1:47 p.m. Apartment 42.

Sauceda, weapon drawn, was hard on Purdue's heels as the ASAC burst through Mulder's door. Purdue's pistol scanned left, tense, professional. Sauceda fumbled his bag, dropping it to the floor so he could two-fist his Smith and Wesson. Procedure dictated holding a firearm with both hands, but right now Sauceda needed them both just to keep the site steady.

*Marty was dead.* The words had rolled through his head when Purdue had slammed into the autopsy bay, stumbling against the door, trying to break the momentum of his frenzied dash up the hall. Purdue had gasped: "It's Mulder. Let's go." But Sauceda knew all the same. He raced after the ASAC and the words echoed back to him with every frantic footfall. *Marty was dead.* It reverberated in the hum of the engine as Purdue floored his Ford through DC's traffic and down the George Washington Parkway. *Marty was dead. Surely, Marty was dead. She'd found him and he didn't even have a gun to defend himself-- He trusted you and you screwed him, you son of a bitch--*

Purdue held up his hand, listening, and Sauceda forced himself to focus. He peered past the ASAC's shoulder, holding his breath, searching for some hint that would tell him Marty was here, Marty was gone, Marty was safe. The apartment was a black hole, sucking up all sound, all life. Silent as the grave.

"Agent Mulder!" Purdue's voice resonated in the emptiness, unanswered.

Purdue took a few hesitant steps in, past the dining room table, glancing into the living room warily. Sauceda watched his every move, alert for any sign of trouble while still trying to keep his peripheral vision scanning. Purdue paused, flexed his shoulders, concentrating, and Sauceda realized with a start that he now had his weapon trained on his ASAC's back. He winced and spun to bring his .44 to bear on the kitchen door. Purdue, alerted by the frantic motion, turned to realign his own weapon, then froze, intent on something hidden from Sauceda's view by the table.

The pathologist's palms started to sweat; he flexed his fingers against his pistol grip, reassuring himself of his grasp, of his courage. He pressed silently to Purdue's side and followed the ASAC's line of sight.

On the floor near the kitchen door was a switchblade. Sauceda squinted in the faint light but the blade gleamed dully, cold and untarnished, blade and floorboards innocent of blood.

Purdue nodded at him solemnly before jerking his head toward the living room. Purdue himself stalked past and on to the kitchen. Sauceda's heart had a death grip on the back of his tongue, but he concentrated on procedure, securing the living room, investigating behind the chair, the curtains. He felt like his chest was going to burst; his skin wouldn't stop crawling and the revolver was far too heavy in his clammy hands. The room was so quiet he could hear his watch ticking. The computer hummed softly on the desk, screen dark, a field of stars fleeing for infinity. At the end of the couch, Mulder's bedroom door was partially open, the room behind it impossibly dark. He took a hesitant step toward it.

In that same instant, however, Purdue's savage swearing echoed from the kitchen. Sauceda scurried through the dining room, hermit-crab fashion, half-sideways, his gun still scanning corners restlessly.

He found the ASAC kneeling next to a saucer of milk. On the floor beside the dish was something covered respectfully with a cup towel. Purdue held up a corner of the cloth and displayed the cold figure of a tiny yellow tabby. Sauceda knew the signs of asphyxiation well enough; he didn't need the fur, stiff from drying milk, to tell him the story. He choked down bile and grimaced.

"The bitch," he hissed. The gun in his hand was suddenly not so awkward; it felt welcome and warm and good to hold. His finger sliding across the trigger provoked an almost sensuous burning in his gut. He hoped she was here, he realized abruptly. As long as Marty was okay somewhere, he hoped the bitch was still here--

"You sure it wasn't Mulder?" Purdue asked softly.

The horror and instant consternation on Sauceda's face must have said it all. Purdue held up his hand to forestall the indignant protest.

"I know, Hot Sauce, I just..." Purdue blinked down at the little body and his shoulders slumped. "Hell, I don't know what I was thinking," he said.

Sauceda watched Purdue lower the towel. The ASAC shifted his gun as he stood.

"Bedroom door's open. Lights out," Sauceda reported, marveling that his voice was so suddenly steady. "Back this way--"

Purdue grabbed his arm, pulling Sauceda back and proceeding him. Sauceda didn't protest: between them, Purdue was probably the better shot.

The bedroom was in near total darkness, heavy drapes yielding no hint of the afternoon sun beyond them. Furniture and bric-a-brac were indistinguishable, ominous shapes looming up in the gloom. The four-poster was easily enough to find, however: a solitary sliver of daylight pierced the drapes and highlighted a mound of blanket, motionless on the far side of the bed.

Following Purdue's unspoken cue, Sauceda kept his revolver trained on the lump on the mattress while Purdue checked the closet and bathroom for signs of life. The weapon was slick and cold again in Sauceda's hands as he edged around the end of the bed, drawing nearer the form. The blanket trembled slightly, just once and was still again. Sauceda froze. Purdue, ever observant, set his back against a wall and leveled his weapon on Sauceda's target. Sauceda stepped carefully to the nightstand, gun held absolutely steady as he flipped on the lamp. His breath caught in his throat. His weapon lowered of its own accord.

At the top of the blanket lay a dark head and too-bright eyes. Nothing else of the profiler was visible. The blanket shuddered sporadically.

Sauceda knelt to bring his face into Mulder's line of sight. "Hey, Marty," he whispered.

Mulder blinked a moment in the light, registering the voice, the presence before him. His eyes crinkled to impersonate a smile. "Hey," he responded. His voice was soft, harsh like he'd been choking, his eyes glittering like liquid metal. Sauceda's gut chilled as he realized Mulder was making no effort to hide the tears.

"You okay, Marty?"

*Oh, brilliant question, Dr. Sauceda, go on, ask another... *

Mulder nodded patiently, all wisdom and compassion, dark eyes waiting while Sauceda swallowed down something trying to strangle him.

"I really need to sleep right now, Lenny," Mulder explained. "Just turn it all off for a bit..."

Mulder's brows furrowed. "'Cept I can't sleep. And I'm trying really hard." There was an expectancy across the eyes, and a weariness, too, deep enough to drown in.

Sauceda glanced at Purdue, quiet at the foot of the bed. "You want a pill, Marty?"

"I want to sleep *now*." Those patient, wounded eyes, that fragile whisper.

Purdue ducked out the door, returning in seconds with Sauceda's bag. He kept to the far end of the bed, locked in silence and out of Mulder's line of sight.

Sauceda gulped air, digging through his supplies, determining the proper drug and Baez's recommended doses. His hands shook as he loaded the syringe.

Mulder was shivering so hard Sauceda could hear his teeth chattering. It had nothing to do with the temperature of the room; still, Sauceda whispered an apology as he gently untangled Mulder from his blanket.

The young man was still fully dressed, still in the suit he'd been wearing in Georgetown, the tie a dark and portentous smear across the white expanse of shirt. Mulder blinked longingly at the syringe in Sauceda's hand and uncurled himself but his trembling fingers couldn't manage his belt and trousers. He accepted Sauceda's help with childlike gratitude, dropping his hands to either side, palms up, arms flung out like Christ on the cross. Purdue shifted uneasily; Sauceda silenced him with a look and the ASAC kept his place.

Belt finally loosened, Sauceda helped Mulder turn back to his side once more. He pushed back the trousers and slid the shorts down discreetly then paused with the needle at the profiler's hip, cursing the agitated muscles that could not relax but obviously ached to do so.

"Marty? You wanna to go to the hospital?"

Mulder shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, anticipating the relief of the Thorazine. "Can't I just sleep first?" he whispered.

Voices outside announced the arrival of the back-up unit. The ASAC gave Sauceda a nod and stepped out to direct operations, closing the door behind him quietly. Sauceda delivered the drug and tucked the shivering form back beneath the blanket.

Purdue's voice filtered back into the room: "The bedroom is off limits right now. No exceptions. I want someone at HQ on the wire. I need a list of everyone accessing Agent Mulder's personnel records for the past two months. And somebody get a print kit after that computer..."

The voices beyond the bedroom door were suddenly part of another world. Closed in with Mulder's oppressive silence, Sauceda could only marvel that he'd ever been a part of it. He shrugged off the sensation-- he didn't have time for that kind of nonsense right now, anyway. He set about undressing Mulder as best he could without disturbing him too much: the shoes slid off easily, then the trousers. Mindful of Mulder's continued shivering, Sauceda pulled the end of the bedspread up and over the young man, trying to provide further warmth before easing him out of his jacket.

Mulder grunted softly in his struggle against the encroaching psychological shock. Sauceda cooed in response, little nonsense words-- *doin'goodkid, 'salright*-- chosen more for their comfort than their meaning. He ran a gentle hand across Mulder's forehead, a touch of comfort that also managed to detect a fair amount of fever. He debated whether Mulder could manage a thermometer without snapping it in two; the chattering of his teeth decided against it.

He set his face into an expression he hoped would convey benevolence and calm and reached gently beneath the blanket to unknot Mulder's tie. Mulder didn't resist, raising his chin to make it easier. He seemed quite incapable, however, of unclenching his body from its fetal position. Sauceda didn't ask him to try, unbuttoning the top button of the starched shirt and tucking the blanket back again. Mulder blinked at him, searching his face without judgment and accepting the comfort of his partner's presence.

Sauceda turned, overwhelmed by the need to simply not witness the suffering-- at least for a moment or two. He occupied the time guiltily, laid Mulder's tie across the night table with exaggerated care. The pattern, a soft, sedate paisley, glowed with a mixture of silver and scarlet, iridescent in the pale light. Convoluted swirls drew the pathologist's eye deep into the fabric and he touched it tentatively, wondering if this was a hint of what it was like for Marty: dazzled by the horror of the human heart, drawn into the killer's madness.

He turned away abruptly and found that the profiler was still watching him, eyes as wide, unblinking as an owl's. "Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda felt dizzy suddenly.

"Go to sleep, Marty. I'll say your prayers..."

Mulder nodded, closed his eyes. His world stilled but he was not at peace. Random impulses twitched his facial muscles. His shivering, when it hit, was still much too violent. Sauceda laid a hand on his forehead.

"I fly to your Mercy, Compassionate God--" He whispered the ancient novena, certain that too many of the words had escaped his memory, praying that God would forgive him such oversight. "Friend of a lonely heart, although my misery is great and my offenses are many, I trust in Your Mercy, for neither Heaven nor Earth remember when a soul trusting in Your Mercy has ever been disappointed--"

Mulder whispered too, but the words were slurred as though traveling from a great distance. They had the mimicked quality of nursery rhymes, or prayers learned and repeated over the bed in childhood. "In peace, O God," he lisped, "I shut my eyes. In peace again I hope to rise--" The rest was gibberish. Or Yiddish, Sauceda wasn't sure which.

He watched as the young man descended backward into sleep, like a man drowning, surrendering without struggle into the dark current, unconcerned whether death awaited him within the fathomless depths below. As the drug claimed him, Mulder wriggled a bit under his blanket, a last gasp, then turned off like a light; his muscles finally following suit several minutes later.

Sauceda took a pulse and used his penlight to check Mulder's pupils gingerly. It had been years since he'd worked with a breathing patient and his palms were sweating harder now than when he'd been waving his gun around. Hell, this was why he'd taken up forensics: with your patients already dead, you had a much more comfortable margin for error. Still, he would have paid good money right now for a half-decent blood pressure cuff.

He glanced up to find that Purdue had re-entered, watching reverently, his back against the door. The unit outside was uncharacteristically subdued, mutually confined to shuffling and muffled voices. With the ASAC on the premises, they'd be doubly thorough, though. Sauceda found the thought reassuring.

"He out?" Purdue mouthed the words soundlessly. Sauceda nodded. Purdue pocketed his hands and both men stood mute, watching the regular rise and fall of Mulder's chest.

"What do you think, Lenny?" Purdue whispered finally. "We give him time or call the hospital?"

Sauceda shook his head. The motion was both an answer and a disavowal of his part in this decision. He was ashamed suddenly; ashamed of his role in Mulder's apparent destruction, ashamed of every word he'd ever spoken behind the young man's back. It was all coming back on him now, every tale he'd trotted off for Patterson and that damned man with the cigarette that had sat like part of the furniture in Patterson's office. God was making sure Sauceda paid for such sins-- only Marty was paying for them now, too.

Staring down at the form on the bed, Sauceda finally realized that Marty had always known the truth of it-- hell, the kid's rebellious intelligence was one of the reasons Patterson had kept such close tabs on him. Ten months together, though, and Marty'd never asked, never once let on that he knew for sure. They'd simply never spoken about it. Occasionally, Sauceda'd even allowed *himself* to forget the fact, had gone so far as to call himself a friend.

And Marty'd never called him on it.

*Jesus, Mary. Saint Joseph--* Sauceda hiccuped on the fist in his throat and stared down at the finally peaceful face. A moment ago, this young man had looked at him with eyes that pleaded trust, begged for reassurance of a perilous brotherhood. The plea had not wavered even as the lids had closed over, the drug dragging him down into the silent current of sleep. And Mulder had surrendered willingly, placed himself upon the mercy of the man standing at his bedside.

Sauceda's eyes roamed the room but found no place of rest, no corner in which he could claim solace. This was Marty's home; there was no place here for a man who was friend in name only.

"Lenny, I need an answer."

Sauceda stopped breathing under the weight of the ASAC's dark regard. He shrugged it off with difficulty.

"I don't know, Reg. So far, the kid's reactions have been pretty rational. I'd say he's as sane as circumstances will permit."

"That's not saying much, is it?"

Sauceda grimaced. "Yeah." He looked down at the sleeping form. Mulder's right arm twitched slightly, struggling against life even when drugged senseless. The long lashes lay black against pale cheeks, sealing the eyes that had closed in hope.

Sauceda took a deep breath and scrambled for answers. His eyes on Purdue were cool and deceptively assured. "I think he's been coherent and calm. He hasn't refused help. Hell, Reg, he's even asked for it. Requested necessary medication, time out to rest. I think he's doing pretty damned good considering the hell he's been through the past year."

Purdue was back to watching Mulder breathe, apparently doing some fast thinking of his own. "Hospital worth its salt finds out the kind of stress he's been under, they'd refuse to release him just to keep him away from the Bureau. Can't say that I'd blame them," he admitted cautiously.

"That's not our only problem," Sauceda's voice barely masked the wonder of the realization. "Jeezus, we put Marty in a hospital ward, we get our hands slapped off entirely. Our access will be limited at best. Think about it. He's got a killer stalking him. You want to trust his life to hospital security? Or even a couple of our guys out in the hall who wouldn't question if Sisyphus herself walked in his room as long as she was dressed in hospital scrubs and carrying a bedpan?"

Purdue looked down at the crumpled lump of blanket. His voice was distant, "'It'll be all right', he said."

Sauceda blinked. "Come again?"

"On the phone. He said 'It'll be all right.' As calm as if he was giving a weather report. His whole freaking life falling apart around him and he wants me to believe it'll be okay."

Sauceda had no answers for the ASAC. He had too few for himself. He sank quietly onto the foot of the bed, feeling the muscles in his legs give way, weary of bearing up under the anguish of thought. For the first time in his life, he felt old. Old and tired. *Jeezus, Marty, I don't wanna do this anymore. Please, Marty, get well so I can just walk away and not look back--*

Mulder's answer was to begin a feeble fight with his blanket, a hopeless gesture, a solitary hand, too pale in the dark room, rising to clutch at a bit of cloth. Long, numbed fingers curled and twisted at the linen, seeking to pull it closer-- or push it away. Sauceda could only guess. The motion stilled fitfully, Mulder's face frighteningly tranquil, his chest frozen, breath forgotten.

Sauceda choked, waiting for some sign of life, eyes widening in the darkness as he willed himself to see. He staggering to his feet-- There was a fretful rasp and the hand loosened on the blanket. Mulder's chest resumed its peaceful rhythm, air escaping in quiet sighs.

Sauceda felt something brush his arm and turned to find Purdue standing at his shoulder, face pinched and bitter. The ASAC's voice was hard in the quiet. "What aren't you telling me?" he demanded.

Sauceda didn't even pretend to misunderstand. He bit his lip and swallowed. "Patterson said--" Sauceda choked briefly and tried again. "Patterson always said that Marty's life was in my hands every time the kid gave a case his all. Every time he allowed himself to cross that line of reality to stop a killer..." Sauceda held his gaze steady on Purdue's. "He was right. You've seen the kind of dreams Marty has while he's on a case like this. Until this Sisyphus is stopped, they're going to continue. You shove him in the hospital and he has just one dream and it's over, Reg. They'll diagnose paranoid schizophrenia and lock him in a nut ward."

A soft knock on the door interrupted Purdue's response. The ASAC moved to answer, blocking the view of the room with his body.

"Sir," an unfamiliar voice whispered in the door, "what do you want us to do with the cat?"

"I told you I'll handle it," Purdue snarled. "Look, I'll be right out." He turned back to Sauceda with a sigh. "You know what happens if we're wrong about this, Sauceda. Mulder cracks for real and we haven't brought him in, they'll hang both our butts for criminal negligence." He looked Sauceda firmly in the eye. "It'll mean your pension, Hot Sauce. You want to reassess?"

Sauceda spent a brief minute choking down the thought. It felt like molten lead sliding down, burning a hole through his gut. It must have solidified on it's way to his knees, however. He found himself standing straighter as he shook his head.

"I don't give a shit, Reg. You want an out, that's fine, but I'm not backing you on an involuntary. You've got precedence. Marty damned near collapsed in Shreveport and Baez made the same call on it I'm making now. I'm the doctor here. No one will fault you."

Purdue looked away. "Sauceda--"

"You promised. He gets some time, you son of a bitch. It's my call." There was a pitiful crack in the pathologist's voice. Against his better judgment, Sauceda didn't look away when Purdue turned back to regard him.

Purdue's decision took even less time than Sauceda's had. The dark man's shoulders slumped in resignation. "You're not standing for it alone, Len." He shrugged. "What the hell, all this ASAC crap cuts into my writing time, anyway. Mulder wants to rest? Fine-- we'll give him tonight, at least. I'll put a call in to Baez, update him on the situation. He's more likely to toss me back to Personnel Services but at least I'll have tried. We'll see what Mulder has to say about all this when he's... once more among the living." He gave Sauceda a minute to digest his victory then nodded at the door. "Soon as these guys are done, I'll put a guard detail in the hall. And I want someone one-on-one with Mulder from here on out. You want the first shift?"

"Shift, hell. I'm here. I'm staying. Just like any other case."

Purdue nodded. "Look, why don't you call your wife? Try to get some rest while the team's here. I'll... hell." The ASAC bit off his speculations and moved to the closet; he flipped on the light and disappeared inside.

Sauceda used the combined lights of the closet and the lamp to check Mulder's color again. The profiler looked even more pallid than he had before, if such a thing were possible. The Band-Aid on his cheek had pulled away and the scab was deep red against ash-white skin. The trembling had finally subsided, however, and Mulder's breathing was deep, and as reassuringly steady as his pulse.

In the closet, something fell and Purdue hissed curses, emerging with a panicked face. Mulder stirred only slightly, however; a solitary sigh of protest all that managed to escape the riptide of Thorazine holding him under.

Purdue shook off his desperation and waved an empty shoe box at Sauceda, his mouth grim.

"I'll be back shortly," he promised.

Mulder had always been of the opinion that he should wait, before he died, for his body to be dead. But then again, if he were dead he would probably feel a whole lot better than this...

He tried unfolding himself, stretching out on his back slowly, resolutely keeping his eyes closed: *one major item at a time, Fox...*

The unfolding accomplished, he waited anxiously for his muscles to calm. They twitched erratically, the muscles in his calves aching from the effort to lie still. His mouth felt like cotton batting and his head wasn't much better.

He tested his vision, opening the left eye first. When that one came to no apparent harm, he worked on opening the other. He lay staring a long while before he actually began seeing anything, though: dark room, dim ceiling. Familiar blanket, familiar sounds in the walls around him. Home.

Somehow, he managed to free himself from the blanket and struggle to the dresser. Black jeans were the first thing in the drawer. He stumbled back to the bed to dress himself, still unsure of his balance. The jeans were warm after the cool air on his legs, and he rested a long minute, falling back onto the bed to wait for his energy to return.

It was a full half-hour before he was finally able to roll off the mattress and convince his legs to get his thirst to the kitchen. His stocking feet made no noise, long white dress shirt pale gray in the light of the transom window above the sink. He found a glass in the drying rack. His hands shook with the effort to hold it and he spilled as much as he drank, but the water was sweet as nectar running down his throat.

Then he noticed the bowl on the cabinet. The light through the window lit the residue of milk curdled in the bottom: curds glowing like embers, blinding white in white ceramic on white porcelain tile. The image burned into his retina, blinding him. He felt he would never see again.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda jerked awake at the slap on his leg. He caught himself just before he took the swing that would have landed his partner on the other side of the living room. Mulder, bleached as white as his shirt, glowed like Casper standing there in the dark.

"Jeezus, Marty, you scared the crap outta me--"

"Where's my cat?" Sauceda sat up, scrubbing the sleep from his face. "Marty. It's okay--" "Where's my cat?" Mulder's pupils were unfocusing even as Sauceda's head cleared. "Marty, listen to me. It's okay. Purdue took care of it. He's taking care of everything. You don't have to worry about anything. Okay?" Sauceda pushed his blanket aside and struggled to his feet. Mulder took four rapid steps back, however and the pathologist froze.

"Marty?"

Mulder stood quite still, head down, eyes shadowed, waiting for the violence of betrayal, waiting to be hit, slapped, screamed at, drugged. Something.

Sauceda squinted, trying to catch some subtle hint in the young man's stance. He'd seen Marty in this state before. In Shreveport. In Saint Paul. But he'd never understood it and couldn't identify the source of such certainty of treachery. Not for the first time, he wondered at Mulder's past and the parents he never mentioned.

"Look, kid," he whispered, "you're tired. It's late. Why don't we go back to sleep?"

"I don't want any more drugs," Mulder warned.

"Okay." Sauceda presented empty hands. "That's fine. Do you need help getting back to bed?"

Mulder briefly considered the question. "I'm sleeping on the couch," he announced. "I wanna watch TV."

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself to at least look like he was okay with all this. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

Sauceda backed around the coffee table, letting Mulder keep his distance. The young man waited until Sauceda was well out of range before climbing onto the couch, flopping the blanket over himself, wriggling down into the cushions. The remote control shook in his hand as he fumbled the TV on.

Sauceda padded across the room in his socks and boxers. He stopped at the sight of the front door. Randomly shifting shadows were highlighted in the slit against the floor.

"Marty, while I'm snoring in the bedroom, you're going to sneak out, aren't you?" He didn't mention the two men posted in the uncomfortable folding chairs in the hall. Marty didn't like being caged.

"No." TV programs flipped by frantically.

"Not even for a little while? Not even for a run?"

Mulder didn't look up, sleepy eyes staring at the blur of stations. "I'll be right here the whole time. I promise."

"Okay. You promised, Marty. Don't lie to me."

Mulder looked him full in the eye. His voice remained quiet and flat. "You think I'd just leave you here for her to waltz in and hack up?" He watched Sauceda blanch, and turned back to the TV. "I promised, Len. Now go to bed before I get up from here and kick your ass. Or get one of Purdue's guard dogs outside to do it for me."

Sauceda stood quietly a few minutes more. Mulder didn't acknowledge his presence, however, and he finally padded reluctantly off to the bedroom. The profiler remained oblivious even to Sauceda's continual tiptoeing back and forth, checking on him every few minutes. The trips finally slowed to once every half-hour or so.

Sauceda was in bed, finally asleep and unaware, before Mulder finally dared to investigate the sharp little item poking him in the ribs. He pulled it loose from its hiding place between the couch cushions, examining it in the glow of the television: Sauceda's pen knife. A handy little instrument that was forever slipping out of Lenny's pocket when he sat down...

Mulder stared at the marvelous little device for a long while. He held it tightly in the hand covered by the blanket, not thinking much of anything really. Not anything he could share with the rest of the class, anyway. He slipped it silently into his shirt pocket and resumed his television viewing.

"I'm going to have to remember," he noted aloud, "to ask Purdue about that cat."

5:57 a.m. Apartment 42.

Mulder woke with a scream. He managed to get it strangled to a gasp as Gregg and Mitchell burst in from the hall, guns at ready. Both agents froze, staring into the living room as Sauceda barreled in from the bedroom. One look at Mulder and the pathologist looked like his heart was about to do itself serious damage.

With everything still, finally, Mulder realized he was on the floor. He was on his knees, in fact, next to the couch, hugging himself and shaking convulsively. There was blood on his shirt, blood on the rug, more blood on the blanket.

Sauceda swore and ran for his medical bag. Mitchell crossed the room and grabbed the phone on the coffee table. Mulder grabbed Mitchell's hand.

"No!" Mulder gasped, still trying to calm himself, to steady his heart.

"Agent Mulder, I've got to call 911."

"No, I'm all right. I'm not bleeding." Mulder looked away from the incredulity on the man's face. Jeezus, he knew what it sounded like, but--

Sauceda was back and plopped down on his knees beside him, scrambling in his bag.

"Hot Sauce, tell them. Tell them I'm all right," Mulder pleaded.

"Yeah, Marty. We know, kid. It'll be okay--"

"Len, I'm not bleeding. Please--" Mulder was trying hard to keep his voice calm. Trying real hard not to break Mitchell's hand on that damned receiver. And Sauceda's expression was soft and so irritatingly compassionate. Mulder wanted to slap him but that would probably provoke Greg who was already eyeing Mitchell for some kind of permission. Mulder lowered his voice to a harsh hiss, the best he could manage given the circumstances.

"Dammit, Len, I'm *not* hurt. I'm *not* bleeding." He tugged at the buttons on his shirt, fumbling to get them loose. "Dammit, look at me."

Sauceda obeyed, to humor him and because he had to see the wound to repair it. He assisted with the buttons then blotted at the blood across Mulder's abdomen with a corner of the blanket, one hand ready with the gauze.

But there was no wound. No cut, no abrasion. Nothing. There was nothing there.

Sauceda dabbed again, rubbing the blood into dark streaks on Mulder's skin. His mouth worked on words that didn't come and he grabbed his partner's hands, bloodied and cold, rubbed *them* with the blanket.

Still nothing.

Sauceda sat blankly, holding Mulder's wrist and gasping like a landed fish. Mulder, angrily patient, watched him.

"Open your mouth," Sauceda demanded.

Mulder obeyed, closing it back grimly when Sauceda finished poking. Lenny even tapped the scab on his cheek but as best Mulder could tell, it was still well-crusted and dry. Sauceda sat back on his haunches, looking like the poster child for bewilderment.

Mitchell was staring alternately at Mulder's bloody hand on his wrist and then at the two men on the floor. Just for the hell of it, Mulder grinned at him.

"Spooky strikes again, boys," he quipped.

Sauceda's entire body convulsed.

"Son of a *bitch,*" he spat, "I oughta slap the shit out of you, you little--" He slammed his fist into the coffee table, screaming at Mitch and Gregg. "Out! Just get the hell out!"

The two men wasted no time in obeying. Sauceda still had hold of one of Mulder's wrists. He shook it at him.

"What the hell is this, Marty? Monkey blood? You got some of that fake vampire shit stashed out from Halloween or something?"

Mulder stopped grinning and shook his head. "No, Lenny. Look, I'm sorry, I--"

"That's what it is, isn't it? You just have to go around messing with people's heads, don't you? Goddam monkey blood. You little shit. You screwed up little shit--"

Mulder sat defeated; Sauceda's hand was squeezing his wrist so hard, his fingers were tingling. Mulder accepted the pain as his due. "Whatever's easiest for you to believe, Len," he conceded quietly.

Sauceda wasn't having it. His face flushed with rage. "Whatever's easiest-- what the hell is that supposed to mean? Damn you! What the hell do you think you're playing at here?"

"Look, Lenny, I swear. I just woke up like this. That's all. I had a really bad dream. And I woke up like this."

"Just like that."

"Just like that." Mulder pulled away to lean against the couch. "I don't know, Lenny. There are cases... Maybe it's psychosomatic--"

"Psychosomatic, my ass, you little punk bastard--"

Mulder jerked his hand away, his voice finally hard and heading for dangerous. "Look, I'd like to tell you I'm just sick enough to think this is hysterically funny. That I did this to myself. But then you'd go and tell Purdue and he'd want to see the container I had this crap stored in and send it to the lab for analysis and prints and then I'd be totally screwed because there *is* no container and there sure as *hell* would be no prints."

Sauceda sat numb in the sudden silence, frozen with the impossibility of truth. He watched Mulder jerk to his feet, watched the young man swear as another fit of shivers threatened to land him back on the floor.

"Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to look down at him. "I'm going to take a shower," he hissed.

Mulder made it out of the room by sheer force of will. Sauceda followed him cautiously.

"Marty, I'm sorry--"

Mulder turned, furious at the gentle voice beside him, holding his anger tightly, needing it to help him think, to remind him to breathe. "I don't want you to be sorry, Lenny," he seethed. "I don't need you to be sorry. I just can't afford to be kind, courteous and courageous just now, okay?" He moaned, jerked away, the explanation taking too much effort. "I'm going to take a shower. I just really need to take a shower."

"Marty. You're not steady enough on your feet, kid--"

"Damn you. Don't tell me what I am. You have no idea. Don't fucking tell me what I am!"

Sauceda followed him silently through the bedroom. Every step Mulder took convinced him he was in no shape to be standing, let alone trying it on a slippery surface.

Sauceda tried again. "How about a bath, kid?"

"Screw you. I hate baths." Mulder didn't bother to look back at him. "And you're *not* going to help me. I don't want you touching me," Mulder's voice was headed for hysterics. He bit back the words but they came anyway, slurred but clear enough for Sauceda to understand. "I don't want anyone touching me anymore."

He felt Sauceda freeze with comprehension: sexual molestation cases and Mulder's penchant for long showers.

*Shit. Shit, shit, shit--*

"Okay, Marty. Whatever you need, kid. I'll just sit outside the door, in case you get in trouble. Then I'll hear. Okay?"

Mulder swallowed hard, closing his eyes in gratitude, fearing the compassion even as he accepted it. He continued his exodus, Sauceda close beside with every step but careful not to touch him.

Mulder made it into the bathroom at last and sat down hard on the toilet seat. He closed his eyes against the spinning of the room, panting with the effort to remain vertical. He felt Sauceda standing in the door, watching him, shifting nervously.

Mulder's stomach churned threateningly but he had other problems right now. If Sauceda knew what he knew, if Sauceda knew the extent of the blood, that it ran slick and sticky down his thighs, plastered his briefs to his body in areas the pathologist hadn't dared to check...

If Sauceda knew, Mulder'd be drifting out on that cold dark Thorazine sea and Sauceda'd be cussing the smell in the autopsy room again.

Mulder looked over at his partner, keeping his eyes cold, his voice malicious, holding Sauceda off guard and at bay. "Just let me get cleaned up. Then you can crawl in the damned shower with me, I don't care. Just keep your hands off the merchandise."

Sauceda smiled meekly, apparently satisfied with the compromise.

Mulder nodded at him. "Make some coffee," he ordered, "And close the door. I won't lock it. I promise. Just... go away for a while."

Sauceda dashed to the phone on the nightstand and dialed Purdue.

"We've got another body," he hissed by way of greeting.

"Shit."

The remaining conversation was hurried and whispered, with Sauceda interrupting himself for frequent trips back to the bathroom door to listen. The water ran, pounding irregularly as Mulder moved beneath it.

Assured the ASAC was on his way, Sauceda sprinted to the kitchen to make coffee, trotted back to the bathroom door, listening even as he scooped the granules, back to the kitchen to pour the water in the machine. Back to the door. He thought briefly about calling Mitch in to help but balked at the idea immediately. Sauceda'd be damned before he'd admit he couldn't deal with his own partner. Besides, Marty didn't like crowds. And in Marty's dictionary, just being alone was sometimes crowded enough.

The water still ran and after a bit Sauceda heard nothing but the water, no splash or step, just the water, running on and on. It was still running long after the hot water heater had played out.

It was 7:00 a.m. when Sauceda finally decided he couldn't take it anymore. He called out twice and tapped on the door. There was no response.

Sauceda chewed the inside of his cheek, took a deep breath and reached his hand out to the knob. The water stopped abruptly. Sauceda jerked his hand back guiltily, glancing around, trying to imagine something he could be busy doing when Mulder came out. The kid had been fairly sedate up till now, there was no sense antagonizing him by being under his feet. Sauceda'd gotten Gregg to pick up a few groceries last night. They would need some breakfast--

Mulder emerged from his exile, still damp, wrapping himself in his robe. He glanced over at Sauceda but refused to look at him directly. Sauceda bit his lip. Mulder looked like hell. No one that young should have eyes in that much pain. It made Sauceda's gut hurt just to look at him.

"You okay, Marty?"

"Go to hell, Len."

Sauceda didn't take the cussing personally. The voice that spoke it was tired, obviously operating on reflex, not fully connected to any real thought or malice.

"I'm gonna fix breakfast, okay?" Sauceda offered pointlessly. He didn't expect Marty to be registering words just yet, anyway.

Mulder nodded blankly and Sauceda was off like a shot, guiltily grateful for the reprieve.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. GQ, hollow-eyed and solemn, stepped into the dining room for his sugar-with-coffee and found Sauceda, dressed, wolfing down a second bowl of cereal. Mulder eyed the box: "Life."

"If memory serves," Mulder noted, "this is what's known as poetic irony."

"Sit down and eat, Marty."

"I'm not hungry."

"Marty, you gotta eat--"

Mulder sighed. "It'll just come back up again before we're done, Hot Sauce. You know the routine."

Sauceda licked his lips. "Let's wait a bit, Marty. Okay?"

"Why?" Mulder's eyes dropped to suspicious slits. "You and Purdue got something planned?"

"No. No. Really. But, it's like the man says, the victim can't get any deader, right? So, it's not like we gotta get in a big rush or anything--"

Mulder looked at him a long minute and Sauceda prepared himself for the argument.

But Mulder just sat down in the chair opposite and shrugged. "You're the one doing the autopsies. If you want him after the heat's gotten to him, it's no sweat off me."

Sauceda blanched. "Just let me call Purdue, okay? Just to let him know we're on the move."

Mulder didn't say anything, didn't even nod.

Sauceda sat his spoon down and tramped to the living room to dial Purdue's cell number. He exchanged a few carefully chosen words with the ASAC; Mulder watched from his chair, eyes too wise in that silent face.

Purdue was three blocks away. *Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, just let him be here by the time we get to the parking lot. I can't to do this shit anymore...*

Sauceda reached up a trembling hand to blot tears. He was getting too old for this. He jerked the hand away at the sound of Mulder's chair scooting back. The profiler had stepped out the door before Sauceda could even get the receiver cradled.

Mulder's voice, flat and unrelenting, drifted back from the hall: "Good morning, boys, we're going for a drive now. Of course, you can come, just keep your hands off the suit, I just had it cleaned--"

By the time Sauceda popped into the hall, Gregg and Mitch were staring in bewilderment. Sauceda didn't bother to explain, eyes wild as he followed his partner down the hall. Mulder, coat swinging Joe-Cool easy, led them to the elevator. Mentally he was a world apart, towing three lesser beings in elliptical orbit.

Everything was moving too fast for Sauceda. Marty was walking too fast, the elevator opened too fast, depositing them efficiently on the first floor. Mulder led the way again, that animal grace, those too-green eyes hidden behind the shades, that inhuman mind locked in silence with secrets no man should know-- Sauceda was praying again.

*Jeezus, just make him slow down. Make him still be here when Purdue gets here. I don't want to do this. Not this time. Not with all that blood already. It's too much. It's too weird. Just make him stop-- *

And just like that, Mulder *did* stop. Sauceda almost collided with him, the change of motion was so abrupt. Sauceda circled to check his partner's condition. The shades were on, but the face was very pale, the breathing bordering on hyperventilation. Sauceda frowned.

"Whatsa matter, Marty? You need to sit down, kid? Let's go back and sit down--"

Mulder pushed him away absently, staring at the door to his left. Number 9. As Mulder's luck would have it, his super chose that moment to come up the hall, wrench in hand, muttering something about the hot water heater. Mulder waved him down.

"Can you open the door?" he requested politely.

Sauceda's gut sank.

The super looked from Mulder to the door in question. "To Norman Seilman's? Just knock."

"Please."

The man with the wrench took a closer look at his tenant. "You all right, Mr. Mulder?"

"Please. I just need the door open."

The super's eyes went wide. "Is this official FBI business?"

"No!" Sauceda gasped. "Marty, wait. You can't. You can't do it this time. It's too much. You have to wait for Purdue. Let Purdue take care of it."

Mulder blinked at him like he'd sprouted another head. He turned back to the super. "Just open the damned door."

Seconds, bare seconds and they were in the room, through the room and into the bedroom. Mulder never hesitated, never slowed, certain of where he was going and of what he would find when he got there. Nude male, dark hair, somewhere one side or the other of six feet, gutted on the bed.

Sauceda stood at the bedroom door, defeated and exasperated with himself. Purdue'd asked him just one favor: keep the kid out of the next crime scene. And he'd blown it. Just that easy. Shit, he must be getting old. He was certainly too old for this--

He stared at the body, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The victim's hands had been cuffed to the headboard. The tongue protruded, laid like some dark patch of beard against the chin. The corpse retained a grimace, like he was still straining against the cord around his neck. Sauceda wanted to spit. The sick bitch had probably kept the man alive, strangling him, trying to get a stronger erection so she could--

"Oh God," Sauceda hissed, finally recognizing the organs spilled from their proper places. Sisyphus had gutted this one all right, but she hadn't stopped there. This time, she'd worked her way south. And from the look of things, she'd enjoyed it immensely. And this is what the kid had dreamed so vividly he'd bled for the guy--

Mulder turned away from Sauceda's numbed stare and stalked back through the apartment, Sauceda hard on his heels.

"You knew," Sauceda voiced the accusation.

Mulder kept walking.

"Say it, dammit. You knew."

"Okay. I knew. So what?"

Purdue was in front door, unreadable gaze flickering from Mulder to Sauceda. Sauceda was too numb right now to care. The ASAC passed them and moved to the bedroom without comment.

Mitchell backed out of the bedroom shaking his head. "Jeezus, Mulder. I think your lady friend is pissed."

"I'm paying attention, Mitch."

Purdue emerged.

Mulder had the balls to smile. It looked like a crack in his face. "So, what'dya think?" he asked. "Self-inflicted?"

"Got your poem, Agent?" Purdue demanded.

"Gregg's bagging it for me now."

"Good. I want it, your partner, your bodyguard and your ass back in your apartment until we're done down here. Is that clear?"

"Yeah."

"No argument?"

Mulder shook his head arrogantly but the color was draining from his face even as they watched.

Sauceda's fingers itched to take the shades away and gauge the dilated stare that lay beneath. Mulder's hands were shaking now, too. By Sauceda's estimate, the carefully constructed shields Mulder had built around his life had cracked at least two months back, and now the reality of the corpse in the next room and all those that had preceded it was finally bleeding through.

Purdue turned as Mitchell approached. "Get him upstairs while you still can and this time you *keep* him there. Gregg, call an ISU out here. Sauceda, I'm arranging for a move to a safe house although we may have to get him in a hotel first. Damn witness protection must be having a two for one sale this week. But he's not staying here. Not after this--"

"Where's my cat?"

Sauceda's eyes snapped shut and Purdue carefully turned back to the man in the shades.

"I took care of it, Agent Mulder."

"Everybody keeps telling me that," Mulder observed. "Isn't it funny how they keep telling me that and I still don't know what you did with it?"

Mitchell's eyes were wide and busy calculating Mulder's weight and the reach of his swing. Gregg looked like he was trying to determine from the hang of Mulder's jacket if Sauceda'd had enough on the ball this morning to hide the profiler's gun.

Purdue's voice was soft. "I buried your cat in my backyard, Mulder. Next to my old dog, my wife's cockatoo and three of our cats. I can show you the spot sometime if you like."

"You didn't put him in the dumpster?"

Purdue frowned. "Did you want me to?"

"No."

The ASAC licked his lips. "I didn't put him in the dumpster, Agent Mulder."

Mulder nodded. "He didn't like it in the dumpster."

Purdue nodded, too, like this was the most rational conversation he'd had in ages. Nodded like it didn't feel like someone was kicking his guts out. Nodded like it wasn't killing him to watch the Bureau's finest shatter like so much misused crystal.

"Mulder--" Purdue began softly.

"Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda bit his tongue to have a reason for his eyes to go blurry.

"I'm going home and lie down now," Mulder informed the room in general. "I'd like my poem, please."

Purdue nodded and Gregg presented the baggied paper gingerly. Mulder accepted it without looking at it, turned for the door. It obviously took everything he had left, but he managed to remain vertical for the trip back upstairs to apartment 42: Mercury, mortally wounded, his little army of satellites tagging quietly behind.