minutes behind.

He ground his teeth as Box took another corner at 50 mph. They were almost there, closer to catching Donny Pfaster, fetishist, kidnapper, murderer.

Closer to finding Scully.

Mulder had missed her call the last time, the crash of breaking glass, of splintering wood, the desperate cries for help that he was too late to provide. He had done too little and arrived too late to help her then. And he promised both her and himself that it would not happen again.

It was too soon. Scully had said that she remembered nothing of the two months she was gone, but he knew that lack of knowledge both frightened and bothered her. And, not for the first time, he wondered about his partner's sanity, as well as his own.

Box announced their arrival as he turned onto the street of the Pfaster home. Mulder had his gun drawn and was out of the car before the car stopped. Footsteps followed and passed him, the brightly reflecting material spelling out F-B-I against the dark blue fabric of their jackets.

He did not want to wait for everyone to get into place, but common sense and training stayed his hand at the door. Box held a hand to his ear to catch the ready signals over the earphone he wore. Nodding once, the agents moved in.

"Move! Move!"

Mulder was the first to charge into the foyer, not expecting to find the room lit. His eyes fell on Pfaster, and he knew without looking that Scully was struggling under his weight, afraid to look at her in the event that she no longer struggled. Pfaster was straddled across her legs, left arm braced against her shoulder, right hand raised for a blow.

Instinctively, Mulder leveled his gun on Pfaster's head. "Federal Agent, hands in the air. Hands in the air!"

Surprised, confused--Mulder could not tell,-- Pfaster plunged his hands up above him. Scully pushed him off, kicking herself away from the man and into the corner.

At that second, Mulder did not care what happened next to Pfaster. All his attention focused on Scully, cowering near the base of polished wooden cabinet. He leaned down, put his gun away.

"Stay here, Scully," he quickly said, reaching out to her bound hands. He looked over his shoulder and hollered, "Can we get some paramedics in here, now!"

Scully tried, unsteadily, to get to her feet. Her hands were shaking furiously as he took hold of her wrists and twine that held them together. "Just help me get my wrists untied." Her voice faltered at the end of the request, as she frantically tried to free her hands.

Mulder stooped over, trying to assess her injuries. With each nod he made, she countered with another so that their eyes did not meet. He turned his attention to the knots and twine around her wrists, deftly removing the restraints as fast he could.

"How did you find me?" she asked, nervously, repulsively, gazing at Pfaster as police searched and handcuffed him.

"His mother used to own the home, willed it to his sisters. Patrolman saw his car out back."

Box pushed Pfaster towards the door. "Get him out of here."

Free from her restraints, Scully started rubbing her chaffed wrists. He could see that she was still extremely upset. Her entire body was shaking with shock. From what little he could see of her face, there were a number of abrasions on her cheek, chin, and forehead. A welt the size of a half dollar had surfaced above her right eye, and though he was not sure, her pupils looked a little dilated and uneven.

He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You sure you don't want to sit down, Scully? Have someone take a look at you?"

Scully shrugged off his hand, avoiding eye contact. "I'm fine, Mulder," she replied, though he knew by the waver in her voice that she was far from fine.

Cupping her chin tenderly with his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her head to take a better look at the welt on her forehead. When their eyes met, he saw tears pooling, threatening to fall at a second's notice.

Her face contorted with a suppressed sob. She reached out, and leaned into his chest. Clutching his shirt, looking for an anchor, she let the waves of fear roll over and crash.

Mulder hesitantly wrapped his arms around her, stroked her hair as he tried to comfort her. She let go of his shirt and hugged him fiercely. Whispering silent reassurances, he continued to rock her, feeling her warm breath and hot tears seep through his shirt.

Emerging from the second floor, Box pounded down the stairs with a number of plastic bags, each holding a high caliber pistol. He handed them off to another officer, instructing him to run them through ballistics, just in case. Mulder sent him a silent message of thanks with his eyes; Box smiled back, and shoveled everyone out of the foyer, giving them privacy.

Mulder could hear Box in the hallway, waylaying the paramedics that had arrived. Again, he sent private thanks. He sensed that Scully would refuse any medical attention, her injuries more psychological than physical. So he held her, absorbing the wracking sobs that hiccuped through her spine.

When the tears seemed to stop and her breathing returned to normal, he whispered, "Scully, you okay?" The questioned seemed so trite; of coarse she wasn't okay.

Still holding on to him, she nodded, sniffled, wiping her face of tears with one hand. Mulder reached into his back pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, handing it to her. He did not look down at her, allowing her a moment to compose herself. Of all things, he knew she did not want to appear fragile in front of anyone, for any reason. Normally faded freckles on the bridge of her nose were stark against her pale complexion, and tear-reddened eyes almost matched the color of her hair.

She stepped out of his embrace, backed away a few steps. He noticed that she was limping. Placing a hand on her shoulder, she recoiled. Concern flooded his thoughts, no matter what her objections may be. "Scully?"

Scully stared up the staircase, and stumbled backwards. Mulder's arm shot out to steady her.

"We were wrestling for the gun... fell down the stairs." Absently, she rubbed her left shoulder, wincing in pain as she did so.

Shrugging off his jacket, he slipped it over her shoulders and slowly led her out of the door. He held onto her protectively. "You're seeing a doctor." She didn't refuse, letting him guide her down the stairs.

The paramedics met them at the bottom of the porch stair. Scully stepped away from them, forcing Mulder to change his stride length, or else run over her. She stared, transfixed, at the ambulance on the front lawn.

"Scully?"

"No ambulance," she whispered, hoarsely.

Mulder stared into his partner's eyes and saw a fear that he had never seen there before. This was not like her. "Okay, no ambulance. I'll take you myself." He searched around for Moe Box, spotted him near a police car farther down the road.

Scully was trembling under his coat. He leaned down to meet her eyes, tried to comfort her with a smile. "Listen, I have to go get a car. Let the paramedics take a look at you. I'll be right back, I promise."

At her confirmation, he nodded towards the paramedics, who led her towards the back of the ambulance. Mulder raced across the lawn, skidding on the slickened mats of grass and mud. Moe Box held out his keys, as if reading his mind.

In response to Mulder's questioning gaze, Box simply shrugged. "I've been around long enough to know things. Take your partner home, or to the hospital, or whatever. Just bring it back tomorrow."

"Thanks, Moe," Mulder said, tossing the keys up and catching them in the same hand. He raced back towards the ambulance.

The paramedic held a flashlight near Scully's eyes. She stared dispassionately off into space. The other medic was examining her shoulder.

"No concussion, shoulder's dislocated," the medic told him, gently replacing the jacket and adding a blanket for warmth.

Mulder gathered her up in his arms. "I'll take her to the emergency room. Which one's closest?"

"General, on Fifth. I'll call it in."

Flashing a grin, Mulder thanked the medics and steered his partner towards the gray sedan he had arrived in. He opened the passenger side door for her, lowered her into a seated position slowly and placed her in the car. Glassy-eyed, Scully tried to reach for the seat belt, but could not get to it without pain marring her face. Mulder grabbed the buckle, leaned over to strap her in. Her head leaned heavily against the head rest, turned towards the side window.

Mulder closed the door gently, then rushed to the driver's side. In the short time it had taken him to circumvent the front of the car, Scully had drawn her knees up as far she could comfortably, without actually having her feet on the bench seat. Mulder noted the uncharacteristic sign of insecurity, and slowly started the car.

________________________________________________________

The ride to and from the hospital was uneventful. At the late hour, the streets were free of traffic. More than once he was tempted to breeze through the red lights that lasted a little too long for his patience. Each time he looked over at Scully, who had not said a word or made a sound since the crime scene. She gazed listlessly out the window, eyes closing for long minutes, then opening again.

Mulder drove silently, unsure of what to say. <Fat lot of good your psychology degree is, there, bud,> he told himself. He could model the behavior of a serial killer without second thought, climb into the head of a psychotic sick-o and figure out his next move before the sick-o knew it himself. But he had no idea what was running through his partner's mind, or how to comfort her.

He knew she was having trouble sleeping, and had so since Duane Barry. Her actions were more guarded, and had he not known her, he might have labeled them paranoid at times. Never one to screen telephone calls before, she did so now, and kept both the dead bolt and chain locked on her apartment door, even with company over. She arrived early to work, and left late. With each passing day, he realized more and more about how his own habits as a workaholic were reflected in his partner.

"We're here," he said, waking her from her trance, and his own introspection. He stopped the car, opened his door, then rushed to open the door for Scully.

She had managed to undo the seat belt, but could not step out of the car without assistance. The pain killers the hospital issued were starting to take effect. Mulder took her right elbow, careful to avoid jarring her left arm, now in a sling, and eased her out of the bench seat and kicked the door closed.

Mulder searched his pockets for his room key as they walked. Scully veered off towards her own room, but he headed her off at the pass.

"No, you're staying with me," he said gently. "I don't want you to be alone tonight."

"Don't coddle me, Mulder," Scully replied, taking her arm out of his. She stumbled with fatigue and drug induced stupor. "I don't have my bag," she realized, as he took her arm again.

"I've got an extra pair of sweats you can borrow," Mulder said. "C'mon, the sweats come with the room. I won't take no for an answer."

"How about 'absolutely not'?"

Mulder smiled, hoping with that remark Scully had finally emerged from her funk. "No ifs, ands, or buts. You're stuck with me."

He turned on all the lights in the room as soon as he entered. Fresh towels had been laid out on the bed. Mulder helped her sit down on the edge of the bed, then shut the motel door, bolted and chained it. Gingerly he helped her out of his coat, placed it at the foot of the bed.

Grabbing his travel bag, he pulled out a folded pair of sweatpants and tee shirt, handed them to her. "You'll swim in them, but, it's better than nothing."

She took the proffered clothes gratefully, grinning under hooded eyebrows. "Thanks, Mulder."

"Yeah, well, you know where the bathroom is, ah... I'll see if I can get some ice for your shoulder, maybe a few more blankets," he stammered, taking hold of the ice bucket on the dresser. "If you want to draw a bath or something, there's extra towels here. I'll even let you use my shampoo." That drew a laugh, and his heart leaped with joy. It tore him up to see her this way.

Scully stood unsteadily and walked to the bathroom, patting him on the shoulder as she passed. Still concerned, he watched her enter the bathroom, and close the door before setting about to make himself a place to sleep on the floor. The love-seat/couch was way too small for him to rest easily on, though he doubted he would get much sleep at all after the day's events.

The sound of violent retching sliced through his ear drums. He pounded on the bathroom door when it did not stop with one bout.

"Scully? Scully! I'm coming in. Hold on."

He shouldered the door open to find his partner, head practically in the toilet bowl. Her right arm was braced against the sink. Water was running in the tub, smoky tendrils of steam rising from the surface. Another round of dry heaves permeated the silence. Mulder dumped a washcloth in the steaming water, wrung and folded it, and placed the warm cloth across the back of her neck. Her back was tense as steel.

Out of sick curiosity, he took a peek at the contents in the toilet bowl. There was nothing in there, save for the water that should be in it.

So, she hadn't been eating lately, either, he noticed dispassionately.

Scully slumped to the floor, leaned against the tub. Hastily, she turned off the water, not concerned with soaking the sleeves of her blouse. Her complexion remained pale, ghostly, defeated.

Mulder knelt down in front of her, took her shaking hands. "Scully?"

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she repeated, groggily looking from side to side. "The water... the tub and..." Tears threatened to fall again.

"Shhh, it's all right. It's okay," he said soothingly, pulling her close. "It's okay."

He had no idea about what had triggered the dry heaves, but instinctively he knew it had to do with Donny Pfaster. He had seen the apartment, knew what went on in there. Shutting off his brain before unpleasant thoughts could emerge, he pulled her closer, stroked her hair until the tears stopped once more. Carefully he picked her up off the floor and led her away from the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and sat Scully down in the arm chair. "I'll go get some ice. You can change while I'm gone."

Nodding, Scully swallowed hard and let her head fall back against the head rest.

Mulder put a hand on her knee, not convinced of her front of calmness. "Sure you okay?"

"Yes, Mulder. Get out of here, so I can change."

"All right." Mulder grabbed his coat and the ice bucket, furtively glancing over his shoulder to check on her.

____________________________________________________________

As the door closed behind him, Scully shook her head, clucking softly at Mulder's over-protective tendencies. She appreciated all that he was trying to do, even the makeshift bed he had made for himself on the floor. But if she didn't get moving, she'd be caught in a rather embarrassing situation when he walked back through the door.

Truth be told, she was relieved that he refused to let her stay alone, though she would probably never admit it to his face. He did not leave her side at the hospital, until the charge nurse forcibly made him leave the room to fill out the admissions paperwork. Even then, she did not want to see him go, and had to bite back the request to have him stay.

Her father called her the strong one in the family. He had explicitly trusted her to do the right thing, never gave her a curfew and never waited up for her when she stayed out late (at least, not to her knowledge, though she often suspected he did.) He had let her take the family boat out of dock without supervision, had often asked her to keep an eye on her brothers for him when they were all out in the fields together.

She relished that independence, that knowledge that no one had to watch out for her well being, no one felt they had to protect her. She was not the fragile flower her sister seemed to be, or the reckless endangerment her brothers thought they were. But, deep down, she knew her father looked after her, silently approving her decisions, keeping his opinion to himself when he did not.

Having to depend on anyone had been a hard lesson to learn. And she did not want anyone to feel that they had to protect her. She could take care of herself, just as her father taught her.

Maybe that was the reason she never told Mulder about the nightmares. Of anyone, he was probably the only one who would understand how disturbing they were to her, but she could not, would not, let him feel that he needed to protect her, like some waif out on the street. He had the survival instincts of a lemming, always dashing headlong into trouble, and he had more to worry about than her stupid dreams.

Undressing was going to be a chore, she realized as she stood. Every muscle and bone in her body ached, and the buzz the pain killers had given her a rather unpleasant numbing sensation. Navigating around the sling was going to be a problem.

She had left the clothes Mulder lent her in the bathroom. Her hand stayed at the door knob, bile threatening to rise to the back of her throat.

<It's only a bathtub. It is only a bathtub,> she told herself, steeling her nerves as she opened the door.

The light was still on, now a hazy glow in the steam filled room. The mirror had fogged, tiny drivlets of condensed steam running down its length.

The clothes were piled on the floor under the sink, where they had dropped when the memories flooded her vision. The sound of running water cascading into the tub had triggered the episode, and the thought of it now sent warning signals through her brain of another panic attack. Instinctively, she drew the shower curtain around the tub, keeping it out of sight and hopefully out of mind.

She clutched the sink with her right hand, bracing herself for another bout with dry heaves. But none were forth coming. Grabbing the clothes, she stepped out of the bathroom, closing the door quickly behind her.

Undressing one-handed was a lot easier than dressing one-handed, she discovered. Feeling more exhausted than before, she sat down in the oversized armchair to rest. She closed her eyes for just a moment and promptly fell asleep.

___________________________________________________________

Mulder knocked before entering the room, not wanting to walk in on Scully. Throwing the cans of ginger ale in the ice bucket, he scrounged for his keys and opened the door. He had managed to pilfer a plastic garbage can liner from the maintenance trolley outside the main office. Dislocated shoulders were a bitch to live with, having suffered his fair share of them. Ice always seemed to help, at least for the first forty-eight hours or so.

He peaked his head around the door, hearing no movement from within. "Scully?"

She was slumped in the chair, fast asleep.

He laughed in spite of himself. She looked ridiculously small in his sweat pants and shirt. Dropping the ice bucket on the end table, he closed and locked the door, drew the shades as tight as he could to ward off the morning's sun.

Drawing down the bed sheets, plopping a pillow on the floor for himself, he treaded softly over to the chair. Bending at the knee, he draped her right arm across his shoulder and slipped his own under her knees. Carefully he lifted her out of the chair, noting the lack of weight on her frame, and carried her to the bed. He pulled the sheets and blankets up to her chin, brushed away stray strands of copper hair from her forehead. Extinguishing all the lights, he settled down on the floor next to the bed, and waited for sleep to come.

____________________________________________________________

The scene was familiar enough to her, though she could not place it with anything from her memory. There was an old wooden dock, swaying in the current, and for some reason, she knew that it always had. It was old, and rickety, dry rotted with age. Weeds entangled the wooden support beams that jutted out of the water like silent sentries.

A frayed rope hung from the branches of the oak tree near the bank of the pond, lake, river, whatever it was. Pieces of two-by-fours were fastened securely to the trunk, the remnants of a once great tree fort. That too felt familiar. She remembered a tree fort she and her brothers had built long, long ago, but it wasn't near the water, that much she knew.

It was late summer, before the leaves turned. A cool breeze always came across the Chesapeake Bay during that time of year. Too cold to go swimming, not cold enough for fishing. There was a time and place for everything, her father always said. When the river turned over, that was the best time to go fishing, especially for impatient children who did not want to wait for a bite.

But the sounds weren't right. No birds, no rustling leaves, no lapping water, no yelling children or yelping dogs. There was a rhythmic beating that did not sound natural at all, but so much a part of the scenery, she did not question it.

She did not question the fact she was sitting in a row boat. Throughout her childhood there had been numerous trips down the bay in canoes, rowboats, sailboats, rubber rafts and whatnot. If it floated, it was used by the Scully children for traveling down the bay.

The boat began to drift, slowly retreated from the muddy banks of the bay. An old, frayed rope was tied to the bow of the boat, and kept it from traveling far from shore. Drawn taut, the boat buoyed back and forth as the current picked up.

Her father appeared on the dock, dressed in Navy whites, cap held firmly under his arm. His shoes were so shiny she could see the reflection of the overcast clouds in them. He said nothing, did nothing, but stood silently, at attention, staring across the bay into the fog.

"Dad?"

He disappeared.

Irrational fear gripped her throat like a vise, traveling down her spine with icy fury. A bouncy current was certainly not something to be concerned about, she had practically lived on the water with her father each summer when he was not out to sea. Someone else was there, another presence, someone or <something>, she knew not what.

The rope stretched and strained. The wooden planks it was anchored to creaked and moaned under the exertion.

Without so much as a ripple or splash, <IT> rose out of the water, the demon-goblin creature that haunted her dreams and waking thoughts. Its shoulder blades were sharp, angular, as if wings would unfold from them at a moment's notice. The demonic face, heavily hooded, cocked and swayed as it drew closer to the boat and the life line it held to the shore.

Lifting its clawish hand out of the water, it lashed out with a quickness that flashed before her eyes...

____________________________________________________________

Mulder felt rather than heard the disruption. He was up like a shot, gathering his bearings as he rolled to his knees.

Blankets twisted at the foot of the bed, Scully clutched the pillow with white knuckle intensity. Sweat soaked and panicked, her head thrashed back and forth, muscles in her neck drawn like taut chords. Soundless screams erupted from her throat, as if gasping for air.

Mulder leaned over the bed, grabbed her shoulders and tried to shake her awake. It wasn't working, too drawn into the depths of her nightmare. Her arms were outstretched, as if reaching for something in her mind's eye. Her breathing became ragged, troubled, as if she was fighting for every breath.

Climbing behind her, he leaned against the head board and pulled her into his arms. Grabbing her wrists, he tried to keep them from flailing. She struggled against him at first. The back of her shirt was soaked with sweat.

"Shhh, Scully, it's okay. It's only a dream, it's okay. It's all right, Scully."

He rocked her for several minutes until her frightened spasms ceased, still holding her hands together. She leaned heavily against his chest, never waking up.

"Shhh, it was only a dream," he said over and over, brushing her wet hair off her face and behind her ear. "It's okay. It's all over."

When it seemed as if she had fallen into a peaceful resting state once more, he carefully slid out from behind her. He sat on the edge of the bed, untangling the blankets and covered her once more. Scully rolled to her side, curled into a fetal position. Even in sleep, tension still showed in her face, heavy frown lines around her face and eyes.

Mulder wanted to just hold her, take away all of her pain, all of the bad dreams, and knew that no power in the universe could accomplish such a simple request. Hesitantly, he placed his hand on her back, and slowly traced small circles with his palm and fingers, hoping that by doing so, he would drive away the demons.

The slow, methodical motion was lulling him to sleep as well. He leaned back against the head board, afraid that any break in his routine might wake her. But as he closed his eyes to rest, he heard her stir, murmur something under her breath.

He placed his hand on her forehead, stroked her hair, and spoke softly, "Shhh, go back to sleep, Scully."

"Dad?" she asked.

"It's me, Scully. You're safe, go back to sleep."

"I had a bad dream, Dad," she said.

Mulder went back to rubbing her back. She was still sleeping, he knew, and had incorporated his voice into whatever she was dreaming now. That was okay by him. Anything was better than the nightmares.

"It's okay. You're safe now," he told her, and prayed that she believed him.

____________________________________________________________

Shades of Gray pt 2

by Rory D. Cottrell

____________________________________________________________

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

--Edmund Burke

"He sets the time for finding and the time for losing, the time for saving and the time for throwing away, the time for tearing and the time for mending, the time for silence and the time for talk."

--Ecclesiastes 3:6-7

____________________________________________________________

Mulder jerked his head up, the fuzzy remnants of an oft-repeated nightmare still on the edges of his brain. Momentary disorientation claimed him once again, as it always did when he did not sleep in the familiar comforts of his living room. As the panic subsided, he checked his watch: 7:32 am. He had only been asleep for about an hour, yet the dreams still came. A creature of habit, his brain did not let him sleep past 6:30 east coast time.

He had hoped that the dreams had stopped. They were all variations of a theme; he would get a phone call, much like the that night, only he was there to answer the phone. When he finally got to her apartment building, it would always be too late, spiraling flood lights dancing on the front lawn, the roar of helicopter blades above him. Sometimes, he would get there in time to see her leave; others, he missed her completely. Margaret Scully would always be standing there, with accusing eyes that screamed with full out intensity that it was HIS fault that her daughter was taken. Sometimes, Captain Scully was there as well, though Mulder had never met the man in real life.

Shaking his head, he rubbed the now sore muscles of his neck. <One of these days, you're gonna have to learn that sleeping in chairs is *not* good for your health.> His left foot was asleep, compounded by the fact that he had drifted off with it a) elevated on the edge of the bed, and b) crossed under his right ankle. Pins and needles ran all along the bottom of his foot and up his calf as he removed the leg from the corner of the bed.

He was glad to see that Scully was still asleep. She had had a restless, dream-filled night, if the tossing and turning was any indication, but nothing as severe as the first.

Slowly, quietly, he got out of the chair, grabbed some clean clothes and stepped into the dark bathroom. The tub was as they had left it last night, except that the curtain was drawn. He let the cold water drain and set the shower head for full blast to work out the kinks in his neck and back, hoping like hell the noise would not wake Scully in the other room.

He let the hot water splash against his back, easing away the tension with each blast of water. Washing quickly, he stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off, dressed in jeans and a pullover and checked on Scully.

She was still asleep, curled tightly along the headboard. A pillow was held securely within her arms. The sheets, tempest tossed, were rolled up along the headboard as well. Somehow during the night, she managed to pull his long overcoat that he had left at the end of the bed over herself.

Leaving the lights off, he brushed his teeth, shaved. As he left the bathroom, he noticed the growing pool of condensation beneath the ice bucket on the end table. Snatching a towel off the bathroom floor, he mopped up the mess and debated whether or not to get some more ice.

If she wasn't awake by the time he got back, he'd have to wake her if only for a minute to fix an ice bag to her shoulder. It had been swelling the night before, probably more so now.

Not bothering to put on shoes, he ran down the short sidewalk to the lobby, shoveled out the ice with the bucket itself, and trotted back to the room. The light from the open door had fallen on Scully's face. She squinted, moved a hand to block the sunlight.

"Wake up, Scully," Mulder said, noticing that she was in those first wake-up stages that he dreaded so much. He closed the door quickly. "We need to put ice on that shoulder before you start to look like the hunchback of Notre Dame."

"Huh? What time is it?" she asked groggily. She stared strangely at the overcoat, wondering where it had come from. Rolling over, she winced as her left shoulder hit the pillow.

"It's morning." Mulder poured the ice in the plastic bag he found the night before, tied the top with a knot. "How's the jaw?"

"Hasn't felt this sore since I had my wisdom teeth pulled eight years ago." She sat up slowly, untangled the blankets.

Mulder piled up the pillows behind her, tied the ice bag to her shoulder with a bathroom towel, and set her back. "Then, stop yapping and rest. Lie back, watch TV or something."

"TV is your habit, not mine. When's our flight back to Washington?"

"Not 'til tomorrow morning. I figure I can finish up the paper work with Box today, square away everything with the DA's office about Pfaster. You can rest up here."

His words fell on deaf ears. Scully had fallen asleep again. He arranged the bag of ice so that melt water would not spill all over her and the bed, then pulled the covers up, threw an extra one on for good measure.

Grabbing his travel bag, he dug out the dog-eared field journal he kept, and sat down to write.

The words came uneasily to his brain, and after agonizing over how to start, he slowly penned the first few sentences:

<The conquest of fear lies in the moment of its acceptance. Understanding what scares us most.....>

____________________________________________________________

Two hours later, Scully woke up, pushing the bag of cold water off of her shoulder with distaste. A stain of wetness surrounded the left shoulder and collar line of the T-shirt she wore.

Mulder looked up from his field notes, took the headphones out of his ears, and smiled. "Guess I didn't tie it very well," he replied, noticing the wet sleeve.

Scully stumbled out of bed, rearranged the sweatpants she wore so that the seams were to the side where they belonged, and walked to the bathroom door.

"Need any help?" Mulder offered.

"I'm not an invalid, Mulder," she mumbled. "I *can* go to the bathroom by myself, thank you very much, and have done so since the age of two." She pushed her rumpled hair out of her face.

Mulder chuckled to himself, until she passed by. Even his baggy clothes could not hide the more than apparent weight loss. Not that he meant to notice such things, but her clothes were fitting looser than normal, looser than before the abduction.

She had lost a lot of weight during the two months she was gone. The hospital had been concerned, and the doctors had prescribed a special diet to help her gain the weight back. Either she wasn't following doctor's orders, or....

After he heard the flush of the toilet and run of water in the sink, he closed his field notes and waited for her to return.

As she walked by the table, she snatched one of the cans of ginger ale that he had left there the night before. Popping the can open with one hand, she took a long sip and sat on the edge of the bed, facing Mulder.

"I thought you were going to go see Agent Box."

"I can do that later. Scully..." Mulder paused, unsure how to broach the subject. She could see that something was bothering him, she had that look in her eye. He forged ahead; it had to come out in the open. "Have you been losing weight?"

Scully jaw dropped, eyes widened in almost comical surprise. "Did my mother put you up to this?"

"No, just an observation. Have you put on *any* weight since... the abduction?" He hoped his expression conveyed his seriousness concerning this subject. He added for good measure, "But, your mother did say something about it the last time I talked with her."

"You've talked with my mother? Recently?"

Mulder shrugged his shoulders, allowing the sidetrack. "Yeah, last week sometime. I asked her of you liked football enough to sit through a live game. We talked, and met, quite a bit while you were... missing. It sort of became a habit, I guess."

"Is this some sort of conspiracy or something? Why does everyone in my family, and now you, seem more concerned about my weight than I am?"

Mulder could see that she was getting testy. Her fiercely independent nature was one of the qualities he admired in her, but along with that came a stubborn streak that rivaled his own. Sometimes he wondered if it was a help or a hindrance.

"The fact is, they -- we -- are concerned. It's been nearly three months."

"I know how long it's been, Mulder. I was there."

"So--"

"So what?"

"The weight."

Scully sighed heavily, took another sip of ginger ale. "I don't know. I just haven't had much of an appetite lately." She caught herself in a yawn.

Mulder waved at the bed. "Go back to sleep. You could use it."

She polished off the rest of the ginger ale and reached over to place the can on the table. "I don't want to sleep."

He had been knocked out by the Scully Stubborn Streak once already. Something in his mind forced him to step into the ring again for the full ten rounds. Before he knew he was saying the words, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me about the nightmares?"

Scully flushed, her jaw set in a hard line. He wasn't sure if he had surprised her or enraged her. In neutral tones, she replied, "What nightmares?"

"C'mon, Scully, I know you haven't been sleeping well. I was *here* last night. You were practically climbing the walls." His voice was rising in pitch; he hadn't meant to do that. He had wanted this to be a nice, calm discussion.

The way Scully bolted off the bed told him it would not stay nice and calm for very much longer.

"What did you do? Stay up all night to watch me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

He felt his voice grow inside his throat, and could not stop it, an automatic and unwanted response to her raised voice. "Because I was *worried* about you! Is that a crime? You let the machine answer your phone calls. You don't eat. You don't sleep --"

"You're one to talk!" Scully shot back. "Name one night that you have slept more than three hours in the last year that was not drug induced or the result of a blow to your thick skull!"

Mulder rose out of his chair, unwittingly using his superior height over her as an advantage in physical display of hostility. His hands were clenched at his sides, fingers cramping around the pen he still held.

"My sleep habits aren't in question here. Yours are. Mine haven't changed in over twenty years. Yours have, drastically, over the past three months." He closed his eyes, forced himself to calm down. Hot heads would accomplish nothing. "I want you to talk to me. Trauma like what you experienced does not go away overnight."

Scully took a step closer, looking much more menacing than her 5'2" frame suggested. "Don't try your psychobabble on me, Mulder."

"You know, they're right when they say that doctors make the worst patients."

"For crying out loud, Mulder --"

Scully threw her arms up in exasperation -- or at least, tried to do so. The angry flush in her face paled, her eyes nearly rolled to the back of her head as pain receptors started firing off.

Mulder jumped as she grabbed her left shoulder and swayed in place. His hand went out to steady her, but she angrily stepped away.

"Get away from me!" she snapped through clenched teeth.

Hands held up in surrender, Mulder stepped away from her, more hurt than angry. He started pacing along his side of the bed as he tried to regain some semblance of control. Time for a new attack pattern. "Well, something must be wrong because I have *never* seen you lose it at a crime scene before this case." He forced himself to lower his voice, calm down. "I read your field reports, and I think you've lost your objectivity. This is getting personal."

Somehow, he must have struck a chord somewhere in her fractured ego. Her defensive posture dropped, her shoulders slumped. The fire had not left her eyes, though.

" *I don't remember anything*, Mulder. Duane Barry knocked me out while I was in the trunk. The next thing I know, I'm waking up in the hospital. That's it. End of story."

"No. That is *not* the end of the story. I think you're having nightmares because you're remembering."

"I *think* I'm having nightmares because I've listened to too many of your stories."

Mulder closed his eyes, slowly counted to ten. This was not going well, not at all how he had planned during the time he watched her sleep.

"Have you gone to see EAP about this?"

"What business of yours is it if I've seen EAP?"

Her defensive response told him she had seen Employee Assistance, and it had not gone well. Mulder felt his own anger start to boil again and blurted without realizing, "It is my business if you screw up during another investigation."

That did *not* come out the way he intended.

Scully's eyes shot daggers at his face. "So, you're saying I screwed up. That's why I got run off the road and locked up in a closet for I don't know how long--"

"That's not what I'm saying--"

"Then what *exactly* are you saying?"

What was he saying? Mulder closed his eyes, unable to see the sky from the bottom of the hole he dug for himself.

"I -- I don't know..."

Scully stalked around the bed, and stopped near the bathroom door. "Well, when you figure it out, you tell me," she said vehemently, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

____________________________________________________________

Mulder stared at the bathroom door, dumbfounded, unsure of what had just transpired. His muscles, still quaking with an unknown rage, threatened to give out from under him.

He had not meant to blow up like that, by no means. His first instinct was to blame it on lack of sleep, but he knew that was not the reason.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there would be a confrontation. Two stubborn personalities, two strong willed minds with the same agenda but different methods of madness; it was inevitable. There had been minor disagreements in the past, over policy, safety, ethics, his need to find the truth, no matter what the cost, and her need for a scientific explanation, no matter how much she had witnessed.

But this argument had been over none of that. It was more fundamental. He had not dealt with her disappearance, and in his opinion, neither had she.

His stomach felt leaden, tense; he needed to get out of that room, vent off his frustrations before he said or did something he really regretted.

Time healed all wounds. No, correction, time healed *some* wounds. There were scars that wound never heal. He hoped this one would not be one of those.

It had to heal, he needed to believe that, or else their friendship was for naught.

Cooler heads would prevail. Cowardly as it might be, he had to leave. The Ostrich reflex, he called it. Hide away until the danger cleared, then take his head from the sand and hope that it had all passed.

Not so easy when the danger was your best friend.

___________________________________________________________

Scully heard the door close, and did not care. She felt angry, threatened, betrayed. It all swelled and swirled in her chest at a nauseating pace, sending acid up the back of her throat.

Sheer will kept her from throwing up, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of having upset her so.

She sat on the edge of the tub, held her head against her right arm, which was braced against the sink. The porcelain of the sink chilled her skin, in sharp contrast to the warmth of the welt above right eye. Her head still throbbed, her shoulder ached, even after she got control of her racing pulse with a few deep breaths.

Mulder. She had been angry with him before, over meaningless drivel like out of line comments, his insistence to avoid The Book at all costs. Never like this. Did he actually believe she screwed up during the investigation?

No, she decided after long minutes of incessant bickering inside her head between reason and emotion. Not Mulder. So --?

There were times during the past week where she felt overwhelmed, on the brink of fouling up big time, almost at the cost of her own life. She shuddered at the thought. Preoccupied, she had not noticed the white caddy that had been following her for miles before tailgating her.

<I should have been paying more attention.>

Groaning at her own self deprecation, she stood slowly. Twenty-twenty hindsight would not help now. Out of habit she turned to start the shower, but her hand stayed at the faucet. She checked to see that the shower head was on before turning on the water, just in case.

Like a pet with a thorn in its paw, her mind picked and fretted over the details of their fight, played it over and over like a VCR on continuous rewind and play back, despite her efforts to drown out the memories by concentrating on other things. She wanted to put this whole incident behind her, forget about Minneapolis and everything having to do with Donny Pfaster and get on with her life.

Mulder stood in the way of that happening.

Their argument was just another indication that they had unresolved issues. As a doctor and an agent with the FBI, she had learned to detach herself from her feelings to get the job done. In a sense, to deny any emotion that might be associated with the work she did.

It was easier to deny everything that had happened over the past six months than accept the consequences. To accept those demons was in a sense a form of defeat, however backward that sounded. Once that dial had been turned, the backlash of the gears denied any chance of going back. She'd have to start over again.

<Stop rationalizing, and deal with it!>

<I'm in denial, and Mulder is neck-deep in a guilt complex.>

She knew he felt somewhat responsible for her-- abduction. Even thinking the word sent gooseflesh up and down her arms and back, despite the overabundance of hot water in the shower.

But Mulder's overprotective nature and all of his coddling were driving her up a wall. Though the attention was appreciated, it was an uncomfortable trade off. She did not want to depend on it to get through the day, and the next, and the next after that. A disturbing pattern was developing; it had to be nipped in the bud.

____________________________________________________________

Mulder didn't know how long he had been sitting in the rental car, hands tightly gripping the wheel as if for dear life. He had kept his mind busy returning Moe Box's car, talking with the DA about testimonies, arranging for another car, and getting Scully's things from the impound yard. Her duffel and trenchcoat sat next to him on the seat, none the worse for wear. Her briefcase and computer were in the trunk. She'd be happy to see those were not damaged or lost.

He sat in the gas station parking lot, vision fixed on the motel door across the street. An unopened bag of sunflower seeds sat on the dash. He had bought them out of habit, but as soon as he got in the car, he threw them on the dash and promptly forgot about them.

3:23 PM. Five hours had passed since the fateful blow out.

<Coward. Go in. Apologize. Declare peace.>

____________________________________________________________

Scully stared absently at the television screen, not paying particular attention to what was on the tube. The quiet had been maddening, she needed noise in the room. Without her computer, she couldn't type up her field notes, not that there was much to type up:

<Run off road. Tied up and thrown in closet. Almost took a deathly cold bath. Fell down stairs, dislocating shoulder. Big argument with partner. Brooded in motel room while watching boob tube.>

As she stood to get rid of the ice bag on her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of a man walking in the parking lot. Mulder. He carried a bag, her bag, and her trenchcoat. And he looked about as despondent as she felt.

He knocked first before entering. Even then, he came in slowly, bag first, which he dropped on the floor. He stayed just inside the doorway, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

There was an awkward silence in the room. Scully's gaze fell on the bag.

Bending down, Mulder picked up and placed on the bed. "I got your things from the police station. They found everything. Your computer and briefcase are in the trunk of the car."

"Thanks," she replied. She played with the cloth handles of the bag, unsure if she should bring up that morning's escapade.

Mulder beat her to the punch. "About this morning, we both needed to blow off a little steam. Things were said on both sides..."

"We didn't resolve anything."

"We don't have to resolve everything, Scully. That would make life really boring." He pulled two airline tickets out of his jacket pocket. "I got us an earlier flight. Leaves at eleven tonight." He handed her the tickets.

Scully glanced over them quickly, noticed that they were both aisle seats in separate rows. Mulder smiled sheepishly. "Why?" she asked.

"So we don't fight over who gets the window seat?"

That was not what she meant, and by her expression, he knew it. Shrugging his shoulders, he hid his hands back in the pockets of his coat. "I figured you wanted to get out of here as soon as possible." He stared at the television briefly, returned his gaze towards her. "Look, we have roughly seven hours before we have to be at the airport. What do you say, we go get an early dinner, take in a farm team hockey game, and argue over something sensible like the players' strike? Skinner's given us tomorrow off, offered you extended leave, and I can be out of your hair for as long as you want."

"Mulder, we have got to talk about this--"

Mulder waved her down. "Not now. Not on an empty stomach. C'mon, get dressed. Daylight's a'wastin'. I'll go settle up the rooms with the clerk."

"I'm serious, Mulder."

"So am I. We'll talk over dinner. That way if one of us gets out of line, we'll have our choice of cutlery to use as a weapon."

____________________________________________________________

He had found a small, out of the way place while driving about aimlessly that afternoon, thinking of how to deal with everything. Driving always left his mind to relax, think through things, come up with absurd theories and extreme possibilities. His car had more miles on it from late night think-tank sessions than it did for everything else combined.

The restaurant-bar was dark, secluded, the perfect place for two agents that had gone through hell and back without leaving the comforts of their motel rooms, he mused. A kindly older gentleman greeted them at the door, led them to a small booth away from the kitchen after he took their coats. He made no mention of Scully's sling, or the shiner that threatened to become a full-blooded black eye.

Returning with a pitcher of ice tea, a basket of warm bread, and a two menus and lists of house specials, the gentleman told them he would be back to take their order in a few minutes.

A comfortable silence settled between them. The local news broadcast filtered from the bar, where a few regular patrons listened intently to the sports report, arguing comically over the current basketball standings.

Mulder poured out the contents of the pitcher into the two glasses the owner left behind for them. He placed Scully's glass within easy reach of her right hand. "How's the shoulder?"

If she shrugged her other shoulder, he couldn't tell. He had offered her one of his sweaters to wear, the baggier clothes easier to get into with the bruised and sore shoulder. Besides, his darker sweater hid the sling better in terms of camouflage.

"It's there," she replied. "'Nuf said."

Mulder nodded knowingly. "The swelling should go down in a day or two. Just don't take out any mutant fluke-men for the next week or so."

"Thank you, Dr. Kildare."

"I've had my fair share of dislocated shoulders, cracked collars, broken arms. I know of what I speak. Dislocated shoulders are nothing, piece of cake."

"You tell that to my mother when she sees this," Scully said, pointing at the sling. She smiled, as genuine a smile as he had seen since this whole mess had started. He thought about what he wanted to say, how he wanted to apologize.

The owner came by their table, checked to see that they were ready to order.

"May I suggest our soup of the day? Tomato rice?" he offered.

"Soup sound good? Be easy to swallow, no chewing involved," Mulder painted. Scully nodded, laughing. Mulder smiled at the man, and added a club sandwich to his order. The owner left them with another basket of bread.

Mulder began to play with the bread basket's woven wicker reeds, refusing to make eye contact with Scully for a moment. He needed to get it off his chest. "About this morning--"

"No, it was my fault," Scully said, shaking her head at his protest. "I blew up at you for no good reason--"

"Good reason," Mulder corrected, "bad timing. I should have waited."

"No, you shouldn't have. I should have told you I was having problems with the case."

"Look, let's not argue over who should get the blame. We both deserve it." Mulder picked at the bread, popped a piece in his mouth. "That's behind us. Now, what are we going to do so it doesn't happen in the future?"

Scully tossed her head back, growled comically at the ceiling. "That will never happen in our lifetimes. You're over-protective, and I'm too stubborn."

"The reverse is true, too, you know."

Dropping her haze back on him, a smile tugged at her lips. She nodded, conceding the point to his side.

"I never believed you screwed up during the investigation, not at any time," Mulder said quietly. That false accusation nagged at his brain all day, the thought that he could ever blame her seemed too disturbing to even consider.

"I know." Scully covered her mouth with her right hand as she leaned on that arm. Her fingers gently massaged the muscles in her cheeks and jaw. "My fault, I should have told you--"

"Hey, I thought we weren't going to travel that road." He sighed, stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth. Confession always made him hungry, though he suspected Scully would say simply breathing made him hungry if he ever uttered his thought aloud. He laughed to himself.

"What?" Scully asked, the old gleam of amusement back in her eye.

Mulder shrugged his shoulders. "It's nothing, really. Bad joke." He looked up at the waiter who headed their way. "Soup's up."

The young man, who bore a resounding resemblance to the owner, set the two bowls in front of them, offered to get another pitcher of tea, then told Mulder that his sandwich would be out in a few minutes.

They ate in silence, except for simple small talk to fill in the voids when their mouths were not filled with food. When the waiter returned to take their plates and offered coffee, Mulder asked for the entertainment section of the evening's paper and the check. The waiter returned with the requested items.

"No game tonight," he said, perusing through the paper for anything that would hold his attention until their flight back to DC.

"Just as well," Scully replied, yawning. "I don't think I could stay awake through a game."

"How about a movie then?"

"Think about it, Mulder. A dark theater is an open invitation to nap time."

"So, we'll go to something I want to see. You can sleep through it if you want."

"I know what movies you like to watch alone," she replied.

Mulder scowled, then made an effort to show that he was going to look for a legitimate movie. " _The Lion King_. Haven't seen it yet."

"You watch Disney movies?" Scully asked skeptically.

"Of course. And I know you do, unless you stole those tapes under your VCR from your niece and nephew. There's too many down there for them to have left 'em at your place."

She was going to protest, and thought better of it.

"I thought so." He stretched his back, climbed out of the seat. He offered her his arm, and helped her out of the booth. "So, wanna be my date?"

"Just don't sing along, please. I've heard your singing voice. It's not pleasant."

"Very funny."

"I thought so."

He helped her with her coat. "I'm not being over-protective now, am I?"

Scully turned to glare at him, then smiled. "No, you're not."

"You'll tell me when I am?"

"If you'll tell me when I'm being too stubborn for my own good."

Mulder slipped into his own coat, paid the check. "Did we resolve anything here tonight?"

"I don't know," Scully replied. "We'll find out the next time we have an argument."

Smiling, Mulder held the door for her as they left the restaurant.

END