CHAPTER NINE
Hair of the Dog -- Up Close and Personal
Or 'How To Work With 2 Hours Of Sleep, A Hangover, And A Technicolor Face'

Red Sands Hotel
Reno, Nevada
**************

Sweet Jesus, what was that noise? Alarm? Alarm clock.... alarm clock??? Oh,
shit!!! Mulder rolled over to smash the travel alarm with his hand and
immediately regretted the action. Why did she always bring that damn thing
everywhere they went? Didn't these places have people who got paid to make wake
up calls? Well, this morning it probably wouldn't matter one way or the other.
Ringing phone or ringing alarm clock, either one would have sounded like the
1912 Overture. The sound was still ricocheting inside his swelled head.

"Scully?" he groaned. He patted the bed next to him but came up empty. He
risked opening one eye. Yes, the bed was truly empty, and there was a good deal
of sun spilling in through the partially open drapes. He must have slept in,
and even more wonderous, she must have let him.

Wait a minute. The evening's events were slowly seeping back into his memory.
Wedding... gambling... drinking... fight... and ... and... oh yeah, one hell of
a dream? Maybe not a dream. He was a little fuzzy on that one. He did
remember passing out after what was probably the best sex he'd ever had in his
life. That meant it had to be real. He certainly wouldn't dream passing out.
That would be too cruel, even for his subconscious.

Well, if it hadn't been a dream, then she'd... she'd nearly... He grinned,
unable to stop himself. <Forgive me, Scully> If that wasn't a dream, then she'd
nearly fucked him to death. He knew she hated it when he referred to their
lovemaking with the "f" word, as she called it, and he had to admit that he
could be pretty crude when the mood hit. But sometimes it was the only word he
could think of that seemed to fit. Whatever you wanted to call it, he knew he
was spoiled for life. Frohike could permanently borrow his whole damn video
collection. It paled miserably when compared to the reality of the loving,
passionate sex he shared with his wife. At this rate he was going to need to
invest in a diligent vitamin regime just to keep up with her insatiable libido.
He could do that...

Moving in slow motion, trying not to aggravate all the different little c
ollections of pain that seemed to pop up out of nowhere, he folded the sheet
back from his chest and peered over to nightstand to try and figure out what
time it was. That's when he saw the note stuck to the phone.

Mulder recognized Dana's handwriting on the yellow post-it. "Thank you," he
whispered gratefully under his breath. At least his first interview had been
moved back. He turned the paper over to read the message on the other side.
"Was it real, or Memorex?" Oh, I don't know, love, he thought, you tell me.
"See you later - we can go for an instant replay." Sure, sweetheart.
Dig my grave now and I'll go happy. "BTW, gotcha back for the butt grafitti,
but then you knew it was only a matter of time, didn't you?" Uh oh....

He looked around the room suspiciously but didn't see anything unusual.
Figuring it was safe, and feeling an insistent call of nature, he lifted the
covers to get out of bed. What he saw startled him at first, but when the
object came into focus he leaned his head back and laughed, purposely ignoring
the pain it caused him. Staring down at the blue ribbon tied around a very
conspicuous part of his anatomy, he raised a quizitive eyebrow. "Aye, I dinna
know where ye been, but looks like ye won first prize," he muttered with an
amused Scottish accent.

Removing the "something blue" with great care, he slowly moved himself into a
slumped sitting position on the edge of the bed, groaning with the effort. Oh
why oh why did he drink so much last night? He couldn't afford a hangover this
morning, he had work to do. Yet he'd managed to get himself totally lit anyway.
Well, if he remembered correctly, it wasn't exactly all his fault. He'd had
help. Lots and lots of unsolicited help. face hurt. Neural transmitters were
bouncing around in his brain like a bad game of pinball and his head was
splitting like an overripe watermelon. Amazingly enough the ache in his jaw had
eased considerably, but it had been replaced by a dull soreness radiating from
an undefined area beneath his left eye. He vaguely remembered taking a pounding
from some prehistoric humanoid lower life form while in the process of defending
Scully's honor. That more than likely explained why his ribcage felt like it'd
been run through a cuisinart. Maybe he should consider letting Scully defend
her own honor next time. She evidently was much better at it than he was.

Rubber legs threatened to buckle under his weight as he wobbled unsteadily into
the bathroom. Nature's call answered, he stared into the mirror. He was *not*
prepared for what stared back.

"Oh, my God," he whispered hoarsely, so stunned that he didn't realize he'd just
used his wife's favorite exclamation. He ran a finger lightly over the dark
purple bruise adorning his eye and cheekbone. "I can't go to work looking like
the sole surviving participant of a radical bikers' brawl. I look more like a
perp than the fucking law," he whined. "Who in the hell is gonna trust and
confide in something that looks like ... that?!"

Mulder's reflection looked as unhappy as he felt. He turned his head from side
to side, but except for a couple of scratches on his chin, it looked like his
eye and cheek had taken most of the beating. Leaning in closer to his
reflection, he inspected his tongue and wondered if white fuzz was normal. It
was during this last action while using his fingers to move his tongue from side
to side that he noticed the stitches in his gum.

So that's what last night was all about. Goddamn underhanded dental fanatics.
He'd been shang-haied. Being angry crossed his mind, but his jaw felt so much
better it was difficult to stay pissed for very long. This wasn't the first
time something like this had happened, but it was probably the sneakiest way
someone had gotten him to do something he didn't want to do. He often wished
people he cared about would stop doing things "for his own good."

A sudden attack of light-headedness came over him, ushering in another bout of
what he'd come to term as psychosomatic puking. He'd be damned if he was gonna
call it morning sickness. This particular session was doubly unpleasant due in
part by the undgodly hangover from the night before, causing his stomach to
wretch unmercifully for several minutes. Dry heaves followed close behind as he
fought his gagging reflex for control. It looked like he was going to get to
know this toilet as up close and personal as the one in his own apartment. At
least the porcelain was cool to the touch as he leaned his pounding head against
it waiting for the naseau to slowly pass.

Pale and wasted, he finally crawled from his knees into the shower, turned on
the water, and let the hot spray cover his body as he sat motionless in the tub
with his back leaned up against the far wall of the shower. The cool tiles of
the solid surface held him up as weary gravel-dry lids slid tiredly shut.

His eyes jerk open suddenly. How long had he stayed this way? Couldn't have
been too long for the water was just beginning to turn frigid. Gotta get up, he
thought wearily. The only problem was trying to convince his body to obey the
messages his brain was sending it. "God, Dana, I wish you hadn't had that damn
autopsy this morning. I sure could've used a little bit of inspiration
here," he mumbled, hauling himself out of the tub with more effort than he cared
to acknowledge.

Mulder managed to dry himself off only haphazardly, and he left a wet trail from
the bathroom to the closet. At least he hoped that's where she put his clothes.
He sure didn't remember unpacking.

"Oh wonderful, what's this?" Another note was tacked to the closet door. It
was demanding and succinct. 'Fox, take your medicine. It's on the dresser.
Love, Dana. P.S. Meet me at the morgue and I don't suggest eating first. That
was *some* ride last night, Mulder. I think I stayed on for the required
alloted time. What's my reward? Yippee-aye-o-ky-a !! '

"Reward?? I'll give her a reward. What am I, fucking livestock?? Oh I feel
soooo used," he chuckled facetiously. "Wait till I show her my spurs."

Mulder wandered over to the dresser and obediently popped an ampicillin and
several aspirin then finished getting dressed. Might as well get on with it, he
thought as the door shut behind him.

Leaving the hotel was hell. Why couldn't life have a glare and volume control?
It was bad enough that the neon lights and noise of the casino blared at him
inside, but outside the day was sunny and bright without even a hint of the
clouds and rain of yesterday.

On a hunch, he'd decided to exit the Red Sands through the alleyway where the
latest victim had died. He didn't know what he was looking for, but that wasn't
unusual. It was all just fodder for his brain, something for him to look at
again and again, to worry over until the details began to make sense.

The alleyway was bright. He squinted up at the clear blue sky, remembering that
he *was* in a desert after all, and at a pretty high altitude. The air was
clear here and sunlight glared off the concrete, turning up his headache a notch
or two. He peered around the alley, noting the employee entrance door, the
outline of the body still visible on the concrete. Overhead a neon sign
crackled and buzzed as more of the sign seemed to be burning out.

Mulder paced up and down the alley twice. From time to time he would stop and
look at something, but he finally had to admit that his headache was interfering
with his concentration. They'd have to come back here when his head was
clearer. Putting on his sunglasses helped some, but did little to alleviate the
street noise symphony playing in his head. He'd have to wait until he met
Scully to get cotton for his overly sensitive ears. Or better yet, maybe he
could just stuff his ears with the cotton that appeared to be in his mouth.
Hey, he was a believer in recycling.

City Morgue
11:30 AM
Reno, NV
*****************

"Well, whadda ya think, Red? You have any enlightening observations on this guy
that nobody else's noted?" Moorehouse raised an eyebrow and blew out a puff of
air from between his yellow teeth. Morgues weren't exactly his favorite place
to visit, especially after a late breakfast, but he'd seen enough of them and
enough of their occupants in various degrees of decay and decomposition to not
be too bothered by it.

Dana glanced up from the body of the latest victim but didn't respond. M
oorehouse was just getting antsy and she knew it. Five murders - well, maybe
murders - would make any cop antsy. She knew him well enough to realize that
he'd rather be out busting heads than waiting around for her to finish her work.

Jake grunted at her lack of response. This wasn't exactly a situation where no
news was good news. He took the toothpick he'd been rolling around in his mouth
and nonchalantly flicked it to the floor.

The sudden movement drew Dana's gaze from the corpse yet again. Her eyes
tracked the wet sliver of wood as it flew through the air and caught in crack of
the tiles. Well, at least he'd stopped picking his teeth, she sighed with
exaggerated annoyance. "Jake, would you please pick that up if it's not too
much trouble? This is still a lab and labs need to be as sterile as possible."
She tried not to sound condescending but sometimes she thought Jake purposely
tried to annoy her just to see how far he could go without making her lose her
cool with him. Childish... yet so like someone else she knew and loved.

Moorehouse feigned a put upon look, bent over and retrieved the discarded item
from the floor, wiping it off vigorously on his pantleg. Glancing at her to
make sure he had Dr. Scully's full and undivided attention, he stuck it back in
his mouth. If the action had grossed her out, she didn't give him the
satisfaction of letting him know it, and his estimation of the woman went up
another notch. Yessiree, the kid was gonna be hard pressed to get anything past
this dame. He hoped Mulder was up to the challenge. But then he'd survived
three years with her already and didn't look any worse for wear. In fact, they
always seemed to function better when the *were* together... even if they did
disagree more than any two people he'd ever met. Jakes eyes wandered to her
bulging midsection and smiled. Well, they must have agreed about something,
that much was obvious.

Dana noticed his gaze, but she'd be damned if she was going to let it get to
her. "And just what are you grinning at, Detective Moorehouse?" she quipped
lightly.

"Ah... nothin'," he lied, turning back toward the door as it cracked open.
Halleluja, saved by the door, he thought with relief as Mulder walked into the
room. Then again, perhaps "walked" wasn't quite an accurate description. The
word "walk" suggested alert coordination and what this kid was doing didn't
qualify in either catagory. Jake made a quick revision to his earlier "not
worse for wear" observation and wondered with unbridled curiousity what Red had
done to the poor kid last night to make him look like she had the wrong guy on
the slab. In his opinion, Mulder'd better not hang around here in one position
very long or somebody might toe tag him and plant him six feet under.

He knew he should just let it go, but hell, he couldn't help himself. He had to
say it. "Hey, kid, what happened? Looks like you got rode hard and put away
wet!"

This remark got an unexpected chuckle from Scully and a mock glare from Fox, who
turned several shades of crimson. "You don't know the half of it," he muttered
weakly as he stumbled over to Dana, looked over her shoulders into a vivisected
body cavity. His face turned from a crimson blush to a pasty grey which
rapidly became an odd shade of green and he wasted no time rushing to the sink
to heave.

"Hey, hey! You can't do that in here!" Jake yelled with just a hint of a
musement. "Puke ain't sterile. She's gonna kick your ass now, wonder boy. You
just messed up her sterile field, although I think these guys don't gotta worry
too much about germs this late in the game."

This time Dana glared in earnest and Jake feared he may have pushed too far. He
never did know when to quit.

Dana quickly finished with the body and snapped her gloves off before making her
way to the sink and Mulder. One hand rested softly on his back between his
shoulder blades while the other brushed his wayward hair back from his face.
"You okay?" she inquired with concern lacing her tones.

"Yeah, I'm just peachy," he coughed with just a smidgin of sarcastic emba
rrassment.

"You need to eat," she observed, noting that nothing much had actually come up
when his stomach had convulsed. "That morning thing again?" she asked in a
whisper.

"No" he croaked out his little lie.

"No to eating or no the morning thing?"

"No to both. It's just a hangover," he hedged. "And you are both to blame for
it. And as for food?? God, Dana, you want me to eat so I can blow bigger and
better chunks?"

She gave him that "don't be a baby" look that he hated and proceeded with a
overly simplified explanation of the obvious. "If you replenish your blood
sugar levels, the headache should improve and the nausea abate. You will eat
something. I need you coherent, so do your witnesses."

He straightened up from the sink and she peered closely at his face. "Mulder,
that's one hell of a shiner." She took her finger and glided it over the
swollen area then rubbed her forefinger and thumb together in surprise. "Fox,
have you been using my makeup?" she asked, eyes gleaming
wickedly with mischief.

"Ah... hey, I was just trying to make it a little less frightening to the people
who are going to have to look at me today. That's all," he grumbled.

"Better watch him, Red," Jake snorted. "Next thing you know crotchless panties
will be disappearing from your underwear drawers."

Mulder turned toward Moorehouse with a serious expression. "Damn straight on
the 'crotchless' panties, Jake," he replied smuggly. "There's no way I'd ever
be able to stuff all of me into a thong. Of course, Dana's always welcome to
try... over and over and over an..."

The sound of his voice was cut off by the slamming of the door as she propelled
him out the door and down the hallway. Jake emerged several seconds later still
trying to wipe the tears from his eyes. Jesus, he hoped nobody saw him and got
the wrong impression.

He shook his head as he followed them down the hall. Man, sometimes those two
were just too fuckin' much. The hall was deserted, and they took advantage of
that fact. Mulder's arm slipped around her disappearing waistline while her left
hand dropped to tweak his butt in a motion so swift that Jake nearly missed it.
Evidently this kind of interaction had been going on for quite some time, and he
was amazed that none of those specially trained "elite" investigators the Bureau
liked to brag about had picked up on it. Then again, at least one of them had,
he corrected himself.

The damn Assistant Director of the FBI, of all people, had shown up at the
wedding in spite of the problems it would cause him if anyone had known. Jake
decided that A.D. Skinner was in a class by himself and didn't count. He liked
the big, bald ex-Marine, but as far as he was concerned, the rest of the Bureau
Bureaucrats could eat shit and die. The Mulders effectively shot to hell the
outmoded belief that involved partners couldn't work together efficiently.
Mulder and Scully were about the best team he'd ever seen and in his time, he'd
seen plenty.

Admitting that he actually admired a couple of Fibbies was a shock to his ever
so delicate system, but nothin' that a greasy cheeseburger and bottle of ice
cold beer couldn't remedy. By the looks of the two honeymooners in front of
him, joining them for lunch was probably out of the question. Detective
Moorehouse belched loudly and pondered an important executive decision --
George's Sports Bar or McDonalds? Tough decision. The beer sounded good but he
was on duty. Guess it was Mickey Dees... again.

Mulder practically stumbled into the bright sunlight propelled by two small
forceful hands on the small of his back.

"Hey, take it easy," he complained in a hoarse whisper. The sudden glare
attacked his eyes and he covered them with one hand, squinting in pain as he
blindly fumbled in his coat pocket for his elusive sunglasses. "Aaagh!!" Mulder
managed a pitiful groan as Dana led him to the passenger side of the dark
nondescript blue Taurus waiting for them at the curb. Fuck, just once he'd like
to go to pick up his car and find maybe a Lamborghini or even a Mustang
convertible... candy apple red.... yeah.

"Mulder?" Dana eyed him critically. In the light of day, the love of her life
looked a little too thin, too tired, too pale, and seemed just a bit unsteady on
his feet. The black eye poorly hidden under her makeup didn't help to promote
the appearance of robust health either. If she ever needed graphic evidence
that she and Mulder just didn't have the same skin tone, this was it. A sudden
pang of guilt crept over her as she thought of the workout she'd given him this
morning even though she'd known what condition he'd been in. Damn, she couldn't
help it that he was so blasted adorable. Seeing him sprawled helpless on the
bed had just brought back too many old memories of unfulfilled desires and any
chance of prudent self denial had flown out the window. Now look at him. He
was paying dearly for her lack of willpower.

"What? Dana?" Mulder waved his hand in front of her face several times before
she responded. <Oh, this is just dandy. She's zoning out and here I was hoping
that at least one of us could remain coherent.>

"Fox, you look like shit," she finally informed him in a strangely subdued
voice.

"I wish people would stop telling me that," he said bluntly. "I'm beginning to
get a complex." He resisted her attempt to direct him to the passenger seat by
turning abruptly to go around the front of the car. Dana, however, stepped into
his path, blocking him with her body. Placing both hands firmly against his
chest, she stated flatly, "*I'm* driving, Sherlock."

Mulder knew that stubborn stance. Though he admitted to himself that he
actually loved that little nuance, he was getting tired of being babied and
goddamn it, he wanted to drive. He didn't have to explain himself. It was a
male thing, the last vestige of male chauvanistic thinking he allowed himself to
keep.

Gently but firmly, Mulder lifted his tiny bride from the ground before him then
set her down on her dangling feet to one side as he brushed past her to the
other side of the car. Sometimes she was so damn pushy.

Dana's jaw dropped in shock. She couldn't believe he'd actually stooped to this
totally infantile macho show of strength to try and get his way. <Oh no, you
don't, pal.>

Mulder made the mistake of looking at her from over the top of the car as he
grasped the door handle. She wasn't yelling at him. In fact, she wasn't doing
anything at all -- just standing on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips,
seething. This was not good. No sir, Mulder, this was not good at all.
<Better get used to Alpo bud, since by the look of things, you've earned
yourself a one way trip to the dog house tonight if you don't roll over and beg
for mercy.>

"Fox Ian Mulder," Dana fumed. "You get behind that wheel and I guarantee you
*will* regret it," she warned.

God, he hated it when she used his full name in that tone of voice. His hand
paused on the doorhandle. Indecision took over and his resolved faltered. Dana
was not one to make idle threats and he wasn't up to taking the risk right now
that she was blowing smoke up his ass. He also hated the thought of her being
angry with him. it just fucked up his whole day when she was pissed at him and
she knew it.

Reluctantly removing his hand from the handle, he placed his palms flat on the
roof of the car and leaned across the top, fixing her with what he hoped was his
best pleading expression. "Ah, come on, 'Little Bit,'" he coaxed. "When are
you going to let me drive?"

Dana's mouth curled up slightly at one corner. "When *you* cease to look like
shit."

"Bossy broad," he muttered crankily.

"You've been hanging around Jake too much lately. You're beginning to sound
like some grade B Sam Spade movie. Next thing I know you'll be calling me a
dame and asking for a cup o' joe."

Mulder reluctantly ambled back around the car and lowered himself into the
passenger seat under heavy protest. It wasn't until after they'd traveled
several blocks that he broke the silence.

"Well, Shweedhard," Fox drawled in his best Bogie imitation. "You the copper
with the goods on the stiff?"

Dana turned her head, refusing to smile just yet. <Let him squirm.> "Are you
referring to the results of my autopsy on subject #41174-C?"

"If that's the guy with the polyester wardrobe, toe tag, and pasty complexion --
yeah."

Dana frowned slightly as she pulled into the drive-thru line at a local fast
food restaurant. "I've listed the official cause of death as a mechanical
malfunction of the victim's pacemaker."

"But?" he prodded insistently. He knew from the set of her shoulders that there
was more to it than malfunctioning equipment and a body that had been forced to
process a half century's worth of greasy fast food sludge. Speaking of greasy
fast food sludge... "By the way, tell them to leave the meat off my burgers,"
he interjected quietly.

"Oh, they're going to love you for that, Mulder," she groaned. She rolled down
the window and spent the next several minutes trying to get the attendant at the
other end of the mike to understand that while she did want three hamburgers, it
was ok to leave the beef off two of them. She glanced at Mulder's thin frame
and decided to add a chocolate milkshake to his order.

"What kind of malfunctions?" he persisted as they moved forward slowly in line.
Dana shifted uncomfortably and tried to think of a way to explain what she'd
found in a manner that would preclude Mulder's tendency to jump to conclusions
and go off on improbable tangents. "It would seem that Mr. Harris's pacemaker
overheated just a tad," she replied haltingly.

"So his coronary was caused by an electrical malfunction?" Mulder asked. His
voice held a note of disappointment that he tried unsuccessfully to conceal.

Dana didn't quite meet his piercing eyes. "Not exactly," she began slowly. This
wasn't going to be easy. She had yet to formulate any viable scientific
explanation for her findings that could shoot down any of the far fetched
theroies she was sure that Mulder would undoubtably propose.

She finally risked a glance in his direction. <Oh that's just great!!> she
mused. He'd cocked his head to one side and employed the questioning "his
master's voic"' expression that he used whenever he felt she wasn't being
forthcoming with her information.

"What do you mean 'not exactly' ? Either it was or it wasn't," his voice
cracked with exasperation. Her reticence to discuss her findings proved to him
that she'd made some sort of discovery durning her investigation that defied
logical scientific explanation and she was trying to think of a rational method
pf presenting the information without giving him a springboard for jumping into
a pool of unconventional theories.

There were occasions when a psychology degree from Oxford actually did come in
handy... like when trying to understand a spouse. Okay. So they were as rare a
white buffalo but once in a blue moon it could happen, he teased himself into
believing.

Fine. She'd just present the facts in a clear, concise, factual manner and sit
by patiently while he reduced all the available input into some totally
illogical, off the wall premise that only the warped mind of a killer would
comprehend. In other words, business as usual. She chuckled out loud and the
unexpected sound took Mulder by surprise. He faced her with that startled look
he usually reserved for unexpected confrontations with demons, ghosts, and
Skinner in a good mood. It reminded her of that time her mother accidently
walked in on him in the bathroom. She caught herself from laughing even louder.
Unaware at the time that she and Mulder were already more than close, her
mother, being suitably impressed, had dropped rather obvious hints that she
thought Fox would make somebody a wonderful husband someday. Margaret was not
one for subtlety.

"What did you find?" he asked impatiently. "And what's so funny?"

"Death is never funny," she replied solemnly, trying to bring her own slightly
skewed sense of humor back under control. "It's just that I know you're going
to find some weird phenomena involved in this and right now I don't have any
explanation to offer that will bring you back to earth. This is right up your
alley, Mulder. I was just a little amused that sometimes I imagine seeing all
these little wheels just turning and spinning inside that head of yours and I
get this incredible urge to look for a monkey wrench to throw in there just to
see what happens."

"Remind me never to let you fix my car -- provided I ever get around to getting
one. Please, Dana dearest, .just tell me what the hell you found, ok?" He was
achey, nauseous, and most definitely not in the best of moods and she was
driving him to distraction with her uncharacteristic beating around the bush.

"My, my, just a tad cranky today aren't we?" she teased relentlessly.

"Oh, I don't know why that would be..." He thought about letting loose with a
list of complaints as long as his arm but something in her smile stopped him in
his tracks. The rodeo he'd competed in this morning more than made up for all
the little aches, pains, and frustrations he'd endured since. Realistically, he
had no acceptable reason for being in such a foul mood, although... He
supressed a moan as a new thought struck him -- maybe he was getting her
misplaced PMS. God couldn't be that cruel, could he?

"Alright," he finally said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone. "Tell me
what we've got here and I promise you I won't go off the deep end... at least
not right away."

"Well, I guess that's as close to a compromise as I'm going to get, huh?"

"I promise to consider all the logical, boring, obvious, and largely circ
umstantial evidence presented before coming to the correct, though unconv
entional conclusions that I'm sure are just lurking beneath the surface," Mulder
recited blandly, then sighed in exasperation. "Alright already -- come on,
Scully. GIVE!!"

Dana was granted a short reprieve when they pulled up to the service window.
She handed the attendant her money, startling him with her request for a receipt
- if she had to work on her honeymoon, she was damn well getting reimbursed for
lunch - and passed the food over to Mulder. He made a face at the burgers, even
without the meat, choosing to start in on his milkshake instead. Dana took a
bite of her burger and moved out into traffic. She chewed thoughtfully,
remaining silent for several moments. "Mr. Harris's pacemaker was... melted,"
she finally said. There it was. She still found it difficult to believe what
she'd seen even with her own eyes.

"Melted?" Mulder echoed. "And you call that just a tad overheated?"

"Ok, so I downplayed it a bit," she admitted. "Can you blame me?" He just
grinned at her. He loved her "little girl caught doing something she shouldn't
have" look. "It's just so damn weird," she muttered. "I found metal from the
pacemaker fused into the heart muscle. Not just overheated, damn it. *Fused.*
Melted. An ordinary pacemaker just doesn't have a power source that could
generate that kind of heat." Stopping at a red light, she took another bite of
her burger, washing it down with a sip of her soda.

"Maybe it wasn't an ordinary pacemaker," Mulder quizzed hopefully.

" But that's not the only thing," she added quickly. "There was a high
concentration of neon gas *within* the surrounding tissue."

"Neon?" Mulder frowned as the vaguest hint of an idea bubbled in his brain, but
his headache was still interfering with his thought processes. Maybe a little
more food would help. He grabbed one of his meatless burgers from the bag and
took a bite. " Gee, what a coincidence," he muttered distractedly. "Any idea
how it got there?"

He was doing his damnedest to be logical but already his thoughts were traveling
down untraversed avenues and his 'promise' to Dana was wearing thin. Boy, how
long could he last before he strayed from the road and took a hike in a forest
of unproven and largely unpopular ideas. Why did he find it nearly impossible
to stay on the fine line of scientific certainty? <Because, Mulder ol' boy,
nothing in this universe is certain> a small voice scolded him. An unyielding,
stagnant, universe that ceased to adapt and change would soon cease to exist at
all. Something is not impossible simply because we don't understand it.
So...he'd given her logical, scientific method all the time and consideration it
was due. So he'd promised he'd consider any logical explanations. He did not,
however, promise that he'd accept any of them at face value.

Dana noticed the characteristic vacant look on her partner's face and sighed
loudly enough to regain his somewhat fickle attention. "No, at this particular
moment in time, I have'nt the foggiest notion how it got there or exactly where
it came from," she replied. "Mulder, melted pacemaker aside, this is the
strangest aspect of my findings. How much do you know about neon?"

"Aside from the fact that without it, Las Vegas would be a pretty dull place?"
He shrugged, trying to dredge up long-forgotten facts he learned in high school
science. "It's one of the noble gases, existing in the air around us. And you
know krypton, besides being Superman's home planet, is also a noble gas."

Dana rolled her eyes at him. "Yes, neon exists in the air around us, about one
part per 65,000. But the neon gas in Mr. Harris's body was nearly pure." She
took another bite of burger. "It shouldn't have been there, Mulder. I only
found it because it was infused into the tissue along with the metal. Air
shouldn't even have been there, much less neon. Neon is separated from air by
lowering the temperature until the air liquifies, then raising the temperature
until the gases boil off. The boiling point for neon is -246 degrees Celcius."

"But you said Mr. Harris's pacemaker was melted," Mulder pointed out.

"Exactly. So we have evidence of both extreme heat and extreme cold at the same
time in the same tissue. It doesn't make sense."

"Unless the neon was there for a different reason," he mused.

She turned to look at him. "What are you thinking?" Something about this whole
case bothered Mulder. They'd been through enough together that she recognized
the customary restlessness that commonly accompanied another trip through the
unusual and into the bizarrre.

"I'm not sure what I'm thinking yet," Mulder mused. But I think we'd better
tell Moorehouse that Mr. Harris was murdered."

That did it. It had to happen. Dana felt it coming and the little scrap of
information she'd given him was just enough to set him off. Fox's eyes glowed
with a familiar excited gleam. He was hooked and she knew he wouldn't rest
until he had an answer and stopped a killer. It didn't matter that the answer
he'd find would in all probability not be accepted or even believed. They'd
call him 'Spooky' or worse, laugh in his face, and slam him behind his back.
Yet she knew he'd suffer their barbs and snide remarks in quiet humility,
knowing that in stopping a killer, he'd preserved life and in doing so validated
his beliefs and vindicated himself.

As for her? She'd support and defend him as always. Mulder wasn't the easiest
man to understand but he was honest, just, passionate, and compassionate to a
fault. What other agents thought was of little importance. Besides, it was
usually only the ladder-climbing wannabes who gave him grief, not the people who
really counted.

Mulder picked up his cellular and punched in a number from memory. Speaking
around the last few bites of his burgerless Big Burger he grimaced as a
wayward, ketchup-laden tomato slid from between the sesame seed buns and into
his lap with a slurping splat. "Shit!" he muttered while dabbing at the crimson
splotch with a somewhat droopy napkin.

"And it's nice talking to you too, Mulder," Jake's gruff and annoyed voice
answered.

*************************************************

Silver Star Casino
Reno, Nevada

"Okay, we're here," Dana said rather abruptly as Mulder put his cell phone back
in his coat pocket. From the part of the conversation she'd heard, Moorehouse
wasn't too pleased to hear Mulder's theory that Mr. Harris was murdered, even
though the who, how, and why were still a mystery. "But why are we here? All
Moorehouse told me was that we had an appointment at the Silver Star at noon."

"We're here to meet with Mr. Salvatore Saladino, chief of Security. 'Why' is a
longshot posibility that might pay off," he said as she pulled the car up to
valet parking. He got out of the car as she handed the car key to an
all-too-young looking valet. "All the murders took place between two and four
in the morning and in the general vicinity of the Red Sands, the El Dorado, and
the Riverboat, not to mention the Silver Star," he continued. "The victims each
had items on their person that suggested they'd been gambling just prior to
being killed. Yes, I know that's really big news," he added facetiously after
seeing her feigned look of exagerated surprise.

"Mulder, half the people in this area probably have items on their person that
suggest they've been gambling," she said in exasperation. "Especially those in
the vicinity of casinos in the wee hours of the morning."

"Ah, yes, but these people had been winning, and winning big. I doubt that's
something most gamblers could say, especially in the wee hours of the morning."
He grinned at her, his hand automatically finding the small of her back as she
walked next to him. "Anyway, I spoke with Mr. Saladino, Mr. Cerusico, security
director at the Riverboat, and Mr. Dorian, security director at the El Dorado,
yesterday and they all agreed to assist us with the investigation anyway they
could. Apparently having their patrons killed off is bad for business. I asked
them if they could provide security videos for the dates and times I requested
and they were only too happy to comply. We'll start here and work our way
through all their security videos. With any luck maybe one of their cameras
could have picked up the victims and maybe even a killer."

Dana stepped in front of Mulder, leading the way through the revolving doors
into the casino. Mulder followed the scent of her perfume, knowing that even if
he couldn't see her, he would still be able to find her wherever she went. In
fact, she was probably going to have to stop wearing that stuff to work, he
thought raggedly. Its affect on him was entirely too stimulating.

Once inside the hotel Dana paused, realizing that Mulder had purposely failed to
mention someone. "What about the Red Sand's security chief?" she asked
pointedly. There had to be a reason Fox hadn't included him with the others.

Mulder shrugged. "I've had a difficult time catching up with the elusive Mr.
Simons. I don't know, Scully. Think he's trying to avoid us?"

Dana pursed her lips like she'd tasted something sour, then pushed the up button
on the elevator. "I just can't imagine anyone not wanting to see us. I'll try
to nail him down to an appontment after we're through here. Maybe he just
doesn't understand how important his assistance could be."

Mulder flashed her a devilish grin. "Oh, there's no need to do that. I managed
to convince the man that it was in his best interest to accomodate us."

"Pray tell, how did you manage that?" she asked with a hint of suspicion tinging
her words.

Mulder chuckled softly. "Would you believe I used my innate charm and well-honed
powers of persuasion to sway him?"

Dana glanced up at her impish partner and tried desperately to keep the laughter
in her eyes from spilling out from between her lips. She knew this man. She
often thought that she knew him better than he knew himself and she had a pretty
good idea, given Mulder's creative sense of justice, what type of persuasion
her other half had employed. "You casually mentioned the
remote but plausible possibility of an unexpected audit by the IRS," she stated.

"Ah, come on, Dana, you're no fun," Mulder muttered, his eyes focusing forlornly
at the fleur de lis pattern on the carpet. He'd figured he'd pout a little
until they reached Saladino's office at the end of the hall. The Pound Puppy
look was always useful to invoke a little extra attention and he wasn't above
using it whenever the opportunity arose. Sure, Dana Katherine knew when he was
doing it, she always had, but it didn't matter. He always got the desired
results anyway, just like she did with that damn quivering bottom lip of hers.
"Alas," he lamented, "you know me too well. And now that I've lost all my
mystery, you'll be leaving me for someone infinitely more intruiguing."

Dana linked her pinky finger in his and gave it a cursary tug. "That'll be the
day. Do you think for one minute that after all the time and effort I've spent
breaking you in that I'd actually give someone else the opportunity to benefit
from all my hard work, just because you've become a little more predictable? I
don't think so! Face it hon, you're stuck with me."

"I'm predictable?" he asked genuinely surprised. He'd been accused of many
things over his lifetime, but predictability had never been one of them.

"Yes," she smirked. "Predictably unpredictable."

"Oh." Mulder accepted her light-hearted jibe and nodded his head in reluctant
agreement as they reached a solid oak office door with the words "Casino
Security" etched on its brass nameplate.

"Why are we here -- really?" Dana asked, ultimately unable to deny her cu
riosity. "The local P.D. already has copies of the security videos. What
exactly are you looking for?"

"Scully, I honestly don't know but hopefully I'll know what it is when I find
it," Mulder said, opening the door. "I just want to see the originals, maybe
get a feel for how these things work, and the lay of the land so to speak. I
need to talk with the men who are responsible for the security of their
employers and patrons. If anyone..." he trailed off quietly, interrupted by the
sight of a busty blonde in a very short, very, very, tight-fitting red dress
sitting behind a clear glass table. A computer screen and keyboard sat on a
small desk to her right, along with a telephone, but there was nothing on the
table itself to obscure his view. Even as he acknowledged that the effect was
probably planned to distract visitors, Mulder's eyes couldn't help dipping
instinctively, taking in an ample expanse of generously exposed cleavage. He
felt a twinge of carnal lust flair briefly, dying unheeded as quickly as it had
begun but not before Dana noticed his wandering eyes.

What is it with this town? Mulder wondered to himself with exasperation. He'd
never seen so many well-formed women in one place since the porno raid on the
Odessey Club. Maybe it was a prerequisite for women living here. <I can see the
job applications now -- name, age, address, cup size...> Christ, how was he
going to stay out of trouble when every time he turned around, a huge set of
knockers were staring him in the face? It wasn't like he was going out of his
way to look. He wasn't, and he really didn't mean to gawk, but sometimes it was
just plain unavoidable. Even now he knew he was in deep shit with Dana by the
way her posture stiffened when he'd finally regained enough of his composure to
talk to the woman.

"Uh, Agent Fox Mulder, FBI, and this is my partner, Agent Dana Scully," he said
in what he hoped was a level voice. He reached around and pulled Dana forward
to stand by his side. "We have an appointment with Mr. Saladino."

"Sure, hon," the woman said, popping her gum once as she picked up the phone and
pressed the intercom button. "Hey, Sal. Two Feds are out here to see you.
They say they have an appointment."

"Oh, yeah," a slightly annoyed disembodied voice replied, clearly audible
through the receiver. "I forgot. Tell them to take a seat and I'll get to them
when I'm finished with my, ah, business meeting."

Miss Double Bubble opened her big red cartoon lips to repeat the message, but
Mulder interrupted her. "We heard," he commented dryly while taking a seat next
to Scully.

Unfortunately, the seat Mulder chose gave him a clear view of the receptionist,
although probably anywhere he sat would have given him just as good a view. He
cleared his throat noisely, concentrating his gaze on the toes of his shoes, the
painting on the wall behind her desk, anywhere else but on the bimbo sitting
directly in his line of sight. No doubt aware of the effect she had on the male
of the species, she suggestively crossed and uncrossed her legs at regular
intervals.

Why was she doing this to him? He wasn't interested, not really. The only
woman he wanted was sitting right there in the room beside him on the couch,
which was probably why this blatant
flirtation was so damn embarassing. Mulder, you're a dog, he thought guiltily.
Men are dogs. He loved his wife and would never do anything about the come on
he was getting -- so why did this woman bother him so much? <You're a
psychologist... figure it out.>

"Mulder?" Dana gently nudged his shoulder. She knew he'd noticed the re
ceptionist. Hell, it would be hard not to. She also knew that he wasn't above
looking -- most men weren't. In fact, since they'd arrived in this place she
could almost swear his head was on a swivel. The thing that really bothered her
was that they almost always looked back, and this one in particular was becoming
annoying. Bad enough she was trying to fit most of a size 9 body into a size 5
dress, but that Sharon Stone thing she was doing with her legs was a bit over
the top. Mr Saladino better get in here soon or she just might have to resort to
some unprofessional tactics.

"Huh?" Mulder sputtered, painfully aware that he'd been staring. The heat rose
to his face and he felt like a heel when he realised Dana had caught him
looking, and guilt immediately put him on the defensive. So, he liked watching.
What was so awful about that? It didn't mean he wanted what he was seeing, he
rationalized. He just liked looking.

Yeah, right. Looking was one thing, but it's really in bad taste to do it with
the person you love sitting right next to you, he berated himself. What if she
took it as a slap in the face, you idiot? Nobody turned him on like his Dana.
No one ever could. He just found the variety of scenery -- well, interesting --
and his curiosity often got the better of him. They'd have to talk about this
later before she got the wrong idea and he ended up on the couch, or worse.

"Are you feeling ok?" she asked, barely able to hide a smirk. The look of
apology in his eyes confirmed for her that he believed he was in trouble. Good.
Maybe she could use it to her advangate at some later date. It was odd but she
really didn't feel all that threatened by any of these women. She trusted Fox
and felt his love for her in every breath, look, and touch... even in this.
Somehow she knew that although he might look, she was secure in the knowledge
that he would never follow through with anything else. Nope, definitely not
threatened, just annoyed that other women would have the gall to flirt with him
right in front of her.

"Um, yeah, I'm fine." He blushed furiously. "Dana, I'm..." Oh, good god, was he
ever going to be able to finish a lousy sentence? The inner office door opened,
successfully detouring his train of thought as a scantily clad, long-legged
brunette slinking across the room rerouted his gaze. She conspicuously adjusted
her skirt. Curling her lips into a seductive smile, she lightly brushed his
shoulder before leaving the room. This was very confusing. He'd never got this
much attention when he was single, at least if he had, he hadn't been aware of
it.

Mulder glanced up slowly when Mr. Saladino charged into the room. Turning his
face toward Dana, he tried to hide a grin, rolling his eyes upward with an
expression that clearly said "I don't believe this. Is this guy for real?"
He couldn't help the feeling that he was Elliot Ness and had just been dropped
into a Twilight Zone, Ted Turner colorized version of Public Enemy Number One.
Good old Sal looked like he'd been caught in a 30's time warp, right down to his
pin-strip suit. If there ever was a gangster stereotype, he was their poster
boy. <And I'm supposed to take him seriously?>

Noticing the mischief playing about her husband's eyes, Dana immediately shot
him the look. The one she knew he would interpret as "behave yourself or I'm
sending you to your room without desert." That should take care of any off hand
remarks, she thought. Fox just lived for "desert."

It didn't take an Oxford degree to comprehend her message. Mulder bit down on
the urge to voice his observations, putting the brakes on his somewhat caustic
humor. He was getting a little better at ignoring his impulses.

Sal studied the two agents with thinly veiled suspicion. Dealing with Feds
wasn't exactly in his field of expertise. Their presence in his office was
disconcerting and uncomfortable at best. Not that he'd been engaging in any
illegal activities or anything like that, but he sure as hell wished his
cousin Vinnie was here to field any leading or misleading questions. Vinnie was
a slimeball of the highest magnitude, but he was also the best lawyer the family
had produced in two generations.

So... the Feds were here to view his tapes and ask questions about how his
security system worked, huh? Well, best get on with it. He didn't trust cops,
especially the Federal Fuzz. This was just gonna be the highlight of his day.
Damn. He just wished he knew the real reason the FBI decided to camp out on his
doorstep.

Mulder stood and politely offered his hand in greeting, a gesture that Sal
ignored. "I'm Agent Mulder and this is my..."

"I know who you are," Sal broke in. "Now all I wanna know is why in the hell
you're here. I already gave the local guys copies of my security tapes, so cut
the pretentious bullshit and clue me in on your ulterior motives."
Scully stood her ground and glared. She'd dealt with hostility before, but this
guy was just plain rude.

Mulder, on the other hand, smiled with guarded amuzement, much to the security
chief's obvious surprise. He couldn't blame the man for his apprehension.
Hell, it was with some irony that Mulder acknowledged the fact that he didn't
trust his employer any more than Sal trusted him.

Speaking softly at first with an almost inappropriate, treacherous calm, Mulder
addressed the gangster once more. <Yes, he was sure that this guy belonged to
an "extended" family, but right now that wasn't a major concern.> "Mr.
Saladino, I have no hidden agendas," Mulder said, his voice gradually increasing
in volume and his tone gathering in heated passion. "What you do in the back
room behind the gaming tables and red velvet curtains is your business."

Saladino drew in a breath, no doubt all set to deny that they even had a back
room, but Mulder cut him off. "My business is to find out why five people are
dead and who or what killed them before it happens again. That's all."

Mulder paused to see if the man was buying it. If he was reading him right, he
thought he was. "Now as I was saying to my partner before you came in and
interrupted me," Mulder continued, "just watching video copies isn't going to
help me. I could sit in a screening room and watch these damn things all day
and still not know what in the hell I was looking at. I'm a novice gambler at
best. I got my first taste of the gaming tables just last night, so I need an
expert's advice. Since I'm fairly certain that your employers wouldn't tolerate
ineptness in someone who oversees the protection of their property, I would
assume you'd be the man to see. Can I expect your assistance and cooperation in
this matter or not?"

Dana held her breath. This was not the tone of voice to use when addressing
someone with obviously major criminal affiliations. Oh god, it wasn't bad
enough that her lunatic husband alienated himself from the government that
employed him along with various and sundry secret and black ops organizations.
Now it seemed he was hell bent on pissing off organized crime as well. <Shit,
Mulder, what am I going to do with you?> Dana grasped Mulder's sleeve and
tugged gently. "Mulder, the man doesn't want to help us and we can't make him.
Come on, let's go."

"No!" came the stubborn reply. "Not until *he* gives me an answer."

Sal looked up at the young man towering above him and attempted his well-honed
art of intimidation by staring him down. In his line of business this ability
was occasionally a life-saving necessity. However, Sal was not quite prepared
for the cool, piercing, hazel eyes that relentlessly stared back with an
unyielding force as solid and cold as tempered steel.

Dana watched in total disbelief as two grown men stood toe to toe, each refusing
to back down. The testosterone levels in the room were enough to make her head
swim. This was ludicrous. Her feet hurt, her back ached almost as much as her
head, and the pressure on her bladder was reaching major proportions. <Enough
is enough. I'm not going to pee in my pants while these two try and solve the
mystery of who's got the bigger dick. Besides, I already know the answer to
that one.> Dana snorted out loud then moved quickly to step between them. "Mr.
Saladino, back off," she ordered in a tone that shocked even her.

Before Mulder had a chance to react, she turned and fixed him with the same
threatening stare. "And you, Fox William Mulder," she growled, "need to cool
off." She looked back and forth between the two of them. "Gentlemen?" she
asked, daring either of them to revert to schoolyard behavior.

Saladino marveled at the apparent ease with which this firey redhead gave orders
and the equally effortless way her otherwise stubborn partner gave in to them.
Perhaps he'd made a snap judgment here. Maybe they were on the level after all.
One thing was for certain, though. He had no doubt in his mind that these two
were married.

Oh, yeah, they'd put up a good front, all professional like, but he'd caught
that sudden look of panic on the guy's face when she'd rounded on him. He'd
seen it too many times on the male faces of friends and family -- that "oh shit"
look that only a spouse could induce, the one that could bring his gorilla
brother Guido to his knees even when half the Scarpelli's hit men couldn't.

Still, deciding to trust a Fed was a tough call, and he knew that if he was
wrong about these two, he'd pay dearly for his lapse in judgment. Although any
man with balls enough to hold his own with Salvatore Saladino, in his opinion,
deserved the benefit of a doubt. Not too many men had been able to do that,
fewer still who were still alive. Those who stood up to him and survived earned
his respect, and besides, he had a feeling that there wasn't too much that this
ornery bastard actually feared. That fact alone deserved respect. Too bad he
was a damn cop.

Sal made a decision and hoped it was the right one. After all, this Agent had
cut him some slack by letting him know that Sal's little side operation going on
in the private room downstairs wasn't quite as secret as Sal thought. It might
have been just a lucky guess, but Sal hadn't survived this long by taking
chances. This would give him an opportunity to relocate a particularly
lucrative business before the Fed felt obligated to report the little
infraction.

"Okay," Sal nodded with a slight grin. "Why don't you tell me what you want from
me?"

Dana did a double-take. This was not the reaction she'd expected. In fact, she
had been bracing herself for the posibility of being forcibly removed from the
premises, but somehow her partner had done it again. How he always managed to
instinctively know what tact to employ when he wanted something from someone was
a mystery to her, not to mention how someone so empathetic could then turn
around and rub so many people the wrong way. She often suspected that he knew
exactly what he was doing and purposely pushed all the wrong buttons just to
keep people at a distance. Lucky for him, she was never one to go with first
impressions or accept superficiality.

"I need you to look at each section of video where a known victim appears and
explain to me exactly what he's doing," Mulder replied. "If you see or hear
*anything* that may be out of the ordinary -- anything unusual or out of place
-- I need you to tell me. You, sir, would be more likely to detect any
abnormalities than I would."

Sal nodded once, then turned on his heel and headed for the door. "In that
case, Agent Mulder," he grumbled over his shoulder, "I suggest you and your
partner follow me. I have a business to run and I haven't got all day to watch
movies and babysit the FBI. It'd be bad for my reputation."

Unknown Location
*****************

Smoldering gray ashes floated haphazardly onto the dingy, blue-green carpeting
of the dark little room. Small brown scortch marks from years of careless
disregard scattered throughout the tread-worn covering like some bizzare version
of an ink blot test -- a test whose patterns would
perhaps be the only surviving witness to the malevolent evil and insidious
decisions made in secrecy and in the name of the greater good. Perhaps someday
someone would be able to interpret these patterns into something meaningful but
for now... for now they waited in muted testament, unable to reaveal the truth.

"Do you have the information?" the man asked casually while taking a slow drag
off his ever-present Morley.

The tall, gnaunt, nearly skeletal apparition flung a new file folder down on the
desk top. He sneared as an overflowing ashtray became an instant casualty,
sending a new cloud of powdered ash billowing into the already polluted air.

"We have a problem," a thin, tinny voice announced rather belligerently.

"What kind of problem?" the heavy-jowled man hissed between his yellow teeth and
puffs of smoke. After all these years, he was finally begining to detest all
this obtuse bullshit. Why couldn't this asshole just get to the point?

One long, bony finger darted through the smoke trails to tap impatiently on top
of the file. "Satellite photos of the area at the time in question revealed the
presence of only one vehicle within a five mile radius of the crash site. Does
the license plate 'GENIUS 1' ring any bells?"

The smoker raised a questioning eyebrow. "Should it?"

The man in black took satisfaction in knowing he possessed information that this
smug, fat, smoking slug didn't. "Let me enlightened you then," he whispered,
drawing out each word slowly, carefully savorying each syllable. "It was
registered to Scott Simons. Oh, what a coincidence!" the voice mocked
sarcastically. "He just happens to be one of our very own research scientists
-- who just happens to be on a forced extended leave of absence. How
wonderfully convenient."

"I'll send someone to pick him up," he said, shifting uneasily beneath an icy
corpse-like glare of hollowed, emotionless eyes. He knew that that the offer
was too little, too late.

"That won't be necessary," the shadow figure replied with a tone becoming
gravelly with anger. "We had already scrambled our operatives to retrieve Dr.
Simons before I came here. The results of that mission, however, are at this
point somewhat inconclusive. Dr. Simons has not returned to his or his parent's
home. He's obviously made himself scarce. When we locate him -- and I have no
doubts that we will -- you had better pray to whatever deity you believe in that
the prototype is with him."

The smoker stood, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray. Pushing himself up
from his desk with stubby fingertips, he leaned in closer to his unwelcomed
guest. "I hope that wasn't a threat," he seethed. "A threat to me could be
construed as a threat to powerful people whom I represent, and I can guarantee
that such a move on your part would be -- shall we say, unwise?"

His retort was greeted with silence. It wasn't until his visitor slipped into
the darkness and out of his door that he finally allowed himself to relax enough
to light up a new Morley. He didn't like this turn of events. No, he didn't
like it at all. It was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the upper
hand in such a totally unpredictable situation.

Things were getting out of his control and above all else, the most important
things in his life had always been power and control. His footing with his
colleagues had become tenuous in the last few years due mainly to another thorn
in his side... Fox Mulder. A quick and favorable solution to this untidy mess
was paramount. And knowing Agent Mulder was snooping around in the immediate
vacinity did little to ease his mind. The man was too close for comfort. He'd
tried to contact A.D. Skinner to have the troublesome agent and his partner
recalled to D.C., but was given an unexpected message that Skinner had called
out sick and was unavailable. Skinner *never* called out sick.

He sighed around the butt of his cigarette. This was just not his week.

Red Sands Hotel
Parking Garage
4:00 p.m.
*****************

"Well that was an enlightening educational experience if ever I had one," Mulder
snickered, still trying to process all the information he'd gathered over the
last few hours. "Who'd have known there'd be so many different ways to cheat?"
He shook his head slowly in disbelief as they headed toward the elevator. "And
that each of our victims was adept in at least one of them," he added with a
certain amount of irony.

After leaving the colorful, no doubt well-connected Mr. Saladino, they'd spent
time with the heads of security at the El Dorado and Riverboat casinos. Between
all three places, they'd seen each of the victims on film, each busy cheating
the house. No wonder the victims had left the Red Sands winners. If they were
cheating at other casinos, it was a sure bet they were cheating at the Red Sands
as well.

Dana looked puzzled. "What I don't understand is if security knew that these
guys were cheating, why didn't they stop them or toss them out on their
unethical behinds?"

"Maybe they didn't catch it the first time around," he guessed. "According to
Mr. Cerusico, these guys were really good at what they did and from watching the
videos, I'd tend to agree."

"But what would cheating have to do with anything? Their indiscretions weren't
discovered until after they were murdered, so we can rule out an over-zealous
security guard. There wouldn't have been any motive except maybe robbery, and
we can also rule that out since each was found with their winnings intact."

Mulder looked at her with surprise. "It's relevant because it adds to the other
list of things that these men had in common. All the victims so far have been
men, all had been gambling, all had gambling paraphanalia in their possesion at
the time of death, all had been alone, all had frequented all the casinos in
this area,, each one had been at the Red Sands in the early morning hours,
they'd all won big time yet they hadn't been robbed, each one always left
whatever casino they were visiting at the security shift change, and each one
was an expert cheater and hadn't been caught." He took a deep breath after
ticking off the points on his fingers.

"Ok, so we seem to have developed a victim profile," she admitted. "But we
still don't know how that connects them with a killer, much less how they were
killed."

"God, Dana, I don't know," Mulder sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"Maybe Mr. Simons might shed some light on this since the Red Sands was the last
casino each of the victims visited before he died. Every little bit helps and we
don't have much else to go on. So far no witnesses have come forward and no
one's been able to identify the screaming woman from the last murder scene."

Dana took her very tired and discouraged partner by the hand and led him into
the Red Sands lobby and into a nearby elevator. "Maybe the cameras here caught
something," she said, trying to instill a little hope into their investigation.
"Or Mr. Simons could arrange for us to interview the employees who went off
shift at the time of the murder. I know Moorehouse and his partner already did
that, but we might be able to spot something they missed. Since the man was
found not twenty feet from an employee exit, it at least would be a good place
to start." She stared up as he looked down and their eyes met in understanding
and compassionate support.

Alone with his new bride in an otherwise deserted elevator, Mulder slowly and
gently molded his large graceful hands around her waist, lifting her at least a
foot off the ground before softly caressing her mouth in a sensually inspiring
kiss, one he knew he would have to leave unfinished since what he had in mind
would definitely take longer than the ride in an elevator. "I've been wanting
to do that all day," he said in a whispered moan.

Flicking her tongue on the tip of his nose, she chuckled softly. "I know, I've
been waiting for you to break protocol and give in, but I have to admit -- I
didn't think it would be in an elevator." She deftly pulled his bottom lip into
her mouth, then smiled as an inarticulate groan escaped from his mouth and into
hers.

He was just getting into the spirit of things when the elevator chime announced
their floor. The doors slid open just as Dana slid down his long, achingly
sexually deprived frame. It was a good thing he had on loose fitting trousers
and a jacket that did some discreet camoflage.

"This isn't exactly the honeymoon I'd had in mind," he gasped quietly into her
ear as a young couple and half a dozen noisey children flooded their space,
momentarily hindering their departure.

Dana grasped his hand, stroking the soft spot between his thumb and forefinger
with her thumb, feeling his body shudder and his knees buckle. Then spotting an
opening in the crowd, she led him out into the hallway.

Walking slowly by her side, the beginnings of a grimace perched itself on his
lips while he unsuccessfully tried to mask a slight limp. She was not playing
fair, he decided with dismay just as a tiny hand pulled him to a sudden stop.
He looked down questioningly into her innocently smiling face with something
that fell somewhere between pain and pleasure drawing his mouth into a thin,
tightly controlled line.

"Are you okay? Did you get a cramp in your foot?" she asked sweetly. God, she
was teasing him mercilessly and she knew it. Dana Katherine Scully had never
been a tease before but this was such fun and he was so... receptive. <Face it
Dana, you just never really wanted to tease anyone quite like this before -- not
even Jack.> She was playing with fire here and it was exciting, especially
since she knew that 'Dana Mulder' would ulimately be the one to quench the
flames.

Mulder raised one confused eyebrow. "You know damn well that I didn't get a
cramp," he muttered hoarsely in mock annoyance. A wolfish grin crept over his
features and he pulled her toward him. "But if you come closer, little girl, I
will show you what I do have for you."

Dana inhaled sharply, wondering if she'd pushed him just a little too far,
considering that they were standing in the middle of a public hallway in broad
view of just about anyone who decided to walk out of their room.

Pausing for effect, Mulder decided that two could play this game. "You and I
both know that if you keep this up," he teased, his eyes sparkling as he chanced
a quick downward glance at himself, "Mr. Simons will be waiting for us in his
office for a very long time." He edged himself forward and pressed her back
firmly yet gently against the wall. "You know me, Dana. I'm not above doing it
in the closet," he panted throatilly as she followed his gaze to the door that
was clearly marked 'Janitor.' "Or even in an elevator," he continued,
purposefully glancing over his shoulder to the heavy metal doors several feet
away before returning his undivided attention to nibbling on her earlobe and
nuzzling the sensitive area of her neck just below her jawline. Soft, sensuous
lips expertly sent shivers down Dana's spine and she tensed with anticipation.
The man should come with a warning label, her mind noted lovingly. She felt
light headed and incredibly warm.

He pressed his hips into her, increasing the pressure to drive the point home as
he continued, "I could have even done it in the airport terminal when you
clearly were asking for it," he whispered. "But there just wasn't time to do it
right... and there still isn't," he sighed with regret just as another hoarde of
tourists pushed their way through the now open elevator doors.

"Later," he promised with a low growl that matched the desire in his eyes as a
lingering finger drew a feathery line across her breast on its way down to his
side. "Time to pay Mr. Simons a visit."

Unseen eyes observed the interaction in the hallway and followed the two beings
as they came closer and closer to the center of its world. In the midst of a
chaotic sea of undisciplined and unrestrained thoughts, a refreshing mind of
organized, efficient intelligence shown like a blinding
beacon of light. It searched for the source, finding even in the alienness of
the being, a strange yet compelling familiarity that it did not recognize in its
present point of reference... the being called 'Scott.'

It perceived the other coming closer still and could no longer resist the urge
to touch and be known. The Scott being, though intelligent for this species,
was not capable of receiving information. But the new being was. It sensed the
other's capability to retrieve, file, and store unerringly that which it
preceived. This was rare. It also felt belonging and kinship and without
hesitation reached out to claim its rightful bond.

******************************************************

CHAPTER 11
CONTACT

Red Sands Casino
Reno, Nevada
**************

Mulder raised his hand to knock on the office door but found himself clutching
at his head instead. Nausea roiled in the pit of his stomach as a bout of
dizziness dropped him to the floor. His head felt like it was about to split
open.

"MULDER!!" Scully cried out. On the floor beside him, she frantically felt for
a pulse while checking his breathing. His eyes were open but to her horror,
they were vacant and unseeing. Her initial examination placed his pulse
somewhere around 200, while his breaths came in shallow labored gasps. The
sudden onslaught of the attack -- whatever it was -- caught her completely by
surprise and it was several moments before she reached for her phone to dial
911. She had just pressed the '9' on her phone when a strong hand restrained
her movements.

"I'm okay," Mulder managed to rasp. Dana lowered her gaze and caressed his
face, a face that had gone from pale to flushed within a matter of seconds. He
still appeared disoriented and out of focus but adamantly refused to let her
call for help.

"Fox, you're far from okay," Dana argued. "Nobody, but nobody, collapses like
that without a reason. I'm worried, all right? I have no intention of
collecting your inheritance any sooner than I absolutely have to, so will you
please get checked out?"

Mulder sat quietly for several seconds and took a deep breath. "It wasn't
physical," he tried to explain.

"What in the hell do you mean, it wasn't physical? I witnessed you go tachy on
me and you say 'it wasn't physical'?" She wasn't in the mood for his
metaphysical, far out theories, especially when it pertained to his health and
well being.

"They were in my head again," he replied in an almost inaudible whisper. "Just
like when Sam disappeared." His voice grew anxious and a look of remembered
fear flooded his features. "Oh God, Dana. They're here... they're here," he
mumbled repeatedly. "No, no, no. I won't let them take you, they can't have my
family, goddamn bastards, I won't let you..." he babbled in near panic, his
voice growing in volume, before the pain came back and he passed out in her
arms.

Scott Simons heard the commotion outside his door. He was expecting two FBI
agents any minute and was nervous enough already. This was not the time for
some drunks to duke it out in the hallway.

He certainly didn't expect what he saw when he opened his office door. Instead
of belligerent drunks, a young woman sat on the floor, cradling an unconscious
man in her arms. Scott knelt down beside them. "What the hell happened?" he
asked, his brows drawn down in concern.

"I'm not exactly sure," she replied worriedly. "Please, can you help me get him
inside?"

With the help of the woman, Scott laboriously hauled the now semi-conscious man
to his feet. He then threw one limp arm over his own left shoulder, tightly
grasping the young man's wrist in an effort to secure the unsteady upper body
weight. That done, Scott reached around the man's back and grabbed his belt as
he partly dragged, partly carried him into his office and slowly deposited him
on the small couch in the waiting room. The woman sat down next to him,
smoothing the hair back from his face and checking his eyes, now open but
unfocused.

"Mr. Simons?" the woman asked, turning her attention to Scott. He nodded in
reply. She flashed an identification badge at him. "Agent Dana Scully, FBI.
This is my partner, Fox Mulder. I'm sorry we had to meet this way." She turned
her attention back to her partner, taking hold of his wrist to check his pulse.

Jesus!! Scott exclaimed silently. He'd been expecting a visit from the FBI but
this wasn't exactly how he envisioned the meeting would take place. He had a
very bad feeling about this.

It had made a serious error. The amount of concentrated mental energy necessary
for its attempts to communicate with the Scott being was unnecessary with this
one. It had inadvertently caused the new being pain, and in the process had
also unintentionally triggered a deep memory response that oddly enough seemed
vaguely familiar. However, it had been damaged and could not access the
required reference material.

If it could have felt frustration, it most certainly would have. It needed
guidance, needed to find its way home. Instead, it found only the mass of cold,
electronic circuitry in which it had been placed. It had searched for a mind
capable of two-way communication, capable of connecting with it as it was meant
to do. The fragile yet compatible intelligence with which it was now communing
was the closest it had found in this strange place.

The machine to which it was connected deemed these small lives insignificant.
The Scott being was indifferent to those like himself. But this new one was
different. The very essence of this being held a deep conviction that all life,
no matter how small or different -- or alien -- was sacred. Conflict ---
confusion -- reevaluation of its purpose was indicated. It reluctantly
dissolved contact with the new being, save for a small connecting thread. It
reentered the lonely void of the machine to attempt to interpret and comprehend
this new input from the being who thought of himself as Mulder.

Scott watched intently while the redhead crouched by the reclining figure on the
couch and expertly took his vitals. "I'm a doctor," she responded to his
inquiring gaze.

Her touch was light, knowing, and sure as she loosened her partner's tie and
unfastened several shirt buttons. The man's eyes had closed again, and Scott
saw her briefly caress the side of his face affectionately with her hand. Scott
got the impression that she'd done this last intimate action on a regular basis
and not just in a medical context either. He filed this information away for
future reference.

Scott stayed out of her way, forcing himself to stand still and not pace. The
last thing he needed was for a Fed to bite the big one on his office couch. If
something serious happened to this guy in his office, his low key anonymity was
shot to hell and he might as well start packing. "Is he going to be okay?" he
finally asked. "Should I call someone?"

"No! I *said* I'm a doctor," she snapped with an annoyance born of fear.

Thick lashes fluttered as heavy lids battled the involuntary impulse to remain
closed. She called his name and finally, Agent Mulder slowly and deliberately
opened his uncooperative eyes, blinked, and attempted to focus on the face
hovering above him. "What happened?" he asked groggily while trying to sit up.
Two small hands firmly pushed him back down into the cushions.

"Just stay where you are for a few minutes and rest," she ordered.

"Rest?? What the hell happened, Scully?"

Scott could practically see the wheels turning in Agent Mulder's head. He'd had
that same look a few times himself, only they were usually brought on after a
few too many drinks the night before. He wasn't an expert, but since working at
the Red Sands he'd seen more than his share of drunks on a bender. He'd be
willing to bet Agent Mulder was sober. And he had a strange feeling in his gut
that he knew exactly what was responsible for the agent's condition. Drinking
hadn't been the only thing that had made him look that way.

Oh hell, what had he done this time? Hurriedly Mulder went over events in his
mind -- well the ones he could remember, anyway. His perfect memory was shot
full of holes at the moment and failing him miserably. The last thing that he
could recall with any clarity was knocking on Scott Simons' door and getting a
searing pain in his head. After that things got a little blurry and he just
couldn't seem to nail anything down except for a vague sense of deja vu' terror.

Ignoring Dana's very vocal protests, Mulder sat up with an effort and gently
pushed away her restraining hands. "Come on, Scully, I'm fine. Give me a
break, huh? So I'm no teenager anymore and it takes a little longer for me to
snap back after I get knocked down."

Whoa!! Maybe sitting up wasn't such a good idea. He still felt dizzy, but he
sure as hell wasn't going to let her know about it. She'd have him stuck in
some goddamn clinic making deposits of his bodily fluids for the rest of the
day. Besides, he had this strange feeling that whatever was affecting him was
more on a mental plane than a physical one.

He didn't know how he could tell -- maybe it was some instinct that dated back
to caveman days -- but he felt the presence of some outside influence being
directed at him. But he wasn't going to tell her about that either. Not yet.
Not until he could figure out what in the hell was going on and certainly not
until he had some concrete evidence that he could offer her as proof. He had
nearly convinced himself that Dana believed she'd married a certifiably insane
kook and far be it for him to give her confirmation that maybe she was right.

"I knew I should have convinced them to take you to the hospital last night,"
Dana fretted. "You could be walking around here with a concussion."

"Look, Scully, I told you that I'm okay. Whatever it was, it's gone now and *I*
*Feel* *Fine,*" he stated, accentuating each word.

Scott saw his chance and jumped to what he took to be an old ongoing argument.
"That is quite a bruise you've got there, Agent Mulder," he commented, making a
point to stare at the man's face with exaggerated concern. Perhaps if he played
his cards right, he could get out of this meeting without answering too many
difficult questions. After all, he was a genius, wasn't he? He'd managed to
stay one step ahead of the people he used to work for, so he should be able to
think circles around a couple of lowly FBI agents. After all, the art of
misdirection was his forte'.
"Head trauma is nothing to fool around with," Scott continued. "I've got some
time available on my calendar tomorrow if you'd like to reschedule this meeting,
give you a chance to recover a bit." <And give me a chance to be elsewhere and
unavailable.>

Dana smiled in appreciation at her new, unexpected ally.

Mulder untangled his long legs, stood up slowly and readjusted his clothing.
"I'm touched by your concern, Dr. Simons," he said. "However, postponing this
meeting is unnecessary. Since I'm already here, why don't we view your videos
now? I'm sure I'll only have a few questions."

Mulder had been around long enough to know when someone was trying to get rid of
him. Maybe if he hadn't gotten the brush off so many times in the past, he
might have missed Simons' skillful ploy. As it was, Mulder was just as expert
in spotting misdirection as Simons was at executing it.

So then why was this guy so reluctant to assist them? Mulder got the distinct
impression that Simons, however courteous he appeared to be, did not want them
snooping around, a fact that rankled his ever present curiosity no end. The
man was hiding something. Whether or not it pertained to the case didn't
matter. Mulder hated people who weren't honest with him, and when that
dishonesty interfered with a case, he could be one relentless son of a bitch.

Dana caught the inflection of obstinence and determination in her partner's
voice. Inwardly she sighed, resigned to a lengthy visit.

Even as he smiled and showed them into his office, Scott felt his stomach churn
and twist in knots. Agent Mulder had called him 'Dr.' Simons, a fact he hadn't
bothered to mention. That could only mean that this agent had done his homework
and was a force to be dealt with very carefully.

Scott fidgeted nervously. Well, if the guy was hell bent on staying, maybe he
could distract him. Scott decided to make another attempt at seeming to be the
caring host. "Can I get you something?" he asked, trying to divert Mulder's
attention.

Mulder eyed him suspiciously. "Yeah, sure...how about this month's issue of
Celebrity Skin and a bag of sunflower seeds. I ran out." he muttered
sardonically.

<Smartass> So much for getting a run of the mill Federal paper pusher, Scott
thought with more than just a little anxiety. "Sorry, can't help you with that,
I must have forgotten to renew my subscription and I haven't eaten bird seed
since 5th grade."

"Pity," Mulder retorted, "I always thought you executive types went in for
educational' materials and health foods." he added, getting in what he decided
would be the last word.' "Now that we're finally through with discussing
reading habits and food choices...can we please run through these videos?"

As he put the first surveillance video into his office VCR, Simons took another
closer look at the tall, thin male agent. Now that he was awake and fully
aware, the light of knowledge and intelligence that emanated from the man seemed
to envelope him like a fucking halo. Scott sat behind his desk, trying to
present a picture of calm and authority. Not Agent Mulder. He began to pace,
moving gracefully around the room, reminding Scott of a stalking panther. His
movements were quick yet sure as he fired off the expected standard questions.
He stopped to stare at the video, asking more elementary questions -- the
idiotic questions of someone who doesn't know what they're looking for. Scott
began to relax. Maybe he'd overestimated the man.

Then suddenly, without warning, Mulder's inquiries became rather complicated and
at one point, even bizarre. They were questions that normal investigators would
never think to ask. The local cops hadn't, but Agent Mulder did. The piercing
hazel eyes stared right through him as if they could reach into his soul and
Scott found himself on the verge of panic. What he was being asked hit too
close to home and Scott felt a coil of fear squeezing around his heart. A
sudden burst of insight led to an even more disturbing revelation. Scott
realized this man could think circles around *him* -- that had never happened
before. If he got through this, he'd have to do a little research of his own to
see just what he was up against.

Just as quickly as the interview had started, it ended, leaving Scott unbalanced
and unsure. Mulder purposely left him hanging and occupied himself by watching
the security videos over and over again without further comment. Something
about them bothered him. Something he couldn't yet put his finger on.

Two hours later, Mulder headed toward the door, Scully following him. Scott
felt positively exhausted and rattled.

"Thank you for your time and patience, Dr. Simons," Mulder said while politely
offering his hand. "I hope this hasn't been too much of an inconvenience for
you." He opened the door, then turned back toward Scott. "Oh, and by the way,"
he added,"I may still have a few more questions for you, so if you don't mind,
I'd appreciate it if you'd make yourself available should I need to get in touch
with you in the future."

Scott reached in his pocket for a business card but Mulder raised his hand and
shook his head no. "That won't be necessary, Dr. Simons. I have photographic
memory and I always seem to lose business cards anyway. Have a nice evening."

<Photographic memory, too?> Oh Christ, Scott old boy, looks like your luck just
ran out. "God, I'm glad that's over with," Scott sighed after he'd closed the
door. <For now,> a small voice echoed in the back of his mind. <He'll be back.
You know he won't let go of this.>

Scott crossed the room and dropped heavily into his office chair, and was
shocked by the loud crunching sound at the moment of impact. "What the hell?!?"
Lifting up, he reached under himself and pulled out a large bag of 'David's
sunflower seeds and a current but rumpled edition of "Celebrity Skin." "Seeds?"
he muttered out loud. "How'd these things get here?" They hadn't been there a
moment ago, and he knew the two agents had never gone near his desk. Then he
remembered. He'd asked Agent Mulder if there was anything he could get him, and
he could almost hear the agent's annoyed reply: "'How about this month's issue
of Celebrity Skin and a bag of sunflower seeds... I ran out."

"Oh Shit. NO!!" Scott cringed as soon as the word slipped out of his mouth, but
no offending odor assaulted his sense of smell and no unwanted brown piles
appeared in his office. As absurd as it might seem, this was not a good sign.

Frantically he logged into his terminal and checked his system's programming.
Everything seemed to be working properly -- well, as properly as could be
expected seeing that he wasn't exactly certain in this case what "properly" was.
Something was different though. His discovery seemed to be ignoring him. "Cold
beer in a mug," he said. Nothing. Although the system still appeared to be
executing its directives as far as the machinery would allow, it no longer
seemed content to cater to his whims.

Scott fell back in his chair, dumbfounded. What the hell had happened? One
thing was for certain -- he was no longer in control. <You were fooling
yourself, Scotty. You never really had control over this thing.> Telling it
what to do and actually get it to do what he wanted had been shaky at best, and
now it was gone, and along with it any clout or leverage he might have had. Now
he'd probably end up dead when the bastards he took this wonder from found him.
<Oh God, you're in over your head on this one Mr. Fucking Genius.>

Wait a minute. If his little buddy here had deserted him, it must have attached
itself to someone else. Scott glanced at the sunflower seeds and the skin mag.
He didn't have to have three guesses as to who that special someone might be.
He even had a good idea of when it had happened.

Scott suddenly felt vulnerable. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and
took out his handgun. Its weight reassured him a little. Now was as good a
time as any for him to start carrying. He tucked the gun into his belt at the
small of his back, thankful that the loose cut of his suit coat hid any
tell-tale bulge. With the brains of his security system suddenly on the side of
the FBI, things might be a little hairy around here. A momentary attack of
conscience hit him, and he wondered if he should warn the guy what to expect.
But the attack didn't last long. A gleam of sweet revenge lit his eyes as Scott
decided to let the smartass find out on his own.

Red Sands Hotel
Reno, Nevada
6:30 p.m.
*************************

Dana had to run to catch up with her partner who was so wrapped up in his
thoughts that he hadn't noticed that he'd practically jogged down the hallway.
"MULDER! Will you please slow down? Some of us... you know... are carrying
around... an extra person!" she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

Mulder looked down at the red-haired beauty by his side. He had to grin at that
one. She was technically right and he was sorry he hadn't thought to moderate
his stride to accommodate her.

Color was high on her cheeks, her suit jacket was unbuttoned, and he got a clear
look at her belly. A belly with the beginning of a bulge where his child lay
inside her. Christ, she was showing! Was she supposed to be this big this
early? Then again, it could be that she was just so damn small any amount of
bulge automatically jumped out and demanded recognition. That was it. That had
to be it.

"Sorry," he finally mumbled. "I keep forgetting how short those beautiful,
wonderfully sexy legs of yours are." He paused and became serious. "He's
lying, Dana. He's hiding something. I don't think he's directly responsible
for the murders, but I do believe he's got an idea of what's going on and
either is scared to tell us or doesn't believe he should." Mulder paused and
stared at the wall, but Dana knew he was seeing something else in his mind.
"Then there's something about those damn videos that keeps bugging me," he
continued. "It's right there and I can't see it. Shit!"

Mulder rubbed his forehead, frowning. Dana reached up to cover his hand with
her own. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he responded. "It's just... I know this is going to sound weird,
but I don't know exactly how else to explain it. My brain itches."

"What??" Jesus, he's lost it this time. "Mulder, brains do not itch." she
tried to explain patiently.

"Maybe not, but it's the closest thing I can come up with to explain how it
feels. Have you ever been under a high tension wire and you can almost feel the
buzz, like little insects crawling all over your skin? It kinda feels like
that."

"Mulder," she sighed. "I've always known you've had bats in your belfry but I
would have never anticipated 'bugs in your brain.' If this keeps up, you will
go to the hospital and get it checked out. That's an order." She frowned at
him, waiting for the inevitable argument, but for once it wasn't forthcoming.
She relented. "Are you in pain?" she asked, knowing he probably wouldn't tell
her even if he was.

"No, it's just damn annoying, that's all," he replied. "The only headpain I've
got at the moment is a little farther down and can't be cured with aspirin," he
added with a husky growl.

"Oh, is that right?" She found herself taking him by the elbow and shoving him
into the elevator. "It is now six thirty, and I would deem an emergency after
hours house call in order. I prescribe..." She pulled him down to her level and
whispered into his ear. He forgot all about congratulating himself for
successfully distracting her as his eyes grew wide and dark. He was certain
that his temperature rose at least five degrees in a matter of seconds.

"And after we've relieved the pressure, it might be necessary to..." she
whispered in his other ear. "In fact a moderate distraction might be just the
thing you need to help you figure out what bothers you about those damn security
videos and you could..." she purred into his open mouth suggesting a course of
action that made his knees quiver.

"AAhhhh," the moan escaped his lips before he realized he was making it. The
doors to the elevator slid open but he wasn't sure if he could move let alone
walk to their room. All of a sudden the fact that their room was at the other
end of the hall seemed damned inconvenient. At this rate he might possibly have
to get down on his hands and knees and crawl to their door. It always amazed
him that she could do this to him with so little effort. "You'll pay for this,
Dana," he snarled playfully.

"I'm counting on it," she answered with a current of velvet coating her voice.

Several minutes later -- several long, uncomfortable minutes later - Mulder
found himself at their door. He forced himself not to touch her yet, because if
he did, he knew he would lose all self-control. Dana unlocked the door, stepped
inside, then turned and grabbed his belt, forcefully pulling him into her
domain. The door closed behind him and locked with a telltale click.

Red Sands Hotel
Room # 1013
******************

Walter Skinner had bid farewell to Margaret and her family, as well as Mulder's
unusual collection of kith and kin, earlier this morning. "Unusual?" Boy, was
that the understatement of the decade, he chuckled to himself.

Since he'd called in sick, there was no pressing need to rush back to D.C. He
had booked a return flight that would have him in the air for most of the night
and back at his desk by 9 in the morning. Any after-effects of spending the
night on a plane could be written off to his "illness." So he'd spent the day
at nearby Lake Tahoe, enjoying the calm beauty of the mountain lake, the clear
air, and the snow. Snow in D.C. meant headaches, but here it seemed soothing
somehow. When he'd returned to the hotel, he tried his luck at a few games and
even managed to come out ahead. All in all, it had been a rather pleasant day
and he made a mental note to do something like this more often, preferably with
company next time.

He'd avoided it as long as possible but the urge finally became too great.
Slipping off his shoes, Walter sat on the edge of the bed and picked up the
phone. When had he become such a creature of habit? he thought idly as he
pressed the numbers to his home phone and then the ID code to his answering
machine.

<BEEP> "DC Cleaners here. Your dry cleaning is ready for pickup."
<BEEP> "'Hi, this is your hard *working* secretary. Don't forget to fill out
your DPS Form 202 for sick pay if you expect any monetary reimbursement for
staying home and goofing off."
<BEEP> "Mr. Skinner, if by chance you should hear this message..."

Walter's head jerked up in recognition as the voice droned on.

"...it would be advantageous to all concerned if you'd take it upon yourself to
remove Agents Mulder and Scully from their present case assignment and recall
them to D.C. Their present course of action could prove inconvenient and
ultimately detrimental -- to everyone concerned."
<BEEP>

"Damn that Black Lung Bastard," Skinner grumbled into the handset. Whatever
Mulder had managed to stumble into this time, it must be serious. The man's
voice had the same smooth, infuriating tone it always did, but Skinner could
sense the urgency behind the message. Otherwise, why would his caller leave
evidence of such a thinly veiled threat? Skinner wondered if the tape, much less
his machine, would still be intact by the time he returned home.

Skinner disconnected the call, then placed a call to the airline, canceling his
flight reservation. Whatever it was, Skinner had a foreboding feeling that his
occasionally troublesome subordinate might need some extra backup on this one.
Not that he didn't believe that Scully couldn't do her job. It was more likely
that Mulder probably wouldn't let her do it effectively. Mulder did have an
annoying little habit of going it alone when he felt another's involvement would
endanger them unnecessarily, especially when that other person was Scully.
Mulder would always put her safety first, regardless of her insistence that she
could take care of herself. And knowing what he did about Scully's condition,
Skinner knew Mulder would keep her safe at all costs.

Damn it, he hated being in the dark. Most of the last fifteen years had been
spent skirting the edges of what the powers that be had wanted him to know.
Lately he'd grown tired of the unending frustration of trying to do an honest
job while working for dishonest, corrupt, and sometimes diabolical assholes.
They often made him feel guilty and dirty. Helping Mulder, even though it
usually wasn't in his best interests, always seemed to redeem his belief in
himself and made him feel clean again.

He hated being a puppet, even if he was an unwilling one. But if it wasn't him,
it would be someone else -- perhaps someone with less of a conscience who
wouldn't hesitate to stab Mulder in the back and twist the knife just to watch
him suffer. No, as much as he hated some of the things he had been forced to
do, he would not give up his position and leave his people to face the wolves
alone.

Well, it seemed like he'd be spending a little extra time watching Scully and
Mulder's behinds once more. Hopefully, he could do it discretely without
calling attention to himself. No sense alarming them if he didn't have to.
Lord knows, they were paranoid enough already. So much for his short lived
uneventful case of the "Federal Blue Flu."

Rolling over onto his bed, Skinner willed himself to take a nap. Keeping up
with Mulder was not any easy task at the best of times. Trying to do so without
his knowledge would undoubtably be a Dante' version of hell.

Red Sands Hotel
Reno, Nevada
*********************

Mulder had just dropped into a light sleep when the phone rang. He heard the
water running in the shower - so he wasn't the only one who worked up a sweat,
eh? The phone rang again and he picked it up without opening his eyes.

"Front desk, Mr. Mulder. We have a delivery for you that needs your signature."

"Delivery?" He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the travel alarm
clock told him it was 8:30 p.m. "Who makes deliveries at this time of night?"
he wondered aloud.

"I'm sorry, sir. He won't give me his name."

Mulder heard talking in the background and smiled. He should have known they
wouldn't use Federal Express. "Tell him I'll be right down," he said, hanging
up the phone.

He got up and padded over to the bathroom. He could hear Dana singing softly to
herself, could see her form behind the steamy shower door. "I have to go down
and pick up something at the front desk," he told her, stepping into his jeans.
"I'll be right back." He grabbed his shirt, slipped into his shoes, and was out
the door before she could ask him any questions.

By the time he got back to the room, Dana was wrapped in an oversized towel,
sitting on the bed brushing her hair. "What was that all about?" she asked.

"I had to go sign for this," Mulder replied, holding a manilla envelope. He sat
down on the bed next to her and gave her a kiss, then opened the envelope and
spread the contents across the bed. He found the report he wanted. Putting on
his reading glasses, he propped a pillow behind his back and leaned back to
read.

Dana looked at the remaining papers on the bed. Copies of the autopsy reports
from the first four victims. Another paper looked like a detailed analysis of a
gaming chip, of all things. What was this? "Mulder?"

He looked up from whatever he was reading. God, he looked adorable in those
reading glasses. Dana forced the thought down. Whatever this was, it had to do
with the case, so it was time to be professional again. Never mind that she was
sitting on their bed wearing only a towel, a bed where just a little while ago
they had... <Stop that right now, Dana Katherine.> Lustful thoughts would just
have to wait for later.

"I had a hunch there was something strange about this case, so before we left
D.C., I arranged to have the first four victims' property analyzed," he said.
"It seems the analysis found trace amounts of a gas that shouldn't have been
there."

"Neon," she said. It wasn't a question.

"That's right, but only in the area of the trauma for each victim *and* in
whatever gambling paraphernalia the victim was carrying. I'm willing to bet
that if the bodies were still available for analysis, you'd also find traces of
neon within the damaged tissue, just like you did with Mr. Harris."

Dana sorted through the papers on the bed, reading the analysis report for each
piece of property - gaming chips, marked cards, magnets, and plain old U.S.
currency. Mulder was right. Each analysis revealed trace amounts of neon
fused within the material. So did each victim's clothing, but only near the
trauma sites. "Mulder, this isn't possible."

"You have the scientific proof right in front of you, Scully," Mulder replied.
"Something out of the ordinary happened to these objects."

Why did this not surprise her? "And you have a theory?"

Mulder gestured at the report he was holding. "Upon closer examination, these
particular items were found to have some minor structural anomalies on a
molecular level. I believe that perhaps the reason we haven't been able to
locate a murder weapon in any of these crimes is because the weapons were hiding
in plain sight the whole time."

Dana shook her head in disbelief. "Are you suggesting these men were murdered
with betting chips, playing cards, a magnet, and US currency?" This was too far
fetched even for Mulder.

"No, of course not," he replied. "At least not in their present form."

Oh, boy, here it comes. Dana braced herself for what she assumed would be the
Fox Mulder stranger than fiction theory of the week. She dreaded this, but she
knew he would wait patiently until she broke down and asked. "And what *other*
form do you think they might they have been in, Mulder?"

"Like I said, " he continued, "a more in depth study revealed unexplained
alterations in these objects' molecular structure as though they had been acted
upon from some unknown, outside influence. I haven't figured out how or why
yet, but I will."

Dana reached for the report he'd been reading and he handed it to her without
comment. "I'm almost afraid to ask," she said, scanning the first page. "But
who performed this in depth study? I know for a fact no such tests were
performed here." Mulder had made the connection from studying the reports and
scheduled the arrangements before they even left D.C. He'd been a busy boy. The
man never ceased to amaze her.

"The Lone Gunmen," he mumbled through his fingers.

Raising her eyes from the report, she took her right hand and tugged his fingers
away from his mouth.

"Now, who did you say these experts were?" she demanded quietly.

"I said, I had some of the personal items found on the bodies sent to the Lone
Gunmen."

"Mulder!" She slapped the papers down on the bed. "How exactly are we going to
document *this* in our report? Not to mention preserve the chain of custody on
the evidence you sent them?"

"Look, we need answers, the faster the better before more people die," he
defended himself. "Byers has a confidential list of experts in just about every
field you can imagine -- and some you probably can't. I've used them
successfully in the past. They're quick, reliable, trustworthy, and don't ask
necessary questions."

She still didn't look convinced, but at least she'd picked up the report and was
scanning through the results again.

"Dana, I know some of these people and they are all highly respected in their
fields of expertise. They're just a little wary of letting their op
en-mindedness be public knowledge."

"Gee, I wonder why?" she remarked.

"Besides, you know if the guys trust them, you can bet that they're on the up
and up," he added as a last ditch effort to convince her of the legitimacy of
the reports.

"But Mulder, if this list is so confidential, how do you know who's on it?"

It was a logical and fair question and she was entitled to an answer. Because
if what he thought was happening really was happening, it was going to take a
whole lot of trust and faith in him for her to believe this one. Trouble was,
there was no logical answer for him to give her. "They trust me," he stated
with basic simplicity.

Dana gave him an almost imperceptible nod and marveled at the fact that it
probably never occurred to him that someone wouldn't trust him. "So what did
these experts tell you that you're afraid to tell *me*?"

Mulder took a deep breath. He had to proceed carefully on this one or she'd eat
him for dinner. <Not all together an unpleasant thought, since they'd nearly
done that an hour or so earlier.> Get your mind out of the gutter, pervert.
There's a time and a place for everything and this isn't it. "Scully, have you
ever heard of the Kingsington Project?" he asked softly.

A moment's silence passed between them as she tried to recall the name. "No,
can't say that I have, but then you and I didn't always travel in the same
circles so I might have missed it."

An uncustomary uneasiness settled around Mulder's features like a shroud. He
silently debated whether or not to include her in the very small circle of
people who knew of this project's existence. It wasn't that he didn't trust
her. Lord knows she was privy to an ungodly amount of sensitive knowledge that
in the wrong hands could have possible catastrophic results. He lovedher and
trusted her explicitly even with his life. So what was one more dirty, little
secret? Maybe one secret too many. Maybe the secret that could forfeit her
life and the life of their child. Where did he draw the line on what she should
know? Did he have that right? Who was he to decide what truths should be known
and what truths shouldn't. If he denied the truth to another human being, was
he not just as guilty as the unscrupulous men he had grown to despise in his own
search for truth?

Dana felt his conflict and saw an the inner turmoil echo through dark hazel
pools. There was so much of him trapped inside, so much she would never know.
Mulder often had unrealistic expectations of himself and it was up to her to
remind him on a daily basis that he *was* human, and entitled to the unending
intrinsic variety of foibles that the title carried with it. He accepted and
carried more responsibility than any one man could be expected to endure and
there were times when she'd feared he'd collapse under its weight. She had to
make him understand that she was here to share that burden, willingly and with
the same passion she'd seen in him. He was a part of her and his battles were
her own. "Tell me about this project, Fox," she said softly.

Mulder sighed and brushed his bangs from his eyes. "The Kingsington Project
consisted of Top Secret experiments involving the alteration of matter on its
most basic level. It was rumored that this technology did not originate
locally, that it was borrowed information from, shall we say, unwilling
visitors."

He waited for the raised eyebrow and look of barely leashed skepticism that
would undoubtably stare back at him any moment. Yep, there it was, a silver
voice echoed in his head as he received the expected reaction. Well, you're safe
so far -- doesn't look like she's called the men in white yet so it was safe to
continue. "The first mention of this line of research was in several top secret
documents dating back to the late 1940's. Documentation has continued on an
irregular basis since then until recently. A flurry of newly leaked information
has turned up in the last couple of months along with several games of musical
labs. The guys with the secret decoder rings are getting antsy and several of
my scientific contacts have been scrambled to unknown locations. Some of those
locations are rumored to be in the Nevada desert."

"Area 51?" she asked.

"Maybe. But that's not the only military installation in Nevada." He paused
and gazed at the sheer-covered window. The neon lights from outside their room
lit up the gauzy material. "Something's gone wrong, Dana, and I think maybe
these murders have something to do with it."

"Mulder," she said soothingly. "We have some unusual deaths, some incons
istencies, some unconventional test results, and a lot of unanswered questions.
That does not necessarily spell government conspiracy or mad scientists with an
attitude. You know I would never rule out your instincts and I'll consider
your theory, but at this point I refuse to put out an APB on Dr. Jekyll or Mr.
Hyde."

Mulder considered her mischievous face and chuckled. "God, I certainly hope
not," he sputtered as his unflattering reflection stared back at him the
mirrored closet doors. "If you did, they'd take one look at this mug and I'd
probably be doing ten to twenty in the local slammer."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time that I've had to bail you out of the
clink," she reminded him.

A running log of the various holding facilities in which he'd been incarcerated
flashed quickly through his mind. Why was it that people always made such a big
deal about his eidetic memory? It was times like this that he firmly believed
that all women had this capability, selectively and in varying degrees,
depending of course on how long you'd known them and how often you'd had the
misfortune of fucking up in their presence. "Probably won't be the last time
either. At least on this occasion I had company," he commented with a
insufferable smirk. "And it wasn't even my fault."

Dana contemplated several retorts to this statement but in the interest of peace
and harmony, not to mention getting a good night's sleep, refrained from using
any of them. Instead she picked up the room service menu. "I'm starving," she
said, deftly changing the topic. "Let's order room service and finish sorting
through these reports, ok?"

"Worked up an appetite, eh?" Mulder teased.

"Mmmm," she agreed. Suddenly a thought struck her. She picked up the manilla
envelope. No postage. "Mulder, how did you get this?"

He smiled at her. "Frohike delivered it in person."

"You mean..."

"You got it. The Lone Gunmen are loose in the Biggest Little City in the
World," Mulder said, confirming her worst suspicions.

"Heaven help us," she muttered.

*******************************************

CHAPTER 12
A FISH BY ANY OTHER NAME

Elsewhere
******************

Well, the butt chewing they'd expected had commenced on schedule. And shortly
thereafter they'd been set up in their current location, deftly swapping places
with the people who originally worked in this place. The humans were safe in
their sleep cocoons and wouldn't remember a thing when this was all over.
Johnny just wished he could say the same for himself.

They'd managed to track the prototype from the desert to this bright and noisy
place, thanks to his partner's unique abilities. As unpleasant and loud as it
was, Johnny Walker seriously considered staying on this backwater planet for
good just to avoid his unsympathetic superior.

Tia Maria placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed affectionately as she
read his thoughts. She shook her head in agreement. Emotional ties between
partners was strongly discouraged. However, they had admitted long ago that
outwardly denying what they both knew existed didn't change the reality of what
they felt. Still -- touching in public was risky and they dared only do it
here, where none other of their kind could observe.

"The prototype is near," Tia said. "It appears to have found a compatible
host."

Johnny turned to her abruptly. "The others?" he asked in alarm.

"No," she replied soothingly. "The others are not compatible. They would
require a conduit -- an interpreter, for they are too different to link with the
prototype directly."

"When did you begin to sense its presence?" he asked.

Tia bowed her head. "Earlier this afternoon I felt the intelligence flare
briefly like a nova then diminish into darkness," she whispered softly. Her
dark eyes raised to find his face, worry clear in their obsidian pools. "Its
memory core has been damaged. It is --- searching, searching for home."

"You said it has found a host. How can this be?" Johnny asked. "The others
cannot link, we know this. We are the only ones from the collective who were
sent to locate it, are we not? And were we not told that the being native to
this world lacked the reqired memory capacity and discipline to accomodate and
access its knowledge and power?"

"Johnny, surely you know that in any given population there are genetic a
berrations. Even in these backward people there are a few rare individuals with
the mental capability that might allow the possibility of a link. Perhaps the
prototype has found one of them."

Pacing with agitation, Johnny stared worriedly into her cool, dark eyes. "We
have to find it. We have to find it soon. If what you say is true, the sum of
all our knowledge, the essence of all that we are, our history, technology, and
our very souls is now linked with the mind of a being who has no idea of the
power he possesses. In the hands of an untrained individual the prototype could
reek havoc. What if the host is unethical and unworthy?"

"We have to believe that it isn't," Tia said, trying to soothe him.

But Johnny refused to be soothed. "According to our own law, for our legacy to
be returned to us, it must be relinquished willingly with the full knowledge of
what has been sacrificed. Tia, we have existed in this place for some time now.
After in depth observation and evaluation of this species, can you honestly tell
me that the chances of the prototype linking with an acceptable human being --
if there is such a thing -- are promising?"

Tia sighed deeply. "Unfortunately, no, I cannot. There is a good side to this,
though," she smiled. "When the prototype is communing, I am able to pick up on
the thought exchanges and track them, hopefully to the source."

"What is the bad side?" Johnny asked, anxiety shining in his clear, violet eyes.

"The others, along with the unscrupulous factions of this country's government,
will eventually discover what we already know. They will use every resource
available to them to hunt down the host and extract the prototype for the power
it would give them, regardless of the damage they would cause to the host if
such a procedure were conducted improperly."

Johnny looked grim. "Then we have no alternative but to find them both --
first." He reached over and flipped the small sign in the door over to "closed"
and turned out the lights.

Red Sands Hotel
Room 1121
******************

"Mulder?" He heard the whisper in his ear, her breath tickling the tiny hairs
within. Maybe he'd imagined it... He buried his head deeper in his pillow.

"Fox?" The voice was insistent.

Firm, erect breasts pressed into his back as a small, searching hand snaked its
way around his waist. Stroking his abdomen lightly with her fingertips, she let
her hand drop slightly, a motion that sent shivers through his body like a blast
of arctic air.

"Fox, wake up," she purred.

Mulder opened one eye and squinted at the red digital display blinking on and
off from its perch on the night stand. He really hated that fucking travel
alarm. <1:00 AM> ONE AM?? He was just about to inquire what in the hell she
wanted at one o'clock in the morning when his question was answered by a soft,
wet tongue traveling right down the center of his back. <Oh God... again?!?>
He enjoyed making love as much as the next guy, maybe even more so since he'd
had to make up for lost time, but five times in a seven hour period would be
enough for any man -- why wasn't it enough for her? <I mean a guy's gotta
sleep... sometime.>

"Mulder, come on, wake up," she muttered urgently, moving under the covers next
to him.

"Hmmm..." he mumbled. A familiar tingle was rippling through his nervous system
as sensuous lips carassed and massaged the firm yet delicate skin of his left
butt cheek.

When it appeared obvious to her that he wasn't going to respond to her method of
waking him, she leaned in, grabbed a small amount of flesh between her teeth and
nipped him soundly.

"OW!!" he sputtered, jerking a little too suddenly. Shit, he thought, he would
never be able to utter the phrases "kiss my ass" and "bite me" the same way
again. He just wouldn't be able to pull off the expected level of vehemance
necessary to imply a royally pissed off attitude.

Hazel eyes flew open and he winced at an unexpected cramp in his shoulder
blades. "What the...?" Oh yeah, he thought sheepishly. <Mental note: always
remove the cuffs *before* falling asleep.> "What?" he finally found enough of
his voice to whine.

Silently she slid her foot up his long leg and rested it snuggly between his
thighs. <Oh God, the woman has amazing toes.> He gasped out loud and
experienced a hormonal surge in spite of himself. "Dana," he managed to wheeze
out from between clenched teeth.

"Yes?" she inquired while running her fingernails slowly over his torso and
flicking his earlobe with the tip of her tongue.

He trembled involuntarily and attempted to say something that resembled coherent
speech. "Cuffs," he finally whimpered.

Dana had nearly forgotten that she'd cuffed him to the bed post last time. She
sure didn't mean to let him fall asleep in that position. Now, where in the
hell did she put that key? <Oh right, night stand, top drawer.> Gingerly she
slid over him and retrieved the key from the night stand, all the while debating
whether or not she truly wanted to release him.

Mulder, seeing her hesitation, gave her a warning glare. "Dana..." he growled
playfully.

"Okay, okay, it was just a thought," she chuckled.

Bringing her left leg over his body she rested her knee on the bed and straddled
his waist as she reached up and unlocked his bonds, then quickly bent down and
kissed the tip of his nose.

Mulder felt his arms drop to the bed as if they were heavy, dead clumps of meat.
"I can't feel my arms," he groaned with an exaggerated pout.

A sly smile lit up Dana's face and mischief sparkled like multifacited diamonds
in her eyes. "You won't need to." Without further warning, she ducked under
the covers. True to her word, he didn't need to feel his arms once as she
quickly sent him tumbling over the edge.

Well, well, she thought, happily remembering the conversation she'd overheard
earlier in the church hallway. Good old Aunt Carol was right -- on several
counts, she mused. Number one: Fox *was* hung like a "fookin' Clydesdale"
(something she already knew) and number two: If he had the inclination (and
apparently even if he didn't), with the proper stimulation, her loving hubby was
quite capable of performing on demand, and she intended to be one demanding
wife.

This did present some intriguing, extreme possibilities. Before Mulder she'd
never gotten it more than twice in one night and the second time around had
usually been more work than pleasure. With Fox it had always been so damn easy,
and she could never once remember leaving his arms unsatisfied.

As one last powerful surge shook his body, Dana crawled from beneath the covers
to mold herself to the warmth of his flesh and revel in his unique scent -- a
heady mixture of musk, sweat, and ivory soap. (Hey, look Scully, it floats!
Ok, so he had a thing for floating soap.) She listened contentedly while his
heart and breathing eased into a normal, lazy rhythm, then smiled with
satisfaction as two strong yet gentle, masculine arms enfolded protectively
around her.

"I love you," he murmurred into her hair. "I can refuse you nothing," he added
sincerely.

"Then I'll try never to ask you for the impossible," she replied.

He planted a small kiss on her forehead then let his head drop back into the
pillows as heavy lidded eyes closed in pleasant exhaustion. It wasn't long
before he dropped off into a deep sleep.

"Fox?" The velvety voice invaded his strange dreams. <It's not real... ignore
it... it'll go away.>

"Fox!!" The voice grew more demanding.

<Dana?> Jesus, had he overslept again? Nudging the sleep from his eyes, he
reluctantly peered at the stupid alarm clock again and the numbers 2:30 AM
burned their way into his brain. <Sleep... I just wanna go back to SLEEP.> His
eyes drooped shut and his mouth fell open slightly, allowing a soft snore to
escape.

"Mulder... I'm sorry. MULDER, wake up!!" Her voice prodded at his consciousness
along with two small hands which gently shook his shoulders.

"Hrmmgh," he growled in a low, male, animalistic grunt as he pulled the pillow
down over his head and curled into a fetal position around the sheets.

"Fox, please," she pleaded. "I need you to wake up."

<"I need you?"> Never in his wildest imagination could he have ever thought
he'd want to say "no" to that particular phrase, at least when it came from
Dana, but he was considering it now. He sure hoped she didn't expect him to go
to the well six or seven times *every* night. He could just see himself trying
to explain to medical personnel why his nuts were shriveled up like raisins from
dehydration and why they'd have to treat his dick for friction burns.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Mulder asked, almost dreading what he thought she
was going to say. Maybe he needed to lower her expectations a little. He rolled
over and took her in his arms. "Dana," he whispered. "I know I said I could
refuse you nothing, but..."

Dana lifted her finger and placed it against his lips. "I know and I'm sorry to
wake you up again but I can't help it. I... I just need it.... I crave it...
and I can't get it out of my mind." Her eyes stared at him wildly as his
eyebrows climbed into his disheveled hair in astonishment.

"Dana, *it* wasn't *in* your mind. Believe me, I know," he said, shifting
uncomfortably. Sweet Jesus, he'd created a monster. Okay Mulder, keep your
cool. Try to get through this with some form of rationality. Her hormones are
just going a little beserk that's all -- yeah, that's it. <Perhaps dousing her
with some cold water? No, no... wait a minute, that's for dogs. You're a
psychologist for crissakes. Think of something.>

Before he knew it, Fox found himself cornered and flush up against the he
adboard. He took a deep breath. Her eyes held a hungry look he'd seldom
witnessed in a human being. A sudden flashback to Tooms and then a more
pleasant one of the "beast woman" barged into his brain as Dana crawled around
on the bed nervously on all fours like a lioness circling for the kill. He
watched mesmerized as she pulled herself slowly up his legs and leaned in close,
her wild mane of red hair cascading over her shoulders and tickling his chest.
Holy shit, he panicked, where in the hell was Marlin Perkins and 'Jim' when you
fucking needed them! Then again he had a brief moment of uncertainty as to
whether or not even 'Big Jim' could handle this one. Wrestling alligators and
pythons suddenly looked like a piece of cake when compared to dealing with Dana
on a hormonal high.

"Oh, God, Mulder, I've been thinking about this for the last half hour. I've
never felt like this before. Okay, well, except maybe once when I had that
chocolate binge fifteen years ago," she babbled quickly. "Ididn'
twanttowakeyoubutIcan'ttakeitanymore. Please, PLEASE?" she gasped, "Give it to
me??"

Mulder stared into those pleading blue-green pools and melted into a pile of
mush. <She's so beautiful> Fox hadn't thought it was possible but once again
he felt the familiar stirrings of desire begin to dump the necessary hormones
into his system. <What the hell. They say seven's a lucky number.> With that
thought in mind, he closed the distance between them and kissed her deeply with
a passion that surprised even him. Personally, he hadn't thought he had
anything left.

She responded in kind at first then gently pushed him away. "Fox, what are you
doing?"

He pulled pack as a veil of massive confusion fell over his expressive face.
"You said you wanted it, had to have it, and wanted me to give it to you. I was
just trying to oblige," he squeaked with puzzlement.

Dana looked at him wide-eyed, then burst into giggles.

"What??" he blurted out, not for the first time that night.

"Calamari," she replied.

"Calusari?!?" he yelped, looking around the room in alarm. "Where?"

"No, I said, 'Calamari.' I've got this *unbelievable* craving for fried
calamari with maranara sauce. I can't *stand* it, Fox --- please? It's driving
me crazy."

This was surreal. Here he was a 2:30 in the morning with a hard on that could
punch holes in concrete, witnessing his beautiful, pregnant wife come completely
unravelled over some glorified bait with tomato sauce. <Christ, what a relief.>

She glanced down at him in amazement at the realization that he was indeed fully
prepared and actually had intended to give it to her one more time. A wide grin
encompassed her features.
"Perhaps a distraction would help after all. It would be criminal to waste such
potential, don't you think?"

Somewhere Mulder found the motivation to nod.

Wells Avenue 24 Hour Market
3:30 AM
*************************

This was insane! Where in the hell was he going to find fried calamari at 3:30
in the morning? Going to the market was a last-ditch attempt to satisfy his
wife's hormonal cravings. Hell, even if he found calamari here, where was he
going to get it cooked? But so far he'd been all over this neon jungle and the
closest thing he'd come to finding squid was a starfish in the hotel lobby
aquarium and he was getting desperate.

The night staff at the hotel front desk had been less than helpful, so he'd
retrieved his car from valet parking and started driving around town. Joe's
Diner, the closest diner to the hotel still open at this time of night and his
first stop, had tried to sell him onion rings. At the next place he'd tried,
Jake's Joint, the moron manning the grill didn't even know what calamari was let
alone how to cook it. He was, however, quite proficient in the use of
obscentities. The last thing Mulder had heard before slamming the door were
instructions on how to "get fucked." <Yeah, sure, like he really needed that
kind of information.>

He reached down and did a slight adjustment - damn boxers were rubbing him raw.
Damn. He slid his hand around and absently rubbed the sore spot on his butt,
eternally grateful that he didn't have to explain to anyone why there were bite
marks on his ass.

<What am I doing here?> Grocery shopping was not on his list of after duty
honeymoon activities. And chances were he wouldn't find what he was looking for
here anyway. This little 24 hour market wasn't exactly a huge supermarket, but
he'd been told there were no larger stores in the downtown area. And at this
point he didn't trust himself to stay awake behind the wheel for any length of
time.

Fox Mulder stood like a lost child in the middle of the frozen food section and
said a silent prayer to whatever diety that would listen, asking for a container
of pre-breaded frozen calamari. This was his last chance. He could beg,
borrow, steal, or comondeer a microwave in the name of National Security, just
please god, whoever you are, send me some lousy squid!!!

He slowly opened his eyes and searched the contents of the freezer in front of
him. There neatly stacked on wire shelves were Mrs. Paul's fishsticks, popcorn
shrimp, crablegs, scallops, and clam strips. "Shit!" No calamari.

Well, maybe he could substitute clam strips. If he remembered correctly, and of
course he did, they both had the texture of french-fried rubber bands. Who
would know? <You would. Shit, shit, shit!>

Mulder sank to the floor in despair holding his head in his hands. He was so
tired. Though he knew it was totally irrational, he somehow felt as if he were
a total failure as a man, that he was a lousy provider. Suddenly transported
back to one million BC, he envisioned himself dragging a basket of Tribolites
into the cave and trying to convince his mate that they were really fucking
water buffalos. His family would starve all because he'd flunked food
gathering.

"Sir? Sir, are you okay?" asked a whiny voice with a nasal twang.

"Only if you can tell me you're hiding squid somewhere in this building," he
answered not quite sanely.

"Squid?" the word was repeated in a voice that grated on Mulder's nerves like
fingernails on a chalkboard.

Mulder lifted his head up to find the epitome of geekdom staring him in the
face. "Yeah, squid," he muttered a little more calmly. "Otherwise known as
calamari, the pickles and ice cream of choice for this early morning hour."

A look of sympathy crept over the clerk's face. "Cravings, huh?" he said
sympathetically.

Mulder breathed a huge sigh of relief. Understanding where he least expected
it. "Look," he said, pulling out a roll of bills. "I'll pay anything if you
could just sell me some squid."

"No problem. I think we've got something that will fit the bill. We got this
stuff in by mistake last week. The boss didn't know where to put it, so we just
stuck it over with all the weird stuff -- you know, like Happy Paws doggie ice
cream? Come on, I'll show you."

Following his savior, Mulder adopted a slight spring in his step and allowed
himself to hope. Stockboys rule, he thought to himself as the kid placed a
package in his hands. <YES!!!> Mulder congratulated himself on resisting the
urge to jump up and down and kiss the little nerd. That was until he got a good
look at the package. Even though the contents indicated this was, indeed, squid,
the label on the front clearly said "BAIT." That would go over with Dana about
as well as a turd in a punch bowl if she ever found out.

Mulder thought quickly. He wasn't about to give up this close to his goal.
"Uh, there's an extra ten bucks in it for you if you could repackage this stuff
in a clear plastic bag," he offered. Hey, squid was squid... right?

"Sure man, no problem." The kid grinned at him. "Mine likes jalapeno peppers
for breakfast," he added.

Mulder smiled back. He was beginning to like this kid.

Red Sands Hotel Casino
Coffee Shop
4:15AM
************************

Mulder slumped onto a stool at the counter, bracing his elbows on the formica
surface, and placed his chin in his hands. He sighed with defeat. Ten lousy
restaurants and no amount of bribery would convince them to cook this crap up
for him. Damn it to hell all of those fucking federal food regulations anyway.
<Now what, genius?> If he wasn't so tired, maybe his brain would function and he
could come up with a decent alternative. But right now a decent alternative
seemed as elusive as the solution to this case. And if he didn't get some
sleep, and soon, his brain wouldn't be working any better in the morning. Damn.

Lily saw him wander in and plop down at the far end of the counter. He was
tall, thin, and dark-haired. In another lifetime she might have found him
attractive, but she'd convinced herself she was beyond such things. Besides,
she'd learned the hard way that monsters often hid behind good looks.

She read the sweatshirt he was wearing with amusement. The back was printed with
the words "FEDERAL AGENT" in big black letters. The front simply declared "You
don't know me, I wasn't there, I didn't do it, and you didn't see it." She'd
heard through the grapevine that the FBI was here, but he didn't exactly look
like her mental image of an FBI agent. If he really was an FBI agent, he must
not have thought about what he was doing before leaving his room. This wasn't
the town to be advertising that fact, especially not if he was wandering around
by himself at this time of the morning.

She walked toward him carrying a pot of coffee, her normal routine with late
night customers. As she got closer, she noticed that the man looked absolutely
exhausted. His face was drawn down in the most folorn expression she'd never
seen.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a quiet voice.

"Not unless you can cook squid," he muttered. Her initial nervousness at
approaching a possible FBI agent began to dissolve as he rolled beautiful hazel
eyes at her in a pleading puppy dog expression.

"Squid?" she asked. "You mean calamari?"

His eyes perked up. "You mean you've heard of it?"

Lily nodded. "It's not on the menu, though," she said apologetically.

"That's ok," he said as he dumped a plastic bag full of slimy stuff on her
counter. "I brought my own."

Lily wrinkled up her nose. She could smell the stuff, even through the plastic.
"Whew!! Mr.... uh?..."

"Mulder," he mumbled. "Just Mulder."

"Well, Mr. 'Just Mulder,'" she said. "Unless you want to attract a pack of
hungry alley cats, I really don't think this stuff is fit for consumption --
human or otherwise."

She turned his coffee cup over and filled it without being asked, then set the
coffee pot on the burner behind her. This was definitely a strange one.
Sabrina often told her that if she worked here long enough, sooner or later
she'd see everything. To be sure, she'd witnessed a lot of weird things in
Reno, but this was a first. It certainly was a first with a sober customer, and
Lily felt a long-forgotten emotion spark within her - curiosity. It was a
dangerous emotion as it often led to becoming involved in someone else's life,
but there was something about this man that made her wonder.

Her eyes met his shyly, ready to dance away at the first sign of danger. "I
know this is none of my business," she ventured. "But why on earth are you out
at four o'clock in the morning trying to find someone to cook something that
suspiciously looks like... um... bait?"

Mulder shrugged his broad shoulders and tilted his head slightly to the side.
"My wife's not into sushi??" he offered.

Lily unexpectedly found herself grinning, something she hadn't done in quite a
while. Even in his desolation, this guy -- Mulder -- had a wickedly dry sense
of humor.

"I know this isn't a bar, but I could sure use a drink right now," he commented
dejectedly.

"No problem. I'll have one of the cocktail waitresses bring something over.
What would you like?"

One more decision. His brain was too fuzzy to think straight, so he said the
first thing that came into his mind. "Scotch."

A few minutes later Lily had retrieved a double from Sabrina. For her part,
Sabrina had given Lily's customer the once over, flashing Lily a none too subtle
thumbs up. Lily had managed to stifle whatever other remarks Sabrina might have
made by mouthing the word "married." Sabrina shrugged, a gesture which Lily
interpreted to mean "how married?" She never would understand that Lily
preferred being alone.

Liquor loosened Mulder's tongue like it always did and he found himself spilling
his guts to a complete and total stranger. Hell, she was a good listener and he
was really frustrated. The more he thought about it, the more absurd his whole
dilemma appeared to be until he ended up giggling like a school boy. He was
still a little depressed, but he reasoned that Scully had asked him to do the
impossible when she said she wouldn't. Even so he still railed at the fact that
in his own mind at least, he'd disappointed her.

Lily had listened quietly and had nodded in all the right places, offering
consolation when necessary. Normally she would have busied herself around the
coffee shop if a customer showed any signs of wanting to strike up more than a
casual conversation with her, but for some reason this was different. She
didn't feel threatened by the man, and she'd nearly let herself forget he might
be a Fed.

And the story he told was touching. Mulder was so in love with this woman that
it made Lily's heart ache just to hear him talk about her. Any man who would go
through this much hell to satisfy his pregnant wife's cravings qualified for
sainthood, in her eyes anyway. And just when she'd convinced herself there were
no good ones left in this world. <Yeah, they're here all right, Lily, and
they're all taken.>

Unfortunately, she really didn't think there was any way that she could help him
with his little problem. At this time of the morning the coffee shop was pretty
much limited to sandwiches or sweets left over from last night's desert menu.
The grill wouldn't open up until the day cook came on duty at 5:30 a.m.

"Oh no," Mulder whimpered.

"What? What's the matter?" Lily asked, worry seeping into her voice.

"That damn itch is back," he replied.

"Itch? What itch?" she inquired softly.

"Brain itches," he mumbled with a slight slur.

Damn, she shouldn't have let him have the Scotch. He obviously couldn't handle
the hard stuff. For some reason that thought fit in with her earlier
assessment of him as a nice guy.

Mulder rubbed his forehead but the itch persisted. It overwhelmed his co
nsciousness, gradually blocking out all other thoughts. The last conscious
thought he had was of french fried calamari rings and marinara sauce, then his
face dropped to the counter.

"Mr. Mulder?" Lily asked. She touched his shoulder tentatively, as if afraid
that mere contact with him would burn her. No response - he was out cold. "Oh,
no," she whispered. Normal procedure was to call security, but for some reason
she didn't want to do that.

Lily reached for the house phone behind the counter. "Front desk," a sleepy
voice responded, clearly stifling a yawn.

"Sorry to bother you, Norm," she said, turning her back on the counter and
lowering her voice. The last thing she needed was for security to catch her
doing this. "This is Lily over in the coffee shop. I have a customer whose
wife needs to come and get him. Could you do me a favor and look up the room
number for me?"

"No problem. What's the name?"

"Mulder," she said. "I don't have a first name."

"Mulder?" Lily nearly jumped out of her skin as a baratone voice echoed the
name behind her.

Turning around, Lily came face to face with one of the most imposing men she had
ever met in her life. Even in jeans and a Polo shirt, this distinguished,
balding figure of a man held an air of authority both in movement and manor.
Not to mention restrained power, hinted at in his muscular forearms.

Lily gathered up her courage. "Do you know him?" she asked, hand over the
receiver.

Skinner made his way over to the counter for a closer look, but his instincts
already told him that the limp lump sprawled on the formica top was indeed, Fox
Mulder. "Yes, I know him. He's one of mine," he grinned in spite of himself.
"God, I hope they haven't gotten into a fight already."

Lily mumbled "thanks and nevermind" into the receiver and hung up the phone. It
looked like her customer might get some help finding his way back to his bride
after all.

"I just came down for a cup of coffee. I never expected to find him here,
especially not this early in the morning." Skinner studied the waitress behind
the counter as she poured him a cup of coffee. Pretty, but in a skittish,
damaged kind of way. Exactly the type of person Mulder might strike up a
conversation with. "He didn't happen to mention why he's down here and not
upstairs keeping his new bride warm, did he?" he asked.

"*New* bride?," she asked. "Funny, I got the idea they'd been married for
years, the way he talked about her."

"They just got married yesterday," Skinner explained. "Although they've been
together for a couple of years now."

"Well, it seems his bride had an insatiable seafood craving," Lily continued.
"Sir Lancelot here has been scouring the town in an impossible quest for
calamari with marinara sauce since around three o'clock this morning.
Unfortunately, this..." she held the ominous plastic bag out in front of her,
"is all that he could come up with."

"What in the hell is that?" Walter asked, wrinkling his nose with disgust.

"I'm not sure, but I think it used to be... squid, maybe?" she said. He
laughed, a good-natured, hearty laugh, and Lily found herself joining in. Lily
glanced at his dark brown eyes. "What did you mean when you said that he was
one of yours?" she asked shyly.

Skinner dropped his head slightly as the corner of his mouth curled up at one
end. He reached into his pocket and produced his ID. "Walter Skinner at your
service. Assistant Director of the FBI," he added under his breath. "This
minor inconvenience," he said with a touch of irony as he lay one hand gently on
Mulder's shoulder, "is Fox Mulder, one of my best agents, although I'd never
admit that to his face.. His wife is... was... his partner." He patted Mulder
affectionately on the head. "He sure knows how to complicate life in general."

Skinner didn't miss the change in Lily's demeanor as soon as he produced his
badge. He could practically see her shutter herself away. "I'm sorry, I... I
shouldn't have let him order the drink," she stammered, taking the drink glass
away and wiping the area with a towel. "He doesn't appear to be much of a
drinker."

"No, he certainly isn't. He's had more spirits in the past few months than I
think he's ingested in his life and it definitely doesn't agree with him,"
Skinner said.

Lily met his eyes briefly. "Can you get him to where he belongs?" she asked,
running a hand through her hair. "Otherwise I'm going to have to call
security."

Skinner could tell she didn't want to do that. And for some reason he doubted
that's who she was calling when he walked in. "Don't worry, I'll take care of
him," he said. Mulder, he thought to himself, this is a habit that I could do
without. I'm going to have to visit the gym more often if you keep passing out
on me.

"I know this is none of my business," Lily began before she could stop herself.
Mulder's boss looked at her, waiting for her to finish the thought. <When will
you ever learn to keep your mouth shut?> She took a deep breath to steady her
nerves before she continued. "But I think he was kind of upset because he
couldn't find what his wife wanted. I hope she appreciates what she has. No
one has ever gone through that much trouble to try and please me," she mumbled.

To her surprise, Skinner grinned at her. "I suppose that says a lot for the
stupidity of men in general," he observed. "Nice meeting you Ms...?"

"Morgan," she replied quickly. "Lily Morgan."

Mulder chose that moment to wake up, although that was a pretty broad int
erpretation. His bleery eyes tried to focus on the scene in front of him.
Skinner? What was Skinner doing here?

"All she wanted was calamari," he muttered. "And I couldn't get it. I tried, I
really did."

"I know you did," Skinner comiserated. <If Mulder hadn't been so serious the
situation would have been comical. > "I know Scully and I'm sure she'd
understand if you couldn't find calamari at three in the morning. She's
probably more worried about where you are at the moment than whether or not
you've apprehended a squid."

"Think so??" Mulder slurred.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, all right," Mulder agreed reluctantly.

Skinner stood up slowly and placed one strong hand beneath Mulder's upper arm to
give him a much needed boost up. The sudden upward momentum, however, caught
the agent off guard and his unsteady stumble forward was hastily aborted by the
A.D.'s impressive bulk.

"Thanks," Mulder muttered under his breath. "In spite of what you must think, I
am *not* drunk," he protested. "Just incredibly tired," he finally admitted as
much to himself as to Skinner.

"Understandable under the circumstances," Skinner replied. Skinner allowed
himself to indulge in a smile, something that rarely happened when Mulder was
around.

He might have been tired, but Mulder still noticed the uncharacteristic change
in his boss's demeanor. "What?" he asked in response to Skinner's
uncharacteristic good cheer.

Skinner paused for a momment before asking a question to which he was already
fairly certain he knew the answer to. "You don't get a lot of sleep, do you,
Agent Mulder?" he asked, gazing at the younger man. "I mean, being up at an
ungodly hour isn't an unusual occurance for you, is it?"

Mulder inclined his head and eyed Skinner suspiciously, then lightly shrugged
his shoulders. It was a simple, innocent question. Why did he always have to
read hidden meanings into even the simplest of comments? Dana was right.
Sometimes he really could take paranoia to grand new heights. "No, I guess I
don't sleep much and no, it isn't unusal," he volunteered with a tiny bit of
hesitation. <Just what is this line of questioning leading up to?>

Skinner gave him an almost imperceptable nod. "That could explain a lot," he
grinned ruefully as he grasped the younger man's elbow to steady him.

"Okay, I'll bite," Mulder conceded. "Explain what?" He felt somewhat like the
straight man in a Vegas comedy routine, only no one had filled him in on the
joke.

Skinner lent a small amount of pressure to Mulder's arm as he steered him
carefully away from the counter. "Why you're occasionally such a royal pain in
the ass," Skinner grumbled.

"Only *occasionally,* sir?"

"Mulder..."

"Yeah?"

"Don't push it."

"No, sir."

Lily watched the subtle interaction between the two with rapt fascination,
almost forgetting her own problems. She gathered from Mr. Skinner's bearing and
title that he was indeed 'The Boss.' However, Mulder <Agent Mulder, she reminded
herself> didn't display the usual submissive behavior that she would have
expected from a subordinate. Then again, he didn't exactly look like her mental
image of an FBI agent, either.

"Mulder, you're dead on your feet," Skinner grumbled. "I'm taking you upstairs
and putting you
to bed whether you like it or not. Is that clear?" Skinner made his ann
ouncement in the most authoritative tone he could muster at 5 o'clock in the
morning.

Mulder smiled disarmingly. "Gee, sir, I didn't know you cared." For some
reason he was feeling unusually surly this morning, not to mention that the
inside of his goddamn head still itched like hell.

Skinner grunted in reply, narrowing his eyes into thin, dark slits. "Get your
ass moving, Mulder, or I just might be tempted to show you exactly how much," he
warned.

Mulder grinned impishly. He hated to admit it but he was actually enjoying
trading barbs with "good ol' Walt." He chuckled to himself when he considered
that little phrase in reference to his boss. <God, Mulder, you must really be
getting punchy.>

In reality, though, he did miss male companionship, the camaraderie that he'd
denied himself by being different. Sure, he'd had Scully's friendship but that
was different. No matter what anybody might say, friendship between men and
women, though undeniably satisfying, just wasn't the same as the bonds of
friendship between men.

Now between men, there always seemed to be an unspoken understanding that an
occasional crude or suggestive comment was acceptable behavior, belching and
scratching your balls was a fact of life, and referring to your best friend as a
low life son of a bitch bastard while knuckle-punching him in the arm was an act
of endearment. A woman could never understand the emotional attachment between
a guy and his rattiest pair of underwear, held together by wishful thinking and
the strength of an unraveling elastic wasteband. A guy wouldn't go ballistic if
you left the seat up or make you feel the need to wear mirrored sunglasses on
the beach. When it came right down to it, he missed being able to just talk
candidly to another guy.

There was Alex and Bill Jr., of course, but they had no idea what he had to deal
with on a daily basis. So did that mean that perhaps there was Skinner? He
wanted to trust him, but forking
over his trust without reservation was just something he didn't find easy to do.
Jesus, he missed Reggie.

"Mulder?" Skinner asked with concern.

"Huh?" Mulder jumped back to the present. Shit. Not only had he zoned out,
he'd zoned out in front of Skinner of all people.

"Are you okay?" Skinner's eyes made a quick evaluation of the disheveled man
before him.

"Flashbacks, sir," Mulder mumbled.

"I understand."

"I bet you do, sir. I bet you do." Mulder spared a quick glance over his
shoulder at the woman behind the counter. "Thanks for the shoulder... ?" he
said, trying to peer at her nametag.

"Lily," she replied with a small, shy grin. "Lily Morgan."

"Lily," he repeated. His brows drew down into a frown as Skinner led him toward
the front of the coffee shop. He knew that name from somewhere. If only he
wasn't so tired he knew he could remember.

"You're welcome," Lily whispered as she watched them leave.

****************************************************