Title:          Five Years and One Night

Written by:     Shalimar

E-Mail:         shalimar@earthling.net

Edited by:      BeckyD

Special thanks to TallyHo the Singapore Infodiva.

Rating:  NC17   This story contains adult language
and sexual situations that are inappropriate for those under 
seventeen years of age and may be inappropriate for some adults.
  
Disclaimer:     These characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013,
FOX, and a whole slew of writers, Vince Gilligan, Frank Spotnitz,
Tim Minear, John Shiban . . . and probably a few others.  No
infringement intended.


      Please do not archive.


This story could not have been completed without the help of
quite a few people. BeckyD, Alanna B, MS, MD1016, DH Prewitt and
GPA.  And of course Madame C herself.  And everyone who reminded
me daily to keep my nose to the grindstone and finish it.

To all of you, thank you.

Author's note:  Writing twenty-six parts in serial form was quite
a lot more work than I ever anticipated.  It is unlike writing a
novel in that you can't go back and change what's happened, you
just have to keep plunging ahead and let the characters take you
where they may.

This starts post "Kitsunegari" and is full of spoilers including
all of US 5.  It deals with the events in "Emily".











Five Years and One Night
By Shalimar 

copyright 1998
shalimar@earthling.net






Part 1




Washington, D.C.
January 4, 1998






"I wanted to give you this in person, Sir."

She carefully placed the letter on the desk in front of him.  Her
hands were barely shaking now.

Good.

"Agent Scully?  I thought I told you and Mulder to head home and
get some rest hours ago."

Skinner stared at her hands and she quickly hid them out of sight
behind her back.  He looked down at the piece of paper without
touching it.

"What is this?"

"It's a request for transfer, Sir."

Skinner sat back an in his chair and regarded her steadily.  He
rubbed his chin. 

"Do you blame yourself for what happened today with Linda
Bowman?" 

She looked him directly in the eye.

"Yes, Sir.  I feel like I put my partner in danger by my own
actions." 

"What actions were those, Agent Scully?"

"Being on the case myself."

He stared at her a moment.  "Does Agent Mulder know about this?" 
He looked down at the letter she'd placed in front of him. 

"Yes, Sir.  He requested my transfer."

"What!?"  He sat forward abruptly and punched the button on his
intercom.  "Kimberly!  Get Agent Mulder in here."

"NO!"

Skinner raised his eyebrows at her.

"I mean: No, Sir.  He's left for the day."

"Call him at home, Kimberly."

He sat back in his chair and gave her that steady stare again. 
"Agent Scully, in no way, at any time, did I see you jeopardize
Mulder, myself, or any of the other members of the investigation
team."

"I didn't inform you of the extent to which Modell was able to
influence Agent Mulder's mind--last time."

Skinner sat back and made a teepee with his fingers, resting his
lower lip against their tips.

"I see."

"Linda Bowman was able to manipulate Agent Mulder's . . .
determination to protect me."

"It's not abnormal for partners to protect each other."

"No, Sir.  But in this instance Agent Mulder and I should not
have been on the case."

"Scully, I experienced first hand Robert Modell's particular
brand of persuasion.  I find it difficult to believe that
Mulder's foreknowledge of that . . . ability did anything but
help him figure out the facts in this case--better than anyone
else could have."

She stared at his hands.  

"Regardless, Sir, my request stands."

The intercom buzzed.  Skinner stabbed the button.

"There's no answer from Agent Mulder's cell or home phone," came
Kimberly's disembodied voice.

"Keep trying," he snapped.

He sat back in his chair and looked at her for a long moment.

"Agent Scully, we both know that you once said something to make
me believe you and Agent Mulder might be on more intimate terms
than the normal partner- partner relationship.  If this decision
is a result of that. . . ."

"No, Sir.  Our relationship is purely professional."

Suddenly the A.D. looked very tired.  He took off his glasses and
rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "It's an understatement to say
that a great deal has happened to you in the past eighteen
months."

She nodded.

"I guess I should have seen this coming.  I'll be very sorry to
lose you.  You're one of my best--if not the best--of my agents." 

"Thank you, Sir."

He replaced his glasses, picked up her letter and read it.   "I
can take you off the X-Files.  You don't have to leave D.C."  

"No."

He sighed.  "Have you given any thought to where you'd like to be
transferred?" 

"I'd like to get back to you about that.  Meanwhile I'd like to
take a two-week leave of absence--citing personal reasons." 
Skinner rose and came around the desk.  He held out his hand. 
She stood up and took it.

"Are you sure this can't be resolved, Scully?"

She couldn't trust her voice not to break.  She merely shook her
head. 

"Let me talk to some people I know, I'll see what I can find
you." 

She nodded at him again and swallowed hard. 

He gave her hand a brief squeeze then let her go.

She managed to make it to her car before she burst into tears.  










Two hours earlier.....






Scully plunked into her desk chair and buried her face in her
hands. 

She shouldn't have aimed her gun at him in the warehouse.

It happened so fast, but she should have been prepared for it. 
She should have had a plan.  They should have a code word.  A
secret code.  

Afghanistan, Bananastan, Mulder.  

It's me.

Something better than "Your mother's name is Teena!"

God.  

She knew a thousand more intimate things about him than his
mother and sister's names.

She should have been stronger than Modell and Bowman.  She should
have been smarter.  She should have won.  Together they both
should have won. 

*She* should have been able to get through to him.

Divide and conquer.  She should have learned her lesson in that
swamp. 

What had she been going to do with her gun aimed at him like
that?  Shoot him to save herself?  Right.

If she had just lowered her gun. . . .  Then he might have
believed her and she might have broken through.  She could still
have picked off Linda Bowman.  And he wouldn't be feeling like
shit--and she wouldn't be feeling like she'd somehow betrayed
him.  

She groaned aloud.  

What a mess.

The door of their office made a slight noise as he pushed it open
and she raised her head, anxious to hear why Skinner had kept
him.  

He shook his head vaguely in her direction, crossed to his desk,
and slouched into his chair.  Ignoring her questioning look, he
pulled a file across his desk and began examining it closely.

Uneasily she turned back to the papers on her own desk.

Ten minutes later she still hadn't been able to digest a word of
the report in front of her.  She glanced over at him.  He was
slumped over his desk, shoulders hunched, his head buried in his
arms.  Total despair was written in every line of his body. 

"Mulder?" she said softly.

She wasn't sure if he heard her.  If he had, he was ignoring her. 
She looked back down at her report and tried not to watch him.

Five minutes later he raised his head and rubbed his forehead
with the tips of his fingers.  Then got to his feet and started
shoving things around on his desk.  He turned abruptly and picked
up his coat.

"I'm going to head out," he said.  He still hadn't looked at her
directly. 

"Me too, in a minute.  Want to wait for me?"

He gave her a sidelong look. 

"Um . . . sure."  He ducked his head and stared at his feet.  He
was rubbing his head again.

"Headache?"

"No."

The disorientation and after effects of being pushed had always
struck her as dangerous.  She stood up and shuffled the papers
into a pile, then stuffed them into her briefcase, eyeing him. 
He looked pale, too. 

He gave a questioning nod in the direction of her briefcase. 
 
"Oh, uh . . . just some. . ." She had no idea what she'd just
shoved inside. " . . . papers.  That I need for the weekend," she
finished, knowing her efficient tone would fool him.  It always
did.

She grabbed her keys and her coat.

"Ready."

Silently he held the door for her.

"You heading home, Mulder?"

He shrugged.  

"Then let's go out and get a decent dinner someplace and get
shitfaced." 

He didn't even smile.

All at once he turned back, blocking her exit.

"This isn't working," he said.  He met her eyes directly for the
first time.  

She looked up at him.

"What?"

"This."  His shrug included the entire basement office.

"This?  What?"

"Us."

She froze.

"Us. . . ?  What do you mean, Mulder?"

"I mean--   I think we need to spend some time apart."

She stared at him warily.  He stared warily back.
 
"How much time, Mulder?"

He didn't answer.

"A vacation?  A leave of absence?  What are you talking about
here? 

She jumped when he leaned forward suddenly, looming angrily over
her.   

"What the hell are you doing here with me, Scully?  What on earth
can you possibly be getting out of all this?" 

"What!?  Mulder, you may still be in shock from today.  You
need--" 

"Don't Scully.  'You need.  You need.'  Oh, poor Mulder, I get to
act like his mother again,  I get to pat him on his head and fix
his boo-boo and make him all better.  Do you get off on acting
like my mother?  Well, you're not my fucking mother Scully.  Not
even close."

Her eyes widened.

"And I'm getting sick and tired of trying to protect you from all
the shit that comes down on you when you're with me.  I can't
even protect you from me, Scully!" 

Her astonishment gave way to alarm. 

"I never asked you to protect me from anything, Mulder."

"What am I supposed to do?  Sit back and watch one lousy thing
after another happen to you?  Why are you still here, Scully?"
 
"Did you ever think that maybe I have a stake in this too? 
Because of the things that have happened to me?"

He slammed one hand into the doorframe near her head.  Then bent
his head, resting it--eyes shut--against his arm.  Finally he
lifted his head and looked at her.  His eyes bleak.

"I watched you die today Scully." 
 
"Mulder. . . ."

"And then I almost put a bullet in you myself."  

She stared at him, shaking her head mutely.

"I want this over with, Scully.  Now."

Christ.

She raised her chin at him and narrowed her eyes.  "Over?  Are
you formally requesting that I quit the X-Files?"

His eyes . . . his eyes were breaking her heart.  The expression
in them . . . half defensive, half scared shitless at what he was
doing.

"*Agent* Mulder?"

This is where he was supposed to say, 'No, of course not' and say
her name with that little catch in his voice and maybe even hug
her.

"Yes," he said softly, the anger suddenly gone from his voice.
  
"Fine," she said, the anger sharp in hers.

He dropped his gaze.  Without looking at her again, he went out
and quietly shut the door.

She stood staring at the door for a full minute.  

Her heart was pounding as if she'd just run the stairs in the
Federal building.  What the hell had just happened?  Mulder had
thrown her some sort of ultimatum and--heaven help them
both--she'd taken the bait.

Slowly she walked over to her desk and opened her briefcase.  She
removed the papers she'd put in a moment before and neatly
stacked them on her desk.  The top paper was the police report on
Modell.  She stared at it impassively. 

She turned and let her gaze run over their office.  

His office.

Lightly she touched her fingertips to her desk.  It would be gone
by Monday if she had to move it herself.











Part 2





Venice Beach, CA
Six months later





Dating was weird.

He'd wanted to sleep with her.  She knew that as he paused at the
door of her apartment, not quite believing she wasn't letting him
in.

She did let him kiss her.

That was weird, too.  Nice, but more about lips and noses and the
smell of unfamiliar skin than attraction.  All she found herself
thinking was if that little sniffle thing he'd been doing during
the movie meant he had a cold.  

And that she'd probably get it.  
 
He was perfectly nice.  He just wasn't . . . right.

So she thanked him politely for dinner and the new Kurt Russell
flick.  She eyed him critically for a moment.  Maybe, if she shut
her eyes and pretended he was Kurt . . . it would be good for
her. . . .

No. 

So she said goodnight and shut the door gently in his face.  And
then she took a shower.  Turning the handheld sprayer between her
legs she leaned back against the cool tiles and shut her eyes.





There was a knock on the door just as she stepped out of the
shower. 

Mulder.

No.  

Mulder is in Washington, where he wants to be.  You are here in
LA where you want to be.  There *will* come a day--she admonished
herself for the hundredth time--when every ring of the phone or
knock at the door doesn't send your thoughts flying back to him.

It just hadn't happened yet.

She rubbed the nubbly towel over herself, quickly, roughly,
letting her skin take the blame. 
  
There was another knock.

It might be almost midnight, but it was probably one of her
neighbors dropping by for a chat.  The people in her building had
a casual disregard for time.  It had taken some getting used to,
but now she liked it.  It went both ways, there was always
someone to talk to if she got too lonely.

She pulled on her white terry robe and wrapped the towel around
her dripping hair. 

"Who is it?" she called through the door.

There was silence.  

Then, quietly, "Scully, it's me."

Oh, God. 

Slowly she turned the knob and opened the door.

He needed a shave.  His suit was a little crumpled.  His hair was
too long over his ears. 

He looked wonderful . . . and scared to death.  

She felt her throat fill with tears.

"Hi," he said softly. 

She didn't trust her voice.  

When she didn't say anything, he kept talking.  "I was at LAX, I
have a layover between flights. . ."

Just a layover.  Damn.

". . . and Venice is so close to the airport, only ten minutes to
run over here and see you, so . . ."  He stopped and swallowed
hard.  "And so I did.  I . . ."  His gaze slid down over her,
lingering on her damp robe.  "I should have called."   

She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her breasts.  

He shifted his eyes uncomfortably--as if he'd read her mind--and
stared at a point somewhere near her left ear.  "But I was afraid
you'd tell me to go fuck myself."

She just looked at him.  

"And um, I guess it's really too late.  In more ways than one,
right Scully?"  He glanced at his watch and wrinkled his
forehead.  "What time is it here anyway?" 

She wasn't going to help him out.

"I--  This wasn't a good idea.  I'd better go."

One of her neighbors, a sometimes body-builder, sometimes Elvis
impersonator, stuck his head out of his apartment door.  

He stared at Mulder.  "You okay, Dana?"

She cleared her throat.  "I'm fine.  This is . . . just . . ." 
Her eyes met Mulder's for a strained moment, ". . . an old
friend."

Mulder tore his gaze away from hers and glanced in the other
man's direction.  He and her neighbor exchanged summing-up looks. 
Then, apparently satisfied, Elvis went back into his apartment.

Mulder looked back at her, bemused.  "And you couldn't have
called and let me know the King wasn't dead?"

She hid a little smile and stepped back, holding open the door.  
He actually looked surprised.  

As he stepped past her she could smell him.  She shut her eyes.
  
No.

Inside her apartment, he stopped and looked around.  She watched
him as his gaze traveled over the white denim slipcovered
furniture, the sandy sneakers by the front door, the driftwood by
the fireplace.

She'd kept it simple; she liked it like that.

"It's nice.  It looks like you."

"Thank you."  She cleared her throat again.  "Want something to
drink?  A beer?  Wine?  Coffee?"

He turned to her, the expression in his eyes pensive.  

"Am I an old friend?

She nodded slightly.

He nodded slightly back.  "Coffee."

"I'll make some."

She left him in the living room and went to start the coffee,
then ducked into the bathroom to yank the towel off her head and
brush out her damp hair.  

She stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.  She
wouldn't put on make-up.  She wasn't doing anything to impress
him.  

She looked at herself critically.  Well, maybe a little eyeliner. 

And some lipstick.

She should put on some clothes, too.  Except she didn't know how
long he had between flights.

She stuck her head into the living room.  "Mul--"

He was gone.

Her breath caught in her throat.  Then she spotted his bag slung
over the back of one of her chairs.  The french doors to her
balcony stood open.  He must be out there in the dark.  She felt
relief with an intensity that scared her and her hands were
trembling as she gave the belt of her robe a tight cinch.

Forget the clothes.





Mulder was leaning on the railing, looking out at the night.  Her
hand went to the outside light switch, then dropped.
   
The dark would be easier.  

It was a soft spring evening.  A spray mist hung over the
breakers, glowing dimly in the light from the waning moon.  The
smell of salt and wet sand wrapped around her.  She took a deep
breath and it filled her lungs.  She loved it here.  

As if sensing her eyes on his back, he turned.  He jumped to take
the tray from her and she watched him as he set it on a small
iron table.

It was amazing to have him on her balcony.

"This is great."  He turned back to the view.  "I didn't think of
you at the beach." 

She joined him at the rail, stopping a little bit away from him,
just outside the edge of his space.  He edged slightly closer and
into hers.  

His presence filled her nose.  His scent, no, his warmth . . .
his aura. . . .  

If she believed in auras.  

What had he just said?  That he was surprised to find her living
by the ocean? 

Was she surprised he'd thought of her at all? 

"Why?"

He turned to look at her.  "I don't know."  He lifted his hand. 
She flinched slightly and his hand stopped.  Then he reached
slowly toward her until the tips of his fingers just brushed the
ends of her hair.

"It's so long," he said, his gaze moved to her eyes and held hers
for a painful moment.  He was trying to say something with his
eyes, but she couldn't tell what.  And she couldn't look away.  

"Yes.  It has.  I mean--"  She swallowed.  "For a second I
thought you said, 'It's been so long.'"

"It has been so long."  They both watched as he gently lifted the
ends of her hair then let them drift through his fingers, then
let his hand drop.  His eyes rose to meet hers again.   

"Too long, Scully," he whispered.

She jerked her eyes away from his and abruptly moved out of range
to pour the coffee. 

"How are things in Washington?"

"Fine."

"Sugar?"

"No, thanks."  

"Skinner?"

He gave a short humorless laugh.  "I'm not exactly his favorite
agent." 

Oh. . . .  

"Cases?"

"Fine."

She glanced back at him.  He was rubbing one finger idly along
the wooden railing.  She suddenly knew with a certainty that
things weren't fine any more than they'd been fine the hundreds
of times she'd said it to him.

But he didn't want mothering.  So she wouldn't.

"You'll get splinters doing that."

His finger stopped.

"Milk?"

He turned to her and pinned her with another one of those intense
stares. 

"Scully?  Don't you remember *exactly* how I like my coffee?"
  
She stared at him.

Yes.  Of course.

She turned away and made it just the way he liked it, handed it
to him and held out the plate of cookies.

"Did you make these?"

"Yes."

He took one and took a bite.

"They're good."

"Don't sound so surprised."

He didn't answer, merely chewed the cookie in silence.  

"How's L.A.?"

"Good.  I can wear shorts to work."

"You?  Shorts to work?"

She shrugged.

"Wow," he said softly.  "Things have changed."

"Yes, they have."

They were both quiet a few moments.

"Cases?" he asked.

She shrugged.  "Run of the mill.  I like it that way."

He nodded.

Actually, the cases were boring as hell.  Invariably, she looked
for the paranormal in everything . . . with a sad twinge of
nostalgia.

"You needed to get back into the mainstream, Scully.  You'll do
great." 

"Mmmnn."  Her response was non-committal.

An awkward silence enveloped them, broken only by the sound of
the waves crashing on the beach in front of them.  Discordant
notes drifted from a radio in a nearby apartment, then the sudden
jangle of laughter from the coffee shop next door.  A light
breeze ruffled across them bringing with it the heavy sweet smell
of jasmine from her neighbor's balcony.  It raised the hairs on
the back of her neck.

She shivered and pulled her robe closer.  

"When's your flight?"

"Oh!"  He spilled his coffee as he turned to look at his watch. 
"In twenty-five minutes--  Sorry!"  He set down his cup, knelt
down and began rubbing with his napkin at the coffee he'd spilled
on the grass matting.

She knelt down, too, and mopped at it.  It didn't matter.  He
looked up suddenly, his face only inches from her own.  His eyes
were dark in the dim light.

"I'm sorry, Scully."  His voice was very soft.  

"Don't worry about it.  I'll rinse it with the hose tomorrow." 
 
"Not the rug."  He lifted his hand toward her again, this time
she remained stock still, but he didn't touch her.  His hand was
shaking, her mind registered with disbelief.  He drew it back. 
"I'm sorry," he said again.  "For everything.  I needed to tell
you in person." 

She felt the tears again, welling up from her throat to burn in
the back of her nose and she bit her lip hard to stop them.  She
wouldn't cry in front of him.   

She nodded. 

"Thanks," she managed. "I was . . . I still . . ."  She shook her
head and her eyes filled with tears.  

Seeing them, he looked stricken.

"This wasn't a good idea, me coming here.  I'd better go."  But
he made no move to get up.  

He just knelt there looking at her.  

"Scuh-lee . . ." he began

She swallowed hard.  

"What. . . ?"  Her voice was barely a whisper.

He didn't answer, he kept looking at her.  Just looking.  She had
the odd feeling he was memorizing her face. 

His eyes dropped to her mouth. . . .

There was another knock on her front door.  

Damn it.

He made a move to get up.  She put out her hand, but stopped just
short of touching him.

"Tell me," she said.

". . . nothing," he said finally, and ducked his head.  He rubbed
his eyes tiredly.  

A muffled, "Open up!  I know you're in there!" came through the
door.  It was Adrianna, her other neighbor.  

The spell was broken. 

"You'd better get that."

"Yeah," she nodded.  "And you.  You'll miss your plane."

"Yeah."

In the old days he would have helped her up.  Now, as they rose
to their feet, she could tell he was being careful not to touch
her.

Irreparable, she thought sadly.  Maybe the damage was
irreparable. 

She bit her lip and went to open the front door.











Part 3





Her neighbor Adrianna was a six foot tall sometimes-stripper
sometimes-actress with frankly impossible dimensions.  She also
had the curious habit of wearing only bikinis whatever the
weather or time of day.

Tonight she was wearing a fake leopard-fur bikini covered with a
lime fishnet mini.  

It showed off her tattoos perfectly. 

"Hey, Dane.  How was the date?"

Scully shrugged.

Adrianna grinned sympathetically and propped one hip against the
door-jamb.  "Bum-mer.  Oh--  I just wanted to tell you there was
some guy hanging around watching you before."
 
"What?  When?"

"When you were standing out here with your date.  He booked into
the shadows when you kissed that guy.  He was sitting right on
the patio chair by the pool, waiting for you, I guess.  The way
he was watching you, it was . . . creepy.  He was wearing a
*suit*.  You didn't even see him--"  

She stopped suddenly and looked over Scully's shoulder.  "Him."  

Scully turned around.  Mulder was just coming out of her
bathroom.  He'd taken off his suit jacket, loosened his tie and
sloshed water on his face.  He wasn't wearing his weapon.  His
hair was standing up a little.  

The sight of Adrianna stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh, him?"  Scully stopped herself from smiling at the look on
his face.  "He's okay."
 
Adrianna's gaze trailed from Mulder's slightly disheveled state
to Scully's robe.  "So I see."

"He has to catch a plane."  

He gave them a strained smile, pulled off his tie and started
rummaging in his bag.  She turned back to Adrianna, her voice
low, "How long was he here?" 

Adrianna shrugged.  "A couple hours."

Damn.

Adrianna was watching her face closely.  "So this is the one,"
she said.  Her eyes flicked over Scully's shoulder and raked him
with a glance from head to toe.  

Scully gave a little grimace.

They both watched as he turned his back to them and shrugged out
of his shirt.  

Her eyes lingered on his backbone.  He looked thin, she thought
with a twinge of . . . something.  

"Girlfriend," Adrianna said very softly, her eyes still on
Mulder's back.  "Planes can be missed."  

He pulled a black t-shirt, then a dark green cotton sweater over
his head. 

Adrianna leaned forward until her mouth was almost touching
Scully's ear.  "I'll tie him up for you."

"Shhh!"

Mulder turned to them.

"Adrianna.  Fox Mulder."

"**Fox**??  Hi."

"Hi," he said, and nodded at Adrianna.  "Scully?  Can I flag down
a cab around here or should I call one?"

"Scully?" said Adrianna.

"It's my last name."

"Oh-h."  The one word left no doubt exactly what she thought
about that.
 
"It's not that easy to get a cab this time of night."  Scully
said.  "I'll drive you, but--" she gestured at her robe.  "I
don't think there's time."

Adrianna gave him an innocent little smile.  "And I'd love to
give you a lift, Sugar, but my Harley's got a flat." 

"Uh . . . thanks," he said and ran one hand through his hair.  He
suddenly looked exhausted.  "Scully, can I use your phone?" 

"On my desk."

The moment he turned away Adrianna gave her a huge poke in the
ribs.  "Repeat after me," she said in a low voice.  "*You can
crash here tonight, Fox.*  Fox," she repeated his name and
laughed softly.  "Do it Dane, or I tie him up.  I mean it."
 
He was talking to Information.  She took a deep breath.

"Mulder?"  He covered the mouthpiece and looked up at her. 
"There's no way you can make your plane.  Do you need to get
where you're going tonight?"

He shook his head.

"Then you're welcome to, um, crash on my couch."

Are you sure?  his eyes asked her.

She nodded.

Mulder set the phone back in its cradle.  "Thanks, Scully." 
Adrianna looked from one to the other.  "They call each other
'Mulder' and 'Scully.'  Oh-my-Gawd."  She shook her head and
slipped out the front door.  "If you need any help. . . ." she
said in a stage whisper, winked at Scully and disappeared into
the night.
 
Scully shut the door firmly behind her, and turned.  

He was still standing with one hand on the phone, watching her. 
He shifted uncomfortably as her gaze ran over him.

"You look worn out, Mulder.  Are you ready to turn in?  I'll get
some sheets." 

He ran both hands through his hair and rolled his head,
stretching his neck. 

"Maybe we could just sit, unwind a little.  I've had a lot of
coffee . . . and the plane. . . .  How about your balcony?  The
fresh air felt great."

"Okay.  Wine maybe?"

He nodded. "Sounds good."

"I'll be right out." 

Kitchen drawer.  Corkscrew.  Two glasses.  Bottle of red wine. 
In a minute she was back on the balcony.

He was peering into the little freestanding terracotta chimenae
fireplace she'd bought in Mexico.

"Does this work?"

She nodded.  "We can light it."

"Matches?"

"In that pot."

"Sit Scully, I'll do it."

So she sat and went to work with the corkscrew. 

In a short time he had a little fire going.  He perched on the
end of her chaise and she handed him his wine.  He swirled it
around in the glass and stared down at it.
 
"Why did she look familiar?" he asked finally, and looked up at
her. 

She merely raised her eyebrows at him.

"Oh," Mulder looked stunned.  "She's taller . . . standing up. 
Is she a friend of yours?" 

"She's my next door neighbor."

"Scully, you've moved into a Fellini film.  Your other neighbor
looked at me like he'd never actually seen somebody wearing a
suit that didn't have sequins on it before.  What part do you
play in all this?"

"If you say the dwarf, Mulder, I'll pull out my gun and shoot
you." 

They suddenly grinned at each other.  It felt good.  She
couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled at him and he'd
smiled back.  Long before she'd left.

But then it made her shy, and apparently him too.  They both
turned away at the same time.

Maybe not irreparable.  But . . . badly damaged.

They sipped their wine in silence and stared at the fire.  The
clay fireplace must have been damp, it was making little hissing
noises as it heated and expanded.  The wood crackled as it
burned, sending the sharp smell of mesquite into the air to mix
with the heavier scents of the flowers and the ocean.

Every now and then she risked a glance at him.

He was watching the flames, too.  Rubbing his bottom lip.  

Her eyes lingered on his lip.

"Where are you heading?" she said finally.

"What?"

"The flight you missed."

"Oh, I was coming back.  From Singapore."

"Singapore!?  Why were you there?"

He paused, as if about to say something, then sighed.

"Long story."

"Were you there long?"

"Five days.  I almost called you.  I was at LAX on the way out."  
"When?"

"Sunday."

Maybe that's why she hadn't been able to get him off her mind all
week. 

"What time zone are you in?"

He looked at his watch.  "I don't know. Tomorrow."

"You must be exhausted."

He nodded slowly.

"Scully?"

"Mmm?"

"Thanks for asking me to stay."

She nodded and they both went back to staring at the fire.  It
was getting cooler.  The dampness was settling on her skin.  
He leaned forward pushed another log into the fire.  For an
instant the fire glowed golden around his face and hair. 
Silhouetting him.  The line of his cheek . . . his mouth. . . .  

Her own mouth went suddenly dry.  She took a sip of wine, pulled
her gaze away from his lips and looked up at the moon.  A waning
crescent.  Too bad it wasn't full.  The ocean view from her
balcony during a full moon was breathtaking.  She glanced out at
the ocean.  You could still see the water on a night like
tonight, but it was dark.  Dark and mysterious.  She loved it
like this, too.  The smell of the sea was stronger now, the tide
was turning, it would be going out, leaving the sand flats bare.
. . .  

The chaise creaked as he sat back beside her, a little closer
this time, and she could feel his eyes on her face.

She wasn't sure she was ready to look back.  The aura thing was
happening again. . . .  

Finally she couldn't help herself, she turned her head.  Sure
enough, he was staring at her.  His eyes were dark in the dim
light.  

He lifted his hand and touched her face, finally, his fingertips
light on her cheekbone.  

"Freckles," he whispered, a smile in his voice.

She smiled back, a little sheepishly.

He smoothed his fingers across the freckles on either cheekbone,
then slipped his hand into her hair, cupping the nape of her
neck, gently stroking her earlobe with his thumb.  

She raised her hand to cover his and tilted her head into his
palm. 

"I should have asked this first," he whispered, pressing softly
against her cheek.  "How are *you*, Scully?"
  
Her cancer, of course.

"Healthy.  I'm healthy."

He nodded slightly, but she could see in his eyes he didn't know
quite what she meant. 

"No sign of it, Mulder," she whispered.  "It's gone."

She saw relief flash though his eyes.  Then he closed them--just
for a moment--and she had the distinct impression he was sending
up thanks to some unknown deity.  Then he opened them again and
they stared at each other.  The moment stretched.  His eyes were
so dark, so unreadable. . . . 

So familiar.

With the slightest pressure on the back of her neck he drew her
across the space between them.  

She didn't resist, just moved forward with a sigh.  His fingers
spread out on her scalp and he tucked her head under his chin. 
His other arm slipped around her, cradling her against his chest. 

She slid her hands around him to rest on his back and rubbed her
cheek against the rough cotton knit of his sweater.  His unshaven
neck was prickly against her forehead.  She buried her nose
against him and took a deep breath. 

God.

Suddenly his arms tightened around her and he was hugging her
hard.  She hugged him back--just as hard.  His arms were so tight
she could barely breathe but she didn't care. 

She felt him rub his face against her hair.  

"I miss you," he whispered, very softly.

"I miss you, too," she whispered back.

She burrowed more closely into him, opening her mouth against the
cotton, breathing in his warmth.

He leaned back against the cushions, drawing her with him, and
settled her against his chest, holding her close.

She lay still, her cheek on his heart.  She shut her eyes and let
herself relax into his warmth, adjusting her breathing to the
rise and fall of his chest, and let her mind empty of
everything but his heart pounding under her ear and his fingers
rubbing her scalp. 

All her unresolved feelings . . . failure . . . hurt . . . anger
. . .  loss . . . started to dissolve as her senses filled with
him.  The tension was slipping out of her shoulders and back, and
her bones were melting into his.

She wasn't going to think about tomorrow, or next week, or . . .
whenever.  She was just going to sit here absorbing the rhythm of
his body. 

After a while the gentle fingers caressing the back of her head
stopped.  She lay still, wondering if he'd fallen asleep.  He
must be exhausted.  She didn't really want to move.  She wanted
to lie here holding him.  

For awhile she didn't move, just listened to the fire as it
burned down.  The steady crackle finally slowing to the
occasional pop.  Finally, she sighed.  It was too damp for him to
sleep out here, she'd have to wake him up.  

She tilted her head to look at his face.  His eyes were still
open, he was looking down, past her face.

She followed his gaze.  

The neck of her robe had fallen open, exposing the curve of one
creamy breast all the way to its rosy tip, nestled against the
white terry cloth.
  
She moved to pull it shut, but he reached out and captured her
hand, stopping her.  His eyes lingering on her breast.

She caught her breath and held it.  

As they watched, the nipple hardened.

She let out her breath with a tiny rush and looked up to meet his
eyes.  The expression in his was uncertain.

"Mulder . . . I--" 

His expression became serious, his eyes dark.

"Scully," he whispered.  "When I saw first you tonight.  Before.
You were beautiful.  I've seen you--" He smiled. "--a lot of
different ways.  But tonight, I've never seen you so beautiful." 

His gaze held hers for another long moment then dropped to her
mouth.  She couldn't help herself, her lips parted.  

He leaned closer.  Her eyes followed his mouth as it closed in. 
It stopped a fraction of an inch away from her own. 

Oh God.

He pressed a gentle kiss on her lips.  His were warm and soft. 
Almost . . . brotherly.  

Almost.

She gave him a gentle kiss back.

Then he kissed her again, his lips still soft, but not quite so
brotherly.   

Then a third, and this one not brotherly at all.  

The warmth of his mouth on hers told her more about what he'd
been feeling in the last six months than everything he'd said--or
hadn't said--since he'd shown up on her doorstep. 

She kissed him back.  And it wasn't about noses or unfamiliar
skin, it was about what had been between them--was still between
them.  The tenderness and sweetness . . . and the longing and the
tension that they'd never put into words.  

As his lips explored hers, gentle, soft, loving, she felt
something she'd been holding tight inside her begin to melt, then
break away.

She slipped her hands up into his hair and kissed him back.  I
missed you too.  And I know why you did it.  I understand, but it
hurt like hell. . . .  I missed you and now . . . all I want to
do is suck on your tongue . . . Mulder. . . .  

At her response his controlled gentleness exploded and he began
kissing her with a quiet desperation.  He rolled her sideways and
pinned her against the cushions, pressing his body along hers. 
He cupped her head in both hands and slipped his tongue into her
mouth, tracing the inside of her lips, running it over her teeth,
stroking her tongue.  They kissed until they were both
breathless, and then his mouth left hers and wandered up her
face, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, her eyelashes.  He gave
her a gentle kiss on the bridge of her nose, then looked down at
her, his heart in his eyes.
 
She tugged on his head and pulled his mouth back down to hers.  

Now it was about a searing heat that started down at her toes and
slid through her entire body.  Exciting and new because she'd
never kissed him and warm and familiar because she'd known him
forever and . . . oh God. . . .

His hands slid down her shoulders and over her back.  She stroked
his back in return and slipped her hands down to the waistband of
his trousers, sliding under the sweater and t-shirt and up and
over the warm skin of his back.

And then his hands were tearing at the knot at her waist.  He
stopped suddenly and looked around at the night, then back at
her. 

"No one can see," she whispered, pushing his fingers away and
untying it herself.  Relief flickered across his expression and
she realized that that wasn't his question, but she'd answered it
anyway.

He pushed the terry off her shoulders and she shrugged out of it. 
He raised up and looked down at her body.  He was breathing hard. 
She lay still.  Naked.  Her flushed skin tingling in the cool
night air. 
 
"Scuh-lee . . . you're beautiful--so beautiful."

He ducked his head to kiss her breasts.

Her hands slipped into his hair.  She pushed it back behind his
ears.  

"Mulder, you're tickling."

She knew she was grinning like a fool. 

He lifted his head and grinned back.  Then he drew a line with
kisses from the tip of one breast to the other.  And then up her
neck to her lips again. 

She squirmed out from under him, pushed him down on the cushions
and slid on top of him.

It felt strange and wonderful and crazy to be on top of him
completely naked in the cool darkness while he was still fully
clothed, but seeing him again and the sudden direction the
evening had taken was making her drunk with relief.

She dipped her head to meet his lips again.

He smiled against her mouth and she rubbed her body along the
length of his like a cat, enjoying the feeling of his body under
his clothes.  But it wasn't enough.  

Reluctantly she pulled her mouth away from his and sat up.   
Settling her crotch on the hard bulge in his pants, she pushed up
his shirt and sweater and pulled them over his head.

The fire slid lovely warm fingers of light over the skin of his
face and chest.  He lay still, watching her as she traced their
patterns with her fingertips, along his cheekbones, down his neck
and chest, across his stomach to his waistband.  She undid his
pants and slid them down and off.  Underneath he was wearing a
pair of red jersey boxers that fit him like a glove.  His arousal
was straining at the cloth and she touched him lightly.  
"Scuhlee. . . ."  He was watching her intently.

"Mmmmm?"

She dropped forward to meet his mouth, but her fingers stayed on
him, caressing him lightly at first, then firmly, with long
leisurely strokes.  Then her hand dropped to cup his balls.  They
were loose and warm.  She explored them gently, rolling them in
her fingers and stroking the muscle beneath.

He groaned her name again, and then his hands and lips were on
her.  Everywhere on her.  Smoothing the skin on her back, teasing
the sensitive skin under her arms, sucking her fingers into his
mouth, nipping kisses down the side curve of her waist.  She
writhed under his mouth and fingers.  Her hands and mouth were
everywhere on him, too.  She gently scratched the skin of his
back.  Licked and bit his nipples, nibbled his shoulders and
neck.  She pushed off his boxers and kneaded the muscles of his
behind, then returned again to his balls, just to hear the little
gasping way he said her name when she touched them.

"Scuh-leee."

She smiled.

She had always wondered what it would be like if they ever came
together this way.  Would it be spontaneous combustion?  Wild hot
sex against the inside of the door of one of their apartments,
with them both climaxing within seconds, then collapsing
exhausted on the floor?  Or would it be slow and sensual,
gradually building until. . . .
 
It was neither. 

They settled more deeply into the cushions.  His fingers combed
lightly through the curls between her legs.

She couldn't help it, she moaned.

"Scuh-leee,"  She could hear the smile in his voice as his
fingers slid over her. 

She moaned again, louder.  "Mmmmmh?"

"Scuh-leee?"

His tongue was in her ear.  His voice rough with desire.  God,
forget making love.  If he said her name again like that she was
just going to come with a scream. 

"Yes?" she answered breathlessly and shoved her pelvis against
him. 

"Rubber?"

"What?"  She ground her hips into his hand again. 

"Condom.  Do you have a condom somewhere handy?"

"Why?"

He lifted his head to get a better look at her face. 

"Scully, I--"

God, she was having a hard time breathing.

". . . .  Ahh. . . .  Oh, God.  Do that . . . again.  Yes.  That. 
Ahhh. . . . . ." 

"Scully, I'm HIV negative."

He'd moved his finger away and was stroking her now with his
erection, rubbing the tip back and forth over her.

"I know.  Me too.  You wouldn't. . . .  I know. . . ." Her neck
arched back and she lifted her hips to increase the friction. 

"But you should have some."

Trust him to be preoccupied about something when all she wanted
was him inside her as fast and as hard as possible.  She pressed
the soft skin between her legs urgently against him.  At least he
hadn't stopped doing what he was doing.  

"Scully?  If you're going to . . .  That guy . . ."

So that's what this was about.  She glanced at his face.  He was
truly worried.  She felt an ache in her chest that had nothing to
do with her labored breathing.  

"Mulderrr.  My bedside table drawer is full of condoms.  But I'm
not having sex with *that* guy.  I'm making love to you.  If
you'll just shut up and let--"  

Before she could finish he crushed her comment with his mouth. 
She reached to wrap her hand around his balls again, squeezing
them just enough to get his mind off her with another man. 
"Okay," he breathed into her mouth.  "Ohhhh, God.  Oh my God. 
Scuhleee.  Scuhleeeee.  Uncle!"

She smiled against his lips.  Her tongue slid into his mouth and
met his.  She circled her hand around him, lifted her hips
slightly then eased herself gently down on him.  And in answer he
shifted his own hips upward and buried himself in her completely. 

There are a lot of things that go by and are forgotten in a life,
she thought as she slid deeper into his eyes and drowned, but
never the first time you make love to someone you love. 

She opened her senses to the night . . . the cool breeze tickling
her burning skin . . .  the slam and rush of the waves on the
beach, echoing their own ebb and flow . . .  the sharp fragrance
of the fire and the coffee and the wine, and of his body and her
own . . . the sigh of his skin against hers . . . the rough
cushion under her knees, the hot skin of his hips between her
thighs. . . .  

She smiled to herself as it all imprinted itself indelibly on her
mind.  

His eyes. 

He pushed up into her, slowly at first, then harder, deeper.  She
watched him watch her and felt something like amazement overtake
her.  He was here. 

At last.

It was about time.

Whatever the hell had been keeping them apart all these years . .
. and the last six months . . .  had disappeared into the night.
. . .  And she could tell by his eyes he felt it, too. 

"What?" he could barely whisper and she could barely reply.  

"What?" she asked.

"Your face.  So serious. . . ."

I love you, she thought.  It's as simple as that.

And he smiled as if she'd said it aloud.  A once-in-a-lifetime
smile that lit up his eyes, and his face and sent a wave of
warmth crashing through her to her toes.
   
And then it was just them, just eyes and mouths and skin and
hands.  And all coherent thoughts left her as she lost herself in
him, with him . . . and they slid over the edge and fell into the
night.










Part 4





She stared up at the sky through the window over the bed.  The
sky was a deep grey-blue, barely lighter than night.  It was at
least an hour before dawn.  

A warm heavy leg rested across hers and a possessive arm cradled
her close.  A large hand was tangled in her hair and hot breath
was heating her neck, just below her ear. 

She smiled.  

He'd only been asleep about an hour.

For months she'd wondered if she'd ever see him again.  And
now--here he was, naked and curled around her.  And they'd made
love.  Finally.  Warm delicious love.  Enveloped in the sated
swollen afterglow, she hadn't slept.  Hadn't wanted to. 

She turned her head slightly and tasted his skin.  Just the salt
at the edge of his sideburn with the tip of her tongue. 

Then she kissed his ear lightly.

"Hey," she whispered against his ear.

No answer.

"Mulder," she whispered again.  Her tongue darted out to tease
the line of his jaw. 

Still no response. 

He was dead to the world.  

"I'll be back," she murmured into his ear.  "Don't go anywhere. .
. ." 

Reluctantly, she slipped out from under the warmth of his body.  










She had to be away from him to think, she admitted to herself as
she tiptoed down the outside stairs dressed in running shoes,
shorts and a sweatshirt.  When her naked body was stuck to his,
it seemed, she was under his spell.

She shivered a little.  It was chilly for the end of May;
tendrils of steam were rising from the pool.  The dawn was heavy
with the cold wet smell of concrete and the heady fragrance of
the dew-soaked jasmine and orange-sweet natal plums.
  
Swatting away a spider's web, she let herself through the gate
and started stretching as she headed down her walkstreet to the
beach. 

Suddenly she broke into run.  She flashed past oleanders and
bougainvilleas that loomed like misty ghosts in the near-dark,
then, through the palms and she was out on the open sand.

The clear, cool air filled her lungs, and the sharp smell of salt
from the ebbed tide rose to meet her with a slap against her
skin.  She ran over the last bit of dry sand and down, onto the
flats of an unusually low tide, her ponytail streaming out behind
her, her sneakers making little sploshing noises . . . and
suddenly tears started streaming down her cheeks.

She ran and ran and ran.

Until she couldn't run any more and slowed to a walk, gasping for
breath. 

She'd missed him.  For her first month in L.A. she'd felt ripped
in two.  Sheer hell. 

But now. . . .

She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt, walked out to
the very edge of the gentle breakers and stared out to sea.  At
the horizon, the old moon was slipping into the sea.  As she
watched, dawn lightened the sky.  

Her thoughts drifted to him lying asleep in her bed.  She
wondered what he thought about them making love--

She checked her thoughts with a snap.  

This was not about him anymore.  This was about her.

Her life.  

Her life *here*.  

She was happy here.

. . . .Wasn't she?

She hadn't just been killing time here waiting for him to show up
on her doorstep.  She'd been building a new life.



Her job here . . . it was a step in the direction she'd always
wanted to go, right? 

Right.

Could she really see the two of them together again?  Working
together again? 

Her mind slid away from that question.  She wasn't ready to
answer it. 

Her private life here . . . well, she'd made some friends, dated
some, and--

She felt a sudden satisfied smile tug at her mouth.  

Oh God.  

She'd slept with Mulder.

And it had been . . . amazing. 

She'd always wanted him.  Lusted after him off and on for five
years.  Finally making love . . . it had been the fulfillment of
a long-held fantasy.  

She was glad it had happened.  The tenderness . . . the
forgiveness. . . .  It had gone a long way toward easing the
sadness and anger she hadn't been able to forget.  She loved him. 
Loved him despite . . . a lot of things.  But the two of them as
lovers . . .  

She'd long since decided it wasn't the kind of love that was
healthy for her.  Couldn't be healthy for her.  There was such a
thing as loving the wrong man. 

Maybe, after all these years, making love had just been
inevitable.  Something they'd both needed to begin to heal.  But
nothing more than that. 

She was gradually beginning to catch her breath.  She watched,
her tears gone now, as the growing dawn changed the color of the
waves, dark grey to pink, pink to greenish grey and finally to
pale bluegreen.  

A sudden gust of wind riffled the surface of the water and a
young gull suddenly reeled and shrieked above her head looking
for breakfast.

The new day had arrived.

In a few hours he'd be getting on a plane to go back to
Washington.
  
And if he asked?

There was no way she was going back.










Part 5





He met her at her door, one of her towels slung low around his
hips, his hair wet.  A few drops of water sprinkled his chest.
 
Why was meeting someone face to face the morning after so damn
awkward? 

"Hey," he said, relief written all over his face.

"Hey.  You're awake.  I was letting you sleep in."

"Couldn't stay asleep without you."  His gaze dropped to her
clothes.  "You went running?"

"Mmm-hmm."  She toed off her wet sneakers by the door.

"I thought you might have left, hoping to come back and find me
gone."  

She had a feeling he was only half kidding.  She tilted her head
and looked up at him.  "No."  She shook her head slightly.  "No." 
"I borrowed your shampoo."  He tipped his head so she could smell
his hair. 

"Mmmmm.  Suits you."

She reached up to push the hair back from his forehead.  When her
fingertips touched his skin the awkwardness vanished like smoke,
and she lightly touched her other hand to his chest, brushing
through the water droplets with the tips of her fingers. 

Then his hands were on her, too.  Spread wide on her rib cage. 
Pulling her to him.  Her nose ended up smack in the middle of his
still-damp chest.  

Mmmmm here, too. 

"Come back to bed?" he said into the top of her head.

He didn't sound as if he thought she'd say yes.

She tilted back her head and looked up at him.  He looked down at
her, carefully searching her face, his expression guarded.  He'd
shaved and there was a tiny bit of shaving cream stuck under his
chin.  She had the urge to lick it away.  Instead she reached up
and brushed it off with her fingers. 

He smiled suddenly.  

She smiled back, a little wistfully-- 

Oh, why the hell not?

--and pulled away from him far enough to lead him back into the
bedroom. 

She peeled off her damp clothes and climbed in after him.  He
wrapped his arms around her and they snuggled down under the
comforter.

Her hands drifted over his skin.  He *was* thin, she thought as
her fingers ran across his ribs.  How had he been?  What had he
been thinking, doing, in their six months apart? 

She wondered.  

His hands were busy too.  They slid down her back and cupped her
bare bottom. 

"I was wondering where you'd gotten those great muscles in your
butt," he murmured. 

Running off five years of you.

"Not that your butt hasn't always been great."

Oh?

"But now. . . ?  It's *great*."

She rewarded him with a kiss on his nipple.

He lightly traced the line of her spine up to the nape of her
neck then pulled away the elastic band holding her pony tail.  He
combed his fingers through her hair, carefully arranging it over
her shoulders.

"This isn't as weird as I thought it might be."

"What?  Us?"

"Us.  In bed together."

"You thought about it?"

"Maybe.  Did you?"

"Maybe."

"You thought it would be weird?"

"That's not the right word."

"I know what you mean."

"You do?

"Yeah."

She watched him as he gently smoothed her hair.

Making love had been easy.  But . . . she could see it in his
eyes, in the way he held his mouth, he had things on his mind,
too.  Things she didn't think she wanted to be drawn back in to. 

His hand slipped to her breast, and she bit back a sigh. 










"Scully?"

She was lying on his chest. 

Skin against skin.  Wrapped in sunshine-yellow cotton chambray
sheets.  With real late morning sunshine pouring across the bed. 
Maybe he wasn't going to make it back to Washington today.  
A strand of her hair fell across his lips and she took it between
her fingers, teasing his lips with the end.  He opened his mouth
and caught the hair, tasting it with his tongue. 

There was only one thing better than fabulous linens on a bed,
she thought idly, and that was fabulous linens with a man in
them.

This man to be exact.

Her resolve from her early morning trip to the beach was . . .
for the moment . . . on hold.

"Scully?"

"Mmmm?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

She waited, tracing the muscles in his neck with one finger.  "Do
you ever think about her?" he asked.

Her.

She tilted her head so she could see his face.  He was staring at
the top of her bureau-- her pictures of her family, Matthew,
Melissa, Queequeg . . . even one of him. . . .   

He meant the small picture of Emily.  She felt a mixture of
relief tinged with sadness.  

Did she think about her?  Only twenty times a day.

She looked back at his neck and ducked her chin, not meeting his
eyes. 

"Yes, Mulder.  I think about her."

He was quiet for a while as his hands moved slowly over her back,
stoking her skin softly, the way he'd calm a cat.

"Do you ever wonder if she was the only one?"

She shut her eyes as if that could shut out his question.  She
didn't want to wonder. 

"Why?" she asked finally.

"What if . . . what if there was another child?"

"Mulder, we--   **I**. . . still don't have any answers about
Emily." 

He reached up to run a finger along the line of her forehead,
tracing each of her eyebrows then her nose.

"But--hypothetically--if there was another--wouldn't you want to
know?" 

It took her a long time to answer.

Finally she shook her head.

"I would dread there being another child," she said slowly. "I
don't think I could go through this again.  Especially--" she
broke off and shook her head mutely, her eyes brimming over with
tears.

"Oh, Scuhleee.  Still?" 

Of course *still*.  

She nodded.  A tear dripped on his chin.  He gave her a sad
concerned smile. 

"I didn't mean to make you cry.  You're going to make me cry,
too."  He tried to rub the tears away with his thumb.  That only
made her cry harder. 

She sucked in her lip and bit it.

Suddenly, his expression grew serious and he twisted his hands
into her hair, trapping her head six inches from his own.

"I miss you."  

She nodded slightly within the confines of his hands.  Tears were
still dripping on him, and now her nose was threatening to drip
on him, too.

"Los Angeles is a long way away."

He was going to ask her to come back.  And she was going to say,
No.  No-no-no.  

She watched his eyes, they were glistening slightly with
moisture, too. 

"You're happy here."

It wasn't a question, but she gave a slow infinitesimal nod.
  
"I can tell."  He nodded slightly.  "I'm glad."

Oh.

"I'm glad," he repeated again, almost to himself, and he looked
away from her and back at the photos again.

She dropped her head and rested it against his neck, turning to
stare at the photos, too.  The one of him showed him laughing. .
. . 

Gently, he stroked her hair.

They lay in silence for a long time.











"I'm going back to Singapore at the end of next month."

So maybe you can stop by for a quick fuck?  She was startled by
the abrupt rush of anger that swept through her.  Why did the
idea annoy her so much? 

"Singapore?  Why?  A case?" she asked and tried to push herself
up off him.  He took hold of her shoulders and wouldn't let her,
his body suddenly tense under her hands. 

"It's not a case . . . exactly.  A lead.  I've been following. .
. " he said slowly.  " . . . for months."

"What lead?"

"I--" he broke off.  Surprising her, he gently pushed her off him
and got out of bed.  He padded across to her window and looked
out at the beach.  He seemed oblivious to the fact that if anyone
on the beach was looking at her window, they'd see a very naked
Mulder.

He turned and considered her for a long moment.

"Come with me." 

"To Singapore?"

He nodded.

"Why Mulder?  What's in Singapore?"

He turned away from her and looked out the window again.

"I need your help."

"Tell me what it's about."

He shook his head, still looking out at the beach.

"I just need you to come with me."

"Mulder?  A--what is it?--twenty hour flight without any
explanation?  For something that's 'not exactly' a case?  What
can't you tell me?"

He turned and stared at her.  His eyes were green, yellow and
pleading.  

"I don't suppose 'I need you' is good enough."

No fair, Mulder.  No fair.

Trust me, his eyes asked.  Please.

"Mulder. . . ."

Singapore.  Jesus.  No.

Please, Scully, his eyes . . . begging now.  Please.

"O-kay. . . ." she said.

Damn.  She turned away, blocking out the sight of those eyes. 
This was insane.  She was insane.

"In a month?"  At least she'd do it on her schedule. "That would
be about the Fourth?  How long is this going to take, Mulder?  I
can get a couple days off.  It's the long weekend."

"That should be plenty."  He nodded, satisfied.  "Good." 

He started looking around, presumably for his clothes.

"Scully?  Can I use your phone to call the airline?"

And now he was leaving.

Oh, fuck.










Part 6





Singapore Airlines
Somewhere over the Pacific
July 2





Morosely, she stared at the words on the page of her novel.  
'The grounds of the decrepit house were immaculate,' she read. 
For the four hundredth time.

She hadn't heard from him for weeks.  Finally, she decided if he
did call she wasn't going to go.

She'd begun to think the whole night had been a figment of her
imagination when he showed up on her doorstep again, tickets in
hand.  And looking . . . looking far more elegant and--

She sighed.

--sexier than usual.  Expensive suit, expensive haircut,
expensive cologne.

All for her.

Or so she'd thought, her emotions tumbling wildly from flattered
to embarrassed to elated to annoyed.  After two hours of dancing
around the issue of why they were going to Singapore, he ended up
sleeping on the couch.

She still wasn't sure why.

He told her to pack elegant rather than professional.  Elegant
for hot and humid. 

She complied, not knowing why the hell she was doing that either. 
And no weapon, he told her.  

The fact was, going anywhere with Mulder without her weapon was a
little unnerving.

The first fifteen hours of the flight from L.A. to Taipei had
passed extremely slowly.  This last four hour leg, from Taipei to
Singapore, was excruciating.  

Despite the surprisingly comfortable seats in business class and
the non-stop beverage service, she was stiff, tired, cranky and
dehydrated as hell.

'The grounds of the decrep--'

"Scuhlee?"  He sat back down beside her. 

She looked up at him.

"Yes, Mulder?"

He hesitated, then "Dana?"

Oh shit.

She tucked the book in the seat pocket in front of her, and
turned to him.  

"What?"

"There's something I have to tell you."

He reached out and took her hand, holding it between his both of
own, his eyes apprehensive.

"There's another baby."

"What?  What baby, Mulder?"

She stared at him, consternated.  What the hell was he talking
about and why the hell did he think it was so important that he'd
called her Dana, and why was he staring at her as if he was
afraid she'd scream?  Unless . . . .
 
Oh SHIT.

"You don't mean . . ."

He nodded slowly. 

"Oh no.  No."  She shook her head back and forth.  "No.  Mulder,
no.  How do you know?"

That wasn't really the question.  He wouldn't have told her if he
wasn't sure. The question was why hadn't he told her the second
he knew.

"DNA."

"DNA?"

He nodded.  He searched her face, his eyes worried.

A baby.  Oh God.  

"It's just a baby?  Not a child?  How did you get its DNA?  How
did you find it?" 

The questions were tumbling from her faster than he could answer. 

He nodded again.  "It took a long, long time, but Frohike and I
finally got a lead."

"Is it with a family?  Where is it?"

He squeezed her hand tightly.  "In Singapore."

She yanked her fingers out of his grasp.

"Singapore!?  How on earth?  Why didn't you tell me?!"

He winced slightly, reached into his inner suit pocket and pulled
out an envelope.  He held it out to her, watching her.  The
expression in his eyes . . . so careful . . . so worried . . . so
. . . pleading with her to forgive him for telling her--and to
forgive him for not telling her, both at the same time. 

Damn it, she was furious with him.

She reached out for the envelope, her hand unsteady.  

"What is this?  Mulder, where did you--?  Who's got it?"    
Inside was one of those newborn photos.  A small blurry picture
of a slightly startled looking baby.  Blue eyes . . . and just a
little bit of what might be red hair.

Her heart clenched with a mixture of anxiousness and horror . . .
and longing.

"*He* not it, Scully, is with a baby broker and I'm . . . in
negotiations to buy him."

"A baby broker?  Negotiations?  To buy. . . ?  Mulder. . . ." 
God, she didn't recognize her voice.  

He was silent for a moment, watching her closely.  "That
picture's old.  He's four months now.  I was thinking--  Do you
like the name Liam, Scully?"

She couldn't look away from the little face.  "What?!"  She felt
the frustration and the despair and the shock that had
overwhelmed her in San Diego slip back into her blood.  Oh, God. 
No.  Not again.  

She stared down at the photo.  "Is he . . . is he . . . okay?"
 
"He's fine."

She should have felt a little relief at that, but all she felt
was terrified.  Emily had been 'fine', too.  

"Fine as in . . . fine?"  God, she was a doctor.  Why couldn't
she come up with a better word than fine?  Her mind fumbled for
the right scientifically-detached questions and came up empty.    
"He's a normal, healthy child.  As far as I know."

"Mulder."  Her voice sounded strangled, felt strangled.  "I
needed to know about this.  You needed to tell me."

"I tried, Scully."  He shook his head. 

She just looked at him and she knew he could see the anguish and
anger she was feeling reflected in her eyes.  She couldn't hide
it.  She was incredibly upset with him.  "No, Mulder.  *This
time* you needed to tell me."

He turned away from her and leaned forward, propping his elbows
on his knees he rubbed his face tiredly.

She looked down again in disbelief at the photo in her hands. 










Changi Airport
Singapore





It was boiling hot in Customs.

Not only was she exhausted and stiff and miserable from the
plane, she was now furious and had a splitting headache.  And she
had the distinct feeling that she was starting to smell a little
less than fresh.  

In fact, she probably stunk.

"Passports please."

Mulder handed two to the official.

She froze with one hand deep in her purse, clasped around her own
passport. 

"Mr. George Hale and--  Mrs. Isobel Hale?" the man read.  "For
what purpose are you visiting Singapore?"

She pushed the passport down to the bottom of the bag and removed
her hand very slowly.

"Vacation," Mulder answered.

"How long?"

"Four days."

"Continuing tickets?"

Mulder handed them over.  Suddenly she realized she'd never
looked at the tickets.  Mulder had handled everything at the
counter in L.A.  The tickets must be under the name Hale, too. 
"Anything to declare?"

"No."

"Mrs. Hale?"

She felt a trickle of nervous sweat run down her back.

She plastered a glazed smile on her face and tried to look
innocent.

"Nothing . . . Sir."

The man looked her up and down, then stared at her half-open
purse.

"Just trying to find my Tylenol.  Splitting headache.  The heat."

"Air-conditioning's out today.  Usually it's like an icebox in
here.  Be careful, this heats a killer if you're not used to it."

The man held out his hand, waiting for the purse.  She glanced
down at it and caught sight of the Tylenol bottle.  Snatching it
from the depths of the bag, she handed it to him.

He opened it and suspiciously eyed the contents.

"It's just over-the-counter painkiller, Sir," said Mulder.  "My
wife . . . headaches . . . flying . . . you know."

The customs officer snapped the top back on with a click and
handed it to her.

"Water fountain's over there.  Safest drinking water in Asia." 
He handed the passports and tickets back to Mulder.  

"Enjoy your stay in Singapore."










"Mulder, that was *incredibly* stupid," she told him in the
sweltering taxicab.  

He gave her a troubled grey-green stare and then ignored her. 
She ignored him too, turning her back to him and staring
sightlessly out the window all the way to the hotel.










Part 7





The Raffles Hotel
Singapore
July 3






She lifted her head from the unfamiliar pillow and groaned.  
God, she ached all over.

Thanks to the angriest sex she'd ever had in her life.   

Four times?  Five times in one night?  Her pelvic bone must be
black and blue.

The whole bed smelled like . . . them.

Gingerly, she sat up.  

Mulder was nowhere to be seen.

She licked her lips.  

They were swollen.  

And tasted like him.










The Raffles Hotel
Singapore
Eighteen hours earlier
July 2





They sat in the cab, stuck in city traffic, for what seemed like
enough time to fly back home, then, finally, they'd checked into
the hotel.  

The extraordinary Raffles Hotel--according to their bellhop's
practiced spiel--was world famous for its British Colonial
elegance and the fact that it had been the haunt of writers and
celebrities from Somerset Maugham and Rudyard Kipling to Noel
Coward and Alice Faye.

He showed them into a suite the size of Mulder's and her
apartments combined.  What had to be fourteen foot ceilings made
the rooms airy despite the humidity and dark old furnishings.   
Oriental carpets covered teak floors, and an intriguing doorway
led to a palmy verandah, but all she saw at that moment was the
huge antique bed.  

The bellhop stared at the U.S. five Mulder handed him as if he'd
never seen one before, but the bill vanished quickly enough. 
"Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Hale," he said, and glided backwards out
the door.  "Enjoy your stay in Singapore."  The door shut
silently and they were alone.

Mr. and Mrs. George Hale.

And their big bed.

Fine.  They were sleeping together, weren't they?  Maybe.  Maybe
not.

And if they weren't?  Well . . . whatever.  It was big enough for
that, too.

Mulder said one word, "Shower" and disappeared into the
bathroom.

Maybe a drink would relax her neck and shoulders.  She kicked off
her shoes and checked the mini-bar.  Apparently Somerset and Noel
preferred gin and Scotch.  The bar was stocked full of the little
bottles.  

While in Singapore. . . .  Gin it would be.  

She made them both drinks.  After that flight he could probably
use one too.

With a sigh, she relaxed back on the sofa and sipped her drink. 
After a few minutes she stretched her feet out in front of her on
the coffee table. He seemed to be taking an abnormally long time
in the shower.  What she really needed was a long tall glass of
water, but she was too tired to get up and get one.  She finished
her drink and started on his.  Let him make his own damn drink. 
She eyed his carry-on bag.  She wanted to see the picture of the
baby again but it was probably still in his pocket.  

The door to the bathroom opened and he came out.  Completely
dressed.  

He looked wonderful.  Great.  She felt like 6000 miles of stale
air turbulence.

And where the hell was he going?

He eyed her two glasses without comment then reached for the door
of the wet bar fridge.  

She noticed it at once.

"Mulder, you're wearing a wedding ring."

"I didn't tell you?  The whole time we've known each other I've
been married with five kids in Singapore."

"Oh, right.   How is the family these days, Mulder?  Have you
told *her* you slept with *me*?"

God, she sounded just like a shrew.  She felt like one, too. 

He looked at her steadily for a minute.   As if he couldn't
figure out what rock she'd crawled out from under.

That was it.  She was heading for the showers, too.  The mystery
of the wedding ring could wait for later.

She picked up her drink and her toiletries case and stood up.
 
"It's my grandfather's ring, Scully.  That's the only finger it
fits.   I used to wear it all the time."  He looked down at the
ring on his finger.  "Didn't you know?  A wedding rings's a chick
magnet."  He gave her a half-hearted leer.  "Makes 'em feel
safe."

"Then you nail 'em?"  She stopped at the bathroom door and looked
back at him.  The steam from his shower settled on her skin,
suddenly she was warm, too warm. 

His voice seemed very far away, and very very remote.

"Then I met you."

Did he just say that? 

He turned away from her and poured himself a Scotch.  Neat.  He
propped one hip against the edge of the console and took a sip. 
She felt like she was watching someone she'd never really met
from a great distance.  

"And no more need for the chick magnet, Mulder?"

"No."

"But now suddenly. . . ?"

He sat the drink down suddenly and fumbled in his pocket.  He
brought out something.  It was a little red velvet jewelry box. 
She stared at it.   

"Scully. . . ?  Come back here."

She turned and slowly walked back towards him, it seemed to take
a very long time to cross the fifteen feet of exquisite Persian
carpet between them.

He opened the little box and held it out.  In it was a pearl and
ruby ring, obviously an antique, and just as obviously a match
for the necklace he'd given her at Christmas.

She stared at it.  All she could do was open her mouth and shut
it again.

"Scully. . . .   Marry me."

She glanced at his face in shock.  He was kidding, wasn't he?  He
had to be.

"You're kidding."

He looked at her for a moment, his expression entirely
unreadable.  Then, he ducked his head and looked down at the
ring.

"Of course I'm kidding, Scully.  We need to pretend we're married
to buy this baby."

Oh.

"We?  I thought *you* were the one buying the baby, Mulder.  What
do I have to do with it?"

He stared at her in disbelief.  "What do you have to do with it?" 

She didn't say anything, she had no idea what to say.  She'd
never felt so distant from him in all the time they'd been
together.

Finally he lifted his shoulder in what might have been a stretch,
might have been a shrug.  "We're a rich American couple buying a
baby."

She took a large swallow of her drink.  To say Mulder had a knack
for leaving things out was an understatement. 


"How much is it?"

"Fifty thousand American dollars."

"Fifty thousand?!"  She just about spit out her drink.  "Where
the hell did you get that kind of cash?"

"He could go for up to a hundred thousand if it turns into a
bidding war.  The last auction did."

"A bidding war!  The last auction?"

God, all she could do was repeat what he said.

He shrugged.  A definite shrug this time.  She hated it when he
shrugged.

"Isn't he worth it, Scully?"

"Mulder?!  For God sakes!  It's spending money for a baby!" 

"We're covered up to one-twenty.  And if we need it, I can--" he
gave a strange little shrug of his shoulder, "--find more."

She stared into her glass.  It had somehow become empty.  She
couldn't remember ever getting drunk on two drinks before, but
she was definitely feeling a little woozy.  

One hundred and twenty thousand dollars?!

She sat down hard on the couch.

"Mulder, even if buying a child isn't illegal, it's morally
wrong."

"What they did to you was morally wrong.  Buying *your* baby
doesn't even come close."  

"And what the hell was that with the passports?  Why didn't you
tell me about that?"

"Because you would have said no."

"You're damn right I would have said no.  They could toss us in
prison and throw away the key for that!  Mulder, if you had just
told me I could have arranged for us to travel under legitimate
undercover passports--"

"No," he interrupted her.  "Don't you see?  We couldn't do this
through regular channels.  *No one* knows we're here.  No one can
know."

"But, legitimately--"

"Nothing going on here is legitimate, Scully!  Why do you care
more about breaking the law than you do about getting Liam
back?!"

"Because I'm a Federal Agent, Mulder, because you're a Federal
Agent.  Doesn't that mean anything to you any more . . . ?"  she
trailed off as he just stared at her.  "Back?"

"They were your eggs," he said softly, but his underlying tone .
. . he was frustrated with her.  Well, she couldn't help it.  She
was frustrated with him, too.  "And being a Federal Agent didn't
stop them from taking you, *raping* you and taking them.  He's
yours, Scully."

"But what if . . ."

She stared at him.  Everything was suddenly surreal.  Mulder in
his expensive tropical suit and wedding ring.  The two of them on
the wrong side of the planet.  This hotel suite with its
lacquered surfaces and exotic atmosphere.  Another baby out there
somewhere, somehow.  This couldn't be happening, could it?

"What if what?" he demanded.

"But what if the child has . . . what if it's sick, Mulder?  How
do you know it's not sick?  Did you have any access to the
medical records?"

"He, Scully.  The child is a he.  And his name is Liam.  *I've*
named him Liam.  I have his health records.  Everything seemed
normal.  But if he's sick, and we get him, then we'll deal." 
She could tell by the throbbing vein at the corner of his eye
that Mulder was holding himself tightly in check.  

She stood suddenly, then looked down at her feet.  They were
still down there.  

Good.

She began putting one in front of the other, heading for the
bathroom.

"Scully?  What the hell is going on with you?  I thought you'd-- 
Once you knew--  I thought . . .  Christ Scully, I've been
tracking him down for months.  Before he was even born.  I
thought you'd be--

She spun on him.  "I told you I didn't want to know!" she
practically spat at him.  

He looked completely shocked.  

Suddenly she held up her hand.  "Wait!  You said, 'before it was
born.'  Shhh!"  She held her hand higher.  "Don't argue with me. 
And it's four or so months old now?  Mulder, that's what you
said.  You knew . . . this . . . after I left?  Or before I
left."

She felt sudden tears clog her throat, they were burning in her
chest.

"Tell me.  Right.  This.  Minute."

She was breathing hard, her hair was in her face, her clothes
were rumpled and smelly, and she knew she was probably flushed
bright red.  But at the moment she didn't care.  

She hated him.

Mulder shifted uncomfortably.  "I saw him when he was a fetus,
when we were in San Diego."

"A fetus?  In San Diego?  How. . . ??  When we were with Emily?" 
Was that her voice?  Why did it sound like the voice of a
querulous child?

"With--  Scully?"

It was too late.  Everything was too late.  She covered her mouth
with her hands and ran for the toilet, making it just in time to
throw up everything thing she'd eaten in the last month into the
toilet.  And the two gin and tonics.

"Scully?  Scully?"

He was hovering at the door of the bathroom, watching her in
horror.

"G'way Mulder."

She retched again.  And then again.  And then again.  God, she
was about to throw up the lining of her stomach.

He'd somehow seen a fetus in San Diego, and he'd somehow known it
was hers and he'd somehow never bothered to say a word.  Not one
damn word.

Just like her eggs.  He hadn't bothered to tell her about those
either.

She dropped to her knees beside the bowl.

Don't do this to me, Mulder.  Don't do this.

Too late, he'd already done it.

She wanted to collapse on the cool tiles of the floor, close her
eyes and sink into oblivion.  She stayed perfectly still for a
long moment and willed her stomach to settle down. Then, somehow,
she slowly pushed herself to her feet.  She turned to the sink
and splashed water into her mouth, rinsing out the horrible bile
taste, then raised her head and looked at herself in the mirror.  

Shit.  She did look like hell.

She turned to the shower, flipped on the tap and began peeling
off her clothes.

Mulder was still hovering at the door like some damn poodle.
 
"Get out."

"Scully."

"I said, 'Get out!'  I'm fine," she gritted through her teeth. 
"I'm taking a shower.  I'll talk to you when I'm done."

He left, quietly shutting the door behind him.  

She stepped under the hot spray.  It stung her shoulders and she
bent her neck so it could pound on the top of her head.

Jesus she was pissed off.  The passports.  The money.  The fetus-
-  A fetus, for Christ sakes.  

The eggs.  

The fact that he'd slept on her couch.

The ring.

She didn't want him for herself. Oh no.  But the idea of that
ring on some other woman's finger set her seething.  

And it matched her necklace.

Which she now had a hunch was a family heirloom.  Another fact
he'd neglected to mention.  She'd known it was an antique and
beautiful, but . . .  

Damn it.  Damn him.

Another child.  A little baby. . . . 

Oh God.

Finally, skin and hair scrubbed so hard she was amazed there was
anything left to be stinging all over her, she got out.

She took a deep breath.  And another.  And then one more.  She
felt calmer.  Not much--but calmer.   She could deal with him. 
They could discuss this, they'd worked together for five years. 
Surely they could talk about this.

She pulled on one of the thick terry hotel robes, cracked open
the door of the bathroom and peeked out.

Mulder was gone.  

But the jewelry case was still sitting on the table in front of
the settee. 
 
She ignored it and looked around for the coat he'd been wearing
on the plane.  She went through the pockets.  No picture.  Damn. 
She turned to his carry-bag and went through it, too.  No folder,
no papers.  Nothing.   Nothing in his suitcase, either.  

She looked over at the jewelry case again, slowly walked over to
it, picked it up and opened it.  The ruby and pearl ring was
beautiful.  She held it up to the light.  There was an
inscription inside it.

'I. Mo Ghradh L.'

That would be Gaelic.  Something beautiful and profound, saying
they'd love each other forever. . . .

That would be his grandparents.

Liam.  Liam and. . . ?

She shoved the ring on her finger.

What kind of a jerk would ask her to marry him in jest?

Mulder.

Sudden exhaustion overwhelmed her.  She dumped the wet robe on
the floor and crawled into bed.











Part 8





She was lying on her stomach, head buried under the pillows, when
he came back. 

"You okay, Scully?" he asked softly.

She didn't feel like talking to him.  She lay still and pretended
to be asleep.  

He sat down beside her on the bed and touched her shoulder.  
"I know you're not asleep.  Come on.  Open your eyes."

He stroked her bare skin very lightly and she shivered,
scrunching further under the pillows away from him.

"I brought you some bread and fruit juice.  There's a bakery
downstairs."  

She turned her head and glared at him.

He showed her the bread and ripped off a piece, holding it out
temptingly. 

She could smell it.  It smelled delicious.

She pushed the pillow away, clutched the sheet across her
breasts, and reached out for the bread.  She saw him spot the
ring on her finger at once.  His eyes flashed to her face, but
before he could catch her eye she looked away.

She ate the bread in silence, then pushed herself up into a
sitting position.  She was still too mad at him to speak, but she
nodded toward the juice and he opened it and handed it to her.
 
"How's your stomach?"

She hunched her shoulder in a half shrug.

"Dana?" he said hesitatingly.

Oh, for Chrissakes, *now* what?

"When I came to see you in LA, I wasn't planning for us to . . .
I didn't mean . . ."

Oh, fuck.  Now *this*.

". . . for us to . . ."

She took another bite of the bread and chewed, staring at the
ring on his hand, waiting for the inevitable.

". . . um . . . ." he trailed off.

The let's-be-friends speech.  He'd flown her half-way around the
world to buy a baby and tell her he didn't want to sleep with
her.  

Odd how none of her scenarios had ended even remotely like this.  
But this was Mulder, nothing should surprise her.

"It just . . . happened," he continued.  She heard him swallow
hard. "And maybe it shouldn't have.  Maybe it was not what should
have happened."

She could see him out of the corner of her eye, he was staring at
her, waiting for her to say something, but she wouldn't look at
him.  

Did he expect her to agree?

When she didn't answer, he reached out to touch her shoulder. 
She tried to shrug him off, but he persisted, tracing the line of
her bare shoulder with one finger.  

"For all those years it didn't happen with us.  We never let it. 
And then last month?  It shouldn't have.  It's. . ." he sighed. 
"It's not what you needed to happen in your life right then."
 
Not what I needed? she thought.  When the hell did you ever know
what I needed?  

"You were doing okay.  I think. . . .  It seems. . . .  You were
doing fine since you left.  Great, in fact. . . .  And then us .
. . making love . . . only complicated--  Say something, Dana." 
She carefully set the juice on the night stand, then brushed the
crumbs from the sheet.

"Since **I left**?" Her voice was a little hoarse, but fairly
steady.  "Who--asked who--to leave?"

He was quiet for a long moment.

"You're the one who left," he said very, very softly.

She looked up at him and nodded slowly. 

"Fuck you, **Mulder**," she said calmly.  Very calmly.  Too
calmly.  

He wasn't going to get away with this.  

"The sex just happened," she continued.  "And it was just sex,
and not even very good sex . . . compared--" she shut her mouth
suddenly with a snap, narrowed her eyes and watched him.

"Compared to what?!"

He was completely and utterly shocked. 

"How can you compare that to anything?  It was *us* and it was
great!"

She shrugged.

He stared at her, then turned his head away and stared at his
finger where it had come to a sudden halt on her arm.

She watched his averted profile.  His lower lip was caught
between his teeth and he was biting it hard.  He closed his eyes
for a moment.  Then he opened them and stared at his finger. 
Very, very slowly, he started moving it again, deliberately
trailing it down her upper arm, gently caressing the soft curve
of her skin.  She stiffened her arm, trying not to shiver.

They both watched his finger slip slowly down the length of her
arm to her wrist.  

He reached her inner wrist, paused for a moment on the sensitive
swelling of her pulse, then trailed to her palm, stroking the
swelling of the base of her thumb, then of each finger in turn. 


"Well, if that's all it was to you . . ." his voice was tightly
in check.  He was furious.  

Good.

He continued, "I don't think it's such a good idea for us to do
it again.  It's not my style to just get together for a quick
fuck now and then."

He'd used the word "fuck" deliberately to piss her off.  She
could see it in the slight flush on his cheekbones.  

"Oh really?"

His eyes snapped to hers.  "What the hell do you mean by
'Really', Scully?"

Ah, so things were back to *Scully*.  She almost smiled.

What had been a slow angry burn in his eyes was fast becoming an
open flame. 

"Forget it, Mulder.  So we screwed.  So we had a one night stand? 
So what?"

"Five years and you call that just a one night stand?"  His voice
sounded as if he were about to choke.

She shrugged.  "It was just sex."  

"Just sex," he repeated in disbelief.  "A one night stand." 

His finger had reached the ring, it lightly rubbed the inside of
the band, then left it to trace to the end of her ring finger. 
She watched as it trailed back across her palm to wrist.  He was
angry, she was angry, and yet his finger was making love to her
hand as if they were in a separate suite.

"And since that's all it was, you'd better stop touching me," she
said dryly.

He looked down as his finger brushed up along the muscle of her
lower arm.  It stopped to lightly caress the slightly ticklish
crook of her elbow, then stealthily started tracing its way up
the soft inside of her upper arm.

"Stop it!"

He ignored her and continued tracing the line of her arm, around
the sensitive curve of her armpit and down the soft skin toward
where the sheet concealed her breast.

"Get your hand off me."

He took a deep breath.  "Dana, I--"

"Damn it!"  She slapped his hand away and grabbed his wrist.  She
held it up between them, her fingernails digging hard into his
skin.  

They stared at each other, his face flushed, his breathing
ragged, his eyes burning into hers.  She didn't think she'd ever
seen him with quite that expression on his face before.  

Knocked completely off his complacent ass.  

Perfect.

She gave a sudden hard yank on his wrist.  "Just get over here,
**Fox**.  Can I call you Fox?"

He half-leaned half-fell across her and his "No!" was muffled in
her suddenly-exposed breasts.  He gathered them in both hands,
pushed them up and together, started kissing them desperately. 
She buried her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth up to
hers.  She kissed him hard and he kissed her back, his mouth
urgent, fierce and no less angry than her own.  

Completely disregarding his expensive clothes, she started
ripping them off him.  The tie, the shirt.  She yanked his belt
tight to undo it, then ripped open the fly of his pants and
reached into his boxers, pulled him out.  He was hard as a rock
already. 

Not pulling his mouth away from hers, he grabbed the covers with
one hand and tossed them off the foot of the bed.  The rest of
the bread went flying with them.  

Damn you, she cursed him silently, her tongue stroking his
furiously.

She kicked his pants and shorts clear.  Damn your lies to protect
me.  Damn your secrets and your hidden agendas.  

Why couldn't we have met five years ago in the office cafeteria? 
Gone out on a date and been fucking our brains loose like normal
people ever since?

He wove his hands into her hair and gripped it, holding her head
still.  He crammed his mouth on hers and kissed her hard. 
Someone's tooth had cut someone's lip and she tasted blood. 
Maybe his, maybe hers.

She grabbed his butt in both hands, opened her legs and he was
against her, then in her.  No preliminaries.  No talk of condoms. 
She was going to be chafed and he was going to be chafed.   

Good.

Damn it.

He pushed deep into her, and then again and again and again.  She
jammed her hips against his.  Hard, defiant and angry.  Their
eyes met for a split second.  His searched hers.  What the hell
did he want from her now?  She shut her eyes and crashed herself
against him.

She wanted to be stuffed, filled too full to think, until
everything overflowed.  

She wasn't wet--but suddenly she was, and she was coming.  She
screamed his name and only hoped the walls of the Raffles were
discreetly thick or that no one else was in or that it was normal
to hear screams of passion in the late afternoon coming from the
Palm suite or . . .  And then she didn't care and she screamed
his name again.  

She arched up against him and clenched her muscles around him,
then felt a gush of liquid and she was there.  But he wasn't.  He
slammed into her over and over.  For a moment the friction was
too much and she sunk her teeth into the muscle of his neck to
bear it and then he was pushing harder and harder and then she
was coming again and pushing back.










They lay silent, naked, not touching.  

After that, what was there to say?  

Would they ever be able to talk to each other again?  

She wondered, as she stared up at the ceiling watching the idly
moving shadows from the late afternoon light.  Then she curled
away from him and drifted to sleep, only to be wakened by his
hands on her back, his teeth in her shoulder.

After the second, equally tempestuous bout, Mulder managed to
think of something,  "When you came, you screamed Fox over and
over."

"I did not!"

"You did so.  Do you think of me as Fox?"

"No.  Never."










After dusk they turned off the air conditioning and opened the
doors and windows to the fragrance-laden night air from the hotel
gardens.

And then seconds . . . minutes . . . days . . . later, they
slammed into each other again.  

Then slunk to opposite ends of the hotel suite to lick their
wounds.  

At dinner-time . . . or was it breakfast-time? L.A.-time, they
ordered dinner, but before they finished eating she was on her
back on the Persian carpet with him over her, inside her, his
mouth devouring her neck, burning her breasts . . . she pulled
him into her, as if by consuming him with her body, she could
take his mind into her own and understand him, finally. . . .

Afterwards they lay there in the dark, breathing hard, hearts
racing, not talking, not looking at each other.  

She felt his hand touch hers, then slide to link with her
fingers.  When she gently squeezed back, he rolled towards her
and pressed his face against her breasts.  She softly stroked his
hair.

. . . and then once again at dawn. . . .


Yes.  That made five times.  










Part 9





The Raffles Hotel
Singapore
July 3  





She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. 
Stretching her arms over her head, she arched her back.  

Ouch.  

She had no idea what time it was, but it was already hot.  She
lifted her hair where it was stuck to the back of her neck.  Her
skin was covered with a thin film of perspiration.  She squinted
out the window at the sun, late-ish early-ish morning-ish . . .
maybe. 

She closed the windows and cranked up the air-conditioner, then
stumbled into the bathroom and twisted on the old fashioned tap
in the tub.  Blessedly hot hot water streamed forth and she
dropped in a handful of bath salts, then with a grateful sigh, 
slid down into the steaming water.
 
Where had he gone?  Her mind touched on him briefly then slipped
to nothingness as she relaxed back and let the water rise to her
chin.  She shut her eyes and drifted back to a half sleep.

Finally, feeling half-human again, she sat up and sluiced herself
with the fragrant water, then rose from the tub and dried her hot
skin, her movements as languid as the air around her.

Naked, she walked across the hotel room and flipped open her
carry-on bag.  Digging down the side, she found her cushioned
jewelry case.
 
She pulled out the necklace he'd given her for Christmas and held
it beside the ring.  Two European cut rubies.  A perfect match. 
The pearls around them, nestled in their antique gold filigreed
settings, glowed with their own luminescence.

She brought the necklace to her mouth and rubbed it against her
lips, then bit gently on the pearls.  Gritty.  Of course. 

She turned to the mirror over the bureau and held the necklace up
to her neck.  It was beautiful.  She'd worn it a few times, once
on a date.  After that she'd kept it in her jewelry case. 

She didn't know why she'd brought it along. . . .

Of course she did.

With a sigh she dropped it on the bureau and turned to dress.
 
Humid but elegant, she thought, slipping her sleeveless plum silk
shift over her head.  

White skin, red hair, red lips, purple dress. . . .

All she needed was a long strand of pearls and a cigarette
holder.  She'd be right at home tossing back a few Singapore
Slings with Rudyard and Alice in the Expatriate Bar.

Nothing to show on the outside for the wildest night in her life
. . . except . . . she put a hand to her overflushed cheek and
leaned closer to the mirror . . . a little beard burn.

The rug burn didn't show.

She stared at her eyes.  She was doing a very good job of not
thinking about the fact that today they were going to try to buy
a baby. 

Her baby.

She was also not thinking that the little alcove in her study was
the perfect place to put a crib.











She was lost in thought when the door to their suite opened.  She
didn't turn, just watched him in the mirror.

Khaki shorts and a white Polo shirt.  She couldn't remember the
last time she'd seen him in shorts.  She stared at his legs. 
Long, lean, tanned, muscled.  Where the hell had he gotten a tan?

He stopped just behind her and stared back at her reflection. 
His eyes slid slowly over her from head to toe.  Every inch of
her skin that his gaze caressed--her face, her neck, her
arms--began to burn. 

Their eyes met in the mirror.  

She realized she was holding her breath.  She let it out.

"You look very American tourist, Mulder."

He let out a low soft whistle between his teeth.

"Scuh-lee."  His voice was husky on her name.  He cleared his
throat.  "You look very . . . amazing." 

"Elegant enough for you, Mulder?  Cool yet crazy enough to be in
Singapore buying a baby?"

"I just called, we meet them at ten."

"Who's them?"

"Madame Charlotta and her band of merry baby breeders."

"This baby broker is a she?"

"The bad guys aren't always men, Scully."  

"Since when?"  She held the necklace up to her neck again.  "Too
much?" 

"You *brought* it."  

She didn't imagine the little catch in his voice.  This necklace
and ring meant a hell of a lot to him.

He reached out one finger and very lightly traced the line of the
gold chain against her neck.  She felt her nipples harden.  His
gaze dropped to her breasts then lifted to meet her eyes in the
mirror again.  The look in his eyes scared her and left her
breathless at the same time. 

"Fasten it for me?" she managed.

He lifted the hair at the nape of her neck he smoothed it over
one shoulder.

"I love--" he said, "--your hair this long.  It makes me think
you've finally given into the dark side."

She tried to relax her shoulders, hoping he hadn't felt her
flinch at the word love.

She could feel his fingers working on the clasp, she watched his
face but she couldn't read his expression at all.

The dark side. . . .  Is that what you think you want from me,
Mulder?  

He ducked his head and she felt his lips on the back of her neck. 
He ran his mouth in a long trailing kiss that started at her nape
and ended at the hollow of her throat.

And what did she want from him?  At the moment she had no clear
idea at all.

She arched her neck and leaned her head back against him and his
arms went around her, fitting her back against his hips.  One arm
crossed possessively over her breasts, his warm palm cupping her
shoulder. 

"I had breakfast downstairs," he murmured against her ear.  "I
thought you might need some space." 

"I took a bath," she said, still watching him in the mirror. 

"I took a shower.  But I can still taste you."

She stared at him, transfixed by the covetous gleam in his eye,
and by the territorial way he was holding her.

"I can still feel you," she whispered.

They stared at one another's reflections. 

"Just sex, Scully?" he asked softly.

She turned her head to meet his eyes, three inches from her own. 
This close she could see into their depths and she suddenly felt
inexplicably shy.  She smiled enigmatically to cover the
unexpected emotion and gave him a sudden brief soft kiss on the
mouth. 

"Too bad we have to be there in an hour," she said.

He gave a hesitant laugh.  "You're insatiable."

"Mmm-mm."

He gave her another little squeeze then reluctantly dropped his
arms. 

Things had changed.  The rules of their world had
subtly--hell--*utterly* shifted and she wasn't sure at all she
knew what she was doing. 

"I'll change my clothes," he said.  "Meet you in the restaurant
in twenty minutes."

"Mulder?"

He turned back, "What?"

"Do you have, um," she swallowed hard. ". . . his medical
records?" 

"I left them for you.  Right there."  He nodded at a manilla
envelope on the table.  "You haven't looked at them yet?"

"Didn't see them.  Thanks."  She scooped up the records and made
for the door, already digging through the envelope for the
smaller envelope with the little picture.  It wasn't there.

"Here."  Mulder was at her elbow, handing her the other envelope. 
"You just had to ask me."

She gave him a weak smile and escaped out the door.










In the restaurant she pored over the medical records, the little
baby picture propped against the flowers in the center of the
table.  Her eyes were drawn back to the photo again and again.  

She was relieved to see on the DNA test the name of an
independent testing lab in Maryland.  She studied the page
carefully, and then her eyes slid back to the photo again.

Liam.

Suddenly something made her look up.  There was Mulder, staring
at her from across the restaurant.  Their eyes met with a click
and he didn't take his gaze off her as he wove through the
tables.

He paused for a moment behind her chair then leaned to brush his
lips across the exposed skin of her shoulder, sending shivers
right down to her toes.

"Everyone's staring at you," he said. "You're beautiful."

She shivered again.  

She watched him as he pulled out a chair and dropped into it. 
He'd changed into a summer weight tan suit and looked pretty good
himself.  In fact, good enough to eat, she considered dryly.  She
ran her gaze over him, cataloguing his features until her
conscience interrupted.  

God, what was the matter with her?  Every time he came near her
she started to frizzle all over.  There'd always been an electric
charge between them, but now the voltage had skyrocketed.  She
could feel her breasts swelling and the dampness between her
legs.  Plus, she was feeling strangely shy.  She was a grown
woman and a doctor for Heaven's sake, not a schoolgirl with a
crush.

This was . . . ridiculous.

"Mulder."

"What?"

"You're going to tell me everything you know about this," she
told him, her tone deliberately business-like.  She tapped the
papers in front of her.  "All of it."

He licked his lips, then looked at her and nodded slightly.
 
"Coffee?" asked a waiter, materializing at their table.

The both watched silently as the man filled Mulder's cup with the
dark fragrant liquid, refilled hers, then vanished.

"Okay.  The baby.  Where the hell did you see him as a fetus,
Mulder, and how?"
  
"Remember the nursing home?"

"Where Dectective Kresge was exposed to the toxin?"

He frowned slightly, then nodded.  "The baby was in an
incubator."  

"Then why did you use the term fetus, Mulder?  He would have
been, what?  Six months?  Maybe he was just a premmie?"

"It was some sort of . . . fluid incubator.  They were still
somehow feeding him through his umbilical cord . . .  I think."

She stared at him.

"A kind of artificial womb?  Full of amniotic fluid?"

The look on Mulder's face became pained.  He nodded.

"What made you connect him with me?"

"There were identifying records, and um . . . your name was on
them." 

The words hit her with the force of a blow.  "And you didn't tell
me." 

"Scuhleee."  He sighed again.  "No.  I didn't tell you.  You were
. . .  You had enough going on with--"

Emily.  

"Anyone else's name?  A father?"

"No."

"Did you take the records?"

He shook his head.  "No."

She took a deep breath.  

"Were there others?"

He shifted uneasily in his seat.  "I . . . I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?"

"The patients--elderly women--at the nursing home were being
given pregnancy hormones.  Progesterone, estrogen.  And, I think,
they were also being used as incubators, to gestate these babies,
somehow.  So, yes, I think there may have been others, but, no, I
didn't see them."  He gave her a long look.  "Please believe me,
Scully.  I'm telling the truth."

All of it?  She wondered.  She shivered and folded her arms
across her chest, rubbing the goose-bumps on her bare upper arms. 
"So how did their operation get here?  For Godsakes Mulder, even
chewing gum is illegal here.  But some sort of international
Black Market in babies?"

"On the surface it isn't illegal, Scully.  It's possible they
suddenly decided to find a place where young, healthy women were
more than willing to bear these children full term.  Then the
children are all placed, as far as I can tell, with wealthy
families."

"*Placed*?  Sold, don't you mean, Mulder?"

"Arranged adoption is legal here, and so is paying a fee for
medical expenses for the child and child's mother.  What passes
into the grey area legally are the methods used to impregnate the
women."  

"But, for what reason?  We don't really know what the were doing
to Emily.  But with these children spread out all over the
country, and possibly all over the world?"  She shook her head. 
"I don't know why. . . after . . . everything . . . I find this
so hard to believe."

"Where do you think celebrities find all those beautiful white
babies they're always adopting?  Madame Fernandez is a household
name in certain circles.  They found an established baby trade
and then tapped into it.  Then, I'm assuming, the babies are
tracked somehow.  For some purpose." 

"But not . . . Liam."  

He smiled at her, his eyes gentle at her use of the name.  

"Not Liam.  He'll disappear, they'll never know what happened to
him."  He looked thoughtful.  "Once we knew where he'd gone, the
approximate birth date--"

"We?"

Mulder sat up straighter, took a sip of his coffee.  "Frohike. 
We owe him one for this, Scully."

"How did you get the DNA test?"

"For the kind of money they're charging?  Genetic testing is a
prerequisite.  They provide it."

"But--" she leafed through the papers in front of her for the lab
results.  "You're not going by their test."

"Of course not.  I had my own test done."

"How did you know it was his blood?" she protested.  "They could
have switched--"

She bit her lip.

He stared at her.  That worried look again.

He looked at her with a faintly pitying expression, then reached
out to take her hand.  He stroked her fingers.  "He *is* your son
Scully.  Don't you know I wouldn't have brought you all this
way--and put you through all this--unless I was absolutely sure?"

Her eyes prickled and she shut them hard for a second.

"Scully?"  

She opened her eyes and looked at him. 
 
"I stood there while they took the blood," he said.  "They handed
me the vial."  

She stared at him.  She felt every hair on her body suddenly
stand on end.

"You've seen him?"

A slow grin spread across his face, he nodded.

"Mulder. . . ." she whispered.

"Wait til you see him, Scully," he said softly.

They stared at each other.  She felt tears fill her eyes.  Oh
God. 

His fingers tightened around hers.

Suddenly she remembered.  "You saw them take blood, Mulder?" 
He nodded.

"And when they broke the skin?  Nothing--?

He shook his head.

She shut her eyes again tightly.  Thank you, God.

Even with her eyes shut she could tell he was watching her.  
And she could tell when he stopped.  She opened her eyes.

He was checking his watch.  "We've got to go.  You ready?"
 
"Mulder wait.  Is there something you're not telling me?"

He looked at her for a moment, his expression serious, then shook
his head no.

She eyed him.  There was something else, but for now he didn't
want to tell her.  So for now it could wait.

She nodded, gave his fingers a squeeze and stood up, gathering
the medical records.  She was ready.

As ready as she'd ever be. 










Part 10





Golden Village
Singapore





The address was in a beautiful old part of town.  The houses were
gated and fenced, with only a glimpse here and there through the
greenery to hint at the money that must be behind the fences.

When Mulder pulled up at the gate of a large graceful old house,
he turned to her.  He gave her forced smile.

"Here goes nothing."

She just looked at him and nodded.  She couldn't say anything.
 
At the door, a silent white-uniformed servant stared pointedly at
their shoes until they suddenly realized they were supposed to
take them off.  They were shown through dim high-ceilinged rooms
to a screened verandah beyond.  The servant accompanied them,
then faded away.  
 
She could feel the tension in Mulder's fingers at the small of
her back.

A woman was sitting on a shaded couch, a large white dog at her
feet.  She rose gracefully when she saw them.

"Mr. Hale, how delightful to see you again."

She came forward to clasp their hands.  Scully hoped her hands
weren't as icy as they felt.

"Madame Charlotta, my wife Isobel," said Mulder.  The proud note
in his voice suffused her blood with warmth.

"Mrs. Hale, how lovely to finally meet you.  Your husband told me
so much about you."

"Hello."  

She rarely found herself looking down when she met women,
especially in stocking feet, but Madame Charlotta was an inch or
so shorter than herself.  Petite, beautiful, she had the flawless
golden complexion of the East.  Her jet black hair was pulled
back in a bun low on her neck, and an exotic flower was tucked
behind one ear.

A long flowing gown of shimmery golden brocade completed her
exotic Eastern look.

The impression was all very lovely, Scully thought, but somehow
not quite real.  And she seemed awfully young to be a household
name in the baby selling business.  

Oddly enough, the observation relaxed her. 

With a graceful gesture with both hands, Madame Charlotta handed
her a business card, ornately flowered and scrolled with only her
name and international phone number.

Scully admired it duly then tucked it in Mulder's pocket.

"Refreshments?"  Before they could answer, the woman had clapped
her hands and a servant wheeled out a cart laden down with a
small feast. 

"Please, come sit."  

They sat.

The white dog, which had been moving like a shadow at the woman's
heels, settled between them and his mistress, never taking his
eyes off them.

The servant served them tea.

"How is he?" asked Mulder.

"Fine."  Madame Charlotta smiled. "He's doing beautifully, just
beautifully.  All our babies are.  Are you sure you wouldn't be
interested in looking at some of our other--"

"No."  Mulder said rather shortly.  "Thank you."

"Well of course," said Madame Charlotta, smiling a sweet
conspiratorial smile at Scully.  

Too sweet, thought Scully, and plastered a sugary smile on her
own face in return.  

"I can see why you're interested in this one now that I see your
wife's lovely hair."  Madame Charlotta continued.  She picked up
a folder from the bench beside her and pulled out an eight by ten
photograph.  "We have only the one red-head at the moment."

"Have you picked out a name?" she asked, handing Scully the
photo. 

Scully looked down.  

A small serious cherub looked back at her.  He was older in this
picture.  His hair definitely red and his eyes still blue.  He
was chubby and well kept and . . . 

Beautiful. . . .

Her heart beat hard against her ribs and her throat filled. 
She barely heard Mulder's voice in the background, No, he was
saying, no name yet, something about not wanting to decide until
things were finalized.  And Madame Charlotta's lovely fluid voice
replying, of course of course.  "What do you think of the baby,
Mrs. Hale?" 

His hand found the small of her back and pressed reassuringly. 
She stared at the picture.  Oh God. . . .

"Mrs. Hale, Mrs. Hale?"

It wasn't until she'd said the name for the third time that
Scully looked up.

"Uh. . . ." she looked at Mulder for help.

He gave her a little smile of encouragement and held out his hand
for the picture.  

"I think she likes him," he answered for her.  

She watched as he took the photo and looked down at it.  His
teeth dug into his lower lip.

Madame Charlotta was looking at them approvingly.

"The other couple's last bid stands at $60,000.  U.S. dollars, of
course."

"Of course," said Mulder.

"We'll take the bidding in increments of five thousand."

"Right now?"  asked Scully, her voice sounded weak, she cleared
her throat.  God, another couple wanted him, too.

"65,000," said Mulder, his eyes still on the photo.

Madame Charlotta nodded.  "I can see, Mrs. Hale, that your
husband wants this baby for you very much."  

Scully watched Mulder stare down at the picture.  He had that
look on his face, the one he'd reserved only for. . . .

Oh, Mulder, what are we doing?  She swallowed hard.

"George," she said.  "George."  He didn't look up.  "George!?" 
That got him.  He looked up at her with a funny wistful little
smile that tugged at her heart and made the tears in her throat
threaten to spill over.

"Madame Charlotta?" she said, turning to the woman.  "Would you
mind excusing us for a moment?"

"Not at all."  The woman smiled.  "Why don't you take a little
walk in the gardens.  Decisions like this need discussion."

She clapped her hands and the servant materialized carrying their
shoes.  

Scully stood and held out her hand to Mulder.  "Come on."  He
took her hand and rose to his feet.

As they left, she threw a glance over her shoulder.  Madame
Charlotta was reaching with one perfectly manicured hand for her
phone, a calculating expression on her face.  Suddenly she looked
more than capable enough to be world renown in the baby trade.

The dog made a sound low in its throat.  Madame Charlotta looked
up, suddenly all sugary smile again.  Scully gave her a
half-smile and escaped with Mulder down the outdoor steps and
into the sunlight. 










"You okay?"

She nodded.  "Mul-"

"Shhhhh," he said softly, and slipped his arm around her
shoulders to guide her down the walkway.  The midday sun beat
down on their heads as the overwhelming smell of wet fertile
earth rose around them.  Palms and overhanging branches closed
in, cutting them off suddenly from the rest of the world.  A call
from an unseen bird broke the silence, and then another replied. 
Soon, bird conversation back and forth filled the air.

He drew her into the shade.  "Mynahs," he said.

"What?"  

"Mynahs.  More common than pigeons here."

"Really?"  She looked around vaguely, seeing nothing but green
leaves and exotic flowers that she couldn't even begin to
appreciate at the moment.  "I can't call you George if you don't
answer me," she said quietly.

He nodded.  "Sorry."

"There's something suspicious about her," she said.  "Something
not quite right."

"I get the same vibes.  Beautiful but deadly.  Do we trust her? 
No way.  I don't think all her cards are on the table, but then,
neither are ours."

"Do we even know there's another couple?  She could just be
raising the stakes all by herself."

"I saw them.  When I was here last time."

"You saw them?  Do you know their name?  Did you find out
anything about them?"

"They are what they say they are.  A rich American couple.  From
Seattle.  He's in his forties.  She's in her thirties.  No
children.  Spent too much already on fertility treatments."

"Fertility treatments?"

He shook his head at her expression, "No connection that I could
find." 

"Why do they want this baby when, presumably, Charlotta's got a
whole . . . farm full others?"

"I don't know.  I wish I did."

"Mulder, this is a lot of money.  Are you sure you know what
you're doing?"

He didn't answer.  

He was looking down at the photo again.   

That expression, she hadn't seen that expression since the last
time she'd seen him mulling over a photo of Samantha. . . .  And
where in hell *had* he gotten that kind of money?  She was afraid
to ask.  At least she could try to save him some of it.





When they returned, another couple was sitting with Madame
Charlotta.  

"This is them," Mulder whispered under his breath.

The woman had a knockout bustline, great hair, though impossibly
blonde, and, Scully sighed, long legs, displayed to full
advantage by her mini skirt and the way she was sitting.  She
ignored Scully and raked Mulder with a glance that would have
melted a lesser man.  As far as Scully could tell, Mulder
remained unmelted.  

Nonetheless, she felt her hackles rise.

She glanced at the husband.  He looked very handsome, very rich
and very bored.  One finger was tapping impatiently on the bench.
 
"Oh, good," said Madame Charlotta when she saw them.  "Mr. and
Mrs. Hale, Mr. and Mrs. DaSilva."

They exchanged polite noises.

"Now, shall we get down to business?  The DaSilvas have raised
their bid to 70,000.  Are you still interested?"

"75,000," said Mulder.

"80," purred Ms. DaSilva, lounging back in her chair and casually
displaying even more.

Mulder was opening his mouth when Scully dug her fingernails
sharply into his arm.  

He shut his mouth. 

"How old is this child exactly, Madame?" she asked.

"Four months."

Scully looked up at Mulder imploringly, "Are you sure we don't
want a younger baby, George?"

Mulder got there with lightening speed.  He didn't answer, just
tilted his head and looked at her, his teeth nipping his lower
lip. 

"You know, all the Firsts?" she asked him.  "First smile, first
time he rolls over, first tooth, first time he reaches out for a
toy. . . ." she trailed off and watched Mrs. DaSilva, who was
listening closely, from the corner of her eye.

"It's up to you, Isobel," Mulder said. 

She glanced down at the photo she was holding.  "Of course, this
one does have my hair.  But a little *blonde* baby would be so
adorable, too, don't you think?"

There was silence.  

"Madame C.?"  Ms. DaSilva said suddenly.  "Do you have any blonde
male babies, only a month or so old?"

Madame Charlotta clapped her hands and the servant reappeared. 
"The newborn file, please."  He nodded and disappeared again.

"How long will this take?" said Mr. DaSilva suddenly, "I'd like
to get out of here as soon as possible, I've already had to
postpone my trip to London."

"We can go back that way, Sugar," cooed Ms. DaSilva.  She turned
to Mulder.  "Ed's so busy, I've been waiting forever for him to
come here with me."  Her gaze seemed to linger on Mulder's lower
lip.  Scully had to restrain herself from digging her fingernails
into his arm again.  Instead, she dropped one hand to his thigh
and let it rest there unmoving, the tips of her fingers pressing
lightly.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Mulder swallow, hard. 

The servant reappeared with the file.  Madame Charlotta looked
through it for a moment and then drew out a photograph.  "Green
eyes or blue?" 

"Green," said Ms. DaSilva.

"Blue," said Mulder.  He leaned close to Scully.  "How come you
never call me Sugar?" he whispered in her ear.

She bit back a smile, and pressed his thigh a little harder with
the tips of her fingers.  She didn't need to hear his soft intake
of breath to know his response.

"You can't see yet, of course," said Charlotta.  "But this one
will be blond.  And this one."

She handed one of the pictures to Mrs. DaSilva and one to Scully. 
It was another little newborn, eyes scrunched up in its face and
a small sprinkling of undeterminable-colored hair.

"And here are their medical files."

Scully took the file and examined it closely.  By all appearances
it was a healthy baby.

"Can we let you know tomorrow?" asked Ms. DaSilva.

"Rebecca, you can never make up your mind!  Just bid on this baby
and get it over with."

"It's not like buying a car, Ed.  Besides, we'd be saving thirty
thousand dollars.  These blond babies are fifty, right?"

Madame Charlotta nodded.  "You have the high bid right now on the
first child."

"Can we retract our last bid?"

"If you decide on one of the others.  Yes."

"Fine, we'll let you know."

"And you, Mr. and Mrs. Hale?  Are you still interested in the
older child?"

"We'll leave our bid on him at 75,000," Scully said.  "I'd like
to think about the younger ones, too."

She turned and looked at Mulder.

Are you sure?  his eyes asked. 

She hoped she was doing the right thing.

Yes.  She half shut her eyes in what she knew he'd recognize as
affirmative.  Then nodded ever so slightly. Trust me.

He stared at her a moment then nodded slightly, too.

God.  It was so important, and he was trusting her completely.
  
"Well then," said Madame Charlotta.  "Tomorrow at noon?  We'll
see you then."

Scully felt a sharp stab of disappointment as the woman rose to
her feet.  So they wouldn't get to see Liam today.  

She sighed.  It was going to be a long twenty-four hours.











Part 11





They'd been lost in their own thoughts during the drive back to
the hotel.  Maybe it was the jetlag, maybe just exhaustion, but
she didn't feel much like talking.

Back in their room, he tossed his jacket over a chair and
sprawled on the bed.  He threw one arm over his eyes and lay
still.  

She didn't want to sleep.  She needed to sort all this out. 
She wandered out onto the verandah and leaned against the
railing, staring out at the gardens slumbering in the shimmering
midday heat.  It was unbelievably hot here.  She plucked the
heavy silk away from where it was stuck to her skin.  Her dress
would never be the same, she'd been perspiring the whole time
they'd been at Charlotta's.

Those babies.  So beautiful, and yet. . . . 

Mulder could be so optimistic, only seeing what he wanted to.  He
was so sure Liam was fine, would be fine.  

Her brain kept clicking through a hundred different syndromes,
all undetectable by genetic testing.  She hadn't lied to him. 
She couldn't bear to stand by and watch another child die while
she was powerless to help.

He didn't understand.  

He'd been there, witness to Emily's painful end, but he had no
idea what it had been like watching her die . . . absolutely
helpless. 

Hospitals, too many hospitals.  She hadn't been in one since--  
She had a sudden vision of herself in the hospital, when she'd
been so close to the end, and Mulder, watching her with scared
sleepless eyes, trying to reassure her and pretend everything
would be okay . . . and running around like a madman trying to
find a cure.

She felt a sudden chill run over her scalp and down her spine. 
Goose bumps prickled her skin and she rubbed her arms, shivering
despite the sultry heat.

Maybe he did understand.

Her hand crept to cup the slight bump of scar tissue on the back
of her neck.  She thought of the other women again, holding up
the little vials with their implants.  Had the eggs for the
little blond boys come from them?  From Penny?

All dead.  

At least she was alive to see her child--  

Children. . . .  

Why?  Why out of them all was she still alive?

Mulder.

She'd had Mulder.  

When she'd anguished over their separation this spring, she'd
concentrated on the reasons why she'd been better off away from
him.  But, the truth was--

She had Mulder to thank for many things.

And . . . now she had him to thank for this.




 






She walked slowly back inside.  

He lowered his arm and looked up at her.

She sat down beside him, then reached out and ran one finger down
the line of his cheek, along the stubble at the edge of his beard
line, then across his full bottom lip.

He watched her in silence, motionless.

She tilted her head and examined his face as she traced her
finger over his cheeks . . . his skin . . . his eyelashes . . .
his nose. . . . 

DNA was an incredible thing.  What would a little boy with
Mulder's DNA look like?  The thought made her sad.

"I had to tell you," he said finally.

She just looked at him.

"When you said you didn't want to know, Scully?"

She sighed.

"I still had to tell you."

They looked at each other.  Finally she nodded slowly.

"You still mad?" he asked.

Still mad?  No.  

She shook her head.

"Scuh-lee," he said softly and looked immensely relieved.

And never when he said her name like that.  

He reached up and caught her hand, pressed a kiss in her palm.  

"I need to e-mail Frohike and let him know we may need to wire
the money in the middle of the night DC-time.  Then what do you
feel like doing?  Get something to eat?  See Singapore?" he
asked.

She smiled, and raised one eyebrow. 

He laughed and groaned, then reached up and pulled her down into
his arms.  They went around her and held her, gentle and
reassuring as she fitted her hips against his. "I don't think so. 
I may never recover from last night."  He stared into her eyes
for a moment before brushing his mouth lightly over her lips. 
"That must have been some kind of record."

Her body began to throb as she shifted herself against him.  Her
breasts tingled as her nipples brushed his chest and the vague
soreness between her legs transformed suddenly into an ache to
have him inside her again.

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Hale."  

"Yeah, right," he said and laughed again, giving her a hug and
another longer kiss.  It was a nice kiss, sweet, friendly, but it
didn't seem to be leading in the direction she'd hoped.  She
pressed her hips closer against him.  Hmmm.  Nothing stirring
there either.  

She sighed.  She was becoming a little too single-minded.  

She drew back reluctantly, giving his lower lip one last
lingering nip.  

"What?" he asked, at her expression.

"Oh.  Um.  I keep wondering about Charlotta," she said.  "Where
are the children?  They weren't at that house.  And where are
their mothers? *Who* are their mothers?" 

He hunched his shoulders suddenly.

"What Mulder?"  Her fingers went the tightness at his shoulders
and she tried to loosen the muscles.

"Just something. . . deja vu."  He shook his head as if to clear
it.  "Do you want to follow her?"

"Let's tail Charlotta," she said at exactly the same moment.  

She laughed.

"See?  We *are* meant to be together."  He smiled at her.  "Mrs.
Hale." 

She searched his face.  That sounded as if he was answering a
question, and she hadn't asked it.  Not aloud anyway.  She wasn't
sure what she saw in his eyes.  Hope, maybe?  That she'd say
what?  She wondered what he saw in hers.  This was the closest
either of them had come to saying anything about the future. 
With or without Liam.

Together.  How?

"I'm going to change my clothes," was all she managed.  She gave
him a quick apologetic kiss and pushed herself up off him.

He just nodded slightly and looked sad.  She turned away from him
and went to change.  

What she really needed was a cold shower.










Part 12





Golden Village
Singapore






They parked down the road from the house where they'd met
Charlotta that morning.  Scully could just see the front door
through the lush grove of bananas and palms.  They'd be able to
see Charlotta when she left.

If she left.

She yawned, a huge yawn that cracked her jaw.  The jet lag was
catching up with her.  Sitting, doing nothing, even for just
twenty minutes in this tropical heat . . . she yawned again . . .
she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.  

She glanced at Mulder.  He was already dozing.

Their stakeout technique was definitely suffering.

"Mulder, is that her?"

A small figure darted from the front door, dressed in white
jeans, a red t-shirt, dark glasses and a black baseball cap.

"Is it?"

Mulder opened his eyes and watched as the woman hurried from the
front door to the Land Rover parked at the top of the long
curving drive.  She took what looked like a box out of the back,
then quickly disappeared back into the house.

"Maybe."  He shut his eyes again.

Scully turned and pulled Liam's medical records out of her bag
and, between glances up at the house, began rereading each sheet
carefully, checking for anything she might have missed.  

Nothing.  

Finally, frustrated, she stuffed the papers back into her bag.

Mulder made a slight noise in his sleep and moved his shoulders
restlessly.  She watched his face for a minute.  He looked tired,
even in his sleep.  

"Mulder?" she said softly.

"Hmmm?"

"Are we going to get him?"

He opened his eyes briefly and gave her an intense look that made
her think maybe he hadn't been asleep at all.

"Yes."

He shut his eyes again.  

She couldn't help but feel reassured at the firmness in his tone.

He opened his eyes and looked at her again, then sat up suddenly.

"Sorry."  

"It's okay.  Sleep," she told him gently.  "I'm watching."

He rubbed his eyes and looked toward the house.

"Anything?"  

"Not yet."

He reached into the back for the laptop and settled back with it
on his lap, flipping open the lid.

She relaxed back in her seat.

This part of town was peaceful and quiet, away from the bustle of
Singapore City.  She idly watched the patterns the sun made as it
slanted through the trees.  At one point, she thought she could
hear monkeys chattering somewhere, but she couldn't be sure.

"'In the thirteenth century. . . .'" Mulder began suddenly,
reading from the screen.

"Yes?"

"'A prince from Palemburg, Indonesia was hunting here--before it
became Singapore--and saw an animal in the jungle which he
described as half-lion half-fish.  Reported sightings of the same
creature have dated since that time.'"

He looked at her expectantly.  

It had been awhile, but she knew her cue. 

She gave him her best exasperated-bordering-on-disgusted look. 
"I should have known.  Are you sure *that's* not why we're here
in Singapore, Mulder?  There couldn't possibly be any such
creature as half mammal, half fish."

She watched his lips twitch as he tried to hide a smile.  She'd
delivered.  He'd obviously been waiting for just that response.

"'This fantastic beast with the head of a lion and the tail of a
fish, is called the Merlion.  The prince named the island *singa*
which is Malay for *lion* and *pura* which is Malay for *city* . 
Hence Singapura or Singapore,'" he went on.  "'The Merlion is the
Singaporean national symbol.'"
  
"What's that from?"

"Some info I downloaded before we left."  The corners of his
mouth tightened slightly.  "Makes you wonder, doesn't it, Scully? 
Anything could be in these jungles."

"Makes you wonder what he was smoking.  I understand
hallucinogens were widely used in those days among royalty."  She
looked around at the carefully maintained estates.  "I don't
know, Mulder. I haven't seen a jungle here wild enough to hide a
Merlion." 

"Hey Scully, I miss hav