Mulder had no clever comeback for Purdue's challenge, no witticism worthy of the ASAC's betrayal. His rage, his guilt, were overwhelming and his attempts at physical assault had done nothing to relieve the turmoil. He'd spent days locked in apathy-- brief bursts of agony suspended in an emotional vacuum. This morning, however, every breath was torment, every glance-- at Purdue, at Sauceda, at the windows of his apartment-- a reminder of grief, of the crisis beyond his control.

Purdue was watching him closely. Sauceda was doing the same. Mulder didn't even glance in Fowley's direction, preferring to imagine that at least one clown in this circus had good sense. Why were they always looking to him? After everything, how could they stand here like this, anxiously awaiting some marvelous pronouncement? What was it they wanted to hear? All will be well, my children, you may breathe now? Jeezus, was he really that good a liar, or were they just that desperate?

"God damn." Mulder backed away, squeezing his eyes shut. Someone spoke but his chest was constricting with the effort to remain calm, and he had to concentrate to hear, to distinguish just who had said what. It scarcely mattered; he knew no words that wouldn't choke him in mid-sentence. Hands laid hold on him--

"No!"

*No more.* Mulder jerked away, fleeing for the front seat of his car. Purdue blocked his access to the driver's side so he wound up in the passenger seat. Sauceda caught the door before he could close it. He laid a steadying hand on Mulder's wrist as his fist clenched defensively.

"Easy, kid. Hey." He waited for Mulder to focus, for the heartbeat beneath his fingers to stabilize. "Come on Marty. I'll get you back to the Y. Okay? Get you cleaned up?"

The ringing in Mulder's ears had finally subsided and he nodded, grateful. As he lay back against the headrest, Purdue crossed into his field of vision. Mulder watched the ASAC dig for his cell phone, dial a number. The phone at his ear, Purdue turned, studying the young agent through the windshield. Mulder didn't bother to glance away.

Purdue was impossible to read, dark eyes shielded under drawn brows as he squinted in the sun, body perfectly motionless. The ASAC had made his reputation as a master interrogator. He would know the subtle tell-tales signals, the body language that betrayed the mind, the thoughts that energized the blood, the muscles. He was giving Mulder nothing. And Mulder had already given him everything.

Or institutionalization. Mulder's heart was pounding again with the realization. It would be in his best interests after all, to lock him away some place quiet for a good long while. Mulder had given them enough to make a case for it. And the PR would be better too: press reports would inform taxpayers that another agent, overworked, overwrought by his responsibility to the public good, had cracked beneath the strain. It played well with the masses. And it helped to have so much public sympathy when it came time to plan the budget. Much more popular than the idea that J. Edgar's heirs had handed a badge to a murderer.

Christ, how could he have been so stupid? So--

So lost.

He knew his first mistake, the foundation he'd laid for all the others: he should have remained with the BSU. Better the devil you know, after all. Of course, Mulder had never pulled anything this desperate with Patterson. No, he'd always been so very sure of himself, so carefully contained.... Still, with Patterson on hand, Mulder could have maneuvered his way out this mess, he was certain of it. Bill was always too involved with his own psychological manipulations to be swayed much by Mulder's, too content to wait out the case, giving the profiler room to work, calmly waiting for Mulder to become the thing he hunted.

But Purdue was an honorable man, damn him, too set on doing the right thing, whatever the hell he perceived that to be. Purdue had made it clear: he saw himself as Mulder's only trustworthy friend, and it didn't matter to him if Mulder never reciprocated that regard. The ASAC would have Mulder put away in a nice quiet hospital and all for his own good, case or no case. And Purdue wasn't the type to let a little thing like a promise stand in his way. Not if he was smart. He was probably calling the hospital right now--

Just beyond the windshield, Purdue lowered his phone. He stood a moment, shoulders relaxed, breeze cooling the fine sheen of sweat on his face. And then he saluted his profiler. It was a slow movement of the hand, fingers lightly brushing his forehead, deliberate and respectful. His expression was still cautiously neutral, but not unkind. Jeezus, the man almost smiled--

Mulder held his breath, refusing to respond. His face was a perfect blank as Sauceda backed the car out of its space and turned them away.

One block down, two, and Sauceda chanced a glance behind him. He kept his voice low, like Purdue might actually be able to hear him. Mulder resisted the urge to turn around and check.

"I'm sorry, Marty. You know, about not giving your gun back. Purdue just-- Hell. *We* don't think it's a really good idea for you have access to a weapon right now. Not just yet. You understand."

Mulder kept his focus out his own window. He watched Chinquapin Park fleeing past, then shrugged, his voice hoarse. "What the hell. I can always borrow Fowley's, huh?"

Sauceda's foot slipped off the gas abruptly.

"Uh. Uh-huh."

The rest of the drive was blissfully silent, Sauceda allowing Mulder the space to recoup if he could. Nothing much was said when they reached their destination, either. Sauceda signed them in and Mulder dutifully followed him down the hall, standing to one side as Sauceda commenced setting up house in a corner of the locker room. The pathologist staked out an entire bench, arranging first aid kit, toiletries, and a change of clothes with the precision of a scrub nurse prepping for surgery.

Mulder watched him quietly, marveling. Sauceda's attitude was simply business-as-usual. He was well acquainted with his role in this partnership, especially when Mulder was quiet like this, and he evidenced no false hope, no anticipation of Mulder's continued cooperation. But he wasn't nervous, either, or belligerent. Sauceda had simply made himself a neutral target, a disinterested canvas, suitable for any shift in Mulder's emotional landscape. His smile, genuine but tired, was careful, his eyes quick as he registered everything, motions deliberately open and non-threatening.

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid."

"You ever think about going into hostage negotiation?"

Sauceda turned to eye him cautiously. "As the negotiator? Or the hostage?"

Mulder decided the conversation was obviously heading into deep water. "I wanna wear a suit," he said. Sauceda nodded and repacked his jeans.

Mulder didn't bother with the ceaseless showering that had so occupied him of late. A quick wash up and a change of clothes was enough: a white shirt with extra starch, and his blue suit. Dressing well usually made Mulder feel better, and right now he was pretty desperate to feel better. There would be Purdue to deal with shortly and no matter what the ASAC had up his sleeve, Mulder knew he couldn't afford another loss.

Sauceda, however, had his own agenda: Mulder wouldn't be wearing a belt-- no belt and no tie. Mulder took several ragged breaths before cussing him savagely. Sauceda endured the diatribe in silence, bearing up with practiced stoicism. He turned only the barest shade of pink and crossed his arms, oblivious to the other patrons as they fled the room.

Mulder stripped as he ranted, tossing his pants at the older man, then the shirt. Lenny said nothing, stooping to retrieve the items as Mulder grabbed his jeans from the suitcase. The action dislodged something else from the suitcase and it slapped the floor. Mulder caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. He froze mid-breath, his violence forgotten. Sauceda, too, had come to a complete halt, only halfway straightened, staring at the small, leather bound notebook on the tile next to his hand. Mulder's journal. The pathologist jerked upright, guiltily, but Mulder's focus remained on the book. Surely this was further betrayal-- Lenny's confession was written on his face as Mulder finally met his eyes.

Mulder's growl was so deep only part of the words were distinguishable. "...treasonous bastard... piece of shit--"

"Now, don't start, Marty." Sauceda shook his head, taking an unsteady step backward. "You know I can't read your damned shorthand. Jeezus. I just thought you might want it, is all. Honest."

Mulder's jaw worked, trying to reason beyond his panic. But it was true. Sauceda had no way of comprehending the symbols in the journal. He'd tried. Patterson had tried, too. Blevins and God knew who else. Each mark on the paper, however, was Mulder's own particular product, a code devised for his personal use, defined nowhere outside his head. Through the preceding year, the Bureau had confiscated his laptop, "borrowed" his books, memorized his files. Mulder's journals, however, remained intact. His final inviolable armament.

He calmed himself with the reassurance, taking a deep breath to steady the trembling of his hands as he slipped into his jeans. Sauceda moved in slow motion, face set with his "just being helpful" expression, leaning down to retrieve the book. Mulder's look made him think better of it, however. He danced back as Mulder lunged for his feet, snatching the journal off the floor and shoving it roughly into his back pocket. Sauceda nodded, apparently relieved that Mulder considered him unworthy of actual physical assault. Mulder zipped his pants and Sauceda handed him a polo shirt, relatively free of wrinkles. Mulder accepted it indignantly but didn't bother to tuck it into his jeans; maybe this way no one would notice his lack of a belt, after all. Sauceda reached up to straighten his collar and got his hand slapped for his trouble.

Ultimately, Sauceda did concede one bit of ground: he would let Mulder shave-- as long as he could supervise the activity. Mulder, wearied by his own histrionics, agreed. He accepted the safety razor with a restrained bit of profanity, but otherwise feigned complete lack of concern. Sauceda had no response either way.

Standing over the sink of running water, however, Mulder was almost reluctant to scrape away the shaving cream. His own reflection would betray him, he knew it. Above the snowy lather, his face was hot with embarrassment, his hand trembling violently with every stroke. The simple act of shaving, an activity he'd performed without thought every day for a decade, felt like a rape with Sauceda's eyes so intense over his shoulder. Lenny watching him pee hadn't been this humiliating.

Sauceda gave no indication that he noticed Mulder's discomfort, however. The pathologist had no probing questions-- "whatsa matter? You okay?"-- and demanded no explanations. Mulder watched the lather swirl down the drain, falling down, down into endlessness, and decided that he owed Lenny for that much then, at least.

Dressed, dried and finally fit for public consumption, Mulder followed Sauceda out into the hall. Lenny wasn't headed for the parking lot, though. He turned into the gym and proceeded to stake out a seat on the bleachers: front row for the suitcase, second row for himself. The place was almost deserted. A couple of spectators on the bench across the room, a half a game's worth of kids on the court, practicing hoop shots.

Mulder remained at the door. "Len, what the hell--?"

"Have a seat, Marty." Sauceda patted the lump the cell phone made in his jacket. "Purdue'll call when he's ready for us."

Mulder came over reluctantly. "Lenny. Don't you think we should be at the crime scene, processing evidence?"

Sauceda blinked at him calmly and Mulder blushed. Just where did he get off with this self-righteous schpiel? Hell, he'd spent the best part of the morning hiding out in his car, unable to face his own blood-splattered apartment.

Sauceda's voice was irritatingly gentle. "Kid, anywhere you *are* lately, turns into a crime scene. Why don't we just say you're here processing this one a little early?" Mulder was lost suddenly, trying to digest this reality, but Sauceda shrugged. "Bad joke, Marty. Sorry. Look, just... take a seat and watch the game, okay? Give the rest of us a chance to get caught up this morning. It'll be okay."

Mulder bit his lip but the conversation seemed to have ended without him. Sauceda rested his elbows on the bench behind him and crossed his legs, obviously ready to enjoy what little game was to be had on the floor. Mulder felt foolish just standing there, like a child dismissed to his room. He considered walking out. It would do him good just to be alone for a while, to catch his breath mentally, maybe hear himself think. The fact that it would also piss Lenny off royally would just be icing on the cake. Escaping, however, would only make his situation worse. They'd put out an APB on him, stick him in jail. Or in a hospital in restraints. And he hated restraints-- Besides, Sauceda had his car keys.

Mulder resigned himself to his fate and climbed up the bleachers, settling several rows behind Sauceda, and a full arm's length further down the bench. The journal made an uncomfortable lump against his backside; Mulder pulled it from his pocket, holding it awkwardly.

He watched the young men below, tall, burly boys so much younger than himself, playing at free throws and practicing rebounds. Mulder envied them the gritty feel of the basketball in their hands, the sensation of sweat on skin and the cooling breeze generated as they skittered between baskets. He knew the satisfaction of a shared goal, the certainty of muscle and sinew, reflexes honed to instinct, the comfort of obvious bounds. These were the pleasures of the game. The comforts of life.

Memories of Wheeling flooded him, swallowing him whole. He thought for a moment that he would drown, suffocate right there in the bleachers. His throat constricted, his chest suddenly too heavy to retrieve oxygen. Random flashes of lights crossed his field of vision and he fought overwhelming panic. Mulder gasped silently, realizing that Sauceda only had to turn to see. And Lenny would rescue him, damn him, use drugs and CPR like weapons to force him to submit to life--

But there was no need to worry. The episode passed too quickly, Mulder's lungs sucking in air against his better judgment. Sauceda glanced over then and Mulder covered his distress with a fit of coughing, ramming the heels of his hands into his eyes to kill the tears of disappointment before they could fall.

"Need some water, Marty?"

Mulder jerked his hands down and shook his head vehemently, suddenly so very interested in the game below. Sauceda chewed his lip but turned his attention back to the court. A kid in a faded Michael Jackson T-shirt had chased the ball out of bounds and there was an indignant scuffle as he tried to return it to play and slam-dunk it. No one called for personal fouls, however. The cheap-shot artist surrendered easily enough, passing the ball to a lanky, tow-headed boy sporting a pair of bright yellow Nikes. Yellow Shoes hit a jumper straight off, bouncing to the far end of the court as the rest of the team scrambled for positions.

"I can't have a tie," Mulder grumbled just loud enough for Sauceda to hear. "Or a belt to hold my damned pants up. Think you can trust me with a freaking pen?"

Lenny wobbled his head. "Nope."

But Sauceda passed him one anyway. A felt tip marker, fine point. Mulder actually considered not accepting it, regarding it with grave suspicion. Sauceda's concession had come too easily. Mulder hadn't actually wanted a pen, after all; he'd just wanted something to be angry about when Sauceda refused. He needed the rage right now, it helped him think. Life had taught him that animosity provided no room for grief, no time for it. Ironic, that. Doubly ironic that the one person he knew capable of fully appreciating that fact was the woman who'd put him here. Sisyphus, a woman much aggrieved in her time...

Mulder rose, snatching the pen from Sauceda's outstretched hand, refusing to look the man in the eye. The pathologist faced forward with a studied nonchalance, flicking imagined lint from his trouser leg.

Mulder's knuckles were still scarred from his impact with the mirror, but they offered little protest as he gripped the pen. He studied the marker carefully. The barrel was a simple construction, quite self-contained, soft plastic, the cap possessing no bit of metal. A preschooler pen with water-based ink. Lenny never used a pen like that. The prick. This was enough to be angry over, surely...

Mulder settled the journal on his lap and flipped it open. An entry dated May 13 bared itself for inspection and Mulder stared at it, considering its time, its place. Kay had been alive that day, with just two days remaining to her. She hadn't known, and she'd laughed a lot. Mulder hadn't known and he'd laughed with her. It was a Friday, wasn't it? Yeah. Friday. Mulder had done something to hack Purdue off and the ASAC had sent him back to the motel and told him to go to hell while he was at it. Kay had been waiting for him. They'd made love the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening: passionate and fierce the first time, then slowly, joyfully-- they'd had all the time in the world, after all-- exploring, learning, memorizing the details of skin and the nerve endings beneath, the responses of each touch. Just so.

He felt even now the warmth of her against him, the sensation of her skin sliding beneath his hands, her fingers digging into his upper arms as he held himself above her, her grip intensifying with her pleasure, intensifying his. An endless circle. He'd thought of a ring then, just before thought was rendered impossible. A circle of gold. And he'd understood, finally, the ancient tradition of golden bands, the mystery of handing eternity to another as a solemn pledge. The ring on his own hand had been a mockery to him. Just exactly what he deserved.

Mulder's groin burned with the memory of Kay, her body, her breath against his chest. His heart answered the burning by threatening to burst again. The journal waited patiently for Mulder's eyes  to finally start focusing again. At the top of the page, he'd written her name: no code this time, just plain English in large fanciful letters quite unlike his usual angular scrawl. There was a bit of coded poem below the name, snippets of Irving Feldman copied from memory:

It was a foolish thing to write, childish, or so he'd thought four days ago, listening to her moving about in the bath. Poems and the spelling out of names were juvenile expressions, and he was a grown man, after all, with one long-term relationship to his credit not so many years before. Mulder knew better than to believe that love was so simple, that devotion should be won so readily. Phoebe had taught him that much, surely. Mulder had started to line through the words as soon as he'd written them. See? There was the mark where he'd rested the tip of his pen, considering. His hand had refused to comply however, had not obeyed. Then Kay had returned, body still slightly damp, shy as she approached the bed, embarrassed by her own nudity, aroused by his. The journal had been forgotten as he sought to inscribe his feelings on more tender objects.

Now the memory of it all lacerated his soul, and he cursed himself, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He could see her even more clearly, though, all distractions forgotten. She was glorious, her face aglow with the light that filtered through his eyelids, smiling at him, searching his face as he spoke her name. The face transformed again, sun shining behind her now, just visible behind her head. Her image was bright as the corona behind her, brighter, brighter still, searing his skin, blinding and too beautiful to allow him to look away. She reached for him, blinking through the haze of his pain as he gasped up at her, struggling to reach her as Reg held him against the asphalt. She stood above him, staring down, a single tear in her eye--

Mulder sat forward, gasping again. His fingers numbed almost instantly, colored lights spotting his vision. This time, however, he had no illusions regarding his own mortality. He would live, goddammit. And God damn him for it. Kay dead less than four days and this morning he had found her watching him, her expressive eyes still framed by soft brown hair, regarding him from the front seat of his own car. Smiling at him with Diana Fowley's mouth.

Just what the fuck kind of monster was he?

"Marty? You okay, kid?"

Mulder didn't bother with the lie, bowing his head over his journal, yanking the cap off the pen. He flipped through the pages, finding an empty bit of paper. Sauceda waited patiently as Mulder drew a random circle and took a deep, steadying breath.

"So. How's Imelda?" Mulder glanced up, voice quite calm, his face a mask. "I mean-- Really?" And he did suddenly, honestly need to know.

Sauceda propped his knee on the bench, leaning back on his elbow. He looked grateful for the conversation, for the sobriety in Mulder's voice. Mulder was struck suddenly by Sauceda's appearance. He looked so much older, somehow. Decades older. He'd lost weight, too, but Mulder couldn't fathom how such a transformation had taken place without his noticing, couldn't remember Sauceda's skin ever sagging around his jaw quite like that. The rash he did remember, though, and it was only slightly better.

"She's good, kid," Lenny smiled fondly, which made looking at him all the more painful. Mulder controlled his expression as Sauceda tilted his head, watching him. "She's... good. Marty, everything's okay, I swear."

The kids on the court called for a free throw, scampered into the necessary positions, sneakers squealing in protest. Mulder looked away to the basket opposite him, grateful for the excuse not to hold Sauceda's gaze too long.

Mulder stared down at the book in his hand, took a deep breath. "No. No, it's okay." He drew a slow heavy line through the circle on his paper, the ink soaking into the pages beneath, bleeding out from its source in feathery wisps. "Tell her thank you," he requested softly. He struggled for words a minute. "Look, ahm. So when's your flight out to Memphis?"

Sauceda shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not going, Marty. I'm already on a case, 'member?" He talked faster, surprised by the confusion on Mulder's face, eager to reassure. "Purdue sent Hovind and Braden with her. They're good men. Better than me." He grinned. "Besides, she's getting some time with the kids. She'll have me under her feet soon enough. We're heading for Maui come December. You remember. I've been promising her for years. Since our honeymoon." Lenny actually blushed. "She's real excited. Real excited."

Mulder nodded as if in a trance. Sauceda was asking his permission, he realized, requesting a release of some kind. An amicable divorce. He felt his chest tighten, marveling that Sauceda would care so much, that it should matter to him, after everything.

"Purdue should have sent you with her, Len," He answered gently. "Hell, he's got a whole freaking army out there." His voice was almost a whisper now and Sauceda had to lean forward to hear him above the scuffling on the court. "You don't need to be dealing with this shit anymore."

Sauceda's jaw set determinedly. "I'm not bailing on you, Marty. I know it looks like it with Purdue hauling Freaky Fowley in like this, but I'm not. I'm staying, dammit--"

Mulder shook off the despair that threatened to devour him whole. "No. I don't think that-- Christ, Hot Sauce, you've lasted a hell of a lot longer than you should've tried to. Don't you understand what these bastards did to you? They should have settled you in at Quantico for a milk run and instead they threw you out here on the road chasing after every goddam nut with a knife. They had no right to do that to you. I'm just--" he couldn't trust his voice suddenly and took another deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm sorry I was so rough on you." He couldn't look up as he said the words but his voice was steady. "You're a good man, Len. You deserve to retire in peace and raise your grandkids."

"So do you, Marty."

Mulder glanced up, surprised by the words. Sauceda looked back at him, dark eyes shining too brightly.

Mulder's thoughts overwhelmed him temporarily: the image of himself standing in Sauceda's shoes some forty years hence, his career over, his star long burned, blushing as he spoke about the woman waiting for him, her arms the reward for all battles fought, won and lost. It hurt. It hurt because Mulder couldn't see it happening. Not for him. And the realization had the bitter edge of prophecy, like too many of his dreams.

"I'm... tired, Lenny." Mulder barely managed the words, surprised himself that he had confessed as much aloud.

Sauceda answered carefully, watching Mulder's face. "You haven't been eating right, kid. You can't keep doing that to yourself."

"I know. I don't mean to. I just-- I'll eat lunch. I promise. Soon as we're at the hotel." Mulder studied the circle he'd drawn, the line. Some embittered area of his brain informed him it was the symbol of eternity, voided. "I just want to sleep," he said and it was true, only not the way that Lenny would want to interpret it.

The cell phone buzzed hollowly in the vaulted room. Mulder rose and surrendered the pen, not waiting to be asked.

First off, Mulder had refused to sit in the back. He'd commandeered the front passenger seat, ignoring Purdue's arguments. And flatly denying his orders. Hell, Mulder insisted, they were expecting Sisyphus, not a sniper. The ASAC had slammed the door in disgust, then leaned back through the window.

"Right now," he'd growled. "I almost wish she was a damned sniper. Just so long as she could hit her actual target. Just once."

Mulder's answering grin hadn't helped in the least but Purdue had surrendered, apparently ashamed of his outburst. The ASAC had climbed into the backseat and they'd fallen into their place in the convoy.

The second escort to stir into action took out after a woman in a hot red Pontiac. She didn't slow. Purdue barked orders and Mulder kept his smartass remarks to himself as Fowley made several too-quick turns, almost losing the remaining escort units in her efforts to follow Purdue's convoluted instructions. She slammed on her brakes at a red light and the tires squealed in protest, the back end fish-tailing precariously.

Mulder felt Purdue's silence over his shoulder, aware, yet again, that he was being observed in the mirror of his visor. The ASAC had probably caught Fowley's nervous glance in the rearview mirror a few dozen times, too. Mulder's hand itched to snap the visor up, but the action would be too much of an admission and he'd be damned before he'd concede Purdue any more ground. Besides, after days of too little lighting, the sunlight was already more than Mulder's eyes could handle without tearing; no one, apparently, trusted him with his shades anymore.

"In my purse," Fowley said.

"Pardon?"

"There's a pack in my purse. Help yourself."

He was aware suddenly that he was gasping with pain. Conscious, again, of Purdue's presence not three feet behind him.

Mulder turned back to the floorboard, seeking the purse Fowley had tossed next to his feet when she'd crawled into the car. He waited for another red light-- waited for his hands to steady-- before handing it to her. She took it with an only half-irritated sigh and offered him the pack. Then, because it was another long light, she lit the cigarette for him. He tried not to look at her until the deed was done, but couldn't help glancing up as he took the first drag. She blushed, suddenly as aware as he of how intimate a gesture she was making. She shoved the lighter back in her purse, tossing the bag at his feet again.

Purdue was silent behind them, as omniscient as the eye of God.

They made the Embassy Suites Hotel, passed it and parked in the garage. Purdue informed them they were to stay put, that he was waiting for the units to gather and for the agents inside the hotel to give him the all-clear. Sauceda's driver pulled in behind them and Purdue climbed out, eyes scanning, for a brief conference.

Fowley shifted awkwardly in the silence. She'd heard only about a half dozen words pass Mulder's lips since the confrontation in the parking lot. Mulder imagined that his current condition-- physically and mentally exhausted, complacent as a lamb to the slaughter-- was a considerable contrast to what she would know of his reputation. Hell, he didn't much resemble what *he* knew of it. His sudden voice beside her made her jerk.

"You baby-sit often, Agent Fowley?"

She recovered quickly and frowned at the suggestion, what it might imply about her abilities. What it implied about him. "I take care of my partner, Fox. That's all."

"Purdue said this assignment was temporary." He kept his voice light, indifferent.

She flipped her hair back from her shoulder. "Whatever."

Mulder smiled in spite of himself. Dammit. He liked her. In spite of himself. Liked the way her legs went on forever and her nipples stood small and hard against the friction of silk...

Shit. Purdue was going to regret this. Hell, *he* regretted this.

She was watching him and fighting a faint blush. She looked like Kay again, suddenly--

*Damn.* Mulder turned away, staring out the passenger window. J.J. Levin stood at the bumper, hands held before him. A casual observer, noting Levin's pleasant smile, the way he looked first this way, then that, then again, slowly and without undue concern, would assume that Levin was simply waiting for someone. And in truth, he was. Someone stupid enough to wander too closely, to look suspicious or hesitant. Someone who'd make a suitable target for the .45 in the unclipped holster beneath his jacket. Beyond him, Purdue was giving orders to the flock of agents lounging against their own vehicles.

"Jeezus," Mulder hissed, angry but not at the ASAC. "Five freaking cars. What the hell is he thinking? JFK only had four."

"JFK's dead."

"Then this was your idea?"

He didn't bother looking over at her and she didn't bother denying the accusation. "Obviously, the Bureau finds you worth the effort, Fox."

"The Soviets have been standing in lines for three hours every day just to buy a loaf of bread. They've got to do *something* to pass the time." Mulder rolled his head against the headrest and feigned disinterest. "That case in Westchester should have taught you something. You try building another case based on psychic phenomenon and this bunch will lock you away."

"How about this, then? How about I *don't* admit to profiling a case with paranormal ability, psychic dreaming, clairvoyance and visions? How about I just do it and keep it to myself-- think maybe they'll pump *me* full of Thorazine?" She didn't flinch from his glare. "There's no way you come to the conclusions you do-- as quickly as you do-- without some serious psychic talent. I've read your case files, Fox. All of them. Baytown, Seattle, Shreveport. Every one of them. Completely uncensored."

She seemed rather proud of this personal triumph. Mulder's brows rose appreciatively. "Well, well. Another of Patterson's little pets-- and squirreled away in Domestic Terrorism just in case he needs something really juicy. Personally, I never kissed the man's ass well enough to rate that kind of courtesy. What's it like?"

"I'll let you know when I try it." If looks could kill, Mulder would have been well out of his misery.

He grinned. "You ever experience precognitive dreams, waking visions, Ms. Fowley?" He said it like he was propositioning her.

"Not personally. What's it like?"

Mulder's mouth opened, closed in a tight line. The victory twinkling in her eye was too much for him to choke down but he didn't trust himself to answer. He really didn't need this crap. It was pointless.

He shrugged back against his seat and flipped the radio on. Jimi Hendrix. Well, *someone* had good taste in music. He turned up the volume until "Spanish Castle Magic" was thumping the windows. He no sooner pulled his hand away than she adjusted the volume to a more suitable level.

"Look," she insisted. "I'm a psychologist by training, Fox. Just like you. But I happen to think that the human mind is capable of more than we give ourselves credit for. It just manifests itself more readily in some people than others: like precognition and psychokinesis--"

"You know, a few years ago they had a scientist at Cal Tech that was convinced there was a direct connection between microwave ovens and mass murder. They found him dead, with his head shoved in his gas oven. No pilot light."

"And your point would be?"

"There's more than enough strange and unusual things in this world, enough insanity built into human nature without having to resort to some paranormal, delusional crap. I'm not a damned psychic, I'm not a side show magician and I'm sure as hell not your goddam lab rat. I'm a profiler. Highly trained? Yes. Talented? Damned straight. And I maintain my spooky reputation by hard work and malice aforethought. No hocus pocus, no witchcraft, just a determined resolve to hack off as many people as possible. As frequently as possible." He smiled. "Actually, I've been told that I'm pretty good at it."

Her gaze was unblinking, hard as nails. "So. It doesn't bother you that I think you're full of shit?"

Mulder considered the question. "Should it?"

She looked like she was trying to come up with some kind of suitable answer. And not having much success. Well, his work here was done then. Mulder turned up the radio, offering the woman an out, trying not to contemplate why he felt her worthy of such mercy. She didn't seem to take hints very well, however, and reached for the control. Mulder raised his hand, leaving it floating at the radio dial. It was a languid gesture, as though the outcome of the argument didn't concern him. Perhaps it didn't. He didn't glance at her, not inviting conversation, simply blocking her access to the control. She could have easily pushed his hand away and availed herself of the appropriate dial, but her hand flew to her lap instead. From the corner of his eye, he noted her checking the hem of her skirt, adjusting it quickly down a few more millimeters. It didn't help much.

Kay wouldn't have worn such a skirt. He heard the words in his head and the observation surprised him. Where had that come from?

But Kay *wouldn't* have worn such a skirt. Even her uniforms had been longer than the other women on Chris' staff, settling just above her kneecap, the tailoring, however, unable to conceal the tantalizing curve of hip and thigh. And away from her carefully restricted role at the diner, Mulder noticed that Kay never even glanced up as she walked. He pictured her in his mind, strolling with studied modesty, eyes down, inviting no unwarranted attention, never noticing the heads that turned to watch her pass, never responding to an appreciative glance. He had marveled at that. Marveled that she had blushed, honestly flustered, when he'd told her she was beautiful. She didn't know. And she didn't believe him although she loved him for saying so. She had asked for so little. Expected nothing.

How had she slipped through his defenses? So unassuming, so unsure of her own footsteps-- how had she navigated, almost unnoticed, past the worst of his walls? Had he opened himself so completely? It was possible, he supposed. After the body count he'd mopped up over the past several months, Mulder's need for reassurance, for mercy, was strong enough to be frightening. Frightening, because there was only one source from which he'd ever learned to receive such comforts: the soft, fragrant hands of women.

The training had come early and permeated his life. Mulder's father had been distant when he'd been home at all. They'd discussed sports scores and politics; Bill Mulder seemed to know little else about the world. It was Fox's mother who had shushed the fears and tended the wounds of childhood, did what little she could to console him when Sam had gone away.

Then suddenly, in his early teens, Mulder had stepped outside his mother's world. In one life-altering encounter, he'd discovered that there were other hands and softer, hands that translated the art of compassion into far-flung worlds of fierce passions. And Mulder, at twenty-six, still had far too little arsenal against the onslaught of desire.

Kay hadn't known him well enough to be scared, hadn't known him long enough to realize the danger he presented. She'd made her cautious way through the wastelands he'd constructed about his life, walking head down, eyes averted, to bring him peace. And one morning he'd awakened to find her, her body trapped between the barbed wire and the sniper fire that seemed to destroy everything he touched--

Above the radio dial, Mulder's hand was shaking uncontrollably. He snatched it back, furiously adjusting his seat belt to conceal his turmoil. Moisture gathered ominously in his lower lashes. Fowley's voice was quiet.

"Fox, you can't deny that you have some very unusual abilities--"

"I'm not interested in your bullshit, Diana," his response was a full-throated growl, dangerous. "Why don't you go tell some more of your fairy tales to Purdue? He's so goddam impressed with you."

She licked her lips, carefully considering him, her voice neutral. "Maybe he has reason to be impressed."

"Why? Does fucking Patterson give you some tremendous insight into psychotic behavior? And you just absorb it by osmosis?" Mulder knew he was pushing a few too many limits. He just hurt too bad to care right now. "Or maybe you're kissing Purdue's ass, too?" He mocked a bow. "Busy lady."

He hit more than one nerve with that one. She positively seethed. "Screw you, Fox Mulder."

"Here?"

Sauceda popped the back door open and leaned in. "Hey, kids, how's it going?"

"I'd rather screw *him*," Fowley hissed as the pathologist plopped in innocently.

Mulder shrugged. "Go ahead. Shouldn't take him long. Anyone else you want to add to your list?"

She gave Mulder a glare hot enough to fuse bronze but remained silent, eyes resolutely forward as Purdue opened his door. The ASAC leaned in and paused, wary eyes rolling over the tension in Fowley's shoulders and ending at Mulder's languid smile. Sauceda gave him a lost shrug.

"Whatever he's done this time," Purdue growled. "I really do *not* want to hear about it."

Mulder was escorted to the atrium via the side door: nothing obtrusive, everyone walking casually, Fowley the only agent remaining at his side. Their point man strolled several yards ahead of them as though he'd simply walked in on his own. Sauceda followed well behind Mulder, another stag guest. A third agent tagged after the pathologist, pausing to inspect an island of plants, calm, unhurried, a businessman with a few minutes to spare.

Just to keep up appearances, Mulder took Fowley's arm, furnishing the room with a lazy grin. The muscles of Fowley's arm tightened beneath her jacket but she didn't pull away and her smile never faltered.

The covert unit joined Purdue in the elevator, just a bunch of strangers slipping into a convenient elevator, riding to their respective floors. The elevator itself was glass, providing an undisturbed view of the atrium and the open floors of rooms above. There seemed to be no halls in the building: each room was accessible by the long balcony-hall that ran around each floor and overlooked the atrium itself. For visual access, the layout was ideal. One or two men in the lobby could view practically every unit in the building. Mulder glanced over his shoulder, granting Purdue a respectful nod. The ASAC didn't respond and Mulder faced forward, slipping his arm around Fowley's waist, just for Purdue's benefit. She stiffened but didn't protest further. Mulder let his thumb swirl over her waist, humming "Honky Tonk Women" softly as they waited for their floor to ding.

The Embassy Suites Hotel might not have been the finest digs in Washington, but it was better than most of the dives Mulder had slept in in recent months. Each accommodation was a series of suites: sitting room with a little nook masquerading as a kitchenette, bathroom accessible from a discrete hall, and finally a bedroom. A real three-star jobby, just like Lenny had promised.

Purdue had reserved three suites on the third floor, each under a different name. The idea was to settle Mulder in the center suite and flank him with the two remaining units. This would provide a protective buffer of sorts: the rooms to the left serving as a command center, the unit to the right providing a place for the assigned agents to recoup when necessary-- all without disturbing the much-lauded profiler.

Someone, however, had decided the debriefing should be brought to Mulder. The door of Mulder's suite opened to Purdue's specific knock and Mulder found himself swallowed up by an assembly of agents. They greeted him with handshakes and solemn welcomes. Purdue, Sauceda and Fowley were left on the balcony to wait out the crush, the two other agents in the escort dispersing to their respective positions in the adjoining rooms.

The sitting room had a table and it was piled with papers, maps, drawings. Personnel spilled out around it, claiming chairs and slapping one another for knee room on the sofa. With all the seating taken, more agents had plopped up on the sink cabinet in the nook, or propped themselves against the walls. Mulder divided his time between trying to be sociable and counting heads. They'd left one man in the garage, two agents had been lounging downstairs as they'd come in-- and here were another dozen agents... Jeezus, surely this was just for the transport. Purdue wasn't stupid enough to expect the Bureau to put up with this kind of personnel drain--

Mulder knew most of those present, had worked with each at some point in his short career. They'd gained his respect and, apparently, he'd done some small favor to gain theirs. It was odd having them all assembled like this, knowing that he, for once, was the object of their case, rather than merely a colleague. He wondered how many had volunteered for this assignment. How many were donating their time.

Everyone was friendly, solicitous, but suitably sedate. Gregg and Mitchell were foremost on their minds, of course, and Mulder couldn't meet Purdue's eyes without blushing, ashamed suddenly of his childishness in the elevator. No one else seemed to notice, though. Ten-year veterans rose to offer the rookie a seat, proffer a handshake, nod respectfully. Samuel Lurie made a point of pounding Mulder's back, speaking some nonsense designed to be encouraging. Word was, Lurie was bucking for Deputy Assistant Director. And that he'd probably get it, too. He pumped Mulder's hand with such abandon that the profiler briefly glanced around for a camera, certain he'd wandered into some kind of photo op. Lurie seemed sincere enough, however, if that meant anything.

The truth was, Mulder was speechless before all the nerve-wracking kindness, uncertain of his role. He was the odd man out, he felt, a corpse resurrected at his own funeral, trying to mingle with the distant cousins, the forgotten friends come to bury him. He declined all offers to sit and retired to the far corner of the room, content to leave the spotlight for whoever the hell wanted it. Fowley had made herself at home, settled on the arm of the sofa, her long legs folded serenely, her jacket unbuttoned, a conspicuous attraction: the only female in a room rank with testosterone. She seemed quite at home, Mulder noted.

Purdue outlined their course of action. The shift schedule was fairly simple-- three agents would remain on site at all times, one in Mulder's suite, one in the lobby with a view of every floor, and one in the security office monitoring the camera feeds. No one would be expected to be on duty for more than six hours at a stretch. Mulder's fears of overkill were relieved, at least. Every agent onsite would have a closed-frequency walkie-talkie and a cell phone. There were set signals and codes, check-ins scheduled at irregular intervals, all the standard procedures for witness protection. Everyone was playing this one by the book. Purdue did the standard disclaimer of full Bureau support, et cetera, as well as the blessings of the US Marshal's office: murder of a Federal officer was a capital offense even if the Supreme Court had rescinded the death penalty. The only injustice was they wouldn't be able to sentence Sisyphus twice.

Q and A time rolled around quickly, everyone crowding the table to receive their respective assignments. Mulder wasn't too surprised to learn that no one had thought to give him anything to do. Just staying alive seemed to be the most they expected him to manage. He understood the logic but it was wounding all the same. He skirted the crowd, mumbling something he hoped was appropriately grateful, and retreated to the bedroom. No one seemed to mind, too kind to inquire. Too busy. Besides, Wayne and Sandidge had turned up with lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken and Mickey D's.

Sauceda wasn't letting his partner off so easily, though. He followed Mulder down the little hall, the greasy bag in his hand smelling suspiciously of Big Mac and Fries. Mulder stepped into the bedroom without bothering to turn on the light. He glanced around, gaining his bearings while keeping his back to Sauceda. He just didn't think he could handle any detailed conversations at the moment. Sauceda remained behind him, waiting patiently in the door.

"You gonna take that nap now, Marty?"

"Hum?"

"You know. You said earlier that you wanted to sleep--"

Mulder was grateful that he'd kept his back turned. He paled dramatically, could feel the blood rushing from his face, leaving him light-headed. He ducked back into the hall, brushing past Sauceda and excusing himself to the bathroom abruptly, not trusting himself to answer further. Sauceda said nothing but Mulder didn't bother trying to close the door before relieving himself. Making a scene was the last thing he wanted right now after all.

When he emerged, however, Sauceda was gone, certainly an unexpected turn of events. Mulder glanced around the bedroom, assuming at first that he simply hadn't noticed him. His journal was on the night table, next to an extra large Coke and the bag containing his lunch. The felt tip pen lay atop the little book, a flag of truce, an impulsive act of grace. Mulder crossed the room to touch it gingerly, needing to reassure himself of its reality and the brotherhood it implied.

Behind the bag, next to the lamp, was a photo in a frame-- the picture from his desk: Samantha and a much younger version of himself standing beneath the tree at his family's house in Chilmark. So many years ago. A lifetime. His hand trembled as he reached out to touch the photo but he didn't complete the gesture, hand frozen in mid-air, fingers extended. His own confident smile mocked him from the frame, his young, unwounded face, Samantha's assured eyes beside him. The lamp shone down upon the glass, creating a flash of hazy light that obliterated her pigtails, her chin, her chest. She seemed to float there within the glossy paper, like those surreal photos people take in old cemeteries and try to pass off as evidence of ghosts.

"Fox is home!" He could hear the words, the soft lisp of Sam's voice echoing in his memory. "Fox will fix it." He heard her light, quick tread as she sought him, weary of the futile efforts of their less-than-mechanically inclined father. And Fox-- irritated, impatient, secretly delighted-- would wait for her to find him and present her latest victim: the wounded Barbie doll, the loose shoe skate...

Mulder's hand dropped as a fist against his thigh, pushed against the wounds there until the physical pain obliged him and overrode the throbbing in his head.

Christ. He never carried photos with him, Sauceda knew that. What would possess Lenny to pack such an item?

Hell. Mulder knew why. Lenny thought he was doing him a favor: Mulder had been run out of his home, so Sauceda was doing his determined best to make him comfortable here. A photo. His journal.

*No ties or shoestrings, though. And no belt. Don't forget the belt, Fox. Jeezus.*

Mulder couldn't fault the man, much as he wanted to. Sauceda understood loss, certainly. Unlike Mulder, he had lost both parents. Mulder himself, though embittered by the disappearance of a sister, couldn't conceive of such an enormity. But sometimes, watching Lenny's face, Mulder wondered if Sauceda could comprehend the turmoil of *inexplicable* loss. The horror of just not knowing. Mulder had asked once and Sauceda had tried to explain the heartache of losing a father to cancer; the tragedy of a mother dead from a brief illness and the subsequent ringing of his phone in a distant motel room.

It was like trying to explain color to a man born blind.

Was there a disparity in the experience of grief, Mulder wondered? Did each man feel it differently? How could you tell, how did you measure suffering? Did it come in flavors like ice cream, lingering on the soul like quinine on the tongue? If it were so, who could say that they truly comprehended the pain another? And would Mulder *want* Sauceda to know his loss if it meant inflicting still more agony, in new varieties, upon his friend? Was Mulder's need to be understood so vital? Was Sisyphus right? Was he everything she was? Just as great a monster even if his talents were yet unexpressed?

Until Kay, Mulder had known death only vicariously: through bereaved spouses as they were questioned in police stations. Through parents waiting to claim their children at the morgue when he was finally done with the bodies. He had had no first-hand experience of death's unrelenting hand; instead, Mulder's rage was against life's uncertainty. In his visions, there was no hope of a bright heaven where Sam smiled, at rest. Every day, he woke to one simple fact: she was simply, unaccountably, not there. Kay's death had been a revelation, a look into another layer of hell.

Still hell, though. All the same.

He switched off the lamp, watching the photo blur into shadows, and sank to the edge of the bed. He was just too burdened to stand any longer. He'd been thinking of the knife for the better part of an hour. Lenny's little penknife. Missing it. It had lent him a certain level of control over his life, however destructive. And here he had surrendered it, giving his life away to another, a near stranger. Were things so bleak that he no longer trusted himself with himself? Mulder didn't honestly know. He'd told too many lies too long, mostly to himself, concealed his darkest thoughts too deeply to decipher what was his heart and what was simply more layers of bullshit. He rubbed at his face. Hell, he'd need an emotional backhoe just to find himself if he ever actually had the guts to go looking--

His head hurt. The room was permeated with the odor of cooked meat, sickening if he allowed himself to think about it. He retrieved the bag dully, grimaced at its contents. Burger, double meat, double cheese, pickles no onions and an extra large order of fries. He'd made a promise, and Sauceda, apparently, intended to make the most of it.

"Clever, Lenny."

Mulder dropped the fries back in the bag and took the biggest bite possible from the burger. He chewed it just long enough to choke it down, then took another. Between determination and Diet Coke, duty was served within a few minutes. He dropped the ketchup-stained wrapper into the bag and pitched it onto the dresser for Sauceda to inspect later. Lenny didn't really expect him to eat the fries. There was a limit even to honor, after all.

The voices in the next room rose briefly, fell. Mulder recognized Douglass, and Heller, Douglass' arch nemesis in the theory of testimonial evidence. Two better investigators couldn't be found anywhere, but in the same room, shaken, not stirred, they were a Molotov cocktail looking for a match. Purdue should have known better; well, the ASAC would have his hands full for a while.

Mulder lay back on the bed, trying not to think about why he should be so tired. The burger was lead in his stomach but at least it seemed willing to stay down without an argument. The voices were quieter suddenly, scarcely a steady drone down the little hall, one long hum just slightly deeper than the whisper of the air vent above his head. The room glowed serenely with drape-filtered sunlight, warm amber and speckled with gold. Mulder kicked off his shoes, and stared for a while at the television across the room. He made no move to turn it on.

Footsteps padded in the hall, shoes scuffing softly against carpet. Mulder turned his head away but there was no need. The bathroom door clicked shut in the next instant and he stopped holding his breath. In the sitting room, the television blared. There was a volley of protests and it muted abruptly to a more sociable level. The artificial voices had the unhurried pace of a news broadcast. Some kind of announcements, weather or sports.

Mulder was unaccountably tired but his brain demonstrated no willingness to shut down. Too many memories, too much undone, unsaid. He should be putting it all down in his journal, as much of it as he could manage, anyway, nailing down his observations in some location other than his brain. This was the true purpose of the journal, after all: a kind of itinerant priest, receiving his confessions, offering no absolutions. But now the empty pages mocked him even from across the bed. There was no peace for him. There would be no coming to terms, and he had to face the fact. His whole life had been split down the middle now. Twice. Before, Mulder had divided his life in terms of Sam's disappearance: things that had come before her loss, as opposed to the events that occurred after. Now, the After was further broken down: the long interminable struggle that was his life Before Kay; and the waking death that was After Kay.

His chest thudded ominously, a warning, a threat. Mulder could feel his heart beneath his fingers as his hand lay across his chest, swore he could feel his lungs exchanging oxygen with his blood cells. Life was strange. His life was, anyway. Before Kay-- well, before Shreveport, anyway-- Mulder had possessed an almost inhuman ability to shut off emotionally, step back, at least for a while, and deal with the grievous and the dire. It was a talent he'd acquired early, from somewhere, and it had often worried him. The Bureau's training had enhanced it, his instructors lauding it. And still it had bothered him. Didn't the fact that he could shut himself away so brutally, even just temporarily-- didn't that make him inhuman, somehow? A cold-hearted son of a bitch? But no one had seemed to understand the question.

God. Patterson would be laughing his ass off. Mulder could just hear him: "So, you're a cold-hearted son of a bitch, Mulder. At least you're a sane one." It was one of Patterson's credos. Right below the one that read: "Homicide investigators answer to God-- and he's already pissed."

But Mulder's question remained: did sanity have any value if you lost your soul trying to maintain it? Patterson hadn't been able to answer that one, either. Had cussed Mulder soundly for asking. There'd been uncertainty in the man's eyes though, and a fair measure of fear.

Right now, Mulder had no hope for answers. What he really wanted was a Valium. Just a quick shot of... something, anyway, to keep his heart in his chest. He could ask. Sauceda wouldn't deny him, certainly, but it would hurt the old man. Sauceda had problems of his own now, with Imelda possibly running for her life. He didn't need to be worrying about Mulder anymore. Hell, let Sauceda think he was healing, that things were starting to turn around for him. Mulder owed him that much.

He tried to quiet himself, stretching, tightening major muscle groups one at a time then relaxing them with concentrated effort. His body only half listened, however. His muscles contracted well enough but flatly refused to ease, denying him physical rest even as his mind refused the comforts of sleep.

Trying another tack, Mulder allowed his thoughts to free fall, passing unmolested across his frontal lobe, not lingering long enough to assign themselves any kind of emotive quality. Memory assailed him, however, in full color, overwhelmingly vivid. Months of work, bodies swirled in his mind's eye, piecemeal and disordered: a dock foreman in Baytown shot point blank in the face. A twelve-year old dug up in Memphis, her hands and feet discovered four months later in St. Louis. The toddler Mulder had never recovered, twelfth victim in the Shreveport serial killings, her body buried somewhere in the four million tons of concrete that now composed the Red River dam.

The bathroom door fumbled open, the footsteps retreating back to the sitting room, accompanied by Lurie's booming voice. To Mulder, however, the voices and the television had become a continuous, indecipherable blur, accompanying music for the holocaust roaring in his head. An occasional snatch of conversation would become distinguishable, only to be overridden by another, a disjointed Babel impossible to translate. It took effort to remember that the voices belonged to someone, men who stood ready to take a bullet for him. Just because they had been asked. Like Mitch had. Like Gregg--

A soft feminine laugh floated through the open bedroom door, quite clear. Echoing. Mulder turned away to his side, trying to shut it away. His hip ached at the action, burning beneath him, a bruising from Sauceda's needles: B-12 injections hurt worse than tranquilizers, he'd discovered. He ignored the pain, busy swearing at Purdue beneath his breath.

The laugh repeated, completely unaffected this time, genuinely delighted. Mulder flung his arm over his head. His face twisted in grief and his body went rigid in his efforts to crush back the pain, the tears. One hand clawed at the bedspread, twisting it up and grinding it to his chest. His other hand was clenched so tightly his nails drew blood, unnoticed. His legs kicked, pulled up to his chest then kicked away again almost spasmodically.

Mulder's struggle, however, was absolutely silent. An occasional gasp and the ragged breath that shook him from head to foot-- only these betrayed his agony. When he felt he could not possibly contain himself any longer, he buried his face between the pillows to muffle his sobs. And wished that he could smother there.

The laughter, the muted bickering and the best-laid plans of the men beyond the wall were a separate reality, nonexistent. Grief took everything he had, everything he was. He wore himself out with his efforts to contain its fury to this room alone and after a long while, his body simply could take no more. Still gasping sporadically, he slipped into sleep, fitful, arduous, fists clenched tightly as his mind continued to rail against the horror that had become his life.

It wasn't until Mulder was finally breathing steadily that Purdue stepped back from the door.