"At a Loss for Words" (9/?) NC-17 by Karen Rasch krasch @delphi.com

All credits, etc. can be found in the introduction.  This, on the other hand, 
is where you find Mulderangst. ;)  Enjoy.  Lord knows Mulder isn't . . . 
*************************************************
     Mulder listened to the soft steady drip of the rain as it quietly fell 
from the awning outside the first floor window where he stood to the 
flagstone below.
     Plip.
     Plop.
     Plip.
     Plop.
     Concentrating on that sound, and that sound only, he wearily 
closed his eyes and rested his head against the window's cool pane.  His 
body ached with fatigue, his eyes burned.  Yet, despite the fact that hours 
had passed, that the new day was nearly upon him, his mind still refused to 
grant him rest.  To allow the events of the previous evening to mercifully 
dull in remembrance.
     Instead, his near epic battle with Scully replayed endlessly inside 
his head, every particular, every detail, vividly intact; like those tapes that 
play in department stores hawking the latest fad.  The kind that run the 
same five minute infommercial over and over again in a continuous loop.
     The storm itself had ended long ago.  Had petered off even before 
he had left their room soon after midnight and sequestered himself in the 
inn's cozy book-lined library.
     He had needed to get out of there.  Out of what had been, up until 
that evening, Scully's and his own private sanctuary from the madness that 
was their lives.  The chamber in which they had enjoyed a temporary 
respite from all the shadowy conspiracies and things that go bump in the 
night.  The room that, under normal circumstances, should have been the 
last place in the world he would ever want to leave.  But as of last night, 
that peace, that sense of safety, was no more.  It had been shattered as 
thoroughly as a sledgehammer pounding plate glass.  He just couldn't stay 
after what had happened, couldn't blithely lie down next to Scully, and 
drop off to sleep, worry-free.
     Because he had no way of knowing whether Jack would return.
     To finish off what he had started.
     Using Mulder's hands, Mulder's strength, to do his dirty work.
     Of course, Scully hadn't quite looked at the situation in the same 
manner as he.
     "Mulder, I know this sounds crazy.  But, I think it's over.  For 
tonight anyway," she had whispered raggedly as she lie beneath the crisp 
cotton sheet, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion.  "Stay.  Stay here with 
me."
     Saying nothing, he had reached out and tenderly threaded her 
hair through his fingertips, smoothing it from her forehead.
     But in the end, he had left her in their bed.  Alone.
     Oh, he had been tempted.  Sorely tempted.  Part of him didn't want 
to let her out of his sight.  Ever.  Afraid that when all was said and done her 
injuries would prove more dire than they had first believed.  Scully kept 
insisting that all she had were a few bumps and bruises, nothing that some 
time and a couple of Advil wouldn't cure.  But despite her reassurances, he 
couldn't help but wonder whether she wasn't simply putting up a brave 
front for his benefit.   She had to be in pain.  The wound at her temple had 
already turned livid; purple, blue and black smudged the area surrounding 
the red hairline cut in her skin.  The swollen patch around her mouth wasn't 
much better.  Although not quite as colorful as the expanse above her eye, 
her upper lip had gone puffy and red where it had split, distorting the 
shape of her beautiful mouth.
     Yet that damage, awful and disturbing as it was, didn't worry him 
nearly as much as her throat and her ribs.  He must have asked her a half 
dozen times if she was certain that her ability to swallow hadn't been 
impaired.
     "It's okay, Mulder," she had murmured softly, her brow creased 
with impatience.  "Just sore."
     Mulder didn't buy it.  Scully could barely speak.  The marks on her 
neck had darkened like the bruise on her temple, their color the same as 
midnight.  And he had grimly noted the difficulty with which she choked 
down saliva.
     So, what exactly does it take to crush an esophagus, Mulder, he 
had ruthlessly asked himself.  Just how much more pressure would you 
have needed to exert before her windpipe had collapsed entirely?
     He had pondered these questions as he had sat on the edge of 
the bed, his throbbing head cradled in his hands, and waited for Scully to 
emerge from the bathroom.  After pulling herself together as best she 
could, she had arisen stiffly from the bed, waving off his attempt to assist 
her, and walked slowly and carefully to the other room, ostensibly to clean 
up and dress her wounds.  However, Mulder suspected that the real reason 
for her leaving the room and the reach of his interested eyes was that she 
was unwilling to share with him the full extent of her injuries. He knew 
damn well that something was wrong with her ribs.  She was carrying 
herself funny, keeping one arm wrapped at all times around her waist as a 
sort of protective shield.  And yet, she wouldn't even discuss going to the 
hospital to have them checked out.
     "No way, Mulder," she had gritted out, her voice raw. "I'd have to 
explain how I got like this.  Too many questions.

They'll be fine.  Don't worry about it."
     Don't worry about it.
     Okay.  Sure.  I'll just put it out of my mind, he had wanted to 
sarcastically retort.
     And yet he couldn't.
     He didn't have that right.
     Not anymore.
     So, he had let her go behind closed doors.  Had let her pretend 
that nothing between them had changed.  That it was perfectly normal for 
she to stand battered and bruised before the bathroom mirror, unable to 
stand upright for the pain.  All because he, a man doubly sworn to protect 
her--first as her partner, secondly as her lover--had not only failed in his 
duty, but had actually been the one responsible for her injuries.
     Yet, he had unequivocally refused to allow her to retire for the 
night defenseless.
     "Take this," he had said to her when she had finally shuffled out 
of the bathroom clad in the same garb she had worn the night before, the 
black silk camisole, tap pants, and robe that he had seen her hang on the 
back of the door that morning.
     She had stared in horror at the gun he had placed heavily in her 
hands, shaking her head slightly in disbelief.
     "Mulder, you must be out of your mind," she had mumbled.
     "Not right now I'm not, Scully," he had told her fiercely.  "You 
keep this.  Under your pillow.  Beside the bed. In a drawer.  I don't care.  
Just don't tell me where it is. And if I try anything . . . anything at all like 
what happened before . . . use it."
     She had looked up at him, her eyes moist, yet stormy. "I ought to 
shoot you for coming up with such a ridiculous idea," she had whispered.
     And with that, she had turned from him, and limping, crossed to 
the balcony, slipped out the ammunition clip, and tossed it over the railing.  
In the distance, he had heard it clatter softly onto the courtyard below.
     "Scully!" he had muttered with exasperation
     She had merely walked haltingly back to him, pressed the now 
unarmed weapon back into his hands, and said in a low voice, "If I would 
do the same for Hodge and Da Silva, I would certainly do no less for you, 
Mulder."
     He had known to what she had referred.  Even though he had 
been locked away in a storeroom at Icy Cape, he had later learned how she 
had thrown the clips from both their guns out into the frigid sub-zero air.  
How she had given away her only advantage in order to placate the two 
remaining members of the research team with whom they had traveled 
north.
     It had comforted him not one bit to remember that particular case.
     "Then at least lock the door after me," he had implored her, his 
hand pushing distractedly through his hair, his gaze focused on the carpet 
at his feet.
     Scully had stood before him, small and vulnerable looking with 
her pale naked legs and mass of rumpled auburn hair, the erotic appeal of 
her attire completely lost on him at that point in time.  Resolutely, she had 
shaken her head.
     "No."
     Mulder had simply looked at her for a moment, trying to figure out 
how the hell to make her see reason.
     And then had ruefully realized that attempting to apply reason to 
their particular situation was a futile exercise at best.
     So instead, he had sighed, taken her by the arm and settled her 
into bed with as much gentleness as he possessed. Pressing his lips to her 
forehead, he had then crossed to the door, and paused with his hand on 
the knob, his body only partly turned towards her.
     "I'll be downstairs if you need me," he had promised her quietly, 
his eyes flickering away from the sight of her damaged face turned on the 
pillow to face him, questions he had felt far too inadequate to answer 
shining in her bleary blue eyes.  "Try to get some rest."
     She had nodded ever so slightly.  Then, let her lashes fall.
     His gaze lingering on the woman in the bed a moment longer, 
Mulder had finally slipped into the hall.  But not before drawing the old 
skeleton key out of its hole on the interior side of the door.  Once he had 
pulled the portal closed, he had swiftly locked it, and scooted the key back 
under it.
     "Don't open up, Scully, unless you're sure it's safe," he had called 
softly through the thick wooden barrier.
     And then, without another word, he had hurried away towards the 
stairs, trying to ignore the pain radiating through his body.  Its starting 
point, his heart.
     Even now, as he stood inside the shadowed library, staring 
moodily out the window at the first tendrils of dawn snaking their way 
through night's blackness, he still couldn't figure out what the hell had 
happened.  How he and Scully had gone from two people in love, sitting in 
each other's arms, to victim and assailant.  Try though he might, he was 
having difficulty pinpointing the moment in which the change had 
occurred.  When precisely the being known simply as Jack had suddenly 
decided to introduce himself into Mulder's body.
     And yet, although he wasn't positive, he thought that his psyche 
had probably first been invaded when Scully and he had been kissing.  He 
remembered holding her, his lips tenderly nuzzling hers, when he had felt a 
fine trembling overtake her, a shiver pass the length of her spine.  The 
slight but violent movement had concerned him, he recalled.  He had pulled 
away from her soft mouth, and was just about to ask her if she was all right 
when a rush of light-headedness had stolen over him unexpectedly.  It had 
happened all at once.  Without warning.
     And with that, it hadn't mattered what might be wrong with the 
woman he embraced.  He had found he didn't care if she was cold or ill or 
even frightened.  Hell, he hadn't even been entirely certain *what* woman 
was before him.  All he knew was that she aroused him.  Aroused =in= him 
passion and anger.

For him, the two emotions had somehow become twisted around each 
other like strands of wire painstakingly entwined in order to strengthen 
them.  Increase their power.  Wound so tightly that it was impossible to 
separate either from the other.  They had become irrevocably linked.
     But none of that had been important to him at that moment.  None 
of the analysis had even registered.  His mind had not been as keen as it 
usually was.  Everything had seemed far too difficult to process.  Tough to 
make sense of.  But, if his mind hadn't been working up to snuff, his body 
certainly had. God, he had felt good.  Alive.  Gloriously alive.  Virile. 
Strong. Potent.
     And all that potency had needed an outlet.
     The most likely candidate having been the woman in his arms.
     Selene Broussard.
     For despite the fact that he had never before seen her, he had 
recognized her immediately.
     She had been tall.  Far taller than Scully.  And possessed of a long 
willowy build.  She had thick inky hair that had tumbled down her 
shoulders and back like an ebony waterfall.  Her skin had been alabaster 
tinged with pink.  Her nose, long and aquiline.  Her cheekbones, high.  Her 
mouth, soft and full; eminently kissable.
     But it was her eyes that had arrested his attention. They had 
looked up at him from beneath gracefully arched brows, large and solemn, 
and the most unusual shade of gray he had ever seen.  They were the hue 
of mist over a field at sunrise.

     No.
     That was too placid.  Too tame.
     More like the color of lightning.  Of steel.  Of sparks.
     Silver.
     La Lune Argentine.
     And yet, even as he had marveled at the beauty the woman before 
him possessed.  Even as his groin had hardened painfully; his body 
longing without reason for her.  Part of him had wanted to punish her.  Had 
wanted to see her cry.  To force

her to beg.  To make her suffer for the way she had wrenched his heart 
from his chest.  Had unmanned him.  Had turned him into a boy again.  Had 
stripped him of the defenses he had spent nearly a lifetime developing.
     All by telling him that she loved him
     By making him believe it.
     And then by stabbing him in the back at the first opportunity.
     Mulder had felt these contradictory drives, these warring 
compulsions, churning inside him; whirling with a force that made him 
dizzy.  They had been his feelings, his memories, his needs. And yet they 
hadn't been.  He had shared them.  Had felt the pain. Had understood the 
motivations, the desires.  And yet, part of him had remained separate from 
them.  A chunk of him had viewed the proceedings from outside of it, of 
him.
     And this was the portion that had eventually come to Scully's 
rescue.
     He had been watching how the situation had escalated. And yet, 
even as he had sensed how Jack's frustration with Selene, with her 
stubborn resistance to his overtures, was growing into something far more 
dangerous, he had been powerless to intercede.  Hell, he hadn't even been 
certain he had wanted to.  After all, it hadn't seemed real.  More like a 
dream.  A fascinating violent dream, chock full of erotic undertones.  He 
had been mesmerized.
     Then, he had thought he had heard the woman on the bed, the 
one he had identified as Selene, say the impossible.
     <My name is Dana Scully.>
     Wow.  Talk about your bizarre dreams.  She had looked nothing 
like Scully, this woman who had stared up at him with terrified eyes.  What 
was the significance of this little twist in the tale, he had wondered.  This 
wasn't the first time that the woman he loved had popped up in one of his 
nocturnal fantasies.  But, it was certainly the first time she had appeared in 
this form.  Had guest-starred as a long dead courtesan.  A nineteenth 
century rendition of a high-priced call girl.
     God.  Scully would have his head if she knew.
     And so, he had thought little of it.  Had instead only continued to 
watch the increasingly violent battle unfold before him.  The rational part 
of him more and more disturbed by the manner in which his dream was 
edging into the area of snuff.
     Then, it had happened again.
     <Mulder, don't.>
     This was too weird, he had thought.  Too distasteful. Too 
spooky, even for him.  Hearing his name spoken by the struggling woman 
before him had threatened to make his stomach roil.  He had wanted no part 
of it.  Any of it.  It had to stop.  Now.  Desperately, he had tried to discover 
a way out of the dream.
     Only to find himself trapped.
     <Mulder, please . . stop. . . .>
     No matter how hard he had fought.  How passionately he had 
resisted the manner in which this shadow self was behaving, he had been 
unable to bring the spectacle to an end.  Had found himself incapable of 
freeing the trashing woman beneath him.
     Then, his nightmare had turned unspeakably vile.
     <Mulder, I need you . . . to stop.>
     Because the tall slender ebony-haired woman on the bed had 
metamorphosed before his horrified eyes into a much smaller auburn-haired 
woman.  A woman who was intimately familiar to him.  One whom he loved 
more than life itself.
     And one whose own life was being steadily choked into oblivion 
by his very own two hands. . . .
     <Mulder, . . . you're hurting me.>
     A chilling sort of sweat broke out on Mulder's skin as he 
remembered the look in Scully's eyes when he had come back to himself.  
The way her gaze had silently pleaded with him for help, her expression full 
of fear, of pain.  But not of accusation. Never that.
     Christ.  How could she forgive him when he would never be able 
to forgive himself.
     Taking a deep breath, Mulder turned quickly away from the library 
window, and buried his face in his hands once more.  Shit, if he kept this up 
he'd soon be ready for a padded cell.  And yet, he didn't know how to stop 
it.  How to make the memories go away.
     He needed to see Scully.
     He pushed wearily away from his place against the wall, and took 
a few stiff-legged steps before he stopped dead in his tracks.
     Look at your watch, Mulder, instructed a calm little voice inside 
his head.
     God.  Not yet six.  Far too early to wake her.  The least he could do 
for her, the very least, was to allow her to get some sleep.  Much as he 
longed to slip into bed beside her and pull her into his arms, that option 
was denied him.  After all, he had no way of gaining access to the room.  
Not without her unlocking the door first.  And besides, even if by some 
miracle the room was indeed open to him, even if he ignored his fear of 
injuring her once more, of allowing Jack to gain control as he had the night 
before, Mulder still felt dirty somehow.  Unclean. Unworthy.
     What could he say to her?
     How would they go on?
     Suddenly, he felt old.  So terribly old.  Aged in both body and 
soul.  All at once, mere standing was more than he felt equipped to handle.  
With a soft wordless groan, he sunk into the overstuffed armchair facing 
the room's wall of windows. Leaning his head against the seat's rounded 
back, he closed his eyes, his hands hanging limply from the chair's rolled 
arms.
     "Trouble in paradise?"
     The quietly spoken query brought Mulder's head upright and his 
eyes open once more.  Before him stood a faintly embarrassed Bill.  Hair 
mussed, jaw unshaved, the innkeeper looked down inquisitively through 
his wire-rimmed glasses, his gaze kind.  Taking in the sweatpants, Tulane t-
shirt, and tennis shoes the other man wore, Mulder judged that his host 
was about to head out for an early morning run.  Suddenly, he wanted more 
than anything to join him, thinking that it would do him a world of good to 
run off some of the pent-up emotions he still had raging through him like a 
firestorm.
     Trouble in paradise?  The man had no idea.
     "No," Mulder lied smoothly, his expression mild.  "I just couldn't 
sleep.  Decided to come down here so I wouldn't wake Dana."
     Bill nodded sagely.  "I know.  I get like that sometimes. It's weird.  
Laura and I have completely different internal clocks. I'm very much the 
'early to bed, early to rise' type while she is most definitely a night owl.  It's 
a wonder, what with her slipping into bed late and me slipping out of bed 
early, that either of us get any sleep."
     Mulder smiled wryly, not really feeling like talking and yet not 
really wanting to be alone either.  At least when he was making 
conversation with Bill he felt like himself, like a normal human being.  Well, 
normal for him anyway.  Not like the monster he feared himself to be when 
he thought of the previous night.
     "It's tough," he ventured at last with a small nod, unable at that 
moment to come up with anything more insightful.
     "Yeah," Bill agreed, his lips curved slightly.  "So . . , did you at 
least find something to read?"
     Mulder wanted to chuckle.  All those hours spent sitting there 
with nothing to do and no company but his own, and yet he hadn't even 
begun to browse through the selection of reading material surrounding 
him.  How unlike him.  A man who was a voracious reader.
     He must have had other things on his mind.
     "Too many choices," Mulder said with chagrined smile, thinking 
that at least this particular lie was a variation on the truth.  "You've got a 
nice collection here.  I just couldn't make up my mind."
     "Ah," Bill said with a quick nod and a lift of his eyebrows. He 
then walked to the wall on the far side of the room, talking to Mulder over 
his shoulder as he moved.  "Well then, if you don't mind a suggestion . . . "
     He swiftly found a thin burgundy colored volume tucked away in 
the corner of the uppermost shelf.  Turning, he crossed back to Mulder, a 
self-deprecating smile on his lips. "Now, before you say anything, I want 
you to know that this is in no way a feeble attempt at self-promotion."
     Mulder scanned the book's spine and saw that its author was 
indeed the man before him.  Well, what do you know, he thought with a 
glint of humor.  Bill was a triple threat-- professor, innkeeper, and author.  
But, before he could playfully comment on that observation, he spied the 
book's title.  And his heart kicked into overdrive.
     "'Under a Silvery Moon':  The Life and Tragic Death of Selene 
Broussard," Mulder murmured, his brow tightly furrowed.
     Bill shrugged sheepishly.  "Yeah.  I was going to tell you about it 
night before last, when we were talking.  But . . . I kind of lost my nerve.  
Proud as I am of it, I usually hesitate before pulling the book out in front of 
guests.  I don't know.  It just always seems like the worst kind of touristy 
scam.  You know?  Hear the ghost!  Read the book!"
     "No, no," Mulder assured him, his voice vaguely distracted as he 
began leafing through the slender volume. "This is great.  Really.  Um . . . 
so where did you get your information?"
     Bill sighed.  "It wasn't easy.  My field is history. My interest, local 
folklore.  So, with our living in Selene's old house, the subject was a 
natural.  But, there wasn't much to go on.  Unfortunately, she wasn't the 
sort to keep a diary. In the end, I wound up digging around mostly in the 
newspapers of the time.  Periodicals.  That sort of thing."
     "Any luck?" Mulder asked.
     Bill twisted his lips.  "Some.  Oh, Selene made the society columns 
often enough.  But, that's mostly gossip, you know?  Hearsay.  Her life 
already reads like one of those books with Fabio on the cover.  I was trying 
to do a little more with it.  Raise the whole thing a step above your average 
dime store novel."
     "And did you succeed?" Mulder queried with a small smile.
     Bill grinned.  "What, are you crazy?  I was shown the error of my 
ways.  Sex sells.  Or so my editor kept telling me.  Of course, that's the same 
guy who wanted to put her picture on the cover."
     "Her picture?" Mulder echoed, his throat suddenly going dry, his 
grip on the book tightening.
     "Yeah," Bill confirmed.  "I've got about a half dozen black and 
white plates in there.  Pictures of Selene--well, her portrait anyway.  The 
house.  Heck, I even got my hands on a charcoal sketch that's supposed to 
be of Jacques LeFevre."
     "Who's that?" Mulder asked quietly, even though he felt certain 
he already knew the answer.
     "Selene's lover," Bill said simply.  "The man who killed her." 
************************************************  
     Scully was growing horribly restless.  She had only been able to 
sleep until nine, her body unwilling to allow her longer escape from the 
aches and pains assailing it.  Stifling a moan, she had rolled with ungainly 
grace from bed and padded into the shower where she had contented 
herself by allowing a steady stream of nearly scorching hot water to 
pummel her stiff muscles into submission.
     She really did feel better, she thought.  Certainly more human than 
she had the night before.  True, her throat was still raw.  Sore, like a bad 
case of strep.  And the tenderness around her ribs seriously restricted her 
movement, making her feel as if the eighty year old widow who lived across 
the hall from her back home was spry by comparison.  Still, the piercing 
pain in her temple had dulled to a steady throb.  And emotionally she felt 
more fit, more able to deal with the aftermath of what had occurred.
     And she knew that there would be no eluding the fallout.  Not for 
her.  And especially not for Mulder.
     Lord, she had wanted to scream at him last night. Had yearned to 
grab hold of his sloped shoulders and shake him into awareness.  I need 
you now, Mulder, she had longed to tell him.  I need you to snap out of 
this state you've put yourself into, this prison of guilt and self-
recrimination, and be there for me.  I know that none of this was your fault. 
So why is it so damned difficult for you to have faith in your own 
innocence?
     But she couldn't ask that of him, couldn't rub his nose in the way 
he was feeling.  Because she recognized that despite her own impatience 
with him, Mulder's emotions were genuine.  There was no wallowing in 
angst for angst's sake.  No fashionable melancholy donned like a costume 
in order to gain attention.  Not at all.  He truly believed that he had in some 
unthinkable manner failed her.  That he was the sole cause of her injuries.
     What a bunch of bullshit.
     Shaking her head in frustration, she checked the time. Five till 
eleven.  Where could he be?  She would go downstairs and look for him 
herself, but she feared running into anyone. More than anything, she 
wished that her wounds weren't so highly visible.  Scully recognized that 
she looked for all the world like a stereotypical battered woman.  Many at 
La Lune Argentine knew that she and Mulder had spent the night in. If she 
had entered the room with Mulder the night before, whole and unmarked, 
only to exit it the following morning with cuts and bruises, it didn't exactly 
take an Einstein to figure out who had inflicted them upon her.
     And there was no way in hell that she was going to subject 
Mulder to those sorts of suspicions.
     So she was stuck.  A captive bird in a beautifully appointed cage.
     Sighing, she wandered over to the cheval glass, and checked her 
appearance.  Not bad.  Well . . . not =good=.  The mottled colors marring 
her face and neck were plainly obvious.

She didn't imagine that even a double layer of make-up would disguise the 
damage.  Still, she didn't think she looked too fragile.  Too waif-like.  Too 
likely to drive Mulder shuddering from the room once more, his over-active 
conscience flagellating his soul like a crazed monk.
     Smiling ruefully at the image, she rolled up more tightly the 
sleeves on the over-sized shirt she wore.  The garment didn't belong to her.  
It was Mulder's.  She had chosen it in a fit of pique.  If he was going to 
leave her alone in their room while he went off brooding over imagined 
transgressions, then she was going to damn well keep him with her in 
whatever small way she could.  And if that meant wearing his clothes 
because they retained his scent, and because the knowledge that the fabric 
that currently caressed her skin had not so long ago done the same to his, 
then so be it.  A girl had to find her comfort where she could.
     Besides, she liked the way his pin-striped dress shirt looked with 
her black knit shorts.
     "Scully?  You awake?"
     If she could have skipped to the door she would have.
     As it was, she crossed to it as quickly as she was able, and turned 
the key.
     "Hi," she said softly, the smile she started to give him pulling 
painfully on her swollen lip.
     He stood framed in the doorway, exhaustion evident in the slight 
bow of his shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes.  In his hands were two 
white paper bags.
     "I brought you a present," he told her quietly as he stepped into 
their room, and handed her one of the bags.
     She closed the door behind him, then peered inside the sack.  "Ice 
cream!"
     He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Chocolate. I thought 
it might feel good on your throat."
     Her eyes sparkled up at him.  "I bet it will.  Thanks, Mulder."
     He nodded once more, his stance diffident, his eyes locked on her 
face.
     "Looks better on you than it does on me," he murmured after a 
beat, a dip of his head indicating her borrowed article of clothing.
     "I missed you," she whispered back, as if that was explanation 
enough for her outfit.  Perhaps it was.
     "How are you feeling?" he asked quietly, his gaze burning down 
into hers.
     "I'm okay," she assured him.
     He only nodded yet again.
     "So what's in there?" she questioned him finally when it appeared 
that they would both stand there, just inside their room, staring at each 
other for the rest of the day.
     He started at her question, almost as if he had forgotten he still 
carried another package.
     "Oh.  Coffee.  One for me and one for you.  After all, you 
shouldn't be having dessert without eating breakfast first."
     Her eyebrows lifted in amusement at his quip, and taking the 
paper carton and plastic spoon from the first bag, she climbed awkwardly 
on to the bed where she sat cross-legged against the pillows.  Mulder put 
her cup of coffee on the night stand, and then sat in the chair across from 
her with his.
     "Get comfortable, Scully.  I'm going to tell you a story."
     She arched a brow as she slowly swallowed a spoonful of the ice 
cream.  Oh Lord, that felt good.  Just what the doctor ordered.
     "What kind?" she asked.
     Mulder crossed his ankle over his knee and took a sip of his 
coffee.  "A ghost story.  Believe it or not, I think I may actually understand 
what happened here last night." *  *    *    *    *    *
     *    * Continued in Part X 

"At a Loss for Words" (10/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Sorry this took so long.  Please see the intro for credits, 
disclaimers, &amp; thanks.
************************************************
     Scully thoughtfully nibbled on her spoon a moment 
before murmuring.  "Well, don't keep me in suspense, Mulder.  
Spill it."
     Mulder hesitated an instant himself.  Then, leaning 
forward in his chair, he reached behind him and pulled something 
from the waistband of his jeans.  It was a small hardcover book.  
He must have tucked it there in the back of his pants while trying 
to successfully maneuver it and the two white paper bags into 
their room, Scully realized with a touch of bemusement.  From 
where she sat, she couldn't clearly see the title on its spine, but 
the restrained burgundy, black, and white book jacket clearly 
identified the tome as a step above Jackie Collins.  No splashy 
artwork, no full size photo of the writer, adorned either of the two 
covers.  Instead, on the front, she noted only some spidery white 
script which apparently heralded the book's name and author.  
While beneath the words, she thought she spied a gracefully 
rendered line drawing of a crescent moon.
     Her brow creased.  "What's that?"
     "A little bomb that got dropped on my head early this 
morning, courtesy of Bill," Mulder said with a wry smile as he 
glanced down at the volume in his hands, his gaze almost rueful.  
"It seems that the guy was holding out on us, Scully."
     "In what way?" she asked suspiciously.
     He smiled reassuringly.  "Oh, don't worry.  Our mild-
mannered host isn't a fiend in disguise.  However, he does 
possess certain hidden talents."
     "Such as?" she inquired before swallowing another 
spoonful of ice cream.
     "He's a writer.  And this is his latest effort."  Watching 
her face closely, he reached across and handed her the book.
     Scully took one look at it and gasped.  "Oh."
     "Yeah," Mulder said with a nod and a sardonic twist to 
his lips.   "Everything you ever wanted to know, and then some."
     Good Lord, she thought, her heart leaping past her 
battered throat and straight into her mouth.  Bill had actually 
recorded for posterity the life and times of La Lune Argentine's 
best known resident.  No wonder he was so knowledgeable 
about the subject when they had spoken the other night.  Selene
Broussard wasn't so much a hobby for him as a vocation.  Nearly 
shaking with anticipation, she deposited her half eaten dish of 
ice cream next to her coffee on the night stand.  And, taking a 
deep breath, she cracked open the book.  
     "Have you read it?" she queried huskily, her eyes 
skimming over text as she flipped slowly through the volume.
     "Cover to cover," Mulder said after taking a sip of his 
coffee.  "I had some time to kill."
     She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes before 
bowing her head once more.
     "First things first though, Scully," he said softly, his 
voice sounding tight all of a sudden, as if perhaps his coffee 
had somehow burned his mouth, numbed his lips and tongue, 
making speech a struggle.  "Turn to page 82.  See anything that 
looks familiar?"
     She regarded him quizzically.  Just what in the world 
was this all about, she silently wondered.  Mulder sat there, 
waiting, his gaze intent.  Clearly expecting that whatever the hell 
was on page 82 would indeed have some impact on her.  Precisely 
what *sort* of impact, however, she couldn't venture to say.  
And yet, she didn't like the look in his eyes.  Without knowing 
why, she suspected that she would soon regret locating the 
page in question.  Still, fingers suddenly clumsy, she did as 
he instructed.
     And upon flipping to the proper page, felt all the air in 
her lungs expel in a rush.    
     "Oh, my God." she murmured fervently, like a prayer.
     "Do you recognize him, Scully?" Mulder asked quietly 
as he perched literally on the edge of his seat, his elbows braced 
on his knees.
     She slowly nodded.
     There, in coarsely drawn profile, was the face of the 
man who had attacked her the night before.
     "Jack?" she asked, her bewildered gaze seeking 
Mulder's for confirmation, not even thinking to look at the 
caption beneath the picture first for the information she sought.
     His expression bleak, Mulder dipped his head.  "You'd 
be the one to know," he said in a soft rough voice.  "Remember, 
I've never seen him."
     A gurgle of hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up 
from inside of her, bursting to the surface like champagne popping 
a cork.  Of course, Mulder wouldn't know what Jack looked like.  
After all, the man in the drawing had taken up residence *inside* 
the man sitting across from her.
     "However, there's someone else in there that I believe I 
*do* recognize," Mulder muttered.  His expression shuttered, 
he rose from his chair and crossed to sit before her on the bed.  
Saying nothing, he gently removed the book from her hands and 
deftly turned to its frontispiece.  "This is the woman I saw last 
night."
     Scully peered at the small black and white photograph 
her partner held out for her perusal.  The picture featured a 
detail of what looked to be an oil painting; its subject, a young 
woman with pale skin, jet black hair, and eyes that were almost 
eerie in their intensity and lightness of color.  She gasped once 
more.
     "Selene Broussard?"
     Mulder nodded grimly.  "Yes." 
     She shook her head skeptically, an eyebrow arched to 
underscore the sentiment.  "Good Lord."
     So this was the woman who had been sharing her body.
     The one with the ivory handled hairbrush.
     The one who wanted nothing more than to spend her 
days lounging in the lush comfort of her bed.
     With the man she loved.
     The man who wanted her dead.
     "This woman was in our room last night, Scully" Mulder 
said in a hushed voice, his gaze falling away from hers to study 
his hands.  "I saw her.  Heard her.  I don't know how, but she was 
the one I saw attacked.  The one . . . I . . hurt.  Not you."
     Never you.     
     Scully had been contemplating the picture before her, 
her lips pursed in speculation, her fingertips resting lightly on 
the page, when Mulder spoke.   She immediately identified the 
shame in his voice, heard in her head his unspoken addendum.  
And her eyes lifted to meet his.
     "You didn't hurt anyone, Mulder," she told him firmly, 
knowing that for the foreseeable future she would undoubtedly 
be repeating that statement ad infinitum.
     He just looked at her for a beat, the haggard lines etched 
in his face paining her sharply at that moment, tormenting her far 
more grievously than her ribs.  Finally, his gaze dropped away 
once more.
     "You know what I mean," he mumbled, his brow 
furrowed.
     Staring at his bowed head, Scully sighed softly with 
frustration, wishing that she could miraculously come up with 
the words that would ease his soul.  Could somehow wave a 
magic wand and cleanse him of the guilt burning holes in his 
heart.  And yet, she recognized that in reality nothing she said 
or did would free him from his suffering.  Ultimately, the only one 
who could do that was Mulder himself.  He was the one who had 
to forgive himself.  She had never blamed him to begin with.  
     Well, what do you know, she grimly mused.  
     Rachel was right, after all.  
     Unwilling to mull over the ramifications of that little 
revelation, she closed the book with a snap, and scooting carefully 
into place, leaned once more against the pillows at her back.  "So 
tell me everything."
     He raised his head, the corner of his mouth quirking in a 
smile.  "Don't you want to read it yourself?"
     "Later," she said in a rough voice as she once again 
picked up her dish of ice cream, noting with a small smile of pleasure 
that the frozen treat hadn't yet turned entirely to soup.  Good.  She 
could use something soothing against her throat.  All this talking 
was murder.  "Give me the Reader's Digest version."
     Smiling his acquiescence, Mulder stepped away from the 
bed for a moment, retrieved his coffee from the small table beside 
the chair where he had sat, and returned to settle himself before 
her.
     "Okay.  Well, to begin at the beginning," he murmured 
before taking a sip of the beverage in his hand.  "Selene, as you 
may have guessed, came from the wrong side of the tracks.  Not 
to mention, the wrong side of the blanket."
     "Illegitimate?" Scully queried.
     Mulder nodded.  "Apparently.  Bill was able to track 
down a birth certificate for her, but no marriage license for 
Selene's mother, Lucille Byrne, and one, Jefferson Matthias, the 
man listed on the certificate as her father."
     "Did her mother ever marry at all?" she asked as she 
stirred her melting ice cream.
     "Nope," Mulder said shortly.  "But then it was tough 
for a woman in her position to meet the right kind of guy."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Let's just say that Selene entered the family business."
     Scully's eyebrows crawled towards her hairline.  
"Her mother was a prostitute?"
     He nodded once more.  "That's right.  And from what 
Bill was able to dig up, it appears that poor Lucy was of a much 
more common variety than Selene.  She worked at a cathouse 
not far from the river.  It must have been one hell of a life.  She 
was dead before Selene's fourteenth birthday."
     "God," Scully murmured darkly as she shook her head.
     Mulder sipped his coffee, his puckish shadow of a smile 
telling her that more was yet to come on this particular subject.  
He didn't make her wait long for it.  "However, before she died 
she did manage to assure that her daughter was settled 
comfortably."
     "How?"
     "By selling her at the age of thirteen to an elderly 
plantation owner by the name of John Reginald Smith."
     Scully nearly choked on her ice cream.  "She =sold= 
her?!"
     "I know," Mulder agreed with a grimace.  "Pretty harsh.  
Yet, in the end, it was probably the best thing Lucy could have 
done for her.  Smith was filthy rich, and obviously not afraid to 
spend a little money.  His home just northwest of the city was 
supposedly a palace.  He gave Selene a taste for the finer things 
in life.  And surprisingly enough, he treated her well.  Like family."
     He chuckled humorlessly and took another swallow of 
coffee.  "In fact, he used to introduce her to people as his niece.  
Although, I don't imagine that designation particularly *fooled* 
anybody.   Still, like I said, he was good to her.  Generous.  
Clothes.  Jewelry.  Servants.  He even hired a tutor for her; made 
sure she knew how to read and write; taught her how to go 
about in polite society.  He basically molded her into what she 
would become.  She was with him for nearly six years."
     "So, why did she leave?" Scully queried softly.  
     Mulder smiled dryly.  "She didn't.  He did.  Smith passed 
away just before Selene's nineteenth birthday.  According to Bill, 
the old man left everything to her--plantation and all.  But, his 
remaining relatives contested the will.  Selene got bounced out on 
her ear.  So, she took stock of her assets, and went in search of 
another protector."
     She nodded thoughtfully.  "And she ran into Jack?"
     He shook his head.  "Not yet.  First she latched onto 
Henri Antoine."
     <Did you scream Antoine's name when he was here,
Selene, in our bed?>
     "Antoine?" she croaked, her eyes going wide.
     "Yeah," he confirmed with a nod.  "Selene became his 
mis--"
     "He was the man Jack found her with," she muttered 
with absolute surety, her gaze lowered, her blue eyes gleaming 
in their intensity.
     Taken aback, Mulder hesitated before speaking.  "That's 
right, . . . but how did you--?"
     "Last night," she explained, her gaze locked on his once 
more.  "Jack talked about Antoine.  He taunted Selene with it.  
With him."
     He nodded slowly.  "I had forgotten."
     "Who was he?" she prodded.
     His lips pulled up in a rueful smile.  "A guy who lived 
his life just this side of the law.  He owned a string of gambling 
halls up and down the river in addition to having his hand in 
any number of equally shady enterprises in New Orleans itself.  
However, despite the questionable nature of his trade, Antoine 
preferred to consider himself simply a businessman.  Most 
people were too afraid of him to argue semantics."
     Scully's brow creased.  "Did he have a record?"
     "No," he said with a shake of his head.  "Antoine 
wasn't a thug.  Just powerful.  In a dangerous sort of way.  
He never got his own hands dirty.  He was too smart for that. 
As a matter of fact, he and Selene were welcome in many of 
New Orleans' better homes.  People looked the other way.  
After all, Selene was beautiful, charming.  And Antoine's 
money could buy them both a lot of acceptance."
     "Sounds like Selene chose her protector well."
     He shrugged.  "To a point.  They were together nearly 
three years.  And yet from what Bill was able to find out, they 
fought almost constantly.  Antoine was older than Selene.  
Old enough to be her father.  And extremely possessive.  She, 
unfortunately, liked attention.  Particularly from the opposite 
sex.  Not a good mix.  Still, Antoine had a genius for smoothing 
her feathers.  Usually with an expensive piece of jewelry.  So, 
she stayed with him."
     "Until Jack came along," Scully murmured softly as she 
set her now empty dish of ice cream to the side.
     "Yeah," Mulder agreed quietly.  "Until Captain Jacques
LeFevre sailed into port."
     "=Captain=?"
     The corner of Mulder's mouth lifted at her tone of voice.  
"Hmm-mm.  *Jack* was a sailor.  Or more to the point, a privateer.  
At least, that's what people suspected.  No one was ever able to 
prove that he or his men carried illegal cargo.  But, one way or 
another, he made his money on the water.  He was handsome, 
successful, a bit wild, and a hell of a lot closer in age to Selene 
than either of her other two lovers.  She fell hard." 
     "And she left Antoine for him?"
     His smile broadened.  "Not right away.  Selene knew that 
Antoine wouldn't be happy about losing her.  She feared what he 
might do.  So, Jack and she apparently snuck around at first."
     "It probably seemed romantic to her," Scully said dryly,
a brow lifted just a tad.  "The danger."
     After all, Dana, a little voice inside her whispered, isn't 
that part of what makes the idea of you and Mulder as a couple 
so exciting?  The thing that gives your relationship that extra 
little kick, that spark, that zest that your earlier liaisons had 
always lacked.  The knowledge that when you get right down 
to it, you and he are breaking rules.  Hell, you two are defying 
everything--the mandates of your job, the stricture of your 
superiors, the censure of your co-workers, the threat your 
enemies could pose should they learn of your feelings for each 
other--all to be together.  
     She looked at Mulder then.  At this man she had 
chosen.  Or had choice ever even entered into it, she mused 
wryly.  Sometimes, their union seemed far more like destiny 
than anything else.  Like something that had been set into 
motion long before she had walked into his basement office 
for the first time, and even now continued to snowball with 
increasing momentum.  Gaining in power, in intensity, with 
every long look, every shared secret, every furtive caress.  
Until there were moments, instants, when her world, her entire 
universe got distilled down to just the two of them.  At times,
her family, her friends, her career, all faded away into nothingness 
when viewed beside the nova brilliance that was Fox Mulder.  
     And yet, it wasn't only his surface dazzle that drew her 
in.  His wickedly nimble mind and pensive good looks.  There 
was more to their bond than the physical.  Than the thrill to be
had merely by their daring to be together.  Had it been that way 
for Selene and Jack?  Had they felt the same soul deep connection 
that she felt with Mulder, Scully mused.  When they had been 
apart, had either of them felt as if some intrinsic hunk of themselves 
was missing?  If pressed, had they been unable to come up with 
another single person in their lives to whom they had longed to 
unburden their hearts?  Had Selene discovered one day, quite 
accidentally, that it was impossible anymore to view the world 
except through the filter of her lover's eyes?  Had she found 
herself talking to a person or seeing a situation unfold, and 
automatically formed Jack's opinion of the moment as she had 
formed her own?  Had they been that fused together, that 
complete?
     If not, why had she sought him out, defying death and 
time to find him once more?
     And yet, if so, why had their association ended with 
betrayal and murder?
     "Selene might have enjoyed the danger a relationship 
with Jack offered," Mulder allowed quietly after a time.  "After 
all, for all her sophistication, she was still young, still inclined 
to be taken in by that sort of thing.  Me--I'd have to say that 
danger is highly overrated."
     "Sounds as if she must have eventually come to the 
same conclusion," she offered as she reached for her coffee, 
the twisting motion the effort required sending a shooting pain 
through her mid-section.  She froze, hoping Mulder hadn't 
caught her sudden wince.
     He had.
     Refusing to dwell on her discomfort or the look in his 
eyes, she resolutely continued, "She =did= leave Antoine, didn't 
she?"
     After a beat, he nodded.  "Yeah.  She did.  Although 
I'm not sure that the phrase 'leave Antoine' is necessarily 
accurate."
     "What do you mean?"
     The corner of his mouth pulled up.  "It's just that she 
didn't exactly leave him.  He lost her in a poker game."
     A small smile of disbelief flirted with her lips.  "Excuse 
me?"
     His smile widened.  "Jack maneuvered Antoine into 
a poker game.  They were playing for big money, and Jack was 
on a roll.  When Antoine ran out of chips, Jack suggested that 
they make the game a bit more interesting."
     Scully's eyebrows lifted.  "By wagering a human being?"
     Mulder chuckled.  "Now before you let yourself get 
all indignant over this.  There is something you should know."
     "Such as?" she asked dryly.
     "Such as," he echoed.  "The whole thing was Selene's 
idea to begin with.  At least, according to Bill."
     She frowned in confusion.  "I don't understand."
     "Jack and Antoine were playing with a marked deck.  
One marked by Selene to allow Jack a distinct advantage.  She 
knew all along that she was going to end up in the pot.  And 
she wanted to make sure that she wound up going home with 
the right guy."
     Scully shook her head ever so slightly.  "That's insane."
     Mulder shrugged.  "It is a bit extreme.  But, when you 
stop to think about it, the whole thing *does* make a warped 
sort of sense."
     She merely looked at him.
     He grinned.  "It =does=!  Selene knew that her leaving 
Antoine for Jack could have dire consequences.  So, she had to 
make certain that it looked as if she had no choice in the matter.  
As if Antoine had no one else to blame but himself for the 
outcome."
     "So what--you're saying that when Antoine decided 
that he'd accept Jack's dare, that he'd wager his mistress, Selene 
acted as if she was appalled by the idea?"
     He nodded.  "I don't know.  Probably.  Given what 
she did for a living, Selene had to have had a bit of the actress 
in her.  So, I suppose she was probably able to feign outrage 
when it appeared her future was being decided by a couple of 
hands of cards."
     Scully tried to visualize the scenario in her head.  "How 
was she able to manage marking the cards?"
     "Don't forget, Antoine was really little more than a 
gambler made good," Mulder reminded her after taking a final 
sip of his coffee.  "He played cards often and well.  But, he wasn't 
the most trusting of men.  He was known for never entering a 
game unless it was agreed in advance that his own deck of cards 
would be used."
     She smiled in reluctant admiration.  "So, Selene got to 
that deck, marked it--possibly even doing so in a way in which 
Antoine himself had shown her--"
     "Possibly," he agreed with a small smile.
     "And then she simply sat back and watched their 
plan unfold," she finished, noting that her voice was getting 
progressively rougher the longer their discussion continued.  
And yet, she had absolutely no intention of cutting it short.  
Finally, she was getting a sense of who Selene Broussard had 
been, this woman who had seen virtually every aspect of her life 
controlled from an early age by those who viewed her as little 
more than property.  A toy.  An amusement.  Beautiful, certainly.  
Expensive, without a doubt.  And yet, something to be owned.  
Kept.  Not a person.  Not really.
     Not until Jack.
     "They should have lived happily ever after," she 
murmured wistfully at last.
     "I had no idea you were such a romantic, Scully,"
Mulder teased gently.  She looked up and saw his warm hazel
eyes resting lovingly on her face.  She smiled, feeling a bit
silly at getting caught musing in such a manner over the events 
in question.
     Shaking her head as if trying to clear it, she said wryly, 
"So, after going to all that trouble to get away from Antoine, why 
did Selene decide to go back to him?"
     Mulder gnawed on the inside of his bottom lip for a 
moment, his gaze turning speculative.  "Here is where our tale 
turns interesting.  You see, Bill doesn't believe she went back to 
him.  He doesn't even think that they slept together.  He states in 
his book that the whole thing was a set-up."
     Her brow wrinkled in confusion.  "What kind of a set-up?"
     "According to him, Antoine found out that he had been
had.  I don't know how.  Maybe the cards.  Maybe Selene told
someone and it got back to him.  I don't know.  But, one way or 
another he learned the truth."
     "So, you're saying that he decided to get his revenge?"
     Mulder nodded.  "That's what Bill says.  Antoine waited 
for a night when he knew Jack would be gone.  Although this was
technically Selene's home, Jack lived here with her when he was in 
town.  They had been together nearly a year at this point.  Things 
were going well.  Selene had even told some of her acquaintances 
that Jack had proposed marriage.  So anyway, Antoine comes over, 
says he needs to speak with her.  At first, Selene puts him off.  
Tells him that it's over between them, and that Jack wouldn't 
approve of her seeing him.  But, Antoine keeps after her.  He 
explains that Jack is the reason he needs to talk to her.  He tells 
her that he overheard something at one of his clubs that could 
put Jack and his operation at risk."
     Scully looked at him with a touch of doubt.  "And she
fell for that?"
     He shrugged.  "Don't forget, she had no reason to 
believe that Antoine was any the wiser.  Besides, time had 
passed.  Antoine had even taken a new mistress.  Selene 
probably figured that he had no reason to lie to her about this, 
nothing to gain.  Regardless, she let him in.  They talked.  And 
somewhere along the way, he slipped her a mickey."
     "He =drugged= her?"
     He nodded once more.  "That's what Bill hypothesizes."
     The whole thing was all getting a bit too Southern Gothic 
for her taste.  "I don't get it.  Just where did he come up with all 
this?"
     Mulder's eyes twinkled at her blunt demand.  "Put
the blame on modern technology."
     He took the book from her once more and quickly
leafed to the back, and its bibliography.  "Bill was having a tough 
time with his book.  He had originally wanted to use Selene's
life as a case study of sorts to point up the inequities women 
had faced in the last century.  You know--the absence of 
opportunities for young women without family or money, their 
lack of stature in the eyes of the law, their dependency upon men.  
That type of thing."
     She nodded.
     "But it wasn't coming together for him.  Selene
just wasn't *typical* enough.  Her life was too unusual.  Too
'out there'.  So, in a kind of desperation, he put out a call on the 
internet asking if anyone who was doing similar research on the 
period had run across any information that he might find useful."
     "And he hit it lucky," Scully surmised with a smile.
     "Bingo," Mulder confirmed, pointing to the citation in
question.  "A Dr. Susan Archer from LSU wrote to him with a 
anecdote she had uncovered while doing research on slaves 
who had stayed with their former masters after the Emancipation."
     "Selene kept slaves?"
     "No," he said shortly.  "Antoine did."
     "I don't understand."
     "Antoine had a servant, a man named Nathaniel 
Walker.  He had been bought when he was little more than a 
boy and stayed with Antoine even after he was freed," Mulder 
explained, his eye glowing now with excitement as his tale 
reached its climax.  "In fact, he was the one who was with 
Antoine on the night he died."
     "How did he die?" Scully asked.
     "Nothing dramatic," he assured her.  "His body just 
gave out.  He lived to be almost eighty.  But, he couldn't meet 
his maker without confessing his sins."
     "And what he did to Jack and Selene was one of them?" 
she guessed quietly.
     "Right.  Antoine told Walker the whole thing.  How he 
had drugged Selene, took her upstairs, got her undressed and 
then waited for a very drunk Jack to return home."
     "Drunk?"
     He nodded.  "Antoine hadn't left anything to chance.  
He had arranged to have one of his men, one Jack would be certain 
not to know,  befriend the guy for the evening, buy him a few 
drinks.  He had known about a bar down near the waterfront 
where LeFevre tended to go with his men after a run.  Apparently, 
the man was an ugly drunk.  He had a fairly ferocious temper to 
begin with.  And alcohol only made it worse.  Antoine had 
wanted to stir up trouble.  And he certainly knew how to go 
about it."
     Scully was silent for a moment, considering all that she 
had learned.  "Had he planned on Selene dying?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "No.  Absolutely not.  He
was adamant about that when he told the story to Walker.  He
had hoped to break Selene and Jack up.  Or at the very least, to
cause them to doubt each other.  But murder had never been
part of his scheme."
     She nodded solemnly.  Then, she asked him the 
question that had been on her mind since they had begun.  
"So what does any of this have to do with us?  With what 
happened last night?"
     He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and took
her hand.  Her eyes burned for an instant with tears.  It was the
first time he had touched her that morning.  As he spoke, he
kept his gaze averted from hers.
     "I believe that Selene is trying to reach out to Jack,"
he said softly.  "That she is trying to convince him that she
didn't betray him.  That what he saw when he walked into their
bedroom that night wasn't what it appeared to be."
     Scully's mind reeled.  She had been going along with 
everything up to this point.  Much as it was wholly and entirely 
against her nature to believe in ghosts, she knew what she had 
experienced the previous night.  Had seen its effect on Mulder.  
It hadn't been their imaginations at work, or too much wine.  
Nor were Mulder and she delusional.  Their psyches were, 
for the most part, intact.  No.  Rather, other forces had been at 
work.  Something foreign had insinuated itself into them both.  
Something--some =things=--had taken up residence inside them.  
She believed that.  She didn't want to.  But she had to.  She had 
no other explanation.  However, to hear Mulder baldly come up 
with a theory as to why it had occurred disturbed her nevertheless.  
Made the whole thing too unspeakably real.
     "But why =us=?" she asked, her voice gravel low.  
"How do we fit into all this?"
     Mulder grimaced.  "I'm not sure.  But, I think that
Selene thought to use us as a kind of buffer."
     "You've lost me."
     "Think about it, Scully," he urged, his grip on her hand 
tightening.  "As strong as Selene was, she was unable to get 
Jack to listen to any of her explanations.  Hell, she probably 
didn't even have a chance to utter a single word in her defense."
     "Well, don't forget, if Bill's information is correct she
was probably still out of it when Jack burst on the scene," she
murmured reasonably.
     "I know," he agreed quickly.  "But, I'll tell you 
something, Scully.  I've had that guy inside me.  Or I've been 
inside him.  Last night I couldn't tell the difference.  And the pain
 . . . the rage . . . he carries around with him. . . .  What he saw 
when he walked into that room was a scene from his greatest 
nightmare.  It pushed him right over the edge.  Even if Selene had 
been clear-headed I doubt that she could have gotten through 
to him."
     She slowly nodded.  "So, if I was supposed to lend 
Selene my strength, you were supposed to share with Jack your
 . . . calm?"
     Mulder shrugged, plainly embarrassed.  "I don't know.
If that was the case, it appears the joke is on him."  He smiled dryly,
the look failing to convey humor.  "Maybe it wasn't any particular 
facet of our personalities that drew Selene to us.  Perhaps instead 
it's our relationship as a whole that attracted her.  Maybe she 
thought that the trust we share would be enough for her and 
Jacl to discover a little of it between themselves."
     She looked at him for a beat, her eyes narrowed in 
consideration.  
     "It's flattering if you think about it, Scully," he quipped
at last.
     That coaxed a small smile out of her.  "So what do we do 
now?"
     Mulder's expression hardened into resolve.  "We get out 
of here.  Today.  I refuse to spend another night under this roof."
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Continued in Part XI




"At a Loss for Words" (11/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

We're getting there slowly but surely.  How the =hell= I thought
I was going to fit this into four chapters I do not know . . .
************************************************

     Scully felt flooded by a rush of profound affection as 
she watched Mulder laying sprawled on his back on their bed.  
Breathing slowly and deeply.  Eyes shut.  Lips parted.  He rested, 
cheek turned on the pillow so that his hair fell in messy ripples 
across his forehead, softening his features.  She smiled at the 
sight.  Even though he hadn't admitted it, she knew with absolute 
certainty that her partner hadn't so much as closed his eyes the 
night before.  Add to that the manner in which their slumber had 
been interrupted by her nocturnal ramblings two nights previously, 
and the man before her was owed several hours of shut-eye.  
     Thus, treading lightly across the room's hardwood floor, 
she made as little noise as possible as she silently packed her 
belongings in preparation for leaving La Lune Argentine.  She 
and Mulder had only one more night planned in New Orleans.  
And it now appeared that they would be spending it at a Holiday 
Inn not far from the airport.  
     Mulder had apologized, saying that it was the best he 
could do under the circumstances.  She didn't mind the step 
down in accommodations.  Not at all.  Lord knew that they had 
stayed at worse.  What she did regret, however, was the way 
in which their time together in the Big Easy had gone from 
'Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous' to 'Tales From the Crypt'.  
     Lips curving ruefully at the thought, she stopped and 
fingered the delicate silver chain around her neck.  Reaching 
down, she cupped the crescent moon dangling from the chain in 
her hand, lifting it so she could study it more carefully.  You were 
supposed to be a momento of this trip, she silently told the tiny 
woman clinging to the delicate little slip of a moon.  A souvenir
of a special time, a joyous time.  You were meant to be a reminder 
whose significance only Mulder and I would fully understand.  
Brow furrowed, she closed her hand around the pendant, feeling 
it press, edges sharp, against her palm.  Why is it that at this 
moment that you remind me more of those charms we saw at 
The Bottom of the Cup, she mused grimly.  The ones that can 
be used to conjure up all manner of mischief.
     Shaking her head, she let the necklace drop once more.  
You don't believe in that stuff, Dana, she wordlessly chided 
herself.  Remember?  And yet, she was finding it increasingly 
difficult these days to keep from buying into voodoo, ghosts 
and rest of it.  After all, she had seen things, experienced things 
firsthand for which she had no other logical explanation.  Even 
her skepticism only stretched so far.
     Sighing, she began to fold the pile of clothes she had 
quietly pulled from the dresser drawer.  
     Damn it.  
     She had no intention of feeling sorry for herself.  Only it 
was just that she couldn't help but be disappointed over the turn 
events had taken.  And angry.  Mostly angry.  She hated that 
they were being forced out of La Lune Argentine.  Fleeing for 
their lives like islanders trying to outrun a hurricane. 
     Not exactly the way she had thought she'd be ending her 
much needed vacation.
     Vacation.
     Ha.
     Hell, she'd need to take a couple additional days when 
they got back just to let some of her bruises subside. 
     Grimacing as she considered that unhappy prospect, 
Scully wandered into the bathroom for a moment and flicked on 
the lights.  Yeah.  No doubt about it.  Her face was bound to get 
noticed.  And not in a good way either.  Hmm.  She thought 
perhaps that the wounds at her temple and lip would probably be 
the first to fade and the easiest to explain.  Well, maybe 'easiest' 
was overly optimistic, she allowed with a glum smile as she studied 
her reflection in the mirror.  But, at least she should be able to 
come up with a halfway decent story as to how she had gotten 
them.  Car accident.  Mugging.  Sheer clumsiness.
     But the marks on her throat were a different matter.
     Because even to the untrained eye they looked exactly 
like what they were.
     The telltale imprints of fingers.
     And just how was she supposed to come up with a 
reasonable justification as to how they had gotten there?
     Mulling over that little quandary, she shook a couple of
Advil free from the bottle on the sink and swallowed them with 
a swig of water.  Her headache still thudded as relentlessly as a
metronome.  But, it was manageable.  Not blinding.  The pills 
seemed to help.  She wished that they would do something for 
her ribs as well.  However, that apparently was asking too much.  
Her mid-section remained tender and stiff.  Breathing likewise 
proved tricky.  She had to be careful not to pull in too much air 
too quickly.  Any type of sudden exertion and the area just below 
her lungs burned with the sting of a whiplash.  A sharp, sudden 
sort of pain would assail her with a force that instantly sapped 
her strength.  It was the kind of hurt that made her want to curl up 
in a little ball somewhere soft and warm and just wait out the storm. 
     Lord, she hated this.
     Stubbornly ignoring the ache that was her body, she 
turned off the lights, and walked slowly into their chamber once 
more, stifling a yawn as she did so.
     Man, that bed looked inviting.
     She didn't really know why, but she was feeling sort of 
sleepy all of a sudden.
     At that moment, she would have liked nothing more 
than to crawl up beside Mulder, nestle into his arms, and catch
forty winks.
     Yet, she had promised him that she wouldn't nod off.
     In the end, it had been the only way to get him to agree 
to take a nap himself.
     "I'm not tired, Scully," he had insisted even as he had 
been literally swaying on his feet before her when their discussion 
of Bill's book had finally come to an end.  Glowering down at her 
from where they stood facing each other at the room's center, 
his eyes had been shadowed with fatigue, his jaw dark with 
stubble.  "Let's just get our things together and get out of here 
while the getting is good."
     But, she had resolutely shaken her head, and taking his 
hand in hers had drawn him instead to the side of the bed.  "Like 
hell you're not, Mulder," she had told him softly.  "Just lay down 
for a little while.  You're beat.  I had a chance to sleep.  You didn't.  
So, why don't you catch some zzzs, and I'll get started on the 
packing."
     However, despite her calmly spoken words and his 
obvious exhaustion, he hadn't acquiesced immediately.  "Scully, 
this room isn't safe."
     She had touched his cheek, stroked it gently, feeling 
the faint rasp of his whiskers against her fingertips as she did
so.  "I promise to be on the lookout, okay?  If anything starts 
going weird, I'll get out of here.  But I honestly don't think we 
have to worry.  Not yet."
     He had smiled quizzically at that.  "Why not?"
     She had shrugged, surprised herself that she was 
setting forth such reasonable arguments regarding such a 
totally unreasonable subject.  "Haven't you noticed that 
nothing has ever happened to us during the daytime hours?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Think about it," she had instructed, her voice low.  
"Last night, my sleepwalking, that little blur of energy I told 
you about seeing in the mirror--even the reports visitors have 
made of hearing Selene walking the halls--all of those things 
have occurred from dusk on." 
     His tired eyes had narrowed in thought.  "So, you're 
saying that you think that somehow Selene's 'reach' into this 
world is more powerful at night?"
     She had smiled sheepishly.  "Sounds crazy, I know."
     But he had shaken his head.  "No.  No, not really.  It 
makes sense.  After all, the human mind is more vulnerable the 
closer it is to total relaxation, to sleep.  And darkness encourages 
that state of mind.  We equate night with sleep.  It makes us more 
susceptible to things.  Things we wouldn't normally be open to 
in the bright light of day."
     "Like ghosts?" she had inquired dryly.
     Mulder had merely lifted his brows.
     "Get some rest," she had told him, pushing him lightly 
down on to the mattress.  "It'll be all right.  I'm sure of it."
     He had looked up at her as he had kicked off his shoes, 
still not entirely convinced.  "I don't know, Scully.  Seems like 
you should be the one getting some rest, not me."
     "Why, Mulder?" she had teased as she had stood 
between his legs, her hands smoothing back his hair from his 
brow.  "Did you pick up a new extra strength variety of No-Doze 
when you were out getting our breakfast?"
     "Scully--"
     "You're tired.  I'm not.  End of story," she had said firmly.
"Now go to sleep.  I can't argue with you anymore.  All this talk
is killing my throat."
     That had shut him up.
     It hadn't exactly been fighting fair.  But, she had figured
that in this case the end had fully justified the means.
     "Just don't let me sleep past four, Scully," he had told 
her as he had laid down, his hand tight around her wrist, his eyes 
already struggling to remain open.  "I want to be out of here 
before sunset."
     "I promise."
     "And just leave the packing.  I'll do it when I get up."
     She had nodded, but had no intention of following 
through with that little directive.  After all, it wasn't as if she had 
never packed a suitcase before.  Hell, with the amount of time 
they spent on the road, she had the whole procedure down to a 
science.
     Which was why at merely 2:00 in the afternoon, she had 
already finished up with her chore.     Great.  Time to get a look for 
herself at Bill's book, she thought with a small smile.  Grabbing 
the narrow volume, she crossed to the wing chair on the far side 
of the room, and settled in.
     Opening the book at its beginning, she hesitated for a 
moment before flipping to the text itself, and instead stared 
gravely down at the small picture of Selene Broussard.  The 
photograph only captured a portion of the portrait.  Its focus 
was from the chest up.  Selene was dressed in a ball gown.  
Without any jewelry or adornments.  Almost as if the painter 
had recognized that frills of any sort would only detract from 
his subject's own inherent beauty.  As the picture was in black 
and white, Scully couldn't be certain of the dress' color, but she 
judged it to be dark.  A rich blue perhaps.  Or maybe a deep 
purple.  The gown's neckline was plunging, its bodice without 
sleeves; thus, leaving a good deal of milky white skin exposed.  
Her hair was upswept as well, baring her throat, emphasizing its 
elegant line.  Her neck appeared ridiculously slender to Scully's 
eyes.  Swan-like.  Vulnerable.  An expanse of muscle and skin 
and bone that looked as if it could so easily be crushed.  
     Which, of course, had in fact proven to be the case.
     I'm sorry, Selene, she silently told the woman with the
extraordinary eyes.  I'm sorry that I can't help you.  But, helping
you would put him at risk.
     Her eyes stole once more to Mulder's slumbering form.
His face was turned away from her at this angle, and she focused
instead on the soothing gentle rise and fall of his chest, the
sight of his hand laying, fingers relaxed, on the sheet covering 
his middle.
     Scully let her gaze linger for a time. Then, without cause,
she felt her eyes well even as her lips curved in a tender smile.
     She loved this man.  Loved him beyond all sense.  
Beyond the reason with which she governed all other aspects 
of her life.
     And despite the odd sympathy she felt for the soul of
a woman she had never met and yet knew intimately, she
recognized that she had no choice but to walk away from Selene's 
plight.
     Because nothing and no one was worth taking a chance
on Mulder's life.
     Not a single thing, Scully acknowledged with the calm 
acceptance of one who had long ago come to terms with certain 
truths.  
     Not even her own survival.
************************************************
     "I'm really sorry you and Dana have to take off early."
     Mulder had to remind himself to stop from cringing.  
For a man who hated lying, it sure as hell felt as if he had been 
doing an awful lot of it lately.  Most particularly to Bill.  But, it 
was certainly simpler for him to tell their host that Scully and he 
had been unexpectedly called back to D.C. than it was for him to 
say that they were taking off due to their run-in with La Lune 
Argentine's resident ghost.  
     A part of him wondered if perhaps they weren't
behaving a tad irresponsibly in failing to alert Bill and Laura to
the danger living under their roof.  And yet, Scully and he had
talked it over and, in the end, judged it to be safe.  After all, to 
the best of their knowledge, Selene had rested over a hundred 
years before reaching out to them.  The threat seemed to be 
specific to their personalities, their essences, and not a general 
menace.
     "Yeah.  Well, we're sorry too," he said evenly.  "But you
know how it is.  Plans change."
     Bill nodded.  "I understand.  Well, Laura is going to be
sorry she missed you.  Did you already call for a taxi?"
     "Yeah," Mulder confirmed shortly.  "It should be here
any minute."
     "Great.  Then, let me help you--"
     "No, that's okay," Mulder said with perhaps a touch
more vehemence than the situation warranted.  "Dana and I
travel light.  I can manage it."
     Bill seemed a bit confused by Mulder's insistence, 
but adjusted as best he could.  "All right.  If you're sure--"
     "Um, excuse me, Bill?" came a hesitant voice from 
the doorway of the inn's office.  "But there seems to be 
something wrong with the lights in my room.  I think I may have
blown a fuse."
     Bill looked past Mulder at the small elderly woman
framed in the room's entrance.
     "Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper," he said quickly.  "I'll
be right there."
     Saved by the bell, Mulder thought with a jolt of
giddy humor.  Now he wouldn't have to come up with a plausible
excuse as to why he didn't need Bill's help.  He could have kissed 
the petite little gray-haired lady peering at him shyly.  Assuring 
his host one last time that he could indeed manage without any 
assistance, Mulder urged him to look to the needs of his other 
guests.  And with a firm handshake and warm wishes, bid Bill 
farewell.
     Phew.  That was a close one, Mulder thought as he 
watched Bill trail after Mrs. Cooper.  After all, what would he 
have said to the man if he had insisted on coming upstairs.
     <Well, you see, Bill--I really wish you wouldn't.  Dana's 
face and neck are a mess.  I beat up on her last night.  Damn near 
killed her.  And I'd rather you didn't see that.  It's a long story, 
and I don't want to get into it just now.  Hope you don't mind.>
     No.  The fewer people who got a look at her condition, 
the better.
     Mentally chastising himself for his cowardice, Mulder 
peered out the entry hall window as he crossed to head upstairs.
Terrific.  It appeared that their recent run of good luck was 
holding.  The sky was overcast.  A light rain had begun to fall.  
Great.  Bad weather meant even worse visibility.  Maybe Scully 
and he really could make it out of La Lune Argentine with no one 
the wiser.  Keeping that thought in mind, he bounded up the stairs
with renewed enthusiasm.
     "You about ready?" he asked as he briskly entered
their room once more, recognizing as he did so that the nearer 
he and Scully got to leaving the inn, the better he felt.
     Then, he took one look at his partner, and his spirits
plummeted.
     "Scully?"
     She sat, hunched as if for warmth in the wing chair in
the corner of the room, the small afghan that had been draped 
over the chair's back laying across her lap.  Her head was tilted
back at an awkward angle and her eyes were closed. 
     Upon hearing his voice, she stirred, and slowly raised
her lashes.
     "Hmm?" she murmured, her voice husky and low, her
eyelids appearing unutterably heavy.
     He crossed to kneel before her, his heart thumping a
mile a minute as a dozen alarming reasons for her lethargy
flashed through his mind one after another, like one of those 
hyper-kinetic videos on MTV.  "Are you okay?"
     She smiled sleepily.  "Yeah.  I'm just a little more tired 
than I thought."
     He brushed the back of his fingertips along the curve 
of her cheek.  She felt cool.  Not like she was running a fever or 
anything.  But she looked awfully pale to his worried eyes.  
"You sure?"
     She nodded and turned to press a kiss to his palm.
His concern lessened by a whisper.  "Mmm-hm.  Just sleepy.  I 
knew I should have crawled into bed beside you this afternoon."
     His brow darkened.  "And *I* knew that you should 
have been the one to take a nap in the first place."
     She frowned at him, the mock ferocity of the look ruined 
by the softness in her eyes.  "Don't get started, Mulder."
     He sighed.  "I'm not.  I'm not.  Come on.  Let's get out
of here."
     Extending his hands, he pulled her gently up from the 
chair.  She swayed ever so slightly, yet remained standing.  
Mulder gazed down at her, his eyes narrowed and intent, ready 
to steady her if need be.  Yet in the end, she didn't require his 
assistance.  Her balance stablized.  And, with a small embarrassed 
smile she pushed a hand through her hair, her brow creased in 
consternation.
     "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said quietly,
stretching gingerly to relieve some of the kinks she had picked up 
slumbering in the chair.  "I was fine all afternoon."
     "Call me crazy--but I think I know what the problem is," 
Mulder grumbled, as he leaned down and grabbed his suitcase and 
her duffel.  "I mean, it's not exactly as if you're one hundred percent, 
Scully."
     "But, I don't feel that bad," she argued in a small rough 
voice.  Then, almost as if to prove her point, she turned and 
walked to where her suitcase stood alongside the bureau, and 
grabbed hold of its handle.  Muttering an obscenity under his 
breath, Mulder dropped the luggage he had just picked up, and 
crossing swiftly to her side, stopped her before the bag in her 
hand left the ground.
     "Will you just please . . . =please= . . let me get that?" he 
implored harshly, doing his damnedest to rein in the impulse to yell.  
He knew what she was doing.  Understood that she was trying to 
go about as if everything was as it should be.  As if she were 
absolutely fine, and there was no need in the world for him to hover.  
Like he felt he ought.  What he would like to know, however, was 
how the *hell* Scully had thought she was going to drag that 
suitcase to the front door with the way her ribs were paining her.  
But somehow it didn't seem like the appropriate time to bring up 
little things like that.  His emotions were entirely too close to the 
surface.  And the last thing he wanted to do was take out his 
frustrations on her.  "Just let me get these downstairs, okay?  
And then I'll come up for the rest of it.  And you."
     She stood with her arms crossed against her chest, 
considering him.  She had exchanged the shorts she had worn 
earlier in the day for jeans, he noted.  Probably not a bad idea what 
with the way the temperature had dropped with the rain.  But she 
still wore his shirt.  Sleeves folded neatly to just below the elbow, 
shirt tails tied at the waist.  Primitive though he had to admit it 
was, Mulder found that he liked the idea of her wearing his clothes.  
Liked the way that her doing so in some way marked her as his.
Part of his team, so to speak.  His clan.  
     Finally, the corner of her mouth raised, and he gratefully 
recognized that she too preferred not to argue.  "Lumping me in 
with the luggage now, are we, Mulder?"
     His lips quirked in an answering smile.  "How can you 
say that, Scully?  You know I'd never consider you a bag."
     She dropped her head, her smile widening.
     "Anyone ever tell you what a pain in the ass you are,
Mulder?" she asked him dryly, her eyes sparkling up at him
through her lashes.
     "Sure," he replied blithely, his hand reaching out to 
finger the soft fringe of hair fluttering around her face.  "You.
About once a week or so."
     She chuckled.  "Go downstairs.  The taxi is probably
here by now."
     He nodded.  "Okay.  Let me make sure the coast is
clear before you come down, all right?  It'll be easier all the
way 'round."
     "Fine."
     Yes, Mulder thought as he turned towards the door.
Everything would indeed be fine.
     The minute La Lune Argentine was just a blur in the
taxi's rear view mirror.
**********************************************
     For awhile, Mulder had felt quite certain that rather than 
drive them to their new lodgings, Sam, their very polite, very 
large cab driver was instead going to take he and Scully to the 
nearest police station.  Standing well over six feet tall and tipping 
the scales at a minimum of two-twenty, the imposing looking
ebony-skinned man who was temporarily their chauffeur had 
noted the marks on Scully's face and neck the moment she had 
exited the inn.
     And had come to the same disturbing conclusion 
Mulder knew he would have had he been in the same position.
     They had actually made it to the taxi without a problem.  
La Lune Argentine's first floor had been almost eerily empty when 
Scully had made her way haltingly down the inn's imposing flight 
of stairs.  However, once the two of them were settled comfortably 
in the cab's back seat, Mulder couldn't help but notice how 
frequently Sam's eyes drifted to his rear view mirror to focus with 
concern on Scully.  Great, Mulder had thought dryly.  We would get 
a driver who not only looked as if he played offensive lineman for 
the Saints, but had a protective streak when it came to petite redheads.  
     Absolutely terrific.
     Things only got worse when he told the massive cabbie
where they were headed.
     "Holiday Inn?" Sam had inquired in surprise, his voice
little more than a rumble.  "Isn't =this= place a motel?"
     Mulder tried not to grimace.  "Yeah.  It's just that we . . .
um, wanted to be closer to the airport."
     Okay.  He knew that was lame.  But did the guy in the
front seat have to glare at him quite so threateningly?
     "We've got an early flight tomorrow," Scully said softly,
speaking for the first time since entering the cab.  "And we figured
it would be easier to already be out that way rather than having to 
deal with rush hour traffic in the morning."
     Sam met her eyes in the mirror.  Holding her gaze for a 
moment, he searched her expression as if looking for any signs of 
hurt or distress.  Scully only smiled at him gently.  Seemingly 
satisfied at last, he nodded, and started the ignition.
     "Thanks," Mulder whispered into her hair as the taxi 
pulled away from the curb.
     "What for?" she inquired, her voice at the same volume.
     "Your new protector up there was getting ready to kick 
my ass," he murmured quietly, his tone wry with humor.  "If for 
no other reason than my taking you away from La Lune Argentine 
and making you spend the night at an airport Holiday Inn."
     She chuckled.  "Aw, you didn't need me, Mulder.  You 
coulda taken him."
     "You really *do* need a nap," he murmured tenderly
as he stretched his arm across the back of the seat, and tucked
her slender frame up alongside his own.  She nestled her cheek 
in the crook of his shoulder, and sighing, refrained from answering 
his quip.
     Mulder didn't particularly feel like talking much himself.
Instead, he was content simply to be free of the inn and its phantom
tenants.  Pulling Scully's small soft weight more firmly against him,
he sat back and watched the city go by as the taxi made its way 
through the rainy Sunday night.  Headlights shone in through the 
car's windows, diffused by the steadily falling rain so that they 
glowed, pinwheeling with bits of color embedded, dazzling the eye.
     Traffic wasn't bad.  And the soft wet sounds of the cab's
wheels rolling over pavement proved lulling, so the trip out to the
airport ended up being not nearly as long as Mulder had thought
it would be.  In no time at all it seemed, they were pulling up in the 
Holiday Inn's lot.
     "Would you mind waiting here until I go in and register?"
Mulder asked Sam politely.  "What with the weather and all, I'd
rather she didn't walk any more than she had to."
     While he knew he was playing upon their driver's
inherent chivalry, Mulder had made the request in earnest.  
Scully had fallen asleep again on the drive out.  And although 
she was awake once more, blinking up at him in a decidedly 
muzzy fashion, he really didn't want her to tax her strength 
unnecessarily.
     Not surprisingly, Sam agreed.
     Pressing a quick kiss to Scully's hair, Mulder dashed 
through the rain and into the motel's lobby.  Within minutes, 
they were registered and driven around to their first floor room 
on the far end of the building.  Mulder gave Sam an outrageous 
tip for his trouble.  The big man took the money, and left.  But not
before telling Mulder, "You take care of her now."
     "I will," Mulder assured him quietly.  And with that,
he closed and locked the door behind him.
     "You want something to eat?" Mulder asked as Scully 
and he got themselves settled into their new room.  Ambiance-
wise the place couldn't compare to the accommodations they had 
so recently left.  Still, it was clean and quiet.  And it had a 
television.  Maybe they could just sack out on the bed and 
watch the boob tube, Mulder thought with a degree of mild 
anticipation.  "I could go pick something up."
     Scully stopped rummaging through her suitcase to 
consider the question.  His heart went out to her.  She looked 
utterly exhausted.  Her lashes were drooping.  Her hair was rumpled
and damp.  Even the simple act of standing seemed to be more than 
she could presently manage, as she sat heavily beside her open 
piece of luggage on the bed.  He knew she was ready to hit the hay.  
And yet, other than nibbling on some of the leftovers from their 
picnic the night before, he didn't think that she had eaten anything 
besides the ice cream he had brought her that morning.  He hoped 
she would agree to at least a light meal before turning in.
     "Soup would be good," she said with a small weary smile.  
"Do you think it's on the menu at the coffee shop?"
     "I'll go check," he offered immediately.  "You want anything 
else?"
     "Surprise me," she told him lightly as she zippered up her 
bag once more, and pressed a tad unsteadily to her feet.
     "It's my mission in life," he said dryly before giving her a
soft kiss on the cheek and heading for the door.  "Be right back."
     The rain had begun to let up a bit, and although a light
mist continued to fall, Mulder didn't become too overly soaked
as he made his way to and from the brightly lit motel coffee shop.
The place wasn't terribly busy on a Sunday night, and true to his
word, he wasn't gone any more than fifteen minutes before he 
returned to their room with their meal.
     "Hey Scully, how do you feel about chicken and rice?"
he queried as he shouldered open the door.  "It was all they had--"
     Whatever else he had thought to say died on his lips.
     "Oh my God . . . ."
     Scully lay face down on the floor near the foot of the bed,
her one hand stretched out in the direction of the door as if she
were reaching for it.  For him.
     "Scully?"
     He got no reply.
     The bags containing their dinner were deposited without
conscious thought on the table near the door.  Trembling, Mulder
crossed to her side, and supporting her head, rolled her gently
over onto her back.  Pressing an unsteady hand to her throat, he
searched for a pulse.
     And was rewarded.
     Thank you.  Oh God, thank you, he silently chanted as
he ran his hands lightly over her, trying to rouse her.  
     And having no success.
     "Scully?' he tried once more, bending over her, his
heart racing with a rhythm that pounded in his temples.  One hand 
combed softly through her hair, the other stroked tenderly along 
her cool pale cheek.  "Come on, Dana . . . please, don't do this . . ."
     Her heartbeat seemed strong, her breathing unimpeded.
And yet, she remained unconscious.  What had happened?  Had
she fainted?  Why?  Surely not just because she was tired.  After 
all, she had slept the night before.  No.  It had to be her injuries.  
Damn it!  He had known he should have gotten her to a hospital.  
     Well, he was sure as hell going to remedy that little
error in judgment this minute.
     Surging to his feet, he headed towards the phone beside
the bed.
     Only to be stopped by a faint rustle of sound.
     "Dana?" he whispered as he dropped to his knees beside
her once more, his hand clutching at hers almost convulsively.
     Her eyelids were fluttering, her lips moving.  And yet
no sound issued forth.  Finally, after what felt like the better part
of eternity, she opened her eyes, their blue depths cloudy and
confused.
     "Mulder?" she whispered.
     "Yeah," he confirmed shortly, his voice rough and
low.  "It's all right.  I'm getting you to a hospital."
     With that, her eyes rolled horrifying back in her head,
causing Mulder's stomach to clench and his skin to go cold.
     Then Scully looked at him once more.
     And all at once, he understood what real fear was.
     Because the woman he loved looked up at him with
eyes that were not hers and spoke to him calmly in a voice that 
rang with the hollow aching echo of the grave.
     "Take her back."
     And Mulder knew without a doubt that it wasn't Dana
Scully who was speaking.
     But the one and only Selene Broussard.
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Continued in Part XII
     


"At a Loss for Words" (12/?) NC-17
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

Please check the intro for disclaimers, etc.  And please check 
Adam & Stef's archives for any chapters you may be missing.  
Their addys are:  (Stef) web.ukonline.co.uk/members/
xfilesfanficarchive.d/contents.htm  =and= 
(Adam) www.bns.com.au/alee/html/author.a.html
I only mention this because I have the world's oldest computer,
and with the speed of my modem, carrier pigeon would get the
parts you need to you sooner than I would. :)
Thanks! 
************************************************
     Mulder carefully pulled the small auburn-haired woman 
on the floor into his arms, and in a voice roughened by fear and 
grief, asked the question whose answer he most dreaded.
     "Is that you, Selene?"
     At first, the woman who should have been Dana Scully
said nothing.  Instead, she only regarded him solemnly, her head
cushioned by his arm, her eyes unblinking, her pupils enormous.  
Then, at last she spoke.  The words soft and vaguely slurred.
     "Take her back."
     With that, her eyes slid slowly shut again, as if she were 
gradually, irrevocably, slipping into unconsciousness.  Yet, as 
they did so, she twisted slightly in his embrace.  Stirred.  Her head 
turned restlessly from side to side.  Her brow wrinkled.  All at once, 
her lashes fluttered open once more.  
     And to his profound relief, Mulder saw Scully gazing 
up at him in bewilderment.
     "Mul--?"
     But, before he could respond, before she could even
finish saying his name, Scully's eyes rolled upwards as before.
Her body tensed, then shook.  Her back arched.  Her small hands 
fisted tightly as if she were getting ready to step into the ring.
Mulder could only continue to hold her, watching her silent 
struggle with a mind numbing sense of foreboding, unsure 
what else to do.  Fearful that at any moment she might launch 
into some sort of seizure, the tremors rocking her slight form 
suggesting just such a cataclysm.
     Finally, her face contorted into a grimace.  Perhaps of
pain.  Or maybe of anger.  Her throat was working furiously, 
her muscles clenching and rolling beneath the bruises.  And
yet, despite her efforts, Mulder couldn't decide whether Scully 
was trying to produce sound or merely attempting to swallow.
     Ultimately the debate was settled.
     "=NO!=" ripped from her lips, it's tone awful and jagged.
     And Mulder realized that the voice issuing forth wasn't
Dana Scully's.
     But, it wasn't that of Selene Broussard either.
     Rather it was a mingling of the two.
     As each resisted the influence of the other while locked 
in a fierce battle whose loser had only oblivion to look forward to.
     Finally, her slender frame pulled woefully tight, Scully's 
eyes shut one last time.
     Then, with a harsh rattle of a sigh, she went limp and 
lifeless in his arms.
     And Mulder knew with chilling certainty just which
female had emerged victorious from the struggle waged in his
embrace.
     Still, he whispered to the woman he loved, clutching 
her fast to his chest, rocking her gently as he hid his face in 
her hair.  "Scully?  Dana, come on . . . please. . ."
     Nothing.
     Oh God.  Oh sweet Lord in heaven.  
     For the span of several minutes, he sat paralyzed.  
Utterly and completely unable to move from his awkward 
crouch on the nice neutral beige carpeting of his motel room 
floor.
     Selene had her, he thought with a mixture of horror and
amazement.  She had latched on to Scully like a pitbull with a steak,
and she wasn't going to let go until he caved in and took the
woman in her thrall back to La Maison de la Lune Argentine.
     Where he and his partner would once again be coerced
into taking part in a dangerous communion with the dead.
     Striving with everything he had to stave off panic, Mulder 
pushed himself up clumsily from the floor, taking care to cradle
the woman in his arms with utmost care.  With legs the consistency
of Play-Doh, he found his way to the room's queen-sized bed and 
gently laid Scully atop it, her head upon the pillow.
     Selene wouldn't really hurt her, would she, he pondered
as he leaned over Scully's delicate frame, straightening her arms 
and legs, and tenderly pushing a few errant tendrils of auburn hair 
from her cool brow.  After all, Selene needed Scully, didn't she?  
Needed her assistance, her strength, if she hoped to successfully 
reach Jack.  So, she wouldn't do anything that would in anyway 
permanently harm her.
     Right?
     Then what was this, he despaired as he sank down 
beside her on the bed, even with her hip.  This state.  This deep
and ominous slumber.  He checked her pulse again.  Watched her
chest as it rhythmically rose and fell.  Yet, those two indicators 
gave him no real clue as to her health.  They seemed to suggest 
that nothing was wrong.  That, in fact, everything was completely 
normal.  She appeared to rest easy; her lips open just a whisper, 
her body relaxed, her limbs heavy.  If he had returned to their room 
to find her like this, on the bed, her eyes closed, he wouldn't have 
given her condition another moment's thought.  He would have 
believed her asleep.  That's all.
     But, he hadn't come back to find her resting peacefully.
She had been sprawled on the floor, crumpled there like a flower
wilted by the summer heat.  Her repose wasn't natural.  Far from
it.  Instead, her body was being compelled to act as a prison.  
Caging her spirit, her intellect, her soul.  Separating her from the 
world.
     Keeping her from him.
     And he hadn't any idea at all how to help her break 
free.
     Mulder's hand strayed once more to Scully's face.  
Despite her lack of response, he had an almost desperate urge 
to touch her.  A compulsive, besetting sort of need.  He found 
immeasurable comfort in the sensation of her skin's soft 
suppleness beneath his fingertips.  Silly though it undoubtedly
was, it seemed that if he could at least share this scant physical 
contact with her, then she wasn't really gone.  Wasn't actually 
being held for ransom by a selfishly willful ghost.
     Gently, he ran his knuckles over the ivory curve of her 
cheek, indulging his desire.  She felt so cold.  No, not cold exactly.  
Her body temperature just seemed a degree or two cooler than it 
should have been.  Almost as if in some inexplicable manner her 
life force was being suppressed.  Tamped down.  Controlled.
     God damn you, Selene.
     Standing a bit unsteadily, he shifted Scully just enough 
to pull the bedclothes free from beneath her.  Well, he didn't care
what the mastermind of this little catastrophe demanded.  They
weren't going anywhere tonight.  Despite the awful worry he felt, 
Mulder recognized that Scully didn't appear to be in any immediate 
danger.  Not for that night anyway.  And there was no way he was 
going to just blindly run back to La Lune Argentine, to Selene's 
very lair, without considering every other option first.  After all, 
Scully had been the one to point out that the dead courtesan's 
"power", so to speak, seemed to manifest most strongly at night.  
Perhaps once the sun rose, her hold on Scully would lessen.  
Maybe even disappear.
     Yet what would they do the following night?
     Shaking his head with a kind of weary wretchedness,
he ran his hand mindlessly through his hair, and reached over 
to gently remove Scully's shoes.
     First things first, Mulder, he mentally chided himself.
Get the two of you through one night of hell on earth before 
you begin trying to plan for a lifetime of it.  If Selene wanted
Scully to sleep, then sleep she would.  She needed to anyway.
But he was going to make damn sure that in doing so, she was 
as comfortable as possible.
     To that end, he began by unknotting the shirt tails at 
her waist.  Scully hadn't pulled any night wear from her bag 
when she had searched through it earlier.  And he simply didn't
have the heart to go through her things on his own.  So, he 
figured that she could just as easily sleep in his shirt.  After all,
it was big enough and soft enough to serve as pajamas.  But, 
she would want to lose the jeans.  They were too stiff, too 
confining to leave on overnight.  Eyes shadowed with concern,
he unfastened her pants and tugged them gently down her 
slim hips, all the while achingly aware that his getting Scully
ready for bed in this manner reminded him of nothing so much
as undressing a life-sized doll.
     He left her socks on, reasoning that with the room's
air conditioning and her own lack of body heat she might
need the extra bit of warmth on her extremities.  He started
to adjust her upon the mattress in preparation for pulling the 
covers up over her, when his hand landed quite by accident 
on her bra strap.
     Should he just leave that on, he mused.  She probably
wouldn't be in any great discomfort were she to sleep in her
brassiere.  And yet, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought
with a touch of wry humor.  He had wanted to settle her as best
he could for the night.  So, he might as well do it up right.
     Brow creased with a combination of worry and
chagrin, his hands moved to the buttons running up the front
of the pin-striped shirt.  Swiftly and smoothly, he undid them,
and spread open the garment.
     "Oh Jesus, Scully," he murmured harshly all at once, 
his hands suddenly unable to touch her for their trembling.
     This had been what she hadn't wanted him to see.
Just below her left breast, directly over her rib cage was an ugly 
looking gouge approximately an inch long.  The cut itself wasn't
all that bad.  It had bled, undoubtedly.  But, Mulder could tell 
that thankfully the skin hadn't been deeply sliced through.
     The bruise around the gash was another matter.
     It radiated from the shallow puncture, perhaps a half
an inch in all directions.  Not pink in color.  Not red.  Not blue.
     But black.  Pure ebony.  Like a blot of ink upon the 
porcelain perfection of her torso.
     And for some unfathomable reason this, out of all
she had suffered, made Mulder most want to weep.  He didn't 
know whether the effect was cumulative.  Whether the sight 
of this last angry wound was finally the straw that broke the 
camel's back.  He suspected that might be part of it.  But more 
likely, he thought, it was instead the certainty that this had 
been something that Scully had felt she had to keep from him.  
Had believed she needed to bear on her own.  Such a decision 
on her part indicated that the pain she labored under was severe.  
     And yet again, he was the one responsible for it.
     Heart heavy, he quickly yet gently stripped her of her
bra, then clothed her once more in the shirt she had borrowed 
from him, and pulled the covers up to just below her chin.
     Pushing up from the bed, he walked a bit shakily over
to the bags of food he had brought back to the room ages ago.  
The rich, slightly oily smell of Scully's soup threatened to upend 
his stomach.  His now cold, hard hamburger promised no better.  
Christ.  No way could he eat.  Instead he dug through the bag's 
contents and found the iced tea he had purchased for himself.  
It had sat there forgotten for so long that the ice in the cup had 
melted, watering down the drink.
     He didn't care.  He was beyond tasting anything right
then, anyway.  All five of his senses were focused on one thing
and one thing only.  The small figure of the woman who rested
silently on the bed behind him.  As for the rest of existence, he 
was operating on auto-pilot.  
     Trudging slowly back to the edge of the bed, he pulled 
over a chair and dropped heavily into it, his beverage in his hand.  
Carefully, he stretched out his legs and rested his feet alongside 
Scully's calves.  She wasn't moving, aside from the deep regular 
rhythm of her chest.  Not at all.  Surely that would wind up being 
uncomfortable, wouldn't it?  To spend an entire night in one 
position.
     Don't think about it, Mulder, he instructed himself coldly.
Don't let yourself get distracted by the details.  If need be, you'll
move her.  That's all.  That sort of problem is simple, easily taken 
care of.  So stop dwelling on the minutiae of the situation and focus 
your energies instead on how the hell you're going to get out of 
this.  Figure out a way to wake Scully up before she has to rely 
on IVs and saline in order to keep her body fed and hydrated.
     Sighing, he tilted back his weary head and closing his
eyes, fiercely pinched the bridge of his nose.  Oh God, please,
he silently implored a deity in which he wasn't even certain he 
believed.  I can't do this, all right?  I just don't think I can bear 
another bedside vigil.
     And the fear that went along with it.
     The helplessness.
     It was going to be a long night.
*************************************************
     Mulder waited until nearly 10:00 the following morning
before he bowed to inevitable.  At that point, Scully had been
unconscious for well over twelve hours.  And despite the fact
that Monday morning had long since dawned bright and cheerful,
she had never once stirred after he had laid her so carefully upon
the motel room bed.
     He paced, consumed, despite his own lack of rest, by a
ferocious sort of nervous energy.  There just wasn't any way out
of their predicament that he could see.  No way to rouse Scully
that didn't involve a return trip to the inn.  
     Oh, he had spent one of the most endless nights of his 
entire life considering the alternatives.   Weighing and discarding 
options with the speed and finesse with which Henri Antoine 
and Jacques LeFevre had undoubtedly once dealt hands of cards.
     He had, of course, hoped most fervently that simply 
waiting would do the trick.  That with the return of day, Scully
would also come back to him.  
     No dice.
     Then, he had thought to just leave New Orleans as 
scheduled.  To simply trundle her on to a 747 and let sheer 
mileage take care of the problem.  
     But what if that didn't work?  What if he got all the way
home only to discover that no change had occurred in her 
condition?  Would he then have to turn right around with a still 
unconscious Scully and head back to New Orleans?  And how 
the hell was he going to explain to the nice folks at United the 
reason why his traveling companion was comatose?
     No.  Too risky.
     Of course, the rational thing to do would be to take
Scully to a hospital.  To view her condition as a medical problem.
To look at the situation from a scientific standpoint.
     And yet, once he had gotten her into a hospital, and the 
good doctors had hooked her up to their machines and run their 
battery of tests, if they didn't find a medical explanation for her 
lack of consciousness, there was no way that he was going to be 
able to smuggle her back out again.  And there wasn't a doctor in 
the world who would agree to release a patient into the hands of a 
man, F.B.I. agent or no, who believed that taking her to an inn in 
the French Quarter might somehow cure her.
     Well, maybe *one* doctor might have considered his 
theory plausible.
     But she lie pale and still on an airport Holiday Inn bed.
     No.  Although he had no solid proof to back up his 
hypothesis, Mulder felt certain that conventional medicine would
be unable to help Scully.  That taking her to a hospital would only
condemn her to spend the rest of her assuredly shortened life
chained to life support.
     That left exorcism.
     God, he didn't know whether to laugh or to cry when 
offering up the banishing of demons as a possible treatment.
While on the one hand, images of Linda Blair and pea soup 
danced through his head, on the other hand, he had been present 
at an actual rite performed by the Calusari.  Saw the toll it took
on the victim.  Could he subject Scully to that?  Would it be 
successful?  Could he even find anyone who would take Scully's
plight seriously?  He somehow doubted that reputable exorcists
advertised like exterminators.
     No.  No matter how he looked at it, how many different
angles he examined, it always seemed to come around to the
inn once more.
     He was going to have to take her back.
     Having finally come to a decision, he looked down at
his soundly slumbering partner.
     "Oh, Scully," he whispered as he bent down to take her
hand in his.  "I hope I'm doing the right thing."
     And giving her fingers a little squeeze, he reluctantly 
released her once more.
     He had some phone calls he needed to make.
************************************************
     A little over an hour later, Mulder was pulling up in 
front of La Lune Argentine.  Lady Luck seemed to be with him 
once more as he spied a parking place only a few car lengths 
away from the inn's front door.
     Man, he hoped renting this car wasn't a mistake.  He
had needed to give his credit card number in order to obtain it.
That meant that anyone who was seriously interested in his 
whereabouts could now track him.  He had sidestepped that
little problem the night before when he had found them a room
at the Holiday Inn.  When he had called for a reservation, the 
helpful night clerk had informed him that a variety of rooms
were available.  So, he had taken his chances and secured
accommodations simply by paying cash when they had arrived.
     Unfortunately, Mulder had known that the same sort 
of arrangement would be impossible to finagle with Hertz or one
of their competitors.  Aware of the danger, he had mulled over 
the problem for the longest time before finally pulling out the 
phone book to look up rental agencies.  He had considered 
simply calling for a cab.  But with Scully in the condition she was, 
he didn't judge that to be the wisest route to take.  Any cabbie 
was bound to inquire as to her state of health.  And he just didn't 
believe that a trumped up story involving a case of the flu or a 
headache was going to fool many of them for any length of time.  
Not after the undoubtedly wary driver got a look at her battered 
face.  And certainly not after hearing that their destination was an 
inn and not the emergency room of a local hospital.  The previous 
night's experience with Sam had made him sensitive to the potential 
hazards a simple cab ride posed.  So instead, he had contacted 
one of the car rental places that promised to deliver an automobile 
to the customer's door.  Within a half an hour, a navy blue four 
door had pulled up in the Holiday Inn's parking lot.
     In the interim, Mulder had called La Lune Argentine
and gotten Laura on the line.
     "Laura, I know this is going to sound nuts," he had
begun hesitantly.  "But is our old room available?"
     "I thought Bill said that you and Dana had flown
out last night," she had countered in surprise.
     Mulder had grimaced into the receiver.  "That had
been our plan, but Dana isn't feeling all that well, and we
decided to postpone our return instead.  We spent the night 
out by the airport.  But we'd both really prefer to stay at your 
place."
     Laura had hummed a bit uncertainly, and for a breathless
minute Mulder had wondered whether perhaps he had blown the 
whole thing by mentioning a supposed illness.  Yet, in the end, 
she had merely said, "Well, I guess that would be all right.  I don't 
have anyone scheduled for your room until Thursday.  Do you 
think you'll be ready to head home by then?"
     "Yes," he had flatly said.  "By Thursday we should be 
long gone."
     Please God.
     He glanced over into the back seat.  Scully rested on her
side, one hand curled beside her cheek, the lightweight cotton 
blanket he had pinched from the motel draped over her hips.
Despite the fact that they had done as Selene had instructed and
returned to the inn, he noted no change in her condition.  She 
slept silently.  Just as before.
     Lips thinning as he gravely regarded the small still figure
before him, Mulder quickly exited the car, locking the doors behind
him and strode to La Lune Argentine's entrance.  Taking a deep
breath, he rang the bell.  Laura answered.
     "Oh, Mr. Mulder," she said with a shy smile, her big
brown eyes glowing up at him in a kindly fashion, her waist length
mink brown hair pulled back in a long loose braid.  "I just finished
pulling together your room.  Where is Dana?"
     "She's in the car," he said, taking pains to meet her eyes,
even though his impulse was to do anything but.  "She,  . . . um . .
she fell asleep on the drive over.  I hate to wake her.  She had 
kind of a rough night.  Do you suppose you could hold the door 
for me while I go get her?"
     Laura's brow wrinkled in concern.  "Oh.  Of course."
     Okay, here comes the tricky part, Mulder mused ruefully,
as he turned and jogged back to the car.  Opening the rear door,
he carefully tugged Scully into a sitting position.  Wrapping the 
blanket around her, he lifted her into his arms, taking care to
shield the left side of her face against his shoulder in a manner 
that hid from view the worst of her injuries.  Pulling the soft
covering up so that only her nose peeked over the top, he kicked 
closed the car door and returned to La Lune Argentine.
     "What exactly is wrong with her?" Laura whispered
as she led Mulder smoothly up the inn's central staircase.
     "Migraine," he said just as quietly, looking down to 
confirm that all but the top of Scully's head remained securely 
enveloped by the cotton throw in which he had swaddled her.  
"She gets some doozies every once in awhile.  They really knock 
her out.  That's why I didn't want her on the plane last night.  
The change in pressure would have been murder on her."
     He mentally replayed his lie back in his head.
     Yes.  That story sounded plausible.
     Laura bought it.  Hook, line, and sinker.  Moving easily
before him as they turned and headed down the second floor
corridor, her long broomstick skirt swishing in time to her steps,
she only murmured, "Poor thing."
     "Yeah," he agreed heartily as at long last, they stood 
outside the doorway of the room that had housed Scully and
him only two nights previous.  "But, she'll be all right.  She just 
needs some rest."
     Lie.  Lie.  Lie.
     All she really needs is to wake up.
     "Oh, don't worry," Laura assured him as she opened 
the room's door and stepped aside so Mulder could precede her
in.  "We're only at about half capacity until the weekend.
Nobody will disturb her."
     "Good," Mulder said softly as he lowered Scully
gently on to the familiar brass bed, taking care to keep her 
injuries covered.  "That's what I was hoping to hear.  Thanks 
again for letting us return on such short notice."
     "My pleasure," Laura said, smiling warmly.  "You
were absolutely right to bring her back here.  Now, if you need
anything else, you be sure to let me know."
     "I will," he promised as he followed after her to retrieve
the luggage, closing the door behind him to shield Scully from
any prying eyes.
     And yet he knew that the one thing he truly needed was
beyond Laura's scope.
     He needed Scully awake once more.
     More than he had ever needed anything in his life.
*************************************************
     However, an hour later, she still had not opened her
eyes.
     And he was becoming desperate.  
     She had been unconscious for over eighteen hours.  
How long could a body go without taking in liquids, he 
wondered, panic creeping into his thoughts like a slug.  Could 
this stasis that Selene had induced somehow take into account 
the physical demands of Scully's body?  Would such things as 
nourishment be without meaning in such a state?
     Pacing aimlessly as he had ever since returning to the
room with their suitcases, he took his fist and, with every last 
drop of frustration coursing through his body, pounded it into 
the back of needlepoint chair that stood in the corner beside the 
balcony door.  The dainty Queen Anne style piece of furniture 
clattered over the hardwood floor to bang against the wall in a
most satisfying fashion.  His knuckles throbbed as a result of 
his little outburst.  But, Mulder felt ever so slightly better.
     God.  He had been so fucking naive to believe that
merely walking out the inn's front door would be enough to stop
an entity like Selene.  True, according to everything he had 
read on the subject, ghosts tend to haunt locations not people.
But still, he should have known.  Should have realized that she
was stronger than that.  Even Scully had been surprised by his 
intended course of action.
     "You want us to go?" she had inquired as she had sat
upon the bed, her cup of coffee in her hand.
     "Yes," he had answered emphatically.  "The sooner
the better.  Why do you find that so odd?"
     She had hesitated.  "I don't know . . .  It's just that this--
Selene, the opportunity to investigate a real paranormal 
phenomenon--. . . is the sort of thing you live for--"
     "You are the sort of thing I live for, Scully," he had
interrupted quietly.  "And nothing and no one is going to put
you at risk.  Least of all me.  We're getting out of here.  Today."
     Great job, Mulder, he told himself silently.  Good call.
Trying to remember a time when he had ever felt so utterly
drained in both body and soul, he wandered out on to the
balcony and with unseeing eyes surveyed the courtyard.  The
day was cooler than it had been since they had arrived.  The 
rain the night before having apparently brought with it a drop in 
temperature.  Sighing, he braced his hands on the wrought iron 
railing, and bowed his head as if in prayer.
     They were running out of options.  Out of time itself.
If Selene had decided for some unknown reason not to release
Scully, he would have no choice.  He would have to go to
outside sources for help.  God, what a mess that would turn out 
to be.  He cringed just imagining all the questions that would 
be fired at him; not only regarding Scully's injuries and her 
current lack of consciousness, but also about what the two 
of them were doing together in New Orleans in the first place.
     Even if by some miracle Scully did later manage to 
awaken, their world would, for all intents and purposes, be
brought crashing down around them.
     Please, Selene, he implored without words, his eyes
closing wearily.  Please don't do this.  Don't do to the two of
us what was done to you and Jack.  Don't rip us apart simply
because you can.
     Please.
     He just stood there for a time, almost clinging to the
railing for support.  Finally, he pushed himself upright once 
more.  And leaning in the balcony doorway, he looked in
at his partner.
     He had undressed her as before, leaving her clothed
merely in his shirt and her panties.  She rested beneath the 
covers, her bright hair spread in glossy waves upon the pillow.  
From where he stood he couldn't make out the marks on her throat, 
not with the collar on the shirt standing with enviable crispness, 
blocking the view.  And yet, even with the bruises marring her 
lip and temple, she seemed so lovely to him.
     "Sleeping Beauty, Scully," he murmured gruffly as he
folded his arms against his chest.  "Only I sure as hell aren't any
Prince Charming."
     Then, almost as if in answer to this whimsical 
observation, Mulder thought he spied something.  Something he
had despaired of ever seeing again.  Something that was as 
welcome and as wished for as the sun valiantly breaking through
a cloud bank.
     Her fingers twitched.
     On the comforter.
     Just the tiniest amount.
     And Mulder felt as if someone had poured pure undiluted 
joy through an opening in the top of his head.  That was the only
way he could think of to describe the sensation.  It seemed to him
as if an almost painfully powerful happiness trickled down inside 
of him from head to toe.  Filling him.  Flooding him.  Until the 
sweet hot liquid overflowed.
     In the form of tears.
     "Scully?" he whispered as he cautiously approached,
impatiently wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands.
     She shifted just a touch.  Her lips quirked.  Her breath 
changed its cadence; caught, then released on a sigh.
     "Dana?" he queried softly as he settled slowly onto the
bed, even with her waist.  Taking her hand in his, he reached 
out with his other hand, and with the back of his index finger 
stroked her cheek.  "You gonna wake up for me now?"
     She made a small humming noise in the back of her 
throat, and Mulder's mouth split into a shaky grin.  Yes.  Yes,
she was.  Oh thank God.  Lifting their clasped hands, he 
pressed a kiss to the back of hers, wondering as he did so 
whether Scully could sense the manner in which he had begun
to tremble.
     "Come on, sweetheart," he urged quietly, musing with 
a touch of self-deprecation over his peculiar use of such an 
endearment.  Scully and he had never gone in for that sort of 
thing; pet names and the like.  Such cooing had always seemed 
to him so . . .well . . . grossly sentimental.  Like the worst kind 
of Hallmark cards.
       And yet, at that moment in time, he found himself
overcome with the desire to call her that and any of a dozen 
such others.
     Angel.
     Darling.
     Love.
     Must be the lack of sleep.
     "Open your eyes for me now," he entreated in a whisper,
his hand straying to her hair to comb lightly through the silky
strands surrounding her face.  "You can do it."
     And almost to prove him right, her eyelashes
blinked.  Then raised.
     "Mulder?" she queried, her voice husky and low.
     "Yeah," he confirmed softly, her hand still held in his
and now pressed to his chest.
     She smiled slightly and stretched with care beneath 
the covers.
     "I don't suppose you brought me any beignets, did 
you?" she murmured wryly, her free hand coming up to capture
a lusty yawn.  "I'm starved."
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Continued in Part XIII