Monday. May 16, 1988, 11:22 AM.

Mulder only vaguely comprehended the drive to the airport. He remembered coming to and finding himself back on his bed at the motel, his suitcase lying next to him, Lenny on the phone. Since then, Mulder had been functioning solely on automatic: Lenny told him to sit and he sat; Lenny told him to walk, and he put one foot before the other, repeating the process dully until told otherwise.

The ease with which he fell into this arrangement surprised him. All his life Mulder had suffered from an unfounded paranoia, the deep-seated sensation that he was being maneuvered, controlled somehow. Absurd as it was, he'd never been able to shake it and finally came to credit this fear to either some kind of chemical imbalance or-- worse-- an inherent tendency to madness. He raged against it, this certainty that things were not what they seemed and the equal certainty that such anxieties had no basis in reality. But because of it, he had rarely followed easily.

He was finding this new procedure, however-- Lenny's monosyllabic commands, his own ready compliance-- rather intriguing. The set-up required little thought and no emotional response whatsoever. Still, he couldn't help but feel vaguely uncomfortable, like a man driving into a darkened tunnel and hearing the distant whistle of a train. Only, just now, it wouldn't have occurred to him to turn around.

Besides, through his window in the back of the Chevy, there was no visible tunnel. Instead, Wheeling and its environs sped past, a blur of channels with no personal significance, demanding no response, evoking none. Even the voices of Purdue and Sauceda, bickering in the front seat, were muffled as if traveling to him through a great depth of water. It reminded him of his childhood: his parents' constant conflicts muted and distorted by walls, doors, and his own adolescent innocence. Except now, the emotional trauma was blissfully absent.

Mulder's upper arm throbbed petulantly and he rubbed at it, finding the telltale knot left by one of Sauceda's less diplomatic needles. Mulder didn't remember the injection nor did he much care. He just knew he didn't hurt anymore; this was surely a marvelous enough thing and Hot Sauce could be forgiven his small treasons.

The images out the window slowed and then turned, focusing suddenly on the Wheeling-Ohio County Airport which had greeted him just-- was it only a week ago? Lenny was speaking again, tugging at his arm from the open car door. Mulder obliged, grateful that Lenny was there to help him keep things straight, there to help him out of the car. It was good to have friends. Mulder spoke the words aloud. Sauceda blinked at him like it was the revelation of angels.

Purdue escorted them into the complex, waiting with Mulder while Sauceda disappeared to tend to luggage and whatnot. He kept asking questions Mulder couldn't quite comprehend; the roar in his head had apparently deafened him to all but the simplest sentences. Still, it seemed important that he answer, so each time Purdue paused, Mulder shook his head or nodded. Either action was entirely random, but at least he had a fifty-percent chance of being right. And he must have done pretty well because after a bit, Purdue patted a fresh pack of cigarettes into his jacket pocket and told him everything was going to be okay now. Mulder was relieved to hear it.

Sauceda was back and it was time to walk some more. Purdue led them through the terminal, flashing badges and such. Mulder presented his badge, discreetly revealing the weapon on his hip to the gate attendant, behavior as routine now as tying his shoes. This time he must have screwed up the procedure, however; Sauceda and Purdue were back hissing at one another almost immediately. Mulder's forlorn look silenced them both. Lenny sighed and told him to get the hell on the plane.

They were taxi-ing down the runway before Mulder realized that Purdue hadn't joined them. Sauceda didn't volunteer any explanations and, comfortable in his reclined seat, Mulder didn't inquire. The window beside him was misted with rain, the view outside dispassionate as a Monet landscape, color bleeding into color with few distinct lines. Between Sauceda's uncharacteristic silence, the patter of rain and resonate hum of engines, Mulder finally relinquished control, content at last to surrender to oblivion.

Mulder didn't respond, busy weighing his options. Sauceda could be a cagey old cuss when he wanted: overt resistance would have him force-feeding Mulder Valium and hauling him home to Georgetown despite all protest. Sauceda'd pulled that trick before, after all-- in Newark, the first time Patterson had employed the drugs against him. All Sauceda needed was for Mulder to make a scene: he'd flash his badge, declare "psychotic episode" and airport security would be on Mulder in a heartbeat. Sauceda'd probably prepared the syringe before they left Wheeling. Mulder had no delusions about his position-- or his partner's determination on some subjects.

Sauceda's reflection in the window was watching him now, frowning. After a minute, Sauceda leaned across him, fumbling for Mulder's seat restraint. "Here, kid, let's get you buckled in, 'kay?"

Mulder pushed him back, his voice mild. "Not in public, Len, people will talk." He struggled to sit upright and tried working the buckle himself. His fingers were numb, though, and it took a few tries to get it right.

Sauceda smiled uncertainly. "So. How you feeling, Marty? You sleep okay?"

"I had a choice?"

"Now, Marty--"

"Look, Len. We're not doing this, okay?" Mulder's voice was as diplomatic and reasonable as he could make it, "I'm going home. I haven't been there in a week. I'm tired, I'm fed up and I just need some time to myself. And that's it."

He could have saved his breath, Sauceda was not taking *no* for an answer and Mulder's calculated silence had him swearing brutally in no time. When Mulder bothered to respond, he kept his tone calm and disinterested, infuriating Sauceda even more-- which, of course, was the whole point. Lenny was tired and Mulder knew he shouldn't be doing this but what could he say? Sometimes self-preservation was a bitch.

Several minutes into Sauceda's diatribe, a wide-eyed flight attendant was sent to Mulder's rescue. She insisted Sauceda calm down for the sake of the other passengers and to watch his language. Still, Lenny wasn't having it. Mulder, the obstinate catalyst for all this commotion, smiled languidly from his window seat, genuinely appreciative. The woman's answering smile said that surely this is the gentlest of men, born innocent of both violence and original sin. She glared at Sauceda and made her way to the forward cabin with the air of a woman with something to report.

Sauceda caught on at last and let loose with another string of profanity. He kept his voice down this time, though, regaining his composure as he jerked his seat belt tighter. He had to get his hands busy doing something, apparently. Anything to keep from knocking the shit out of his partner and getting himself arrested.

"You *are* going home with me, you little piss-ant punk," he hissed. "And you damned well better *like* it, too."

Mulder didn't answer.

"Goddammit, you are. And that's final. You're in no condition--"

"I'm fine, Len. Real--"

Sauceda twisted in his seat. "God is my witness, one of these days, someone's gonna 'I'm-fine-really' you to death and I'm gonna be laughing my ass off." He looked like he wanted to spit, both hands clenched tight into his armrests. "You're not 'fine-really.' Mentally and emotionally you're about *this* far from loony-tune land, and you know it, you little shit."

"I damned well *am* fine. Or I will be as soon as I get home and out from under your goddam thumb." Mulder gritted his teeth, careful to maintain his veneer of composure. "You know, you seem to keep forgetting that *I'm* the psychologist in this team."

"Uh huh," Sauceda glared doggedly. "And that means what, exactly? That you can explain why psychologists have one of the highest suicide rates in America?"

"Is that why you're hauling ass back to DC with me, instead of doing your fucking job and working up an autopsy?" Mulder's voice shook ominously and he turned away again to the window, deliberately shutting his mind away from images of bodies and blood and that brunette tress...

It took a few minutes to steady the erratic hammering in his chest; he finally became aware of a light pressure on his arm. He looked down to find Sauceda's hand, comforting, reassuring, curled around his wrist. He flinched it off.

"Of course," he mused soberly, "you shared that bit of dubious statistical trivia with Purdue?"

"Damned straight I did."

Sauceda was blinking rapidly. Mulder couldn't determine if the grimace on the man's face was triumph or pain. It didn't much matter, he supposed. Mulder's emotional armor still held; as long as he could keep it that way, he'd win. And for some reason, he desperately needed a win right now.

"It's not happening, Lenny," he assured coolly. "I'm not going home with you. End of discussion."

Sauceda glowered. He looked desperate, his cheeks flushed with mental effort. "The hell you're not," he growled finally. "I have a gun, you know."

The threat brought Mulder up short for all of three seconds. "So have I," he noted slowly. "Is that what you and Purdue were arguing about at the airport?"

Sauceda blanched, his hostility draining away with his color. "I stood up for you, Marty. I didn't let him pull your gun or your badge. You owe me."

"I'll send you an FTD bouquet."

Sauceda flinched like he'd been slapped. Mulder turned away, completely unable to look him in the eye suddenly.

"Ah, come on, Marty," Sauceda moaned his despair, "I called Imelda hours ago, she's expecting you." He rubbed his face wearily when Mulder failed to respond. "She's gonna be *real* disappointed if you don't show--"

They disembarked with Mulder enduring a barrage of emotional blackmail. Sauceda, however, found himself playing a one-sided game of tug of war-- with Mulder flatly refusing to pick up his end of the rope. Caught up in the details of luggage retrieval and the navigation of crowded terminals, Lenny finally calmed a bit. Mulder warily agreed to share a cab but he had no illusions that the truce was anything but temporary.

Sauceda insisted that the driver start the car while the two men loaded their own luggage. Nothing unusual for the penny-pinching pathologist-- keeping the tip to a minimum was Sauceda's credo. But when Lenny tossed his once precious suitcase into the trunk and sprinted for the backseat like a man fleeing a fire, Mulder shook his head wearily. He plopped into his seat in time to catch the tail end of Sauceda's bargain: a twenty-dollar tip if the driver drove straight to Lenny's home and refused to drive his partner any further.

Sauceda smiled up at him innocently-- until Mulder waved a fifty over the seat. The driver's grin couldn't have gotten much bigger-- just his luck to have picked up two extravagant loons. Sauceda pushed himself into his corner to sulk. Mulder didn't bother to interrupt him.

In the silence of the drive Mulder found himself shuffling through the same aimless ramblings he'd been meditating on for months now: the unnecessary savagery of life, the treacherous nature of sanity. Bandaged fist pressed to his mouth, elbow on the door, he wondered why he didn't simply give this all up, just surrender and walk away. He'd thought about it often enough and God knew no one would care. And the problem was, no one *would* care. The only person Mulder would have walked away for was three hundred miles away now, lying on a stainless steel tray.

Mulder dropped his head against the window. Christ Almighty. He didn't want to think about Kay like that, cold as ice, probed and prodded by the gloved hands of strangers. At least if Sauceda had stayed, it would--

No. He shook his head rapidly, rolling his forehead against the glass. Lenny or a stranger. It made no difference. Not for her. Not for him. Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing would ever be right. Mulder wished they'd at least let him see the histamine test-- he'd know then if she suffered or if her death had at least been quick--

He marveled that his mind could even form such thoughts without his heart exploding. There was a pressure in his chest, certainly, a sensation of a fist tightening around the cardiac muscle. But otherwise a great emptiness pervaded his being. Even his weariness was distant, like a coat borrowed from a stranger, held out of courtesy until called for. Emotionally, he was a wasteland: a barren sea of ash, the benign face of a dormant volcano. Mount Saint Helens came to mind.

In the quiet of the car, with Sauceda notably mute, Mulder searched for some remnant of the pain that had threatened to erupt and engulf him on the plane. This, however, had bubbled quietly back below the surface as well, and there was no way he could blame it on the pharmacokinetics of Valium. The psychologist in him knew that he should find this oppressive numbness disturbing, another symptom of depression to add to his formidable collection, but he just couldn't manage to care.

Beside him, Sauceda's voice was solemn. "Whatcha thinkin' about, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "Nothing."

"No, kid. Seriously."

"Seriously, Len. I'm thinking about Nothing."

Sauceda let it go and Mulder was granted a few more miles of silence.

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"How about you just have supper with us? You gotta eat, you know."

"I'm not hungry, Len."

"But--"

"And if I go and don't eat, Imelda'll get all hurt about it and I don't want that, either."

"That's okay, Marty, she'll understand--"

"No!" Mulder scrubbed at his face wearily. "Hell, Len, I just want to sleep in my own bed. That's all." He forced himself to look his partner in the eye. "If I get in any trouble, or if I feel the need to talk, I'll call. I owe you, remember? Len, I swear, I'm not going to do anything to myself."

It took a long minute for Sauceda to nod and he chewed his lip as he did so. It obviously wasn't okay. Mulder resigned himself to being granted two or three hours to himself, four at the outside, before Sauceda showed up at his doorstep, ready to spend the night. Sauceda said nothing further, though, and seemed almost grateful when the cab finally stopped to let him out. Mulder couldn't blame him. Sauceda was a good old man. Most days he deserved a hell of a lot better than Marty Mulder.

Sauceda turned before closing his door, bending low to peer back into the car, trying to see Mulder clearly. The profiler sighed, steeling himself for the last of the argument. Considering the outcome was already determined, he could afford to be patient.

Over Sauceda's shoulder, he could see Imelda, raven-haired, exquisite even at sixty, standing on the stoop of the porch. She waved at him-- a sincere, welcoming gesture extended to a near stranger, a man who went out of his way to give her husband so much hell. Her smile was genuine and Mulder felt his heart clinch against the glow in her eyes, the joy, the unaccountable willingness to give even a small part of herself away for the sake of her husband. God in heaven. To have found a woman like that, with a smile like that-- A woman to spend your life with, to grow old with. To--

Mulder choked down bile. Surely God was the source of all evil, to put such glorious beings in the world and then snatch them away with savage hands--

Imelda's smile turned uncertain, apparently discerning Mulder's distress even with the distance across the yard. He managed a grimace and about half a wave before retreating to his corner, eyes resolutely forward, too full of moisture to even see out the windshield. He felt Sauceda shifting uneasily.

"Marty, are you sure--"

"Christ, Len--" Mulder moaned, then caught himself, trying for a softer tone, still not looking directly at his partner. "Go on, Hot Sauce, enjoy your family." He shrugged. "I-- just need some time to myself right now. And hey, I'll see you in the morning, right?"

He felt the older man lean into the car a few more inches, peering at him. "You'll come over for breakfast then?"

God, he was tired of talking, why did Lenny insist that he keep talking-- "No, Len, I'll see you at the office--"

"Uhuh, kid. No office."

Mulder turned. Sauceda was frowning intently.

"Purdue's put you on five days mandatory leave of absence." Mulder opened his mouth and Sauceda cut him short. "It's not negotiable, Marty. It's already been filed. He faxed it to Skinner this morning." Sauceda's voice softened uneasily. "You want time, kid, he's giving it to you."

Mulder blinked, considering the cast of his partner's eye. Sauceda held his gaze with an effort, that much was obvious, but he didn't look away.

Mulder responded at last, his voice quiet. "You want my gun, Len?"

Sauceda gulped too much oxygen with the question; he recovered well though, eyes still level and Mulder could almost see the gears turning behind them. Sauceda's fist clenched and unclenched nervously, anxious, obviously, to claim the cold metal of the Sig. He was a long time reaching his decision, every tormented thought etched across his face. Finally, he shoved his hand in his pocket.

"No, Marty," he nodded even as he choked on the words. "I don't need to take it. I know that."

Mulder clamped his jaw tight and turned away to his window. His own decision took brief seconds. When he turned back, Sauceda was looking over his shoulder mouthing some silent comfort to Imelda. Mulder pulled his weapon.

"Len?"

"Yeah, kid--" Sauceda leaned back in then froze at the sight of the Sig, magazine ejected, laying benignly in the young man's palm.

"Here," Mulder said simply, possibly the most difficult word he'd formed in months.

Sauceda's chin trembled. His knees didn't look too stable either. He leaned farther in to the car but made no move to receive the weapon. "No, Marty, I--"

"Yes." Mulder bobbed his hand to emphasize the gift upon it. "I want you to have it, Len." He actually managed a shrug. "If nothing else, it'll keep Purdue off your ass."

Sauceda waited a long minute and Mulder endured his penetrating gaze stoically. The pathologist's hand trembled when he finally reached for the weapon. He wrapped his fingers around it, letting the fingertips pass gently over Mulder's palm as he did so. The stroke conveyed comfort, trust-- regret. Mulder pulled away, wincing regrets of his own as he shoved his hand to his chest, wrapping it in the warmth of his jacket. His fingers were numb, as cold as the metal they had surrendered.

"I'll just hold it for you, Marty," Sauceda whispered, then cleared his throat and tried for a more flippant tone. "You just let me know when you want it, okay? Just let me know. 'Cause, I ain't gonna break my back toting an arsenal for the both of us, you know?"

Mulder nodded but kept his eyes resolutely forward. He had no energy left for the conversation, no witty comebacks, no further reassurances to offer.

Sauceda's door was a long time in closing, but even then Mulder didn't shift position, didn't break the tightly controlled rhythm of his breathing. He was too busy concentrating as the cab pulled away. It took everything he had not to look back, not to turn his head and watch the happy reunion on the porch as it receded silently in the distance beyond his tunnel.

The walk in took him across the parking lot. His red Monte Carlo, sporting a fine coat of dust, was still in its space next to the trash dumpster, none the worse for the down time, apparently. Mulder would have to remember to run it a while, keep the battery charged. Maybe he'd just take the time off without bitching about it this time, take a real vacation and drive up the coast, visit with his dad. He had friends in Boston he hadn't seen in a while, too. It would do him good to get out, go away to someplace where no one knew what he did and know one would question how he felt. Live like a normal human being again. Mulder speculated on the idea without actually imagining himself doing it, though; he just had no heart left for life. Sauceda had taken it all away when he'd laid the sheet across Kay's face--

Mulder gasped at the sudden roar in his chest, the sickening kicked-in-the-balls agony that echoed through his larynx and squeezed off his air supply. He stumbled, slammed into the side of the trash bin, managing to knock the rest of his breath out in the process.

His vision pulsed white hot, nausea burning from his lower intestines to his sinus cavities but he held quite still, waiting it all out, gulping air, clinging to the dumpster until his legs were reasonably stable. His headache was back with a vengeance but this time it seemed focused rather oddly around his right eye. A second's not-so-gentle probing located the source: an inch-long cut along his right cheek that was bleeding with comic ferocity. Still, the roaring in his chest had subsided to a dull ache and his hearing seemed to have been restored-- that's when he heard the muffled squeak.

It was accompanied by a frantic scratching-- and coming from the dumpster. Mulder held his breath a moment, fingers still unconsciously palpitating his cheekbone. Able to resist any temptation but curiosity, he took a quick look around. That would be all he'd need, after all: his neighbors reporting him to the super as some kind of pervert with a trash fetish. The coast clear, he poked his head over the lip of the trash bin.

Nothing. The squeaking and scratching had abated as well. Well, hell. Mulder reached in, tugging gingerly at bits of debris and the unseen creature exploded with a squeal of terror. Mulder jumped back, heart pounding but neither the squealing nor the scratching subsided this time. He chanced a second look sans hands.

It was a kitten. Scrambling free of the trash, it was old enough to have both eyes and ears open but probably wasn't fully weaned yet, so filthy little else could be distinguished except that its eyes were piercing green. Those eyes stared wildly into Mulder's own, a flurry of filthy fuzz and gaping maw squealing like his life depended on it.

The little guy was right, Mulder admitted. It probably did. Hell, this was just great. What was he going to do with a cat? He didn't want the damned thing. Still, it wasn't like he could leave it here to die, either. Mulder swore-- and reached dutifully into the bin, wriggling welcoming fingers toward the mewling mass of fur.

"Here, kitty-kitty," he sang softly. "Come home with me and I'll take good care of you, okay?" That sounded suspiciously like a line he'd used in a bar once. Come to think of it, it had worked, too.

And it was working again: the kitten didn't resist. In fact, it dug its claws into the arm of Mulder's jacket and clung for dear life. Mulder winced, trying to disentangle himself and avoid further injury for either of them. The little fellow was a fighter and Mulder had no sooner gotten the kitten loose from one arm than he had a repeat performance on the other one.

"Great. Now I know why you were in the dumpster, you little--"

Disentangling himself, Mulder deposited the squirming body into the side pocket of his luggage and closed the flap over it. The insistent mewling and his battered face earned him a few suspicious looks as he made his way down the hall and slipped into the elevator. He let out a grateful sigh when he finally reached his door.

The phone was ringing before he got his key in the lock. Mulder took his time, though, carefully settling the bag on the couch before answering.

"Yes, Lenny, I'm home, now," he informed the receiver.

Sauceda's laugh was full of forced pleasantry, his voice pitched a little higher than normal.

"Hey, Marty!"

Mulder sighed. "Hey."

Another pause. Mulder filled it by grabbing a tissue from the box beside the phone and dabbing blood from his cheek.

Sauceda tried again. "Hey, kid, look, we've got a great spread over here. Imelda's made chicken enchiladas just like you like 'em: lotsa cheese--"

"Purdue's already on your case, isn't he?"

"Ah. Quesadillas, too. With extra sour cream and pico de gallo. Extra hot."

"Listen, Len. Did he e-mail you the autopsy report yet?"

"Friggin' hell, Marty--" Sauceda's voice was a seething hiss and then bright again as he called out some excuse to Imelda. Mulder listened to the rattle through the receiver as the older man jerked the phone into a more private location. "What the hell's wrong with you?" Sauceda must not have gotten very far, he was still trying to keep his voice down.

"I have to know, Len."

Sauceda swore heatedly. "You don't need to know jack, you little prick. Look, I'm coming over there to get you and I'm not listening to any more of your flack about it."

"Will you show me the report?"

"Show you the--" Sauceda lapsed into a sudden litany of Spanish. It was melodic and rapid-fire, satisfying to the ear as only flagrant profanity can be in a foreign tongue. "I swear to God, Marty. I freakin' swear to God, I'm calling Skinner myself and I'm having you committed. Do you hear me? Do--?"

"Do it, then."

"What?"

"I said fucking do it. And the first time I get the chance I'm biting my fucking wrists out--"

"Look, Mart--"

"I just asked you a question. That's all. And I'm sick of the goddam threats--"

"Christ, Marty, I--" Sauceda's voice was a high pitched squeal.

Mulder's was ominously calm. "All I want is the work-up on the blood chemistry, Len. That's it. I won't ask for the rest."

Sauceda was panting heavily. "I-- Marty, I can't do it. I'm sorry, kid. Purdue said--"

Mulder gulped air. "She was alive, wasn't she? Jesus Christ, she was alive when she--"

Mulder's voice was steady enough but his knees refused to hold him upright any longer. He slid to the floor quietly, wedged between the coffee table and the couch, the rattle of the table too gentle for Sauceda to hear.

She'd been alive. He knew it. He'd always known it. Sisyphus had found her but hadn't killed her immediately, just knocked her unconscious and began her work. Mulder had profiled the Baytown case where drawing and quartering had been the modus operandi. He was well versed in the procedure: with even minimal skill, a human could be flayed, colon deposited on the floor to one side of the body, stomach and kidneys removed to the other side. Done right, it could take hours for a victim to die. Kay would have been conscious near the end, in too much pain to move, too much pain to scream. And she would have been grateful for death when it came--

Mulder's grief suddenly was too deep for words, it rendered him motionless, almost unaware of feeling at all, his mind numbed by the truth. Lenny's voice filtered through to him, urgent, frantic. Mulder didn't trust his voice, though, couldn't get his hands to stop shaking. He forced himself to concentrate, to feel the warm reality of the couch against his back, the rug wrinkled beneath him, the unyielding solidity of the coffee table where he'd rested his forehead. He took one deep breath and sat up.

"Lenny?" The calm in Mulder's voice surprised even him. "Lenny, tell Imelda that I appreciate all the trouble she went through, okay? I'll make it up to her, I promise. I just don't want her worrying about me. You know I don't look so hot. I haven't been eating right and--"

"Marty, are you okay?"

"I've got to have some time, Len. Just give me that much, okay? Then I'll be okay again. You know I will. And I promise. You know I don't break my promises."

Sauceda's sigh came through the line with the intensity of a North Atlantic squall. "I don't like the idea of you being alone, kid--"

There was a tearful cry from the other end of the couch. One fuzzy kitten paw had liberated itself from the bag and was clawing air. Mulder's jaw worked silently for about two seconds, busy on a new thought. "I'm, uhm. I'm not alone, Lenny. I've invited a friend over."

Sauceda's voice was suddenly and pathetically relieved. "Yeah? Well, hell, Marty, why didn't you say so. Anybody I know?"

"Nah. Ah. Just somebody who lives in the building."

Sauceda gushed his delight and then, dammit, he wanted facts: a name, a brief social history.

"How about I just fax over some prints for you?"

"Jeez, Marty, I didn't mean to--"

Sauceda droned on. The clawing was starting to look desperate. Mulder frowned; it was quite likely his new "friend" was struggling for oxygen by this point. Mulder began talking faster now, walking on his knees to reach the bag. "What? Yeah, call me later, 'kay, Len? Yeah, well, we might step out for dinner, maybe a few beers, so don't get hacked off it I don't answer. No, I'm *not* taking my damned cell--" Mulder grunted reassuringly a few more times and finally just hung up. He got the flap open, yanking his hands away to avoid further entanglement.

Finally freed, the kitten flipped out backwards, no worse for the wear, tiny claws scrambling for traction on the wood floor. The squealing had not abated and showed no signs of doing so now. Undeterred by unfamiliar surroundings, he lit out across the expanse of the apartment and disappeared into the darkened the kitchen.

Mulder scarcely noticed. The same velcroed pocket that had revealed the kitten had yielded one more dubious treasure. Mulder tugged the book free, holding it like a thing afire. Its gray cover was now lightly clawed, one corner sporting fresh teeth marks. Mulder's hands were trembling suddenly; he swore at them as he fished the note from his jacket pocket and spread the evidence bag flat on the coffee table. He laid the book of poetry beside it, opened to page sixteen, and read.

And all the typed lines on the paper in the bag were all the typed lines he had highlighted, blue ink, in the book, how many months ago?

Just so.

A trip to Mrs. Beckman's up the hall got the kitten settled in: cat litter, a couple cans of food, her vet's business card.

The bath had been traumatic for them both but the kitten seemed to have forgiven him. Its freshly toweled fur still poked wildly at opposing angles, yellow and white stripes confused into manic swirls. Clumsy and slightly damp, the little creature managed to look every bit as pathetic as he had in the dumpster but at least the smell was better.

Mulder served the food like he'd seen it done in all the cat food commercials: a saucer with the chunks mounded up for the benefit of the camera. The arrangement didn't seem to benefit the cat any, however. The little thing seemed to scarcely know what to do with the bits of meat, had difficulty getting the hang of even lapping at the gravy. A closer inspection revealed the animal had a mouth full of teeth but that they didn't seem to be useful for chewing on anything other than Mulder's new wingtips. He tried a little strategy, mashing a bit of the food with a fork and stirring in diluted cream. The little body trembled over the bowl like he'd provided manna from God.

Mulder dumped the litter into a hospital basin collected from a trip to Georgetown Medical Center last year: a grazing gunshot wound that had hurt like hell and hadn't even left a decent scar. The pan was a bit deep, he imagined, but kitten managed okay. In fact, the little guy seemed to know exactly what to do with it-- even if he did exit the box backend first. With a little luck, this Doctor Dolittle crap might just turn out to be easier than he'd thought.

Yeah. Sure. Somehow, that just had the suspicious ring of famous last words...

9:22 PM.

Things were rapidly getting out of hand. Mulder had spent most of the evening on the floor playing chew toy for a damned cat he didn't want, then the little imp had the nerve to take a dump behind his chair. Meanwhile, Sauceda had called him at least a dozen times. Between the two, Mulder had about had his fill of Sauceda. All the while, images of Kay's final hour had haunted him until he was ready to literally climb the walls. He shouldn't have given Sauceda his gun. Shouldn't have made all those promises.

Mulder finally gave up trying to stay sane at home and tried the bar on the corner. Drummond's was just walking distance from his apartment, an infrequent after-work stop since he'd moved to Alexandria-- the place was quiet, dim, lined with old Ronald Colman and Jimmy Cagney posters. There were too many booths, too many secluded tables to allow for dancing, which was just fine with Mulder most nights. It reminded him of the pubs that had fed him in England: good food, strong brew, clientele too self-absorbed to be annoying. Most of the time anyway.

Tonight he'd managed to choke down the soup of the day and about half a cigarette before attracting company. The woman was quite a bit older, thickly set, pretty enough, he supposed, but she just didn't seem to care that he wasn't interested. She didn't belong here, that much was obvious: long, tribal earrings, black tights, bright spangley, ah, blouse-thing. She seemed determined not to let him get drunk in peace so he staked out a booth near the jukebox, intent on exorcising his demons with good scotch and Depeche Mode's "Stripped."

She followed him over and invited herself to sit down. Well, she tried to sit anyway, managing only a grotesque sprawl. She walked like she'd had about four beers too many but she found everything so incredibly funny Mulder felt like a heel trying to shoo her off. He finally stopped protesting and let her sit there. She wasn't really bothering him, after all; she just seemed to want some place to sit while she sang. She kept her voice to a reasonable level, unlike most drunks he knew, her voice was surprisingly pleasant, and she even knew most of the words.

When she started warbling to a Karen Carpenter number, though, Mulder excused himself to the men's room. She waved graciously, intent on her high note and Mulder slipped down the hall and out the back door. She was still going strong when the door whispered shut behind him.

11:43 PM.

It was late and he was tired, but Mulder knew sleep would be long in coming. The weariness was depression, of course, and the insomnia simply more of the same; his mind was rebelling out of principle, his body suffering the results.

*Well, hell, he mused. See? I don't need a shrink. I recognize the symptoms. And as long as I'm able to recognize them, I'm not in any real trouble. I can't be in any real trouble, right? I just need a little time, that's all.*

He repeated the notion like a mantra, a shield against that little area of his conscience that insisted otherwise. Unbidden, a scene from his childhood played itself out in his mind: Sam gone three months, his parents oblivious, deep into another late night argument, Fox cracking his door just a bit to peek down the hall. His mom wrapped in a chenille robe, hands on her hips, her back to her son, shouting at his father. And the words: "Well of course he's proof, Bill! Proof that a lie repeated long enough will became indistinguishable from the truth-- Goddammit, is that the legacy you're going to leave your own son?" If his father had responded, Fox hadn't heard.

He wondered why he should think on such things now. Didn't he have enough to worry about that he felt the need to go dragging up ancient history? Mulder fled from thought, turning the television up until it was impossible to think anymore. Emotionally, he could no longer afford the luxury of being cognizant. At least not tonight...

He waited several minutes for a thumping against the wall or the ceiling, maybe the floor: irate neighbors who might not want to listen to the program he had on-- especially at this hour. There was nothing. The neighbor below him was half-deaf so that was no surprise. Mrs. Beckman next door would be too sweet to say anything, dammit, and whenever he'd asked, she was always quick to claim she was a sound sleeper. Mulder preferred to believe her. The room above him was a mystery. The super couldn't seem to keep it occupied for very long, anyway. The tenants usually moved out after only a week or so. Maybe he was just renting to the wrong kind of tenants; as far as Mulder'd been able to determine they'd all been professional military men of the ilk his father would have labeled Defense Department goons. Dad could smell them a mile off. Said they'd sell their own mothers for a bit of Pentagon pie.

A thump near the floor had him peering into the shadows below the coffee table. It was the kitten, bewildered and pained, staring at the table leg in mute offense. Mulder sighed and stroked its head. The cat rolled to its back and attacked his hand with abandon, all four paws scrambling at the air. It made a sound like Purdue's pager when it was on vibrator, no doubt a determined attempt at a growl. Mulder shook his head. His mother's cat-- an aging Tom since the world began-- had been an elegant, disdainful creature who would have died of embarrassment had it made just one graceless motion. The kitten, on the other hand, was all fur and paws and far too much energy. It alternately scrambled and slid across the floor, tripped-- twice-- on the rug and would certainly suffer permanent brain damage if it collided into just one more piece of furniture.

He shook himself free of the little monster and lay back, kicking off his shoes. The kitten immediately scurried to investigate. Having sniffed, slapped and hissed with no retaliation from the sneakers, the little beast claimed one for himself, dragging it off by the laces. Mulder stretched fitfully, staring at the noise on the TV screen, not really seeing much, drifting slowly into the gentling haze of sleep.

A commercial blared, rousing him enough to get his eyes open if only just partially. Mulder found himself focusing on the beckoning welcome of a woman: a nice looking brunette holding out a Lowenbrau. When she looked into the camera, Mulder realized she had stolen Kay's smile--

Unprepared for the assault, Mulder was defenseless against the raging that exploded in his chest. He squeezed his eyes against it, pressing his back into the sofa. Try as he might, though, there was no escaping the encroaching pressure radiating from his heart, threatening to choke off his windpipe.

He resolved himself to the attack and stopped cringing. It would either pass or kill him; he would not allow himself to speculate on which result would be most preferable. Instead, he observed the extent of the sensation, noted with clinical detachment the quality of the pain as it radiated down his arm, the intensity of his heartbeat as it hammered against his vocal cords.

After a few minutes, the pressure subsided to a light caress, soft as feather kisses. And he felt his body slowly responding, even now, with just the memory. Even as his hands still shook, even as he gasped for air. Even with Kay in a body bag in cold storage. Because of him.

Mulder covered his head with his arms, trying to block the memory of the look of her eyes. Those soft, gentle eyes, watching him as he walked into the diner. Watching him as he dressed. Watching him as he read her the poems. Watching him as he moved against her--

A sudden pressure on his leg had him gulping air frantically. He jerked upright, clawing at the moisture in his eyes. The kitten, tiny talons fastened to his jeans like velcro, mewled up at him, its face a pitiful bit of fuzz. Mulder choked his heart back down into his rib cage and fell back in relief.

Well, hell. That's what he got for hauling home strays.

The late show was running "Attack of the Thirty Foot Woman." Mulder relaxed with the realization that she, at least, was a blonde. He was asleep before the second set of commercials, the little tabby purring, uninvited, upon his chest.