Subject: *NEW* **NC/17** Making Up is Hard to Do 1/3 From: Vicki Sapers Date: 15 Jun 1997 15:00:04 GMT The Fight, The News By Vicki Sapers DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and/or Fox Studios. No infringement is intended, and believe me, I'm not making any money off this. CATEGORY: S, R RATING: NC-17. SPOILERS: None WARNINGS: Wicked MSR, so if you don't like that stuff, turn back now!And kiddies, go home! SUMMARY: A fight, a case, a question that may never get asked if the agents can't make up. Time-wise, this story comes after "Out of the Cold" and "Little Red Corvette", but you don't need to read them to get this one…you just have to know that Mulder and Scully are much more…involved…than they are on TV. REQUEST: I love any and all comments and suggestions for improvement or just general BS. Reply to rockns@gte.net Part 1 of 3 Fox Mulder lay flat on his back, concentrating on the long, slow circles spiraling down his chest. Long, slow, wet circles. Sometimes life was so good it hurt. He cranked one eye open just enough to see his partner, his lover, Dana Scully. The corners of his mouth curled up as her tongue's descending exploration of his midsection hit a particularly sensitive spot. All that was visible to him was her copper hair, hanging like a veil over her face. Each time it brushed his ribcage, mingling with the wiry curls on his chest, shivers of pleasure rippled through him like a sunny spring breeze through sheets on a clothesline. "Mmm, Dana, that feels so good." It was Friday evening, the end of another long week maintaining a purely professional relationship with Scully at the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thanks to their ability to slip in and out of the roles of their duplicitous lives, no one at work had caught on to the changed nature of their association. At least not yet. Sometimes it was hard to believe their feelings weren't obvious to anyone who caught the partners pausing as the two agents exchanged a glance or lingering a little too long in a touch as a file folder passed between their hands. The last hour or so in the office had seemed like an eternity, knowing that over the weekend ahead they could drop the façade and enjoy each other in a decidedly non-professional relationship. For Mulder, the week had been a gut-wrenching exercise in anticipation and apprehension. Wednesday he had picked up the ring he had ordered for her. A wide band of smooth white gold, with a single diamond nestled in a deep setting. When he saw it, he knew it was the one. Like her: plain yet elegant, beautiful yet strong, simple yet complex in its multi-faceted sparkle. Their relationship had progressed beyond partnership and friendship to this physical and emotional level less than three months ago, but it was time enough. Time enough someone who realized the fragility of life. How quickly it could flitter away, like a butterfly on a spring afternoon, its dreams unrealized. Now all he had to do was ask her to marry him, and get her to say yes. As the clock had ticked toward 5, their looks became more frequent, the need in each other's eyes more evident. By 5:40, when they made it back to Scully's apartment, they had been so frantic that they were naked between the sheets within seconds after the door closed behind them. The ring, still in the pocket of Mulder's suit coat, was strewn somewhere in Scully's living room. His proposal would have to wait until baser desires were satisfied. Sunlight faded through gauzy curtains above the bed with the closing of the day, its last golden rays reflecting the glow of Dana's skin as she moved over his body. Funny how in bed was the only place he thought of her as Dana. Everywhere else, she was Scully, his friend, his confidant, his partner. But in bed, it just didn't fit. Apparently she felt the same way, since it was the only place she ever called him Fox, and the only place he let it go without comment. With a flourish, Dana threw back the floral sheets and scooted her body down the bed. A rose scent, matching the print on the comforter, wafted through the air. How she got her bed covers to smell just like the roses they pictured was still a mystery to him. For a moment their gazes locked. They caressed each other with their eyes as surely as they had caressed each other with their hands. Mulder opened his mouth to protest as she slid out of his reach, but decided against it when he caught her wicked grin. Lying beside him, she slid one arm under the small of his back and wrapped the other over his thigh, holding him just above the back of his knee. Then she turned her head back to his body. Leaving a trail of butterfly kisses, her mouth swept down and across his flat stomach, pausing to nip at the hollows just inside the points of his hips. Her tongue delved into his navel, then moved lower. Her flushed cheek rubbed against the sensitive skin of his erection and her warm breath teased him even tighter. Mulder arched his head back into the pillow, strangling on the sensations she created. Ever so lightly, her tongue resumed its long, slow, circles, flicking at him as it spiraled up. Up from his hips, around the shaft, to finally twist around the head, already glistening with moisture. Mulder couldn't stop the gasp that escaped when she wrapped her lips around the tip of his sex and pulled slightly. He grabbed the headboard of the bed to stop himself from forcing her head all the way down on him. Her mouth was hot, so hot, as it worked him up and down, descending a little farther each time, and pulling a little harder on the way back up. Involuntarily, his hips lifted as he writhed beneath her. She held him tighter, riding with him as he lunged again. Her hand reached between his legs to gently massage his balls and he thought he might never breathe again. If she wanted to kill him, she could have just shot him, he thought. His body screamed for release, but he held back. If Dana was going to get any pleasure out of this he had to stop her before his mind completely shorted out and he proved himself the selfish bastard his body desperately wanted to be right now. Drawing a ragged breath he let go of the headboard and, raising up, held out his arms to draw her to him. With her palm flat on his steamy chest, she groaned in annoyance and pushed him back down. In this state, he was in no shape to fight her. This time when she took him fully in her mouth, her rhythm was more urgent. He stiffened, lost in knowing that he couldn't hold back, and that she didn't want him to. Each time she withdrew, even as her lips encircled him, she pressed her tongue against him. The rough nubs created an exquisite friction. It was pure torture. It was sweet hell. And then his body exploded and it was a long time before he was once again capable of conscious thought. He opened his eyes to see her sliding up his sweat-slickened body. She kissed him, and he tasted himself on her lips. "Dana Katherine Scully," he said, breaking the kiss for a breath, "where the hell did you learn to do that?" She smiled, looking very proud of herself. "I watched a couple of your tapes," she said. Mulder's eyes narrowed. "I threw those out weeks ago." "Well, I rescued one or two." She swallowed, looking suspiciously like she was suppressing a giggle. "Purely for educational purposes, of course." "Of course." Mulder regained control of his liquid limbs and wrapped his arms around the woman he loved. He pulled her completely against him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach, thigh to thigh. As his mind worked on a plan to pleasure her as fully as she had pleasured him, he grasped her and rolled until she lay underneath him. She breathed more quickly and wrapped her arms around his neck as his head lowered to hers. Out of nowhere, a rumble as deep as an approaching train broke the silence. After the tremors passed, Dana's body began to shake beneath him, lightly at first, then harder until the laughter she couldn't contain split her lips. "Fox, when was the last time you ate?" Mulder cursed his complaining stomach and flopped over on his back, arms spread wide. It seemed like a very long time ago that he had wolfed down a tuna sandwich and called it lunch. He grinned wryly. "It's your fault, you know. If you're going to do things like that to my body, I'm going to require significantly more sustenance." She slapped him playfully on the stomach and sat up. "In that case, let's get you something to eat. I want you full of energy this weekend." They settled on pizza: fast, easy, and close. Mulder tugged on a clean T-shirt from 'his' drawer in Scully's dresser, pulled on his coat, then stuffed his Sig in the waistband of his jeans. The ever-present service weapon nestled comfortably against the small of his back under his leather jacket. After she dressed, Scully brushed her hair, put her own weapon in her purse, and picked up her car keys. In a matter of minutes, Fox and Dana transformed into Mulder and Scully. Mulder stood at the cash register chatting with the teen-aged clerk while Scully perused the videos on the other side of the store. Not that they needed a video; he doubted they'd see more than the opening credits if they snuggled on the couch to watch it. Still, in the large round mirror mounted in the corner, he watched her stroll down the horror aisle. Who'd have thought little Dana Scully would like slasher movies. With all the blood and guts they saw daily on the job, you'd have thought she'd look for something a little more sedate. But she liked to be frightened, and he liked it when she grabbed onto him in the scary parts. He was so absorbed in watching her in the mirror that he didn't see the three young men enter the store until it was too late. They walked in a triangle formation: one in front and the other two side by side behind him. The collars on their hip-length fatigue jackets were turned up, partially obscuring their faces, and they wore black baseball caps turned backwards. Mulder heard footsteps close behind him and saw the store clerk's eyes go wide. At the click of a hammer being pulled back, he turned to see a cheap Saturday-night special aimed at his face. "Don't move!" the lead man said, waving the gun between the clerk and the FBI agent. "Get your hands up!" The other two men pulled similar guns out of their jacket pockets. Mulder did as he was told, careful to keep his back turned away from the gunmen and not raising his arms high enough to pull his jacket up, revealing the pistol tucked behind him. He glanced over the gunmen's shoulders to the mirror, and saw that Scully hadn't noticed what was happening. God, just stay back there, Scully, he thought. Stay out of this. "Open the register," the first gunman said to the clerk. "And gimme the cash." As he gave the orders, he shoved an army green backpack across the counter. At the door, gunman number three kept watch outside. Cars passed, their headlights glaring through the glass storefront, but none slowed enough to catch the robbery happening inside. While the cashier fumbled with the backpack, the second gunman turned to the rear of the store. One glance up at the mirror, and Scully would be discovered. Please, God, give me the chance to ask her to marry me. I'm sorry I waited so long. Mulder saw, in slow motion, the guy's head start to tip up and knew he had to create a diversion, quickly. In a sudden motion meant to startle, but not panic, the gunmen, Mulder brought a fist down to his mouth and covered a racking cough. It wasn't much, but it was enough to distract the second gunman, and anger the first. The butt of a pistol flashed through the air and collided with the back of Mulder's skull. The world began to spin and his knees wobbled. As he fell, he saw Scully in the mirror, drawing her weapon. Then his forehead smashed into the corner of the counter and blackness enveloped him. He woke to shouting. Scully's voice. "Down. Get down on the floor now" Through barely open eyes he thought he saw two figures drop to the ground---the gunmen, he hoped. One of them groaned; he seemed to be clutching his leg just above the knee. A smaller figure crept up with a gun held out in front. It was Scully. He had to help her. There were three of them, all armed. Mulder groaned and struggled up to his knees, instinctively drawing his own weapon. The world refused to focus. "Mulder?" Scully was looking his way, but her gun still covered the two men on the floor. "Mulder, cover me, the third guy went in back. I'm going after him." "Scully?" Mulder called. "Wait." But she had already stepped around the men on the floor, kicking their guns away from them as she went by, and was creeping forward, her weapon held in a classic two-handed grip. Swaying on his knees, Mulder pointed his Sig at the prone figures on the floor. Even at this close range he doubted he could hit them. He wouldn't even know which of the triplet images swimming before his eyes to aim at. Keeping his gun trained in their general direction, he staggered to his feet and tried to follow Scully. Damn. What the hell was she doing chasing after an armed man with no back-up, and two more bad guys behind her, dubiously covered by a woozy partner. Behind the counter, the pizza store clerk stood frozen in fear. "Don't just stand there," Mulder said, "call 911". He jerked his head the direction of the phone on the wall. Big mistake. A barrage of firecrackers popped in his skull. A wave of dizziness assaulted him and he almost fell. In an attempt to take advantage of Mulder's weakness, the uninjured gunman crawled toward the door. "Don't you move," Mulder yelled, pointing the gun his way. From the back of the store, two shots exploded. "Scully!" He had to get back there. He thrust his gun at the bewildered clerk. "Cover them. If one of them moves, shoot." The clerk probably had a better chance of hitting them than he did anyway, the way his vision kept fading in and out. Mulder stumbled to the back of the store, burning his hand on a pizza oven he grabbed to keep himself upright. "Shit," he said, shaking his reddened palm. "Scully?" he called. No answer. Fear coursed through him, driving him forward on unsteady legs. "Scully?" He staggered into a shelf of pots and pans, which toppled to the floor in an ear-splitting chorus of clanging steel on tile. Steady hands righted Mulder from behind just before he pitched on top of the cookery. Spinning and raising a weak arm to defend himself, he met a pair of familiar blue eyes, and nearly collapsed against her. "Mulder? What are you doing back here?" she hissed, lowering him to the floor and leaning his back against the wall. Less dizzy now that he didn't have to stand up, he raised his eyes to hers. "The third guy?" "Dead. He shot, I returned fire." Mulder nodded, wishing again that he hadn't moved his head. In a cacaphony of sirens and revolving lights, police units rolled up out front. While Scully gave her statement to the police she watched Mulder out of the corner of her eye. The paramedics checked his pupils and put a bandage over the small cut on his forehead. The way his right eye was beginning to swell, he was going to have a nice shiner. Finally finished with the police, she walked over and checked his pupils herself. He didn't seem to have a concussion, but his jaw was twitching and he didn't look at her. Must still be a little dazed, she thought. One of the paramedics gave her the eye. "I'm a doctor," she explained. Satisfied, the paramedic went back to picking up his supplies. "Mulder, are you okay? How do you feel?" she asked. He jerked his head away from her hands and his hazel eyes scorched her with their touch. "Me? You're worried about me? I'm fine. You're the one who could have been killed. They didn't see you. Why didn't you just stay back in the videos? What the hell were you thinking?" Astonished at his reaction, her back stiffened. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. "What was I thinking? I was thinking I was an FBI agent and there was an armed robbery going on. I was thinking there were three men with guns surrounding my partner. Forgive me for thinking maybe I should do something about it." Apparently, no explanation was going to mollify him. If anything, his glower intensified. He had been acting as nervous as a kitten in a dog pound all week. Now he was mad as hell, riding a self-righteous high horse, and she didn't even know why. "Damn it, Scully. I had everything under control. You always have to jump in-" "Under control?" she cut him off, laughing sarcastically. "That was under control? Getting your head bashed in? Sorry Mulder, but it looked like you could use a little help." Ignoring his ire, she slid her hand around his head, roughly probing the lump on the back of his skull. With a painfully tight grip on her wrist, he pulled her hand away. Before either of them could speak, one of the police officers walked up. Both agents glared up at the uniformed cop, and Mulder released his hold on Scully. "Paramedics said you aren't going to the hospital, so you two going to need a ride or anything?" he asked. "No, thanks," Scully replied, "My car is right outside." "Well, we're through here. Ready to close up." Both agents recognized an invitation to leave. End Part 1 of 3 The Fight, The News By Vicki Sapers DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and/or Fox Studios. No infringement is intended, and believe me, I'm not making any money off this. CATEGORY: S, R RATING: NC-17. SPOILERS: None WARNINGS: Wicked MSR, so if you don't like that stuff, turn back now! SUMMARY: A fight, a case, a question that may never get asked if the agents can't make up. Time-wise, this story comes after "Out of the Cold" and "Little Red Corvette", but you don't need to read them to get this one…you just have to know that Mulder and Scully are much more…involved…than they are on TV. REQUEST: I love any and all comments and suggestions for improvement. Reply to rockns@gte.net Part 2 of 3 Not a word was exchanged on the ride home. When they got to her apartment, Scully flipped on the lights and closed the door behind them. Mulder stood unmoving, and her heart sank when she saw what he was staring at. One of her dress shoes lay haphazardly at his feet. The other had been kicked off near the coffee table. The suit coat Mulder had worn to work that day hung halfway on and halfway off the seat of the couch. On the floor beneath it lay his tie. Near the open end of the hallway leading to her bedroom, Scully's pale peach silk blouse, one of her favorites, sat crumpled on the carpet. In the dim light just outside the door to her room, she could make out a pile of clothes that looked like his shirt and her skirt. The trail of clothing they had left earlier in the hasty prelude to their lovemaking mocked the anger that stood between them now. She waited. Still, he didn't look at her. Soundlessly, she went to the kitchen to get him some aspirin and a glass of water. When she returned, Mulder was sweeping magazines off the table in front of the couch and running his hand along the floor. She stood behind him and watched as he picked up the suit coat and patted it pockets. "What are you doing?" she asked. His head snapped up, and the look on his face surprised her. The anger left over from the scene at the pizzeria was still there, but now it was mingled with something new. Something more akin to fear. He seemed to search a little too hard for an answer to her question. "Looking for my keys," he finally mumbled between clenched teeth. "Why?" "Why not?" He shoved the pillows off the couch, digging behind the cushions. With each unsuccessful search his agitation increased. As his fear grew closer to panic, Scully's confusion increased. Maybe he hit his head harder than she thought. "Mulder, you're not driving home tonight. Not with that head injury." He straightened up, but his eyes still darted around the carpet, continuing his search. Finally he sighed resignedly, wadded the suit coat still in his hands into a ball and threw it at the fireplace. "Fuck it," he said, half under his breath, half overtly. His shoulder slumped and his eyes turned heavy-lidded. He quit looking for whatever he was missing and turned to her. "I think that is exactly what I'm going to do, Scully. Now where are my keys?" Scully's eyes settled on the small marble-topped table in the foyer where Mulder's keys lay in plain view. They both moved at the same time, but Scully was closer. She snatched up the keyring just before his fingers closed around it. "Give me the keys, Scully." "No." "Scully…." The warning in his voice was unmistakable. It made her more determined. "No." His fists clenched at his sides until he swiped his hand out, attempting to snag the keys away from her. Finally she snapped, her own anger a fair match for his. She'd been tip toeing around his moodiness all week, worrying at what secrets he was keeping from her. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you so mad you would endanger yourself by driving home in your condition?" "Why would I endanger myself? Excuse me, are you the same woman who just stepped out to face three armed men by herself?" "Oh, we're back to that?" "I never left it." "Mulder, what was I supposed to do? Besides, I wasn't alone, you were backing me up." With a snort, Mulder advanced on her until her nose was at his chin. His eyes bore into hers. "Great, you left me hanging with two armed perps. I couldn't even stand up. I couldn't see worth shit. I couldn't have fired my weapon if I had wanted to, because I had no idea what I'd hit. Some back-up. Scully, I can't protect you-" "Protect me?" She hated it when he treated her like that. Dana Scully had spent the better part of her life proving she could take care of herself. Always taking the hard road, always making the tough choices. She tried to out tomboy her brothers. In medical school, she chose a very unfeminine specialty---pathology. Then on top of everything, 5'2" Dana Scully chose to apply her training in the FBI instead of private practice. The FBI---the oldest of good 'ol boys clubs. Physically challenging. Dangerous. She had gone willingly where no one had gone before, to partner with "Spooky" Mulder on the X-Files. And she had succeeded at it all. She wasn't about to let his overprotective sense of fucking chivalry set her back. "Since when have I ever asked you to protect me? You're the one who always ends up hurt." Her voice rose, as did her blood pressure, but she stopped herself short of the whole truth. She wasn't ready to tell him yet that when he fell, the armed robbers saw the gun tucked in the back of his jeans and knew he was a cop. Or that the man who she had shot in the leg had had his gun pointed at Mulder's head, ready to pull the trigger. She stepped out of the video section to save her partner's life. She should have told him that back in the store, but didn't think it was important. Now her pride prevented her; she didn't have to explain her actions to him. "I've been telling you for three years: I do not need your protection. I do not want your protection. I am an FBI agent and I can hold my own on the job." With that she turned and stomped off to the bedroom, taking his keys with her. "Oh yeah," he yelled after her. She heard him come after her. When he caught up, he grabbed her arm and turned her to him. His twisted face was inches from her own. "Like you held your own with Eugene Tooms and Donnie Pfaster? Like you held your own with Duane Barry?" His words hit her like a physical blow and she hated the tears that sprang to her eyes. That he could hurt her so badly with mere words increased her fury, blinding her. Weakness was unacceptable. She ripped her arm from his grasp and stepped back. "Get out," she screamed. She flung the keys at him. "Get in your fucking car and go home, go to work, go chase your little grey friends. Kill yourself on the freeway. I don't give a fuck. Just get out of here. And don't come back." His face turned ashen and unreadable. They stood staring at each other, trembling, listening to the sounds of their own labored breathing. She could smell the anger in the air. He scooped up his keys and left. Only after she heard the door slam behind him did she allow the tears in her eyes to fall. Scully was right about one thing. He probably would kill himself on the freeway. He wasn't sure if it was his headache or his anger that made the blacktop waver in front of him. More than once he had to veer back onto the road when he felt the crunch of the gravel shoulder underneath his car's tires. By the time he opened his apartment door and fell to the couch, he was exhausted. Still furious, but exhausted. His stomach churned and filled his sleep with unpleasant dreams. Not the usual dreams about Samantha, but horror-filled scenes, like from one of Scully's favorite movies. Scenes of death and disaster. Always Scully, always dying. And him watching, helpless. In the morning he felt like shit. He paced his apartment, occasionally stopping by the phone, but resuming without picking it up. He knew he'd hurt her. The look in her eyes when she threw him out was one he'd never seen before, and one he hoped never to see again. She didn't call. He didn't call. A chasm stretched between them. One Mulder wasn't sure he could cross. By Saturday evening, he regretted what he'd said. The times with Tooms and Pfaster and Barry were his fault, not hers. If she hadn't trusted him, believed in him, she never would have been hurt. How could he have faulted her? Afraid of what was happening between them, he picked up the phone. He called every half hour, leaving messages on her recorder, always the same. "Scully, please pick up if you're there. I'm sorry, Scully. I shouldn't have said what I did. We need to talk. Please?" He waited for her to pick up if she was listening. "Please call me, Scully. " Saturday night he considered going to her place, but didn't think she would let him in even if she was there. Her words, "And don't come back," echoed in his mind. He didn't want to force his way in with his key. Maybe she had gone to her Mother's. He spent another fitful night on his couch, an icepack numbing his bruised eye, but doing nothing for his bruised heart. The ringing phone woke him early Sunday morning. He snatched it from the base. "Scully?" There was a moment of silence, and then a familiar voice, but not Scully's. Mulder's shoulders slumped. "This is Skinner. I have a case, a potential X-file. I need you and Scully on it right away." The Assistant Director described the recent assassination of a state senator in Maine. Mulder only half listened. It seems the assassin claimed aliens made him do it. So what else is new. "Sounds like the guy needs a shrink." "Mulder, you are a shrink. Besides, I haven't told you everything yet. It seems that in a routine evaluation, to determine if they guy belonged on the psych ward, the local ER did a blood test. They can't quite explain their findings." Mulder tried to pay attention. "Mulder, aren't you going to ask what they found?" "What did they find?" he asked, his voice flat. "Some kind of infection. Like a virus, but not like anything they've ever seen before. Center for Disease Control in Atlanta can't identify it. His blood is full of it. He claims it's from the aliens. According to the doctor, this guy shouldn't even be alive. They've got him in isolation. Now find your partner and get up there. Your tickets are waiting at the airport." Oh boy, Mulder thought, another alien infection virus. Just what Scully and I need right now. After hanging up with Skinner, Mulder reluctantly dialed Scully's number one more time. "Scully? Pick up this time if you're there." His voice was stronger, more professional than it had been. "Skinner just called. We have to go to Maine. It's a case, Scully, we don't have any choice. I know you don't want to see-" "Mulder?' her voice cut in. The tape clicked off. "If you're lying to me-" "No lies, Scully, " he said, hurt by the accusation. "We're on a flight in two and a half hours. I'll pick you up and tell you about the case on the way." In the airport lounge, Mulder peered at his partner when she wasn't looking. Scully sat huddled in a plastic chair looking like a mass of misery. Her eyes were puffy and red despite the eyedrops he'd seen her put in just before they left. Her usually perfect posture had given way to a defeated slouch. He'd thought she might actually hit him when he'd picked up her bag to carry it to the car for her. In truce, he squatted down before her and offered her a cup of slimy airport coffee. She took it, but looked away as she sipped. How fast things could change. On the airplane, Scully seemed more interested in the magazine she flipped through than in the case. After a few minutes of reciting the facts to her profile, he gave up and left her to sulk. Neither the state police or the pair of Secret Service agents on the investigation team questioned the haggard appearance of the FBI agents, but Mulder caught their surreptitious stares. He was sure fate had it in for him when he learned the suspect, Charles Bullins, had escaped from the isolation unit at the county hospital. Sick as the man was, he had duped one of the interns doing the psychological evaluation into releasing the restraints and jumped from a second story window. Apparently uninjured, he had run into traffic on a busy street and disappeared. Great, Mulder thought. Now instead of just debunking the guy's story and going home, they actually had to go out and hunt down some alien-infected mutant assassin. Just great. Scully went to the hospital to look at the blood tests and interview the doctors while Mulder dug into the suspect's background, trying to figure out where they might find him. The afternoon slipped away in relative peace. The pounding in his head had finally subsided, and the work kept his mind occupied. Trying not to wonder what Scully was doing, he read the background material on the subject and crossed referenced it on his computer with other abductee profiles and reports. By evening, he was convinced this guy had been abducted and somehow infected with a mind-controlling virus. The problem was, he wasn't sure he cared; the truth didn't seem as important as it once had. Through the door connecting his hotel room to Scully's, he heard her come in. Normally, she would have called from the hospital to tell him she was leaving, but today he hadn't really expected it. He got up and walked to where he could see her, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned a shoulder and a hip casually into the door frame. "Hey," he said, trying to judge her mood. It didn't look good. She didn't look mad, just distant, ambiguous. "What did you find out at the hospital?" She kept her back to him as she answered, hanging up her suit jacket. "Charles Bullins. 38 year old white male. 6'1'', 240 lbs. An out of work fish delivery truck driver suffering from a blood infection of unknown origin." When she didn't continue, Mulder lifted his eyebrows at her and cocked his head. "Ah, well, " he said in a caustic tone, " I can see how it would take you all afternoon to dig up all that." Without a word, Scully sauntered toward him, handed him a stack of audio tapes labelled "Bullins Psych Interview", and shut the door in his face. Mulder heard the bolt click into place. Guess there won't be any banter about the extreme possibilities versus scientific probabilities of this case. At 8, the state police guys took a break for dinner, dragging the agents along with them so the team could review the facts and make plans for the next day's investigation. Mulder folded himself into a chair at the near end of the table and Scully breezed past the empty seat next to him to sit at the far end. As she passed, she brushed him with clear blue eyes, cold as ice. Apparently she was through crying over him. The restaurant was far nicer than what Mulder usually chose when he was on a Federal expense account, and the service was slow. The two Secret Service Agents sat on either side of Scully. On each side of them were the two uniformed state cops, opposites: one mature with gray-flecked hair that matched his eyes, and a young blonde kid. Next to Mulder sat the captain of the state police, the informal leader of the group. The cops talked among themselves while Mulder and Scully pushed food around their plates. Finally, the Captain of the State Police turned his attention to Mulder. "So, what do you think, Agent Mulder?" Mulder swallowed and looked up blankly. He didn't want to admit that he hadn't been following the conversation. "About what?" he asked. One of the Secret Service guys must have been aware of Mulder's reputation. Taking a swig from his beer, he sneered in Mulder's direction. "Agent Mulder probably thinks Marvin the Martian shot the good State Senator." Judging from the snickers around the table, the Secret Service Agent had shared the gossip with the rest of the team. Scully, usually the one to keep peace between Mulder and the rest of the law enforcement world, stared at her plate. "About what?" Mulder asked, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone but the captain. "I asked what you thought about the suggestion that the suspect would hole up, go somewhere he knows, somewhere from his past where he feels safe, to ride this thing out." Mulder glanced at Scully, looking for help, but got nothing. Under other circumstances, he would already have discussed his theory with her, in private. She would find a way to soften it around the edges, so that it could be presented to a group of mainstream, closed-minded law enforcement pukes like this without him getting thrown in the looney bin alongside the suspects. She would back him up, let him know with a lifted eyebrow or a tilt of her head when he was pushing too far, telling too much. Usually, they were a team. Tonight, she was a stranger. She had to know what was coming. He was going to blurt out his theory, and they would scoff. They wouldn't listen to him, and Bullins would get away. This wasn't right. He and Scully shouldn't be in the field if they weren't capable of doing their jobs. Despite all the promises they'd made about their personal lives not interfering with their work, here they were, unable to function even in a basic discussion of the case. It wasn't right. If she wanted a scene, that's what she'd get. He snapped his head back to the captain. "I think it's a crock of shit." Scully's hand tensed on her fork and she chewed on her bottom lip. "I think this guy was abducted by aliens, infected with an unknown substance, and forced or coerced into assassinating the Senator because of the Senator's ties to the military-industrial complex that has been exploiting captured alien technology for years. I don't think Bullins will go anywhere near a safe place from his past, I'm not even sure he knows who he is anymore. He'll go back to the ones that are controlling him. He'll go back to where he was abducted." Jaws around the table dropped. Mulder knew he was about to be humiliated; in a sadistic way, he looked forward to it. "Yeah, and the mother ship is hovering over the state capitol right now," the agent that had made the Marvin the Martian remark said. Around the table, the snickers started up again, this time, taking on that embarrassed twitter people use when they aren't sure if someone is joking, or really out of his mind. "No, no," the guy next to Scully piped up, "that's just the Klingons. The mother ship is in D.C., at the Hoover building, replacing all the FBI agents with alien clones." The snickers grew to guffaws. "That true, Mulder," the gray-haired state cop said, talking with his mouth full of baked potatoe, "you a clone?" A few of the men elbowed each other, and one laughed so hard he nearly choked on his salad. Except for Scully, only the young cop and the captain were not laughing. The kid was blushing. The captain quieted the table with an authoritative glare at the offending officers, and then turned to Scully. "Agent Scully, do you agree with this assessment?" Mulder held his breath. She tipped her chin up, her faced pinched. "I think Charles Bullins is a sick man, suffering from delusions caused by an infection of unknown origins. I see no reason to perpetuate his delusions, or those of my partner, by making them the focus of this investigation." Around them, silverware plinked against fine china plates and diners murmured in muted conversation, but the table at which the agents sat was still, like the eye of a storm. Mulder let a sick grin cross his face, then excused himself from the table. Scully let the meal drag on as long as possible, postponing the inevitable confrontation with her partner. When she finally returned to her hotel room, he was waiting for her. He sat on her bed in the dark, outlined by a shard of light glinting through the open door. "What the hell was that about?" he asked. "What, that scene in the restaurant?" She shut the door and dropped her purse on the table. Until her eyes adjusted, all she could make out was his silhouette in the dark. "You deliberately provoked them, Mulder. You knew how they would react. What's the matter, did you need my help? I didn't want to jump in when you obviously had everything under control." He flinched and shook his head, but stayed quiet. Was he as tired of arguing as she was?. The limited light in the room glinted off his eyes. They looked naked, raw in their grief. "We can't do this," he said, his voice barely a whisper. She didn't understand. "We can't be in the field like this. I want you to go home." "What?" she asked, incredulous. "Because I wouldn't back up one of your crazy theories?" "No, because we promised not to let our relationship interfere. It's not right and it's not safe." Her painfully constricted throat rendered her speechless for a few seconds. He couldn't do this. "Forget it Mulder. We don't have a relationship. And you have no right. I'm staying. We're going to find this guy and we're going to find whatever infected him-whatever on Earth infected him." He stood and slapped a plane ticket on the table in front of her. "No, you're wrong. I do have the right. I'm the Senior Agent here, and you're going home." For the first time she noticed her packed bag by the door. He was certainly thorough. She folded her arms across her chest and gave him her best look of defiance. "I'm not going." "Agent Scully, if I have to take your badge and your gun and carry you myself, you are leaving." Insanely rational, she unsheathed her weapon and removed the clip. She tossed them on the bed, along with her FBI ID. He stared at them like they were poisonous snakes, curling to strike. An FBI agent only surrenders his badge and weapon under one condition. "God damn it, Scully. I don't want your fucking resignation, I just want you to go home. Just until this is over." He dragged his hand through his hair and spun away from her, gulping air like a drowning man. "Son of a bitch. Son of a God damn bitch. I can't think straight with you around." Pulling out his own gun and credentials, he turned around and tossed them on the bed with hers. Their eyes dueled in the dim light as he said the only words that could possibly make her go. "One of us is leaving, Scully. You choose." Damn him. He was a hell of a manipulator. But he must also be desperate if he was willing to bet everything he believed in, everything he had been searching for, on the surety that she would choose to leave rather than drive him out. He was right. She picked up her purse and her bag, and left him standing in the dark. End of Part 2 of 3 The Fight, The News By Vicki Sapers DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and/or Fox Studios. No infringement is intended, and believe me, I'm not making any money off this. CATEGORY: S, R RATING: NC-17. SPOILERS: None WARNINGS: Wicked MSR, so if you don't like that stuff, turn back now! SUMMARY: A fight, a case, a question that may never get asked if the agents can't make up. Time-wise, this story comes after "Out of the Cold" and "Little Red Corvette", but you don't need to read them to get this one…you just have to know that Mulder and Scully are much more…involved…than they are on TV. REQUEST: I love any and all comments and suggestions for improvement. Reply to rockns@gte.net Part 3 of 3 Blinded by tears, Scully drove to the airport, weaving recklessly through traffic and clutching the steering wheel as if it were the only thing holding her to this Earth. While she waited for her flight, passers-by in the terminal swept wide around her, sometimes whispering or flashing fleeting looks of sympathy her way. Hours passed as she watched planes arrive and depart. Loved ones greeted each other with hugs and smiles, or sent each other off with tearful kisses. The milieu of life made her feel dead, and she didn't even notice when the flight to D.C. left without her. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she opened her purse and took out the small velvet box. She turned it over in her hands as she remembered Mulder's nervousness this past week, and the look on his face after their fight Friday night, when he'd been searching her apartment, looking for his 'keys'. It wasn't until after he'd left that she'd found it. She had cried herself out, and then begun picking up her apartment; she couldn't bear looking at his clothes, laying around accusing her. The box was under the back of the couch, where it must have fallen when she ripped off his jacket in her hurry to liberate him from his clothes after work. Fox Mulder had been planning to ask her to marry him, and it scared her to death. So she'd blown it. Or he'd blown it. She couldn't keep track any more. All she knew was she wanted to be with him more than anything in the world, and she wasn't. She might never get the chance to know his love again. Somehow she knew if she walked away now it would be forever. This rift was so deep, so devastating, that if it wasn't attended soon, her relationship with Mulder would simply bleed out and die, like a patient with a severed artery. She couldn't let that happen. Taking the ring out of its slot, she slipped it on her finger. With a pang of guilt, she wondered if he would want her to wear it now. The diamond caught the florescent lights and shimmered shards of colored light at her eyes as she turned it. Wiping her grainy eyes, she collected her things and headed back to Mulder. She had to find a way to talk to him, and a way to make him listen. After Scully left, Mulder turned to his work, burying himself in it. For several frustrating hours, he struggled to banish all thoughts outside the scope of the case while he reviewed everything he had on Bullins' abduction. He typed a preliminary profile and left it sitting on his computer screen. In the initial psych interview tapes, Bullins had rambled on about 'dead eyes' staring up at him as the aliens took him. Dead eyes. Unbidden, Scully's cool blue eyes as she brushed him off in the restaurant flickered before him. Forget it, he thought, shaking his head. Dead eyes. But the vision wouldn't fade. It transformed instead into blue eyes turned deep violet with passion, leaning over him, watching him as her lips curled around him, moved on him. Mulder closed his own eyes and felt his body stir. Only two days ago. He remembered every sensation so clearly, like it was happening now. With a groan he lay back on the bed and grabbed the headboard, giving in to the fantasy. She was so perfect. She knew how to make it perfect. Knew just where to touch, how much pressure to use. His neck arched back, the cords in his throat straining with imaginary pleasure. One hand released the headboard and reached between his legs. His fingers wrapped around himself in a poor imitation of her. His chest rose and fell with his hand as he pretended she was there. Violet eyes. Blue eyes. Dead eyes. Dead blue eyes. With a strangled cry he forced his eyes open and wrenched his hand away. He rolled over and drove his sobs into a coarse hotel pillow until the spasms passed. Christ, he was pathetic. She had only been gone a few hours. But he missed her. Rubbing his temples, he stumbled to the shower. As steam swirled around him and scalding water pounded his back, he focused again on the case. The sooner he solved it, the sooner he could get back to D.C. and find Scully. He just hoped it wasn't too late already. Bullins had told the doctors the noise of the craft surrounded him as it descended. Like it was coming from all directions. It had to be someplace large, then, a place that would echo. Large and empty. With dead eyes. The clues whirled in his head like the water at his feet, tantalizing him with almost-answers before swirling down the drain. With a start, Mulder shut off the water and grabbed a towel, drying himself as he stepped out of the bathroom. Whipping on clean boxers and a T-shirt, he spied the local phone book on the bottom shelf of the nightstand. Northport was a small community. It shouldn't be that hard to find a listing for a place like that. He sat in the middle of the bed scanning the yellow pages without knowing exactly what he was looking for. By the time he finished the Zs, frustration ate at his determination. He didn't want to be here, doing this, when she was somewhere in D.C., hating him. He looked at himself in the mirror across from the bedroom. You threw her out, you bastard, after everything she's done for you. You drove her away without even trying to sort things out between you. Her gun and ID still sat on the other side of the bed, accusing him. She's never coming back. Haunted eyes stared at him from the mirror. With a grunt, he zinged the phone book at the image. "Serves you right, asshole." When the book settled, sprawled on the dresser top, Mulder noticed the advertisement on the back cover. Northport cannery: fresh fish for all seasons. The picture showed an old salt in a yellow slicker standing over a barrel of fish carcasses, holding up one of the catch for the camera. Dead eyes looked at him from the barrel. Behind the sailor loomed a monolithic gray structure, some five or six stories at its tallest point in the center, then sprawling to each side in single-story wings that extended to the waterfront, where trollers deposited their day's take from the sea. Regret pounded his soul as he picked up his gun and ID from the bed where they still lay next to Scully's. With a muttered curse he shoved his gun in the waist of his jeans and bolted from the room. Mulder shut off the car engine and lights and coasted up to the cannery. The old corrugated tin covering many faces of the building creaked in the wind blowing off the sea. Creeping around the side of the largest part of the structure, Mulder shivered in the dawn chill and wished he had grabbed a jacket in his hasty exit from the hotel. Inside, the air was heavier. Gun drawn, he wound threw the maze of towering vats, conveyors, lifts, and pulleys, looking for any sign of his prey. Attuned to every sound, his ears caught a plink and rattle somewhere ahead of him. He froze. The meager morning light cutting through the grimy windows only partially illuminated the plant. On his vision's periphery, a shadow flitted across a wall. Turning, he heard heavy footsteps ring up a set of metal stairs. A man-shaped form moved across a catwalk to another set of stairs, and climbed higher. Tucking his gun away, Mulder followed, his sneakers silent on the rusted steps. He lost sight of the suspect in the catacomb of walkways above the fish vats. Against the stillness of the abandoned building, his breath sounded harsh. Even the wind had stopped its torture of the groaning building . Up here, the fish smell overpowered him, turning his stomach. After climbing up more catwalks and ladders, following what appeared to be the main conveyor, he paused to look down from the dizzying height. For a moment he was on top of a mountain, looking at the stars and thinking about his lost partner, taken from him by Duane Barry, and then someone or something unknown. Now she was lost to him again, only this time it really was his fault. He sent her away. He shook his head, clearing away the distraction, and tried to pick up a trace, by sight or sound, of his prey. With a deep breath, he plunged ahead. Scully returned to the hotel and banged on Mulder's door until she was convinced he wasn't there. Then she paid the clerk in the lobby $50.00 to open his room. Without her ID, she had no official way to coerce him. The room was empty. She didn't know what else she expected. After the way they'd left it, he was probably passed out in a corner booth in a bar somewhere. But it looked like he'd been working. His computer was on. Clicking a key to get rid of the screen saver, she read the partial profile he'd written. Not some of his better work---his distraction was obvious---but still convincing in his offbeat way. She smiled at the mess on the bed. Covers were strewn every direction, papers spread from head to foot. In the middle of the clutter sat the Northport phone book. Next to it sat a legal pad, full of meaningless doodles, but in the center he had written 'Dead Eyes' and circled it. Surrounding that were figure 8 style fishes, with black dots for eyes. Her smile faded. The ad on the back of the phone book was a cannery: Northport Cannery. Had Mulder found the site of Bullins' supposed abduction? Her breath caught. If he did, had he gone after the assassin? She didn't even bother to check to see if he had asked any of the other agents to back him up; after the way they'd treated him, she knew he wouldn't. With the back cover of the phone book in her hand, Scully climbed back in her rental car. Her id and gun felt right, back in their proper places. A shiver crawled down her skin from her scalp to her toenails when she saw the sedan in front of the abandoned Cannery. The car was government issue; it had to be Mulder's. She steeled herself with a deep breath and a quick prayer, and opened the car door. She slunk across the oily floor, not even wanting to contemplate what she brushed out of her hair as she passed under a stairwell. At last she found what she was looking for, and threw a lever that she hoped was the lights. Mulder shuffled across the catwalk, afraid to lift his feet from the planks for fear he would find only air when he tried to set them back down. His knuckles were white where they gripped the railing. This one was worse than the others. It swayed with every step. His toe connected with something metal, a roll of cable he thought, and he flinched as it slid off the side. A few seconds later it clanked on the cement surface below. Sweat beaded on Mulder's forehead. Just a little farther. He was almost to the end of this deathtrap, and a ladder. He tilted his head up, then down, looking for a sign of where the other man had gone. Fuck it, he thought as the walkway swayed again, I'm going down. Another catwalk ran perpendicular about 15 feet under the one he stood on. He'd take the ladder down to it and then cross to the stairs leading to ground level. Carefully he reached for the last few feet of railing. Suddenly, bright lights flashed on, blinding him. His arm jerked up over his face to cover his shocked eyes. The reflex caused his feet to slip out from underneath him. In desperation, he grabbed at the railing as he slipped off the plank walkway. The cable railing bit into his palms as it bore his weight. Helplessly, his legs kicked at air below him. He was sweating in earnest now. The perspiration threatened the tenuous grip supporting him. He was really beginning to wish Scully was here. He swung his legs, trying to hitch a knee over the catwalk planks and leverage himself up. The whole structure swayed, but after two attempts, he made it. For several minutes afterwards, he couldn't seem to get his body to cooperate in doing anything but lying there and panting. Finally, with extreme caution, he rolled his head just enough to peer over the edge. It was a long way down. A very long way down. Gently, he rolled onto his hands and knees in an attempt to get up. While his back was turned, a man slid down the ladder and rushed him. Before Mulder could prepare himself, Bullins' body connected with his, slamming him once again to the planks. Mulder grabbed one of the struts that attached the cable railing to the catwalk and tried to keep from sliding over the edge. Not again, he thought. Mulder held on with everything he had, even when a booted foot connected with his ribs. His lungs exploded in a rush of air, and refused to draw in a new breath. His body absorbed the foot again and again. With both hands clutching the strut, there was no way he could protect himself. If this kept up, he wouldn't be conscious much longer. He opened his eyes and waited for the next blow. When it came, he let go of the strut and wrapped both arms around the leg that smashed into his shoulder. The move surprised his assailant. Bullins lost his footing and crashed down on top of Mulder, grinding his elbow into Mulder's just-healed eye. A big fist hammered the other eye. Mulder tried to roll the guy off him, but was forty pounds outweighed. The walkway shifted again, and both men slipped closer to the edge. Bullins got his hands around Mulder's throat and beat the agent's head against the planks. Darkness encroached on Mulder's mind as his brain went too long without oxygen. Like a distant echo, Mulder thought he heard a voice below. Scully's voice. A fire more intense than any pain Bullins could cause coursed through his veins. Tears flooded his eyes. He thought he was imagining it. Just what he deserved, to spend his eternity in hell hearing Scully's voice calling him, pleading with him. She sounded closer now. "God Damn it, Mulder, kick him! Get away from him, give me a shot." It was her. She was really here. He tried to answer her, but thick fingers squeezed the words back in his throat. With renewed energy, he flung arms and legs wildly at his attacker, punching and gouging anything he could reach. He heard Scully running, but knew she couldn't make it in time. In a last desperate act, Mulder wedged the man's legs apart with a foot, and then jerked his knee up as hard as he could. Bullins screamed, a high pitched whine, and peeled his hands off Mulder's neck to clutch himself. Mulder scrambled out from under the writhing man and tried to crawl away, but Bullins recovered quickly and snaked an arm around Mulder's ankle, pulling him back. In a raspy voice, Mulder called for help. "Scully!" The strain on his still-burning lungs threw him into a coughing fit. "I'm coming, Mulder." He could see her, now, hurrying up a ladder. She couldn't get an angle for a shot. Frantically, Mulder kicked at Bullins. The bigger man's eyes were glazed with insanity. He grunted as he dragged Mulder back along the planks, tangling him in a loose roll of cable, and began pummeling him again. This time Mulder was getting enough air to fight back. He landed a blow squarley on his attacker's face. The force sent Bullins spinning backward, blood spewing. Bullins grabbed at the planks, but missed, getting Mulder's pants leg instead. As Bullins fell, he pulled Mulder over the edge with him. Both men plunged down. The world spun by Mulder in his hasty descent. There wasn't even time to regret dying. And then something snapped on his leg and whiplashed through his body. He cried out at the pain. Just before the world went dark, he realized his momentum had stopped somewhere between the catwalk and the floor. Scully knew she wasn't going to make it. She couldn't get an angle on the man beating Mulder and he didn't seem to be able to get away. With a final desperate blow, Mulder freed himself but the momentum sent both men reeling over the edge of the catwalk. Her scream mingled with theirs as they fell. Her heart stopped. And then Mulder stopped in mid-air. She heard him cry out and saw the cable tangled around his left leg. He hung suspended from it, upside down and unconscious. Racing up the ladder, she tried to get close to him. A perpendicular catwalk ran underneath the one he had fallen from. It was at about the right height, but Mulder swung several feet out beside it. Lying on her stomach she reached for him. Bullins' crumpled body below was a grim reminder of what would happen if she couldn't pull Mulder in before the cable gave way. Tears streamed down her face as she stretched her fingertips toward him. A hum started somewhere in the plant. She couldn't tell what direction it was coming from, but it was getting louder. Below her, huge vats of fish stared up her in death. She remembered what Mulder had written on the legal pad, 'Dead eyes'. "No!" she said. Not dead. Scully prayed that Mulder would open his live hazel eyes and help her. "Mulder! Mulder wake up. Come on, Mulder, help me." Edging her hips a little closer to the side of the plank, she reached out again, but was still short by several feet. With a groan, the cable slid farther down, dropping Mulder another foot, but catching again before he plunged all the way to the ground. The humming was so loud now she had to shout to be heard. The planks beneath her vibrated in harmony with the sound. "God Damn you, Mulder. I'm tired of yelling at you. Wake up right now. Do you hear me, Mulder?" Blood ran out the corner of his mouth over his cheek to his forehead. From the way his breath rattled in his chest, she'd guess he had several broken ribs. His eyes flickered, then opened. At first they were calm, hazy. His arms swung lazily over his head. Then he must have realized he was hanging in mid-air, several stories over a cement floor. He struggled, trying to right himself. "Mulder, take it easy. Calm down." She soothed him with her voice. It must have gotten through, because he quieted and looked her way. "Scully?" he asked. He reached his hand out to her, but she still couldn't get a hold on him. His eyes darted around, trying to identify the sound. As the light in the plant increased in intensity, beyond what any normal florescent system could produce, his body stiffened. He looked at Bullins' body beneath him. "They're coming, Scully." She ignored his comment, refusing to think about the source of the light and sound. There was only Mulder, and he needed her. "It's all right. I'm going to get you down." The light became painfully bright and the noise rattled her teeth. "No. There's no time. Just go," Mulder said. "Forget it, Mulder. You're not sending me away again. You can yell at me for it later. Right now, I need your help. I can't reach you from here. I need you to swing yourself a little." The cable supporting Mulder creaked. "Gently, Mulder. Just swing gently over this way." His eyes travelled up the cable twisted around his knee and to where it had snagged precariously on one of the struts. She heard him breathe more quickly and saw him fighting the panic. Eyes wide, he shook his head. The cable slid, dropping him a few more inches. His face twisted in pain and fear. They both gasped. Scully prayed and Mulder cursed. "C'mon partner. You can do it. You've got to do it now." She inched a little farther off the edge of the catwalk and reached for him again. His hazel eyes locked on her extended hand, caught by the ring on her finger, then slowly rose to her face. A thousand unasked questions shone in his eyes, but for the moment, the old trust was back. Ever so slightly he rocked his body, never breaking his eye contact with her. He rocked a little farther. The light was so bright around him that Scully couldn't see anything but him against the glare, his hand reaching out to her. The old cannery screamed as metal strained against the onslaught of light and sound. Their fingertips brushed, but they couldn't hold on. On the next swing, he propelled himself directly to her. Their hands clasped each other's wrists just as the cable groaned a final time and let go completely. Mulder free-fell to the end of his and Scully's grip while the cable snaked to the ground below. Grunting with the effort, Scully held him as he swung below her, held aloft only by their mutual grip. She was perilously close to the edge of the catwalk and sliding steadily forward under Mulder's weight. Suddenly a crushing weight descended on her, stopping her just before she toppled over the edge. The shock almost startled her into letting go of Mulder. Almost, but not quite. She tightened her grip and focused on nothing but her partner. The weight pinning her to the catwalk wiggled, and she identified it as human, a man. A man lying on top of her. Just as that thought started to worry her, a khaki sleeved arm reached over her shoulder into her field of vision and grabbed Mulder's shirt by the collar. She turned her head enough to see blonde hair and part of a state police uniform. Scully offered a silent thanks to whatever deity sent provided them with a cop young enough, and maybe naïve enough, to take Mulder serious and follow him here. For a second they were all still, trying to stabilize the swaying. Below, Bullins' body levitated on the light, floated about 12 feet off the ground, and dematerialized. Within seconds, the light was gone and the noise had stopped. "Wow," Scully heard between the panting breaths emanating from the vicinity of her ear. "Agent Mulder," the young officer said, "looks like you were right after all---Marvin the Martian did assassinate the Senator." Scully would have laughed, but she couldn't get enough air in her lungs, crushed as she was by the young officer's weight. "Yeah, right. Whatever," Mulder said. "You think you could just pull me up from here, now?" The blonde state patrolman heaved on Mulder's shirt and raised him a few inches, giving blessed relief to Scully's aching shoulder. The muscles in both men's arms bulged and their faces contorted with the effort. "Back up," the cop instructed her, lifting his weight from her back. She wriggled until her upper body was fully back on the platform, but maintained her grip on Mulder's wrist. Mulder's free arm reached up to the platform. He gripped the edge with his long fingers and pulled. They all strained, and Mulder was able to gain enough height to lock his arm across the side of the planks. Closer to victory, they rested a second, then heaved again. Mulder kicked his legs and pushed up on his elbow until, cheating death and gravity, he rolled onto the catwalk. Breathing heavily, the three of them lay in a heap on the rough planks. Finally, Mulder slid his hand over hers, and intertwining their fingers, brushed his thumb over the band she wore. She turned her head to look at him and feathered her fingers over the new bruises on his face. When he flinched, she flinched with him. They didn't say anything, but their eyes communicated volumes. With a glance over at Officer Crisp, whose attention was on the spot where Bullins' body had disappeared, Scully bit her lip and rolled to close enough to Mulder to whisper in his ear. "Does this mean we've made up?" He nodded, smoothing damp hair away from her face. "Only one thing left to make it official," he said. His eyes twinkled with a little of their old fire. "And what would that be?" "Deciding who is going to say it first." "Say what?" she asked. "That ugly 'I'm sorry, I love you, please don't leave me' thing." Scully hid a grin. "Well, since you're the one who threw me out, I think that is clearly your responsibility." His eyes narrowed, but the up-turned corners of his mouth gave him away. "You threw me out first, remember?" That one almost had her stumped, then she remembered. "You're the one who had to have pizza." They both smiled. "You're the one who made me hungry." Scully grabbed the collar of his shirt and twisted it in her fist. "Fox William Mulder, you are impossible." "I know." He pulled her hand from his shirt and kissed it. "But I'm sorry and I love you. Please don't leave me." "Oh, Fox, no." She shook her head and smiled through the tears running down her cheeks. "I'm sorry. I love you. Please don't you leave me. Not ever." His smile felt like heaven shining on her face. Even the fact that they were lying on a creaky catwalk in a smelly fish factory, with Mulder battered and bloody, couldn't diminish her happiness. Even the wide-eyed stare of a fresh-faced young state patrolman as he watched the scene play out before him couldn't make her hide her feelings. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Fox's abused face. "Dana Katherine Scully, will you marry me?" End Part 3 of 3 YOU LIKE? Respond to rockns@gte.net