"I'm quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it-- would they let me." --Moby Dick.

Embassy Suites Hotel. 11:29 pm.

 Purdue's sigh rivaled the pneumatic wheeze of the door that admitted him into the lobby. Rows of open landings towered above him, tiers on a wedding cake, and he slapped self-consciously at his coat of many wrinkles, the under-dressed guest at the ceremony. His loafers flaked dried mud, a crumb trail marking his path across the carpet.

Agent Emil Sandidge nodded at him from across the room. Sandidge lounged on a corner couch that gave him full visual access to the doors above, and he made no move to rise. His legs were crossed, one foot bobbing absently. Purdue offered a half-hearted wave but continued on to the elevator. If Sandidge had anything interesting going on, he certainly wouldn't be sitting on his can shooting the breeze with the desk clerk.

Christ, had they really only been on this case nine days? It felt like years, Purdue decided. Like he'd grayed and grown feeble in the span of a week. And Sisyphus -- *No,* he corrected himself, *Cecile Fuche* -- still held all the cards. She was probably somewhere close this very minute, watching them sweat, laughing while she prepared to play her next hand. She'd probably already picked out her next victim.

Hell, odds were she'd already butchered him.

Purdue poked the elevator button, jabbing at it once more -- and again, -- just for the satisfaction. By the fourth jab, the machinery took the hint and obediently swallowed him up. Purdue counted down the floors through the elevator's glass walls, oblivious to the scenic view of the lobby as it fell away at his feet: rich burgundy carpet, the color of drying blood, a central fountain chattering pleasantly, the pervasive odor of flowering potted plants. It smelled like a funeral home.

Purdue's head throbbed relentlessly. He'd popped several aspirin on the way from the car, but didn't expect much from them even once they had a chance to dissolve. He patted his coat for a cigarette and had stuck it in his mouth before he remembered he'd left his lighter in Wheeling.

"Shit."

How long had he lived this way, he wondered: every day unveiling its own peculiar horror, week in, week out, an unending parade of tragedy? How had it managed to sneak up on him without his noticing? And when had he surrendered, finally allowing it to consume his life?

Yeah. Sure. What life?

The elevator door chimed pleasantly. Purdue shoved the cigarette into his coat pocket and left his hand in there with it as he approached Room 328. Olivia had been on his mind entirely too much today, he decided. The drive back from Quantico had become a gauntlet, her memory merciless. He'd rolled the windows down and turned the volume up on the car radio, but her voice had continued its relentless whisper, an agonizing treasure still tightly wrapped around his auditory nerve: words, phrases, a disconnected jumble of memories that made his hands shake even now--

Jeezus, he hated this. Didn't need it. Not now. Hell, didn't Mulder have enough grief to deal with without Purdue hauling *his* dead through the door?

Patterson's voice, begrudging and mournful, reverberated with the now constant pounding in his head. *Mulder hasn't let it go. He doesn't know how.*

"Well, hell," Purdue hissed. "Welcome to the club, Agent Mulder."

He raised his fist to knock. Softly, he reminded himself. Mulder could be sleeping. He could hear the television droning, though: Letterman doing his Top Ten routine. Great. That was all he needed to top his evening. Letterman and his damned Stupid Pet Tricks.…

Beyond the door, another voice was suddenly quite distinct. Fowley. Her tone, bitter and frightened, made Purdue forgo knocking and grab for his key.

"DammitgetupFox! *Please--*"

There was no answering reply, at least nothing Purdue could hear over the tumble of the lock. Fowley glanced up guiltily as Purdue swung the door open. He hesitated, his hand still on the door knob.

Mulder was on the floor, half-naked and splayed out like a man on a torture rack. Fowley stood over him, twisting his arm, or maybe just tugging at it. Purdue would have had cause to be more upset about the situation if Fowley didn't look so desperate. She dropped Mulder's arm and took a step back.

"Sir," she assured huskily, "I can explain--"

"Is he breathing?" Purdue requested the information and closed the door calmly. Fowley blinked; this wasn't quite the question she'd expected, apparently.

"Ye-- Yes, sir. I--"

"Are you hurt?"

There was considerable venom in the question and Fowley held her breath, mouth open in mid-sentence, taking a second inventory of her ASAC. Purdue didn't want to know what she saw: a man in need of a shave and an antidepressant, he imagined. He dropped his head on the pretense of shedding his overcoat, made a show of shaking it out and folding it vertically before finding a chair to lay it across. Fowley, ever the diplomat, allowed his little pretense. She slipped a strand of hair behind her ear before answering.

"No, sir. Agent Mulder just wasn't feeling well when he woke up. I was trying to help him back to bed."

Purdue scanned the room, chewing the inside of his cheek. Three of the table chairs were overturned and plastic cups littered the floor. "Is he dreaming again?"

"Yes. I think so. At least, he *was.*" Fowley followed Purdue's focus and seemed to have difficulty swallowing. "He, uhm, he woke up a little disoriented."

"So I gather. You didn't notify Sauceda?"

Fowley pursed her lips. Purdue sympathized. Maneuvering your way through the rock and the hard place could get a little tough sometimes. "I thought I could handle it, sir. And, if you'll excuse me for saying so, I believe I've done just that."

Purdue's brows crawled for his hairline. "Uh huh," he said.

Fowley flushed but didn't take the opportunity to debate the issue as he approached. Purdue loosened his tie, bending over to assess the agent on the floor. Mulder blinked up at him, eyes fully dilated despite the intensity of the overhead bulb. The rings of color around his pupils were thin and faint, the palest gold. Purdue leaned slightly to his left. Mulder's eyes did not track the movement. Purdue leaned to his right. Still no response.

"If you're not hurt, Agent Fowley," Purdue glanced up from under dark brows, and Fowley took an involuntary step backward, "then perhaps you'd care to tell me who the hell he slugged to wind up with knuckles like that?"

Fowley stared down at Mulder's hands and licked her upper lip, considering. Both of Mulder's fists were bruised, the crusted remnants of old wounds now oozing pinkish liquid, the flesh various shades of yellow, blue and purple, none of them exactly a complimentary color. Purdue could see Fowley rolling over the possible explanations, categorizing each for potential damage control. She flushed under the ASAC's penetrating glare and Purdue found himself suffering from an acute case of deja vu.

"As I said, sir, he was disoriented. Upset by his dream. He hit his fists against the door--" Fowley took a deep breath, weary of playing the defensive position. "To be frank, sir, I'm grateful this happened. I think it's allowed Agent Mulder and me to come to a kind of understanding--"

"What? He takes a swing and you duck?"

Fowley's ruby-studded earrings flashed fire. "No, *sir.* He hit the door. He hit it because he *aimed* for it. It was a response to frustration, not anger, and I don't appreciate your insinuation that I can't handle my job. If--"

Her vehemence seemed to have roused Mulder, and she silenced as he moaned softly. He blinked in her general direction without actually seeking her out. Blinking again, he found Purdue. He stared at the ASAC, or maybe just through him. It was difficult to tell with his eyes alternating colors like that.

Purdue glanced back at Fowley, but she offered nothing further, arms folded across her chest, holding her secrets tight. She was covering for someone, Purdue decided, -- for herself, for Mulder, maybe both. Whatever had happened here tonight, he'd be getting only the expurgated version, he was certain. He tried telling himself he didn't care one way or the other, but it was just one more lie he'd need to keep track of later.

Mulder, meanwhile, finally seemed to register that something was expected of him. He moved like a drugged man struggling to consciousness: one knee up, a random motion of a hand across his chest, eyes grazing the ceiling. Something deep in Purdue's chest knotted up at the sight. He ran a hand across his eyes, grabbing at his headache, blocking the image. He was supposed to have made things better for Mulder. He'd promised it. Sworn it to Skinner. Purdue swallowed hard. He'd promised Mulder. *You lying son of a bitch.*

Mulder's arm brushed the ASAC's shin, a random motion as the profiler struggled to find the floor and prop himself up. It surprised Purdue, however; accidental as the touch might have been, it felt too much like a request. Mulder seemed alarmed by the contact himself. Barely managing to prop himself on his elbows, he scooted over several inches, putting that much more space between himself and human kindness.

Purdue dropped to his knees. "You can run, Mulder, but you can't hide." He tugged Mulder up into a sitting position and acknowledged that there was perverse thrill in blocking the escape. After some futile arm-slinging, Mulder stopped struggling, and allowed Purdue to hold him steady while he regained his bearings. He kept his head down and turned away, however, eyes invisible, his breathing tense.

Purdue couldn't help himself. "I think you'll live, son."

"Shit," Mulder commented roughly, and Purdue grinned, glancing up at Fowley. Purdue must have done something right; she was watching the proceedings with open disapproval.

"I think you've had enough for one evening," Purdue told her. "Go home and get some rest."

"But, sir, I--"

"I'll call you in the *morning.* If we haven't found the suspect by then, you'll have the afternoon shift." He paused. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer a more *permanent* change of venue?"

Fowley didn't hesitate. "No, sir. I don't think that will be necessary."

"Neither do I." Purdue nodded at her obvious relief. His headache had taken a sabbatical, he realized, easing to a dull tension that he could *almost* ignore entirely. On the television, Stupid Pet Tricks was well under way: a chihuahua, and a cockatiel with a top hat.

"Get out of here and get some sleep," Purdue ordered. "One of us needs to be relatively conscious tomorrow."

Fowley returned the nod, but hesitated as Mulder met her eyes. Purdue saw only in profile: Mulder's expression was intense, a question perhaps, a demand. Whatever it was, it remained unspoken between them. The politics of partnerships could run remarkably deep, Purdue knew. Most were a minefield of barely-negotiated tolerance and fierce loyalties, a mutual concession of conceits that took on the intensity of a marriage. He hadn't expected Fowley and Mulder to have developed this kind of solidarity, however, not this quickly. Once more, he'd managed to underestimate someone. Mulder, probably.

Mulder dropped his head to stare at the carpet between his knees. The visualization approach to standing, no doubt, an attempt to recall the necessary motions.

Purdue's legs were starting to go numb from lack of circulation. He shifted, propping his knee behind Mulder's back, something for the profiler to lean against until he re-oriented. Fowley busied herself collecting her things: purse from the locked cabinet, her coat from the couch. Purdue took advantage of Mulder's confusion to risk a slightly more thorough examination. He ran his hand through Mulder's hair, fingers probing the scalp for some indication of injury. Mulder shook his head, then butted his shoulder into Purdue's chest when the ASAC failed to take the hint. The motion was clumsy and painless, a feeble attempt at independence, but Purdue yielded with a grunt.

"I don't believe he hit his head, sir." Fowley regarded them from the door.

"Did you give him anything? Any drugs? Alcohol?"

"Food?" she minced. "No. He just... woke up. Sir, if I may suggest, Agent Mulder is obviously suffering from exhaustion. He should be in a hospital. This case is killing him. The *work* is killing him--"

"I'm fine, dammit." Mulder's voice was brittle and raw -- his "f's" stuttering on their way out -- and he obviously resented the effort needed to make himself heard. It didn't help that he was speaking to the carpet. "Stop talkin' 'bout me like I'm not fuckin' here."

"But, Fox--"

"I'm not going to a goddam hospital," Mulder hissed, unconcerned with slurring consonants this time. He jerked sideways to glare at Purdue, but the effort left him reeling, hand on his chest, dizzy even as he sat on the floor. It only seemed to increase his irritation, and he had no reservations about taking it out on his ASAC -- another good sign, Purdue decided. "I'm not going to a hospital," Mulder insisted. "You promised--"

Fowley shook her head. "I'll get Sauceda--"

"The hell you will." The vehemence in Mulder's voice stopped her with her hand on the knob. Purdue kept a firm grip on Mulder's shoulder.

"Fox, you need --"

"Enough," Purdue barked. "I'm still the Assistant Special Agent *in Charge* here."

Mulder glanced at him again, his dizziness abated. "Oh, really?" his face said, but he kept his mouth firmly shut. Purdue tightened his grip enough to make Mulder wince then released him with a little shove. He favored Fowley with slightly more patience. "Go home. The day I can't handle this pissant punk is the day I'll retire." His tone brooked no argument.

Fowley raised her brows cautiously, but excused herself without further comment.

"Pissant. Is that what you think of me?"

Purdue slapped his knee against Mulder's back before even turning to look at him. It was a childish effort to release frustration, but done without thinking it over too closely and thus allowable. And it worked. Mulder looked like he'd kill if he had the energy.

"Just what the *hell* do you think you're doing, Mulder? I don't know what went on here," Purdue spat, "and I don't really give a shit. But you try holding that promise over my head just one more time and I'll slap your butt into Electronic Surveillance and keep you there until you learn to kiss my ass and *like* it. Understood?"

Mulder didn't look like he believed it much, but kept his mouth shut just in case. Purdue took this as further evidence of the profiler's returning sobriety and stood. It required a bit more effort than he was accustomed to, but he couldn't afford the energy to think about that just now. He noted the two dirty smudges marring the white paint on the door. Each mark was about the size of a man's fist, set at roughly the same level, two, maybe two-and-a-half feet apart. There were dark scrapes across the wall next to the door as well. They looked like the tracks left by... someone's heels? Mulder was wearing socks--

"Did you hurt her?" Purdue demanded. "Dammit, Mulder, is she lying to me?"

Mulder, legs sprawled, glanced up in surprise. He grew solemn almost immediately, however, and Purdue frowned. Purdue had expected a haughty "no" and a severe cussing. The fact that Mulder had to actually give the question some real thought did not set too well.

Mulder chewed his bottom lip as he ran a mental replay of the evening's events. "No," he answered at last, a husky, almost vowel-less rasp, the barest hint of questioning lilt on the tail end.

Purdue sighed. He supposed he would get the truth out of Fowley eventually.

Maybe.

"Can you walk?" This time Purdue didn't wait for Mulder to assess himself for an answer. He grabbed the profiler by the upper arms, tugging him up from the floor. Mulder struggled to assist in the process, his own limbs blearily protesting their involvement. Still, it took a few tries for Purdue to get him vertical. Mulder was more compact that he looked, heavier, solid muscle filling out his lithe frame, and Purdue was doing most of the grunting. Mulder did most of the swearing.

With both feet finally planted, Mulder pushed the ASAC aside and headed for the couch. He wasn't steady on his feet yet, though, and swayed like a drunkard. Purdue wrapped an arm around his chest, as much to tackle the man as to keep him upright.

"No, you don't, Mulder. You're going back to bed." Purdue wouldn't allow himself to be shrugged off this time, and Mulder took to swearing again.

"I'm not tired, godammit--"

"Well, I *am.*" Purdue kept a firm grip on Mulder's arm as the young man shifted to free himself. "And I'm not putting up with your shit tonight, mister. You're going back to bed and that's an order."

Mulder twisted and blinked at him, perplexed. "You can't order me to bed like I'm some kid." The words were still slurred, but braced with a dignified defiance.

"Fine," Purdue nodded. "Then we'll just sit out here all nice and cozy, and you can tell me what the hell all *this* was about." He kicked one of the errant plastic cups across the floor.

Mulder watched the cup spin over the carpet and lose itself beneath the sofa. He drew himself to his full height, a deposed monarch requesting the terms of his abdication.

"So, if I go to bed, can I still watch TV?"

Purdue grit his teeth to keep from swearing. "Just get your ass in gear."

Mulder grinned, obviously satisfied and Purdue's palm itched to slap the crap out of him. He didn't, but Mulder's knees buckled all the same. Purdue caught him as he staggered, tugged Mulder's left arm across his shoulder and wrapped his free arm around Mulder's back. To his surprise, Mulder allowed this assistance, accepting Purdue beside him like some suddenly attached limb, awkward but welcome. Purdue kicked another plastic cup aside and they headed for the bedroom. Mulder was solemn suddenly, contemplating the distance across the room. Purdue caught himself feeling guilty for wanting to slap him. Told himself to get over it.

"You wanna tell me about this dream of yours, Mulder? Is Sisyphus keeping herself busy somewhere? Is that why we haven't located her?" He glanced over at Mulder's bowed head. Mulder's jaw worked in concentration.

"No." Another vowel-less rasp. Another uncertain disavowal. But of which question?

"Look, Mulder, I know it's been tough--"

Mulder head came up and he jerked unexpectedly, stumbling to his left and pushing Purdue with him. It was an awkward but deliberate motion; they seemed to be circling something, skirting invisible furnishings. Purdue, caught off guard, allowed the course correction, trying to read Mulder's body language. Mulder looked surprised, oddly enough, turning his face away briefly as though to watch something pass.

"What's wrong, Mulder? What's going on?"

"It'ssss... nothing." Mulder faced forward guiltily. "I... I'm just disoriented, that's all." He didn't sound entirely certain, though. He seemed drained, suddenly, his skin the color of spent ash. There was a fluttering in his cheek as well, a nervous tic Purdue hadn't noticed before. He'd get Mulder to bed, he decided, then, early morning flight or not, he'd have Sauceda in here to look the man over.

They'd taken only three more steps before Mulder froze, tugging Purdue to a skittering halt beside him.

"Mulder, what in the hell--?"

The remaining words refused to form. The hair had begun rising on Purdue's arm, a tickling against his shirtsleeve that refused to be ignored. The sensation passed from the wrist of his right hand, up his forearm, and Purdue searched the ceiling for an air vent, something to explain the sudden draft. There was nothing. One side of his sleeve was plastered to Mulder's back by sweat, Mulder's body heat radiating through Purdue's jacket and shirt; on the other side, this same arm endured the advance of an arctic storm. Frost tickled Purdue's bicep and shoulder, traced soft fingers across his spine and then fled down the other arm.

All the while, Mulder's eyes tracked something unseen across their path, his vision following the direction of the chilling breeze--

Tales learned at his grandmother's knee returned to haunt Purdue. Tales of ghosts and malevolent spirits, of mediums cursed with visions of the dead--

*Bullshit.*

Mulder grunted as Purdue's arm tightened around him, jerking him up straight.

"Let's get a move on it, Mulder."

Mulder pulled back a little, twisting to see him better. Purdue leveled a forbidding glare at him, daring him to argue. Instead, the ASAC's breath caught in his throat. Reflected in Mulder's ultra-dilated pupils, was an image: Purdue's face, stern and dark, and another floating beside him, just the briefest glimpse, a second face, there behind his shoulder. The image was captured in stereo as Mulder focused on him, an identical exposure perfectly reflected in each eye. There was no disavowing this as an aberration of light. It was a child, a boy no more than eight or nine, the reflection so clear Purdue could have picked him out in a lineup.

Purdue felt his mouth go dry. He gripped Mulder's wrist, steadying himself as he turned. No one. Nothing. Perhaps the child had stepped around behind Mulder, but no. There was a glare across the television and it reflected the room very clearly: the couch, the chair, misshapen and concave at the edge of the screen, he and Mulder severely distorted -- but there was no other living being in the room.

Purdue turned back to his profiler. Mulder's brow furrowed under Purdue's scrutiny and he faced forward abruptly, tugging to disentangle himself. Purdue maintained his hold on Mulder's wrist, however. He didn't want to be left alone with the child standing behind him, didn't want Mulder left alone with him, either. That too-gray figure with its vapid eyes and painful smile... Mulder yielded after only a token resistance and Purdue resumed his plodding, dragging Mulder with him. They'd covered barely a yard before the hair started rising on Purdue's arm again -- the other side this time.

It, whatever It was, was coming back.

Like a time out of place, Purdue recalled an event some seven months old to him now: a nondescript Sunday morning, Purdue, the dutiful widower, home alone with too much time on his hands and too many memories. He'd been standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes in self-defense, when he'd heard a footstep, a single whisper of soft shoes stepping onto the kitchen tile. The door was to his right, less than a yard from his shoulder, and he'd glanced back. Nothing. No one. But he'd felt her presence. *Knew* she was there.

The glass he'd been washing slid back into the soapy water. He'd needed both hands to steady himself against the cabinet. As he turned, though, she had continued on, a soft whisper, come only for a brief visit, come to see how her home was faring under his administration. She hadn't slighted him, he understood that in the space of seconds; she'd been here before when he hadn't known, watching after him, but this visit had a different purpose and she hadn't the time to linger. He felt her moving, a shifting of air molecules more subtle than a breeze and he struggled to call out. The cat did it for him, a bright, contented "me-ew" as it trotted into the kitchen. His wife's silver-point tabby, pale blue eyes serene and staring up as it trotted, following his mistress, tail held high with joy, dark tip twitching.

Olivia had continued without pausing, through the kitchen and into the den. Unable to trust his legs, Purdue had tracked her progress beyond the bar that divided the two rooms. The cat circled the den -- the Sunday Washington Post was scattered on the couch, but the room had been fairly well-ordered otherwise -- tail up, steps bouncing, staring fixedly. It mewed twice, making the trek back up the length of the den, still following, stopping at the entrance to the sun room. The French doors were closed, a defense against the October morning chill. They were no barrier to Olivia, though. The cat mewled his disappointment, tail sagging, pink-padded paw against the lowest pane of glass. He'd mewled again, louder, and Purdue knew that Olivia had continued on, far beyond, the wailing cat left to overcome his own disappointments. She'd had other promises to keep.

Purdue waited, though, breathless, but she hadn't returned for the tabby. Nor for him, either. He hadn't the heart to step out into the back yard to see what she might have disapproved of there. He and the cat had spent the rest of the day on the couch, mutual partners in grief.

This was no gentle, familiar presence, however, no faithful spirit stopping by on its way to tend the business of eternity, Purdue was certain of it. His gut was knotting so tight it hurt to breathe. Grief could do strange things, he reminded himself. You only wanted to believe it was her that day, now you've been thinking about her again. Maybe--

Purdue glanced at his profiler. Mulder's eyes were focused firmly forward, a single bead of sweat tracking down his cheek and staggering drunkenly over the stubble on his jaw. Purdue's rationalization died only half-formed as he finally made the connection: whatever it was Purdue merely sensed, Mulder *knew.* Mulder could *see.* Like that silver-point tabby. Mulder could see it.

And it was Mulder tugging them forward now, putting one foot before the other, at least as best he could, his arm tense across Purdue's shoulder. The returning chill discovered Purdue's neck and lingered, and the ASAC shivered involuntarily.

*They want him--* Purdue had no clue why the thought should occur to him, no idea what it might mean. He recognized it as truth, however. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. *Stress,* he insisted, almost a prayer. *It's just the damned stress--*

They progressed like snails, fleeing for their lives. Despite his logic, Purdue's heart pounded with a wisdom his head did not possess. He cursed his fear, unwilling to capitulate, and pulled Mulder forward as the profiler paused to glance back again. Mulder, disoriented and distracted, did his best to keep pace.

Two hard-won steps, and the frost invading the base of Purdue's skull slid down his spine suddenly. He felt three distinct pressures midway down his back, very solid -- the impress of fingertips? -- then, a definite shove. He stumbled, biting his tongue as he struggled to remain upright, to keep Mulder from going down with him.

Mulder grabbed for him, instinct overriding his trauma. The two men tumbled together against the coffee cabinet, plastic cups rattling in the sink from the impact. Purdue searched Mulder's face breathlessly. The chill was gone, and the ASAC realized he was drenched in sweat. The floor shuddered beneath his feet with the rumbling approach of thunder. Mulder stared at him, surprised, mouth working without sound. He wouldn't speak the words, couldn't. Couldn't trust so much--

He glanced away, focusing on some innocuous stain on the Formica. Purdue wiped blood from his mouth and swallowed.

"Let's go, son."

Mulder didn't question the order, allowing the ASAC's arm across his back even though his steps were steadier now. Purdue preceded the agent through the bedroom door sideways. The room was bathed in twilight, the light behind them not strong enough here to even throw their shadows. Purdue's heart skipped as Mulder froze again, in mid-step, and swayed slightly.

Purdue twisted his neck, seeking out Mulder's face. The young man refused to return the questioning look, blushing darkly before glancing down. Purdue searched the room: he saw was only the dresser and the drapes beyond, two hulking, rectangular voids against walls of deep gray. Purdue realized that he feared what *Mulder* had seen, however. He also realized that Mulder hadn't pulled away. Purdue had sensed the intention to do so as they'd paused, an ominous trembling in Mulder's arm across his shoulder. The profiler had found some kind of strength in the crossing, a renewed determination. It bled from him now. But Mulder hadn't released him. His arm remained around Purdue, almost a protective gesture. Purdue wasn't certain he liked the implication.

Because if it frightened Spooky Mulder, Purdue didn't have a prayer.

No. This was ridiculous. The very idea--

Yet, Mulder waited for his decision, licking his lips, a thirsty gesture. Purdue tried, but he just couldn't find it in him to turn around and head for the couch. Hell, he couldn't even turn on the bedroom light. That would be an admission of weakness, something Purdue had never allowed himself to afford.

Mulder wouldn't fault his cowardice, though. The certainty of that surprised Purdue, but he didn't question it. Mulder would never mention this moment, not even with a knowing glance many years hence. Purdue wasn't ready to accept such largesse, however. Not even from Spooky himself.

*Spooky? Shit.* Purdue snarled, lip curling with distaste. *I'm getting as bad as everyone else in this hare-brained outfit.*

"Come on, son." He hissed the words, and Mulder relented without comment. Mulder's face was calm, Purdue noted, but his eyes were shut: a man resigned to death but unwilling to watch it slither across the room for him. Purdue swore at no one in particular and tugged the young man across the short distance to the bed.

Mulder stumbled, stocking feet catching on carpet as he shuffled. He didn't go down, however, and Purdue sighed gratefully, easing the profiler over to the near side of the bed. He turned Mulder around, and gave him a shove when Mulder didn't take the hint on his own.

Mulder dropped onto the bed, dead weight, his feet still on the floor, torso falling back, arms out, his head bouncing gently from the impact with the mattress. Then, he simply stopped moving.

"Oh, no, you don't." Purdue snapped on the bedside lamp, macho posturing be damned. The shade cast its glow only half-way across the room, a charmed circle against evil. Purdue slapped Mulder's knee with a bit more force than necessary, still unaccountably overcome by a pervading sense of urgency. "In the bed, son. You get some sleep and we'll sort all this out in the morning." The sound of his own voice was a comfort, so certain and calm. It was a lie.

*Damn, but it was cold in here.*

"Mulder? Are you listening to me?"

Mulder didn't nod. He didn't even blink. He was conscious though, just very still, like a man listening to something distant and indistinct. Purdue opened his mouth to complain, but only a puff of frozen air escaped, the words forgotten on his tongue. The hair was rising on his arm again, tickling his sleeve. It was his left arm this time, the arm farthest from the light, and he jerked the limb back, cradling it against his chest as he squinted into the darkness at the foot of the bed.

With no change of expression, Mulder turned his face away from that same darkness. He didn't pull his arm away as Purdue had, though, and Purdue watched as the flesh prickled on Mulder's forearm, the dark hair flattened against his skin. Mulder's fingers turned grayish-blue, trembling. The phenomenon traveled up Mulder's arm and Purdue stared, fascinated, as the short hairs on Mulder's neck and chest rippled, a response to a strengthening breeze.

Only there was no breeze. The air was so still, in fact, that Purdue had to gasp to take in oxygen.

There was a presence here, in the ambered circle with them, an impossible entity come to conduct business. Purdue was as certain of the fact as he was of his own name. He was equally certain that this was not the force that had pushed him moments before. It... *felt* different. There was nothing playful here, nothing impish or mischievous. This was sheer malevolence, hatred given breath, a soul of evil come to collect a debt.

And it had come for Mulder. An exchange was taking place on the bed, a plea, a demand, heard by only one. Mulder shook his head, one slight jerk, a refusal. The response was immediate: Mulder's hair plastered tightly against his skull, the skin of his neck and shoulder goose-pimpling as he endured the entity's silent roar. The outer edge of a gale buffeted Purdue and he blinked convulsively, squinting as turbulence washed over and past him. Mulder shook against the onslaught, but he remained resolute, his own eyes carefully closed, waiting it out.

Beyond Mulder, traveling from the foot of the bed, depressions were forming, elongated dimples in the bedspread, pushing into the mattress itself, one, two, appearing, disappearing as a third took its place a good half foot away. About like a man's knees and shins might make crawling across the bed--

No. Way. In. Hell.

*Stop!* Purdue screamed the word, but only in his mind. Watching Mulder shudder, he was beyond speech, beyond the confines and protocols of reason. He jerked with the effort to vocalize his resistance and lunged for Mulder, folding down over him, employing his body as a shield to block the assault. He hoped it was enough.

Mulder flinched beneath his weight, but didn't move otherwise. Purdue felt the young man's gasp, a sudden rise of Mulder's chest against his ear, his skin scorching Purdue's cheek despite the sub-zero temperature of the air that surrounded him. Purdue paid no heed, focused on the encroaching darkness at the end of the bed, Mulder's frozen fingers gripping the bedspread, fisting it up, searching for a lifeline, something solid and real in this hellish wonderland.

A final blast that left Purdue blinking -- and it was over. The presence exited so abruptly that Purdue could have sworn he'd heard a "pop" in the air, the explosion of atoms colliding as the air pressure sought to equalize. The bed shook -- no, the room shook, the lamplight wavering slightly as a deep, moaning roll of thunder gripped the building. Then stillness. Silence.

Purdue jerked as a hand slapped him in the back of the head.

"So, get the hell off already."

Mulder's voice was ragged and haggard, heavy on bravado and short on conviction. Purdue rolled off him and sat up, wiping sweat off his face. Mulder rolled in the opposite direction but had a bit more difficulty getting himself into a sitting position. Purdue didn't offer assistance, taking time to get caught up on his own breathing, and re-evaluating the world as he knew it.

Mulder slid off the bed using his hands against the mattress to help him stand. The lamplight washing over him was not kind. There were stark shadows developing beneath his ribs and he was shivering, tiny periodic tremors that shuddered through muscle and then fled. At least the goose bumps were disappearing. Mulder put his hands on his hips and moved his shoulders, shrugging back into his skin. He lolled his head forward, back, working too-taut tendons, trying to convince himself he was still in possession of his own body.

Purdue chanced a deeper glimpse around the room: shadows which were *only* shadows were all that greeted him now. He glanced back at Mulder, who was still working his shoulders. Mulder lifted his chin, eyes closed in concentration. As his head tilted back, Purdue stood, staring. There were streaks across his windpipe, the skin mottled deep red, irregular stripes across flesh blue with evening stubble. Purdue, familiar with violent death and strangulation, recognized the pattern. It was the imprint of fingers.

"It's Fredricksberg. Isn't it?" Purdue whispered the words before they'd even had the chance to form clearly in his mind. This was beyond reason. The more rational areas of Purdue's brain cautioned him to hold his tongue, tried to place the malignant entity within his developing theory. But it *was* Fredricksberg. The certainty came from a place beyond knowing, and he had too little pride left to argue with the insanity of the situation. "Patterson was right. That's what all this has been about. All those kids..." Mulder watched him warily. "Deny it, damn you! I dare you to deny it."

Mulder didn't deny anything. He paled suddenly, eyes widening, jaw clamped. His hand rising to his chest as he turned and fled back the way they came. Purdue swore and grabbed Mulder's upper arm. His grip tightened when Mulder tried shrugging him away.

"You're not running, dammit. You're going to stand here for once in your life and give me an answer--"

Mulder, his throat working, doubled the fist of his restrained arm and back-handed Purdue in the face. Purdue released him, grabbing for the stars blinding his right eye. He felt his cheek swell beneath his hand, an answering echo in his sinuses that threatened to set his nose to bleeding. His left eye was still functioning, however, and he made another grab for Mulder, but missed, his fingers leaving dark, angry whelps along Mulder's upper arm as the young man fled.

Mulder didn't get very far. He was doubled over by the time he reached the door, wracked with pain. Purdue stumbled after, his vision returning in tentative flashes. He skittered to a halt, almost tripping over Mulder as the profiler collapsed against the door frame. Mulder slid to the floor with a moan, his head falling back, jaw clenched as he choked back bile. One side of his body was lit by the amber lamp of the bedroom, the skin rendered deceitfully warm. The bright-white glare of the bulb in the sitting room blasted across other side of his body and Mulder glowed ghost-white, ashen as a corpse. The mysterious whelps on his throat were even more prominent now. Almost as prominent as the blood trickling from his nose. Purdue knelt, bruised cheekbone forgotten. Mulder was holding a hand across his abdomen, the gesture of any nauseated man. Except that beads of blood were pooling from it, trickling, thread-thin, down into the waistband of his jeans--

"Jeezus Christ--"

Purdue jerked at Mulder's hands. Mulder resisted, but Purdue slapped his arm back, fingers still stinging as he ran them over Mulder's stomach. His free hand felt along Mulder's neck for the artery, seeking any hint of arrhythmia in his pulse. He could find no irregularities, and Mulder's abdomen presented no injury, no break in the skin. The blood was fresh, though, and there were no smears to indicate that he'd obtained it from the nosebleed. Mulder, meanwhile, held his bloody hand before his face, staring at it like he'd never seen it before.

Purdue searched his back pocket for a handkerchief. He didn't bother to unfold it, patting down Mulder's abdomen, seeking the source of his injury. The blood wiped up obediently, but there truly *was* no wound. The ASAC gasped as the blood frothed again: bubbles the size of pin heads, foaming from Mulder's pores, glistening in the two-tone light--

"God Almighty damn," he rasped, "God help--"

Purdue scrambled for his feet, ignoring the pain that now defined the right side of his face. Mulder grabbed for his wrist as he stood. The grip was desperate but his fingers were slicked with someone's death; Purdue tugged free easily and lurched for the bed. He tossed the bedspread aside and jerked up the blanket. The far corner was tucked too tightly and it took extra effort to loosen it. He tugged harder. Purdue had been trained to act, not to react, and procedure steadied him now. He needed to get Mulder warm before shock set in. Mulder's pulse had been strong, but his skin was clammy and too damned pale. He was breathing shallowly and far too rapidly--

*Maybe he's just scared, Reg. Scared? Hell, *I'm* scared--*

Purdue jerked the blanket free with one final, exasperated tug. A gleam of burnished metal caught the lamplight as he did so. He froze, blinking, not trusting his injured eye. A snub-nosed .38 slid from under the pillow and tumbled to the middle of the bed, harsh black against the thick, creamy expanse of the blanket. Bad eye or no bad eye, Purdue recognized it instantly.

"Son of a BITCH--"

He snatched up the weapon and spun, kicking past the bedspread. Mulder couldn't fail to note the fury in the man lumbering for him and tried to slide backwards into the sitting room, stocking feet propelling him across the carpet. He didn't get far. Purdue caught him before he could get past the coffee cabinet, grabbing his ankle and jerking it hard enough to make Mulder yelp.

"Tell me you stole it from him, Mulder," Purdue insisted, shaking the weapon at him. "Tell me you stole it, or I'll shoot him myself, Godismywitness--"

Mulder didn't bother feigning ignorance. He didn't bother explaining, either, beyond a reluctant shake of his head that could have meant anything. He rested on his elbows, waiting to see which way the wind would blow next. His eyes were very quiet, watching Purdue.

Purdue glanced down at the weapon in his hand and froze. He'd had his finger on the trigger. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd had his finger on the goddam trigger--

Purdue snapped the cylinder open and shook the bullets out onto his palm.

*What the hell was Lenny thinking? What could have possessed him to pull something this stupid?* Purdue pocketed the bullets and shoved the revolver into the waistband of his slacks, snug against his back.

"How often have you done this, Mulder?" His own voice was unsteady. "How many years have you bled like this?"

"Just--" Mulder looked Purdue in the eye, an effort to prove his sincerity. He wasn't quite up to the strain, however, and his focus slid away to a spot just over the ASAC's left shoulder. He didn't seem to be tracking anyone this time, though. "Just the once," he whispered, vocal chords grinding. "In my apartment."

Purdue pursed his lips. "The one Sauceda reported?"

Mulder nodded, glancing at Purdue's face briefly, gauging effect, then away again.

It was everything Purdue could do to keep from kicking him. "You bastard. You expect me to believe that?"

Mulder fought a wave of shivering and let his head loll back, lifting it again with a grunt of pain. He recoiled when Purdue grabbed for him, sliding him around to prop his back against the coffee cabinet. Purdue was far from gentle about it, but Mulder blinked his thanks once it dawned on him that he wasn't being attacked outright.

"Just the once, huh?" Purdue didn't believe it, but he'd play along for now. "Just when you dreamed about Kay, right?" Mulder didn't answer. He was still shivering, and hugged himself from the chill, head down so Purdue couldn't see his eyes. It wasn't like Mulder to incite pity to get himself out of mischief, and Purdue returned for the blanket he'd left on the bedroom floor. "Are you still dreaming about her, Mulder?" His voice bounced as he trotted the short distance. "Is that why you're bleeding again?"

Mulder shook his head, coughing, and pulled his knees up protectively. The bleeding, never much to begin with, had stopped. He flinched as Purdue dropped the blanket over him. It was an involuntary reflex, but it hurt Purdue to see it nonetheless. Purdue bit his lip to keep from swearing at the profiler, draping the thick fabric around Mulder's shoulders, tucking it in against the cabinet.

"Look, I'm going to get Sauceda. Can I trust you on your own for about a minute and a half?"

"Probably not." Mulder grimaced, and seemed to have difficulty swallowing. He snaked one hand from under the blanket to probe his windpipe, wincing at the damage he found there. He glanced furtively at Purdue.

"Yeah, I noticed it." Purdue settled back on his haunches with mock aplomb. "Cut yourself shaving, huh?" He tugged his cell phone from his jacket pocket and started dialing with his thumb. There were no land phones in this suite. Purdue had had them removed before Mulder had arrived. The wall cords too. He'd seen too many suicides accomplished with electrical cords and had only left the lamps intact because they needed some type of light and the cords were unusually short.

Mulder frowned, watching him dial, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. "I'll be okay." The lie came too easily. "I just need to take a shower--"

"Don't start that crap, Mulder."

Mulder grunted and struggled restlessly, dropping his legs flat to the floor, then drawing his knees up again, blanket bobbing as he worked out his frustration. "I've just got to get this... *stuff* off me," he moaned. "Please. I'm not lying."

"No, not much you're not." *Christ, now it's "please" and everything.* Purdue's eyes narrowed. "You're going manic again, aren't you?"

Mulder, scandalized, dropped his legs flat and left them there this time. "No, I'm not *manic.*" He spat the word indignantly. "Does this look like a state of euphoria to you?" Purdue held up a hand of truce, but Mulder wasn't through with his diagnostic analysis. "My attention span is still relatively healthy, I have no special plans for world domination and I certainly feel no compulsion to *chat* excessively. And I'm only irritable because you insist on pissing me off."

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Photos courtesy of TexxasRose's Fox Mulder Gallery

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