Mulder woke with a start. The lights were off-- it'd been daylight when he'd gotten back to the motel, sunlight streaming brightly through the window, so he hadn't bothered to switch on the overhead light. Now the security halogens from the parking lot filtered through the curtains, casting the room in an unearthly greenish glow. Mulder checked his watch and grimaced. Christ, where was Kay?

He rolled off the bed and made a frantic dive for the phone. No messages at the front desk. Mulder tried to tell himself he wasn't overly surprised. It didn't help though. The shattered feeling in his chest was just too much to ignore, somehow. He slammed down the receiver and promptly jerked it up again. His hands were shaking so hard it took three times to pound in the number for information; sorry, sir, that number is unlisted.

Mulder banged the receiver down yet again, left his hand on it a minute, trying to determine if there was another source he could call. He had any number of contacts in the Bureau that could get him a phone number-- but instinct and common sense told him the last thing any woman would want is a man who would use his badge to violate her privacy.

Hell, maybe she'd come by and just hadn't wanted to wake him.... Mulder made a quick search of the room but found no note. His frustration and disappointment were instant and intense, and directed entirely at himself.

The room blurred without warning. He swore heatedly, clawing at his eyes. Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, came entirely too easily for him lately and he despised himself for it. It was another sign that he was losing control. Yeah, like he needed another sign.

She didn't work Sundays as far as he knew but he was instinctively drawn to the window and its view of the diner. Chris' sat, squat and small in the shadow of the Wal-Mart, lights out, empty.

Mulder grimaced and dropped his head against the cool pane of window. Did you say you were disappointed, Fox? Hell, let's translate that to what you really mean: you're scared shitless, terrified she won't be back. You fucking jerk, you'd never even asked her for her phone number. Been so long since you've had a woman put up with you more than a few hours that you've forgotten all the little niceties, all the necessary protocols. Wonderful, Fox. Just great. That one little oversight probably told her volumes about your level of interest in what mattered to her--

He peeled off his jacket and the bed caught it with an unsatisfying thump. His tie was close behind. He ruffled his hair fitfully, crossing the room on instinct, eyes closed against the emptiness.

Hell, the least she needs is a break. You haven't exactly been making her life easier by being here. It'd serve you right if she left your butt flat out--

His pacing had brought him to the door. He yanked it open, stepped out. He peered into the darkness, this way, that way, looking for that familiar form to come dancing out of the dark, that soft, confident swing of hips, those creamy legs, that glorious smile. The longing was so intense, he even sniffed for her perfume; reality slammed home with the bitter fragrance of blacktop oil and gas fumes from the highway.

There was a man downstairs near the motel office, kneeling at the ice machine with a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. In the dim light, Fox could read the stained T-shirt: "Don't even ask."

He grunted. "Don't worry. I won't."

A car honking insistently across the parking lot brought Mulder back to himself. It was an unsettling awakening. He was back inside his room, door firmly shut, staring out the window at Chris'. He had no clear remembrance of his actions or how he'd gotten there, no idea how long he'd stood there this time. Fear kept him from looking at his watch. Best to know only that he was terribly tired and that his left arm was throbbing unmercifully. Then suddenly low-grade headache he'd had for weeks pulled a switchblade on the base of his skull. Mulder gasped as the combined pains escalated, slamming into his frontal lobe.

He found the bed without realizing he was even looking for it, collapsed in a writhing ball, just trying to remember how to breath, forcing oxygen to his brain, waiting for the episode to pass. It would pass. It would pass. It always passed...

And at last it did, receding as abruptly as it had hit. He lay quite still for some time after, hesitant to move, fearful any motion on his part would invite a repeat performance. It was a full half hour before Mulder could convince himself to risk a few tentative, rational thoughts and he was careful to keep them simple, calm, stripped of any emotive quality. He never knew just what would trigger these events, after all.

He made himself some more promises, without bothering to reason out just how he was going to pull them off. It's going to be all right, Fox. You're going to get yourself together and then you'll make it right in the morning. She'll call. You'll see, she'll call. Maybe her mom took sick, or... something. Maybe... maybe she'll let you make it all up to her. Hell, she's got to call, she's not the type to just walk off without at least telling you off. If she just calls, you can handle it from there. You can make it right. You're good at that. She'll listen. You know how to make her listen--

It was a convincing argument when he didn't bother himself with details, and Mulder found he was finally able to stretch out on the bed without the headache rising to more than the dull-drone level he'd grown accustomed to. Something slid across the mattress and bumped softly into his hand: the remote control.

He stared at it a moment, punching buttons blearily and solely on instinct. The television complied with the commands and Mulder curled to his side, propping his throbbing head on the pillow. He got the moisture blinked from his eyes and dried his face with his shirt sleeve, resolutely oblivious to either action as he struggled to concentrate on the channels fleeing across the screen in a rapid blur.

Ah, the marvels of modern technology: forty-seven channels of nothing, twenty-four hours a day. He settled on HBO and "The Fly." It was the damned remake, Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, but Geena looked good enough to make even the gross-out scenes worthwhile. Hell, she could pull mutated hairs out of his bare back anytime.

The thought of small, soft hands running down his shoulders hit a bit too close to home, though, and Mulder jerked up guiltily. The movement sent the pain in his head escalating into the danger zone and he froze waiting for the inevitable neurological assault. The spasm retreated mercifully, however, back to normal levels. Mulder sighed gratefully-- carefully-- and switched the channel over to the safer haven of CNN.

The tones of "Larry King Live" followed him into the bathroom. Gary Hart was assuring Larry that he was running higher in the polls than George Bush. Larry didn't sound too convinced. Mulder drowned out the discussion with a twist of the shower control, allowing the water to heat up while he stripped off.

Yeah, she'll call, he reassured himself, back to what really mattered in this election year. You've just got to pull yourself together, here, Fox. You're no good to her if you're falling apart...

He stepped under the warm, steady stream, closing his eyes against the torrent as it poured over his head. The simple motion triggered a wave of vertigo that tried to buckle his knees. Mulder held himself steady, hands flat against the tile, and somehow managed not to blackout.

Mulder pushed away from the tile and back under the stream of the shower. The water congealed into steaming rivulets down his neck and shoulders, highlighting the tension in the muscles there. He flexed his arms carefully, trying to pull the pain loose, but the action only served to reveal further areas of tension. Hell. Muder had already taken to popping half a dozen aspirin every few hours, you'd think that would be enough to get rid of most any pain for a while anyway. You know, Fox, if you collect any more signs of stress, you're going to have to consider requesting a leave of absence, maybe even put yourself in for medical treatment--

Yeah, right. He'd tried that in Shreveport and they'd left him on the case, calling Baez in and scaring the shit out of him. Mulder had just one point in his favor in Shreveport: the results of his Rorschach tests were consistent with sanity. He grinned without joy: that must have broken Patterson's balls...

Mulder tore the paper off a fresh cake of soap, wrapped it in a wash cloth and began scrubbing himself down. The motions were automatic and vaguely comforting and his thoughts slipped into autopilot, flying where they willed.

Lathering his chest and abdomen, Mulder thought about the latest victim: Officer Kress, gutted in his own motel room, his badge on the dresser.

Yeah. Right where you leave yours usually... Well. Is that the problem, Fox? You wondering when she'll come for you? When it'll be your guts being ripped out and plopped on the floor?

Mulder forced himself to think about it, brutalized his frontal lobe into analyzing the photos stored away in that filing cabinet of a mind, gauging his reactions clinically. There was no aching in his chest at the thought, though, no change in his heart rate. His balls hadn't taken a dive for his abdomen. Nothing he would label as fear.

Well, maybe *that* was the problem, then. After all, any rational man would be afraid. Because at some point, somewhere, Fox Mulder would be on this woman's list of things to do. He had lied to Purdue on that count. Well, not lied, really. He wasn't on the list yet after all. And he did intend to catch her ASAP--

The water was noticeably colder and he searched the washcloth suspiciously, flinging it at the far end of the tub when he found only a small sliver of soap remaining. He dove under the showerhead to rinse before the hot water failed entirely. "Shit, Fox," he hissed. Losing track of time, standing in the shower half the night-- What's wrong with you anyway? It's not like this is a sexual molestation case. Kress had been nude but it's not like there was any evidence of--

Kress had been the only victim nude. Mulder froze, evaluating the thought. The others had been partially undressed, the clothing pulled back for the benefit of the blade but Kress, Kress had been robbed of all dignity, his clothes flung in the corner, stained with blood and gun powder.

And Kress looked like you, Fox. A couple inches shorter, maybe. A couple of pounds heavier. A little thicker through the chest... She's coming onto you, sir, being coy and seductive. What's that you'd said about her getting 'round to subtle later? Well, well, Fox. It's later than you think.

The thought soured in his stomach. And was disturbingly intriguing. Mulder grimaced, shutting the water off. Sauceda was right: he was becoming as twisted as the perps he hunted.

Mulder toweled himself dry, resisting the shiver that took him suddenly. Strange. He could swear he wasn't cold...

He found his robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and slipped it on. The trembling stopped abruptly. The terry fabric still smelled like Kay: Heaven Scent and Sassoon shampoo. He smiled, pulling the robe close as he climbed into the bed.

He would locate her in the morning, no more waiting for her to come to him. He was a Federal agent, after all, trained for manhunting. Besides, he'd heard that a certain amount of groveling was good for the soul...

"Fox! Help me, Fox!"

"Samantha--!"

The sound of his own cry woke him even as he groped the darkness seeking Samantha, reaching out to calm his sister's fear.

He was alone. The fact had long ceased to amaze him-- he always woke from that dream alone. Always woke sweating and shaking with the pain of uncertain horror, and certain loss. He gulped air rapidly, struggling to reorient himself, to dismiss the dream, convince himself it didn't matter. 

But it did matter. His dreams of Sam had never involved blood before and he'd never woke from them with this kind of pain radiating through his chest and down both arms. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong.

Mulder'd had the same dream for so many years now that he could no longer recall if he'd even lived the events-- or if he'd simply dreamed the events so often-- so vividly-- that they had become reality to him. He was unwilling to decide upon the truth, however. If the dream was just a dream it was surely the reflection of impending madness. If it was a reflection of reality and the events were real--

Mulder never allowed himself to finish that thought. It was impossible. He didn't want to believe.

Mulder dropped back to the sheets and flung his arm over his face, shielding himself from the twilight of this room that was not his own, this empty bedroom that was too much like his own. He thought of the Sam in this dream: bathed in unearthly light, her gown glowing red, blood red and bleeding more even as she called for him. And he couldn't reach her. He could never reach her--

His chest constricted with the memory and he gagged, made it to the toilet only just in time. There were tiny streaks of blood in the bowl when he was done. He stared at the sight a long minute, his mind a whirl of too many thoughts. Without coming to any conscious conclusions, Mulder flushed the evidence away and moved to the sink to rinse his mouth. His own image stared out of the mirror at him, accusingly. There were dark rings under the eyes, a shadowing under the cheekbones that he hadn't noticed when he'd shaved yesterday. His irises had disappeared entirely, his pupils fully dilated even in the bright mirror lights.

What he needed most, he decided, was sleep. Even if just to fight the depression. Truthfully, he needed a lot of things, but right now he'd settle for sleep... Jeezus, if only Kay were here...

Sauceda opened his door blearily, and let Mulder in. He opened his mouth to ask, "You on your own tonight, Marty?" but closed it before the words formed. Mulder was fiercely private on some subjects. Besides, if Kay had been a no-show, there was no use embarrassing the kid. Or hurting him.

He settled for telling Mulder he looked like hell. Mulder thanked him, then just stood there, hesitantly. Sauceda frowned.

"We expecting another body in the morning, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, this is... It's personal." He said it quickly, his face closed and the pathologist didn't press it. No one got through the shield when it went up that tight and even at this ungodly hour, Sauceda knew better than to try.

Sauceda tucked his hands in his robe. Even in T-shirt and jeans, Mulder could manage to make him feel underdressed. "What can I do you for, then, kiddo?"

Mulder grimaced. "You got anymore of those sedatives Baez prescribed?"

Sauceda concentrated on keeping his breathing even. He knew how Marty felt about taking drugs of any kind. No way this was a simple request for him and Mulder refused to meet his eyes, suddenly interested in the weave of the carpet.

Sauceda tried to not make a big deal of locating the capsules in the bottom of his bag. He kept his conversation light and his expression neutral even when Mulder's hand shook when he held it out for the pill. Even when Mulder spilled the glass of water for the other hand shaking so hard.

Mulder woke with James Wright echoing through his drugged fog:

"The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.

The dark wheat listens.

Be still.

Now.

There they are, the moon's young, trying

Their wings.

Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow

Of her face, and now she steps into the air,

now she is gone

Wholly into the air.

I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe

Or move.

I listen.

The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,

And I lean toward mine."

He lay a long while, leaning back toward the darkness without really entering it, waiting for his head to clear, the fog to lift and the nausea to ease. He recalled vague dreams of Sam and blood. Something about Kay. And more blood. None of it was clear, though, just snatches of snapshots, blurred by the Secobarbital haze. He finally gave it up. And wished it would give him up.

The shower helped. At least the nausea had dissipated and he managed to get dressed without incident. That was important. Mulder was a master of presentation; it was the first rule of Faking It: look good and they invariably assumed you felt good, and then you avoided all those difficult questions...

From habit, he crossed to the window while he knotted his tie. Kay wouldn't be at work yet, of course, but he'd come to find the view oddly comforting anyway. He paused in mid-step. Odd. There was a bigger crowd than usual in front of Chris'. A dozen police units. Harris' Ford. The coroner's Buick.

Mulder didn't remember the numbed walk across the parking lot. Only knew that suddenly he was there, flashing his badge on instinct, reaching for the door with it's "Closed" sign. Most of the activity appeared to be centered behind the soda counter.

Purdue blocked him before he was halfway across the room.

"Step back, Agent."

"No--" Mulder's voice was muffled in his own ears, as if traveling from a great distance; he studied the commotion over the ASAC's shoulder, the wisp of dark, blood crusted hair curling on the floor, just visible beyond the corner of the counter. Purdue was speaking but none of it registered. Nothing registered but that soft brunette tress...

Purdue raised his voice, trying to be heard above the roar in Mulder's head.

"Mulder, you're not coming in on this--"

The young man moved to push past and Purdue wrapped his arms around Mulder's chest and arms in a tackle posture and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the door. Mulder was too numb to struggle; he stared at the ASAC blankly and Purdue released him, still keeping himself resolutely between the profiler and the body behind the counter. Harris was there, too, suddenly, and took an uneasy stand behind Purdue.

"You're not getting in on this one, Mulder. That's an order." Purdue's voice softened, his eyes dark. "I'll give you a report later, son." He licked his lips. "Come on. Let's step outside."

"No." The word sounded too weak and ineffectual to adequately convey much, but right now, it was the only word Mulder found he knew.

Sauceda's eyes over the counter were large and round and pained. Sauceda turned away guiltily from his partner's gaze.

Purdue had a solid grip on Mulder's right arm. "Outside," he insisted softly.

Mulder didn't resist; he simply didn't move, didn't allow himself to be moved. *No. No. No. No--*

"Don't do this to yourself, Mulder," Purdue whispered at his ear. "Let us handle it. It's too close, son. Let's step outside."

Sauceda was suddenly close at hand now, taking his other arm. "This what you saw last night, Marty? When you asked for the pill?"

Mulder muttered something, he didn't know what. Something about being too close to see... He closed his eyes, searched his short-term memory for some snatch of the dream. The blood. Sam. But Sam hadn't bled when they'd stolen her away from him. Kay did though. Beautiful Kay with the smiling eyes.

He realized he was still speaking, couldn't comprehend his words, couldn't snatch them back. He forced himself to open his eyes, forced himself to focus, bit his tongue until he drew blood and used the pain and salty anger to bring his mind forward. He owed it to Kay.

*Sweet God. Kay.*

"Where is it?" His voice was harsh, vision boring into Sauceda, the weaker of the two links which held him. Purdue swore as Sauceda handed him the sheet of paper, tagged within its baggie. Mulder took it and read.

It was John Ashbery. From the book laying beside his bed a parking lot away...

"...you forget the direction you're taking.

Suddenly you are interested in some new thing

And can't tell how you got here. Then there is confusion

Even out of happiness, like smoke--

It's anybody's story,

A sentimental journey--'gonna take a sentimental journey,'

And we do, but you wake up under the table of a dream:

You are that dream, and it is the seventh layer of you.

We haven't moved an inch and everything has changed."

He blinked, realized he was outside now. And the hands on his arms were holding him up. He tried to help them, managed a good imitation of a man standing, confident he could maintain it if no one let go.

The motel stared at him across the parking lot, cheap and gritty in the morning sun. Someone's horn was broke at the Wal-Mart. There was a tight pain in his left arm that had nothing to do with Sauceda's grip.

"It's to you, isn't it?"

Mulder took a moment to register the question, took another to seek out the questioner. Purdue's face was masked; Mulder didn't bother to nod. The ASAC spoke across his chest to the pathologist.

"Get him back to the motel and keep him there."

"No--" Mulder heard the moan, didn't recognize his own voice.

Purdue swung back to him, his face cold and the young man flinched involuntarily. The eyes regarding him gentled and Mulder's stomach turned. He tried to freeze his face into SOB mode, tried to find some way to blow Purdue off. He tried desperately to think of something, anything to prove he wasn't worth the pity, to force a distance between himself and all approaches. There had to be some way to convince these men that he could handle the unimaginable horror behind the counter, that he could touch just once more the pale, soft arms that had held him just the morning before--

He could think of nothing. Only one word would come and he cringed as he said it.

"Please."

Purdue pushed Sauceda away, took both Mulder's arms, squeezing them, trying to draw him back to conscious recognition of his words.

"Mulder. You cannot be objective on this one. You know that. You need distance to operate--"

"There's never been any distance," Mulder whispered, closing his eyes against the intensity of Purdue's face, against the morning sun reflecting off the Buick beside him. "There's never been any distance. Not on any of them. From the first one, the first set of photos, they're walking around in my head. All of them. Every case--"

"Dammit, Mulder, look at me."

Mulder obeyed.

"The killer's gone after someone you know," Purdue hissed. "Left you a note. It's personal. She want's your attention--"

"She's got it," he hissed. He struggled resentfully against the arms that held him, and Purdue spun him around and slammed him back against the Buick.

"What happens the next time she thinks she's not got enough of your attention?" Purdue demanded. "Who's next on her list, Mulder? Sauceda? Me? Goddamit, think! I need you rational right now." He shook his head mournfully. "*You* need you rational right now."

Mulder stopped struggling and Purdue pushed verbally while he still held some leverage. "Listen to me, Mulder. Maybe she decides she wants all of it and you open your door to a pretty little thing with a .22 in her purse. Now that may be okay with you, but I'm not letting you off the payroll that easily. You're going back to the motel and you're going to pack your butt back to Washington. Today. Right now."

Harris' voice behind him was a point of calm in the maelstrom: "I'll assign a guard detail till he's on the plane."

And just like that. Mulder finally comprehended: they weren't going to let him see her. Not even a glimpse around the counter.

She lay on the floor where she'd stood on tiptoe to kiss him. And they wouldn't even let him see her.

He felt a door close inside his soul. A light went out, something precious shut away forever. And he was left with only with the eclipse as his life passed into sudden total darkness.