AUTHOR'S BABBLE: Hiya!:)  Here it is at last.  Part four to the 
"Ashes" series (preceded by "Among the Ashes", "Rising From the 
Ashes", and "The Ashes That Remain").  All parts can be found at 
or just let me know if you would like them Emailed.

It's probably not necessary to read all three previous parts to 
understand this one (though I'll be your best friend if you 
do...<g>), but you really do need to read "The Ashes That Remain" 
before this one.  This piece is basically just the last few 
chapters of the previous story that I was too lazy to write at 
the time, so it's highly dependant.:)

As usual Endless Thanks to my dedicated Beta Readers: My Mom (for 
enthusiasm and grammar errors), my husband (for plot threads and 
technical arguments), SheaClaire (for encouragement and 
'shippiness' evaluations), and MaybeAmanda (for whipping me into 
shape, no nonsense style!;-)).

DISCLAIMER JAZZ:  "The X-Files" and its characters are the 
creations and property of the fabled Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen 
Productions and Fox Broadcasting.  I am, of course, using them 
without permission.  No copyright infringement is intended.  All 
other concepts or ideas herein are mine.
     
SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully continue their stakeout in hopes a 
serial killer will return to the home of a past escapee, and they 
toy with some lingering angst along the way.
TITLE: Brushing Away the Ashes
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale
RATING: (PG)
CLASSIFICATIONS: (XA)
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully UST
SPOILERS: Vague Season Five, FtF
TIMELINE: This takes place immediately after "The Ashes That 
Remain", which is late summer of 1998 in a universe created after 
"Fight the Future", but before the US airing of "The Beginning".  
The X-Files are open, and they belong to Mulder and Scully.
ARCHIVE: Yes, Please, Everywhere!:) Just tell me, please.

      
BRUSHING AWAY THE ASHES (part four following "Among the Ashes", 
"Rising From the Ashes", and "The Ashes That Remain")
by
Elizabeth Rowandale <bstrbabs@gmail.com>
Copyright (c) 1998
     
     
     

     One day she started adjusting her bra strap right in front 
of him.  He doubted she had even been conscious of the 
transition.  Just a natural outgrowth of a building intimacy 
between them.  But he could pinpoint the case, the month, the day 
on which she had first made the gesture.
     The left side bothered her more often than the right.
     He had learned to recognize the slight shift of her 
shoulders when she attempted to fix it without touching the 
strap, without drawing attention.
     She drew his attention.  Always. 
     A faint pink glow mingling with the tops of the trees was 
all that remained as a testament to the day's summer sun.  And 
all that remained of the rare and precious moment of tenderness 
Scully had allowed them to share.
     She sat quietly in the passenger seat, an open can of Crush 
balanced deftly between her thighs.  He tried not to think too 
much about that.  To concentrate instead on the quiet distance in 
the set of her jaw, the lingering tension in the muscles beneath 
her eyes.
     They hadn't spoken in ten minutes or more.  Scully was 
withdrawing, re-establishing her boundaries, and he was letting 
it happen.  Partly out of respect for her delicate ego, partly 
because he didn't know how to stop it.  He never had.  Maybe he 
was afraid to.
     Mulder had needed their hug tonight almost as much as 
Scully.  And when one of them cried, she touched differently, 
held on tighter, shared her body heat.  No one touched him the 
way Scully did.  No one smelled like her.  It was too easy to 
forget that when she was close at hand.  Impossible not to 
remember when she was gone.
     It had been a long, grey weekend.  Apparently his days of 
working best when he worked alone had been lost somewhere on the 
path of their five year journey.  He needed her now.  Needed the 
balance, the support, the connection.  Needed to know she was 
standing there watching him in her peripheral vision, keeping 
tabs on him, waiting to step forward and touch him if the need 
arose.  Even if he pushed her away, he needed to know she would 
try.
     He hadn't known the need existed before she entered his 
life.
     "Have you checked with the prison today?"
     Mulder started at the break in the stillness.
     He nodded.  "Yeah, I spoke to the guards this morning.  
Nealy was tucked up tight."
     Scully drew in and released a deep breath that hinted at 
underlying weariness.  *Why did you pull away from me, Scully?  
You pulled away before you were really ready to stop crying.  I 
know you did.  And watching you struggle for the upperhand, bury 
the still fresh pain behind a raised eyebrow and a defiant chin--
was harder than watching you cry.*  He knew released emotion left 
her more drained than relieved, just as it did him.  And with 
Scully he knew there was a staggering degree of self-depreciation 
and denial woven in.  But she had always withdrawn before he was 
allowed to share that part of the process.  He just had to watch 
and pretend he couldn't see it--watch the tension in her brow, 
the way her fingers tensed around the cold metal can.  His 
stomach was still in knots from his physical empathy with her.  
Her tears always affected him that way.  Like someone had sucker-
punched him in the stomach.  He took a sip of his Ginger Ale.
     Gazing up the road at Susan Nexton's silent house, Mulder 
asked, "So, Scully, what do you think of those Yankees this year, 
huh?  Think they'll make it to the Series?"
     A hint of a tolerant smile beside him.  "Keep dreamin'."
     "Whoa, ouch!  Show a *little* faith, Agent Scully."
     "In extreme possibilities?" she asked, offering him a glance 
and a faint sparkle in her eye.
     He smiled.  "Now you're talking."
     She looked back down at her soda can, still half-smiling.  
"You'd get along well with my little brother," she said softly.  
"He's a die-hard fan."
     He didn't mention she had failed to introduce them.
     Scully took a sip of her soda, then crossed her legs 
gracefully and rested the can against her knee.  She sniffed 
softly, and he was jarred by the memory of just how recent her 
tears had been.  It was so easy to forget in the cool light of 
her composure.
     Once more, he would have given anything to hear her 
thoughts, to understand what needs--what wounds--had brought her 
into his arms tonight.  But she had offered him nothing but her 
trust.  And he had failed to press her.  He watched her profile 
in the deceptive twilight, the way the last of the light played 
along her hairline.  And he remembered the first time he had seen 
Scully drink soda from a can--they had been working together only 
a month or two.  Just a routine research outing.  She had grabbed 
them both soft drinks from the machine in the college commons.  
Her manner had been so distant back then, so formal and 
businesslike--it had seemed out of place to see her tilt her head 
back and draw a gulp of Coke Classic.  Such a stupid, trivial 
thing for him to have noticed.  But in his mind it had remained a 
landmark moment, when she first dared to be someone with him, 
that she was not with the other agents.
     Much later had come the bra strap.
     Then the day he had realized it no longer mattered to her 
whose coffee mug was closer.  She took a sip from either one, and 
expected him to do the same.
     Maybe that was normal between partners.  Accepted behavior.  
Maybe not...
     Maybe calling your partner at 3am for feedback on your 
latest brainstorm was normal.  Maybe not.
     "So, how do you think he does it, Mulder?  How did Nealy get 
out of prison and into my apartment?"  She turned, looking right 
at him, intent upon an honest response.  No space for evasion.  
No flinching at the memory.
     He bit his lip and shook his head.  He lifted his eyebrows.  
"I don't know, Scully.  Unless...he's the real thing."
     "The real thing?"
     He shrugged.  Covering his hesitation with a touch of humor.  
"Many religions throughout history have held beliefs in the power 
to take the form of various animals, or to inhabit an animal's 
body.  The satisfaction of the basic human desire to run free, to 
hunt, to live on the animal level of our ancestors--It's a basic 
archetype of the human psyche.  What if he found a way to do it, 
Scully?  Or what if he was born knowing how?"
     She narrowed her eyes and continued to watch him.  He could 
never tell in these moments if she was sorting through her mental 
library of files on a given topic, processing the information he 
had given her to work with...or just debating what words to use 
to tell him he was insane.  It had gone both ways in the past.
     Today she frowned slightly and said, "Just for the sake of 
argument, Mulder, let's say Nealy does have this ability.  That 
he has cultivated some sort of spiritual power within himself and 
he can take on the shape of a cat or a wolf.  How does that 
explain his escape from prison?"
     Mulder bounced his leg as he spoke, nervous energy seeking 
an outlet.  As usual Scully did not move.  "Maybe we're thinking 
too big, Scully."
     "What?"
     "What if his power isn't the limited power we see in late 
night vampire movies of changing into a dog or a bat.  What 
if...what if he can change into or appear as anything he wants 
to.  Say a rat or a mouse or even...a house fly."
     "A house fly."
     He winced at the liquid skepticism rolling off of her.
     "You started the 'what-if' game, here, Scully.  So just 
*what if* that's it?  What if he shifts into something so 
innocent the prison guards never have a prayer of associating 
what they see with Nealy's disappearance?  And Nealy just 
literally walks out the front door of the prison, then walks back 
in again when he's done."
     Scully sighed, moistened the corner of her mouth.  She was 
getting impatient, maddened.  And he realized maybe he was doing 
that for her on purpose.  Giving her back the upper hand.
     "Mulder...Putting aside our past arguments about what 
happens to the matter, which cannot just vanish or condense to 
that degree, regardless of your theory about space between the 
atoms...It just doesn't make sense.  I mean, when you're 
dealing with larger animals--dogs, wolves, bears--These creatures 
are capable of a reasonable degree of intelligence.  They can 
achieve the mental ability levels of pre-school children.  So, 
the idea of a human inhabiting a host body of that type of 
creature, manipulating it on a somewhat human level, at least 
harbors a twisted kind of plausibility.  But a fly, Mulder?  That 
just...a housefly does not even possess a brain as we think of 
it, it couldn't--"
     "You can't define something metaphysical in clinical terms, 
Scully.  It's all or nothing here, you can't make the leap into 
spiritual transference, and then insist upon biological 
predictability once the change has taken place."
     "Mulder, nothing is beyond science.  Only beyond what we 
know of it."
     He nodded.  "Maybe that's true, Scully.  But we can't pick 
and choose which parts we think we don't know.  You can't accept 
you're still lacking information in one area, and then decide you 
know everything about another.  The discoveries just over the 
horizon are predictable, yes.  But the fact is, some discoveries 
are so far away, that medical science can't even see them coming.  
They can't see the gaps that need to be filled."
     She acquiesced a bit, looked out the windshield, perhaps 
willing to grant him the larger theory if not the specific point.
     And for a moment he was amazed by the awareness that he was 
sitting in a dark car, alone with such a beautiful woman. Her 
green eyes were near translucent in the dying light.  The tear 
moistened patch of his shirt clung to his skin.
     At long last she spoke, her voice a shade darker now, "I 
don't know, Mulder.  But what if you're right, hmm?"  She turned 
and met his gaze.  "How the hell would we stop him?"
     
     *		*		*		*		*
     
     She shifted position again, rested the back of her head 
against the cool glass, her cheek against the seat cushion.
     Darkness surrounded them now.  She could tell without 
opening her eyes.  She didn't know how long she'd been dozing.  
Long enough for her left ankle to be stiff.  Mulder had convinced 
her to take a nap now with the argument he could feel free to 
stick her on lookout later when it was *really* hard to stay 
awake.
     In truth, she had been grateful for the retreat.  She hadn't 
expected to actually sleep.  But the sleep had been welcome.  It 
distanced her from her moment of weakness.  From Mulder.  And on 
a possibly dangerous stakeout, they needed that.  They needed to 
be clicking together as partners, not as friends.  Not concerned 
friends, anyway.  Or vulnerable ones.
     The dull headache that always came from fighting tears had 
faded as she slept, leaving just a trace of tension in her 
temples and shoulders.  She was starting to miss home.  She 
needed the ritual relaxation of her own little nest, her own 
shower, her own couch, her own kitchen table, her own bed.  The 
scents and sounds of safety and home.  Oddly enough, a drafty car 
seat and Mulder's aftershave were offering a similarly calming 
effect.
     *I missed you this weekend, Mulder.  I'm sorry I left you to 
find the bodies alone.  I know how that aspect of the darkness 
chills you.  I wish I could tell you that.*
     She had nearly slipped out of consciousness again, thinking 
she was just resting her eyes until she was ready to come fully 
awake, when Mulder said softly, "Are you faking?"
     She pulled her eyes open, finding it harder than she'd 
expected, and blinked in his direction, then nodded.  "Kind of."
     "Did you sleep?"
     "Yeah, I did."  She sat up, drawing a sharp breath to banish 
her lingering grogginess.  She pushed back a few errant strands 
of hair.  "I'm sorry, are you getting sleepy?  I'm all right to 
watch now for a while..."
     But he shook his head.  "No, I'm fine.  Just bored."  He 
smiled at her.  That sweet, almost shy little smile he offered 
when he fessed up to acting more like an annoying little brother 
than a full grown FBI agent.
     She tried only to look tolerant in response, but some of her 
affectionate amusement must have slipped into her eyes.
     She slid her ankle out from under her other knee and rubbed 
gently over the bone.
     "Did it fall asleep?" Mulder asked with a nod toward her 
ankle.
     The smallest movement of her mouth served as her affirmative 
response.  As always, he heard it.
     He cringed.  "Ouch.  One of the hazards of stakeouts."
     "Along with bad food and a sore ass."
     He smiled.
     "I take it nothing interesting happened while I was 
sleeping?"
     Mulder popped a sunflower seed in his mouth and crunched 
loudly.  "Five people have walked their dogs--two of them 
joggers--a black corvette zoomed by with a bunch of drunk college 
kids listening to bad metal music...oh, and a couple of squirrels 
got in a pretty nasty street fight, but I don't think there were 
any permanent injuries requiring your medical expertise."
     Scully sighed and tossed back the last drops of her Orange 
Crush.  It was warm and flat and left her mouth feeling worse 
than before.  She gazed out the window, adjusting her eyes to the 
light in the direction of the streetlamps.  The shadowy scene 
struck her as both cozy and sinister in alternating flashes.  The 
gnarled old trees and cracked sidewalks and softly curtained 
houses brought to mind warmth and family and visions of a safe, 
sheltered community.  But her years in the Bureau had taught her 
never to let her eyes slide over the shadows hidden beneath the 
light.  This place was an easy drive from the city.  The houses 
were aging, affordable, many of the residents were probably 
elderly--easy victims.  Security systems were no doubt rare, 
guard dogs poorly trained.
     It was prime hunting ground for the beasts of the night.
     She suppressed a shudder.
     Mulder didn't seem to see it.
     "So, Scully, heard any good jokes lately?"
     She never moved her gaze from Susan Nexton's driveway.  
"No."  Somewhere a car horn honked and a tire squealed.  The car 
was getting stuffy.  She should roll down a window.
     Mulder lifted his eyebrows.  "All that time with two 
brothers and a four year old nephew and no new jokes?  How is 
that possible?"
     "That's not what you asked."  She paused a moment, let him 
frown.  "You said *good* jokes."
     He laughed softly and looked back down at his lap.  
"Touche."
     They were comfortably quiet for a few moments.  She almost 
pulled the latest Marsden case autopsy reports from her briefcase 
to study, but for the moment just relaxing felt too good to 
disturb.  She was still a little fuzzy from her nap, content just 
to be at rest.  To let her thoughts wander.
     Mulder drew a breath and tensed his neck muscles as if to 
speak, but nothing came.  She glanced toward his dimly lit 
profile, mildly questioning him with her expression, but he 
didn't look up.  And after a lingering moment studying the 
familiar rough line of his jaw, she looked away.
     Mulder sniffed sharply, shifted position in his confining 
quarters.
     "You know, Scully...It was weird....The other night, I, 
um..."
     She looked his way, drawn by the thin thread of intimacy 
beneath his light, companionable tone.
     "What?" she prompted, a little surprised by the gentleness 
in her own voice.
     "Thursday night, actually.  After I went home, I fell asleep 
kind of late, you know me...but then all of the sudden I woke up 
around 3:15 or so--and I--all I could think about was you, 
and..."  He tossed her a quick, tentative glance.  She narrowed 
her eyes, but otherwise kept still.  "...about calling you.  Like 
you needed something, or..."  He shrugged, trailed off.  Then to 
fill the silence he added, "But it was so late, and your 
family..."  He lifted his head and met her gaze in the shadowy 
car.  Seeking, probing.  But not with blind curiosity, only 
loving concern.
     Scully's stomach was fluttering softly, and her muscles 
tensed as his gaze touched her skin.  But she watched him 
intently.
     "Did you...did something happen, Scully?"
     *Lying alone in her mother's guest room...breathless, 
trembling...sickened, terrified...Shutting out the horror of the 
nightmare.  Staring at the cell phone on her nightstand--and 
finding...comfort.*
     She was staring back at him in silence.  Shaken by his 
words, feeling inexplicably vulnerable beneath his gaze--as if he 
had literally *seen* into her intimate moment of weakness, 
watched her fear.
     She hadn't moved, hadn't brought herself to speak.  She felt 
herself touched by the building tension in Mulder's limbs, and 
she was shifting from personal defensiveness to warmth toward her 
partner, when their quiet moment ended in a bone shaking wham.  
With a cat-like screech and a flash of blackness and undulating 
muscular ripples, *something* slammed into the roof and 
windshield of Scully's side of the car, and leapt away into the 
night.
     
     
     "Oh, my God!"  Scully paled and he could almost hear the 
increase in her heart rate. For all her cool control, she had 
always been the easy one to startle.  *Why, Scully?  What scares 
you?  What monsters lurk in the shadows for you?*
     This time he was right behind her.  "What the hell was 
that?"
     He ducked forward, just as Scully did, wanting to see beyond 
the top of the windshield.  Scully's hand was already on her 
weapon.  Her reflexes were much quicker on that score than his.  
As was her trigger finger.  He winced at an imaginary pang in his 
shoulder.
     "I don't know..."  Her breathing was deep from the 
adrenaline rush, her senses on high alert.  All traces of her 
drowsiness had been dispelled.  There was something in her tone 
that made him think she *did* have an idea what they had just 
seen, but she wasn't about to say.
     As usual she surprised him.
     "But I think it was Nealy."
     Mulder tossed her a quick glance, utterly thrown, 
questioning her with a dip of his eyebrows, but she just looked 
at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide.
     He went with it.  "Where did he go?  I lost him..."
     "So did I."  They had both scooted down, instinctively 
wanting to be lower than the window line.  "But we'd better find 
out."
     Before he could respond, Scully opened her door and rolled 
out onto the grass, landing neatly in a crouch, gun raised.  She 
pushed the door to, not risking the noise of a slam, yet 
reluctant to relinquish the light.
     With a quick glance out the window and a deep breath, Mulder 
ducked out his own side.
     The night was too dark, the street lamp much too far up the 
block.  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the blackness 
in the yards across the street.  He knew they should head for 
Susan Nexton's house.  Guard her as first priority.  But instinct 
kept him back.  Nealy--if this really was Nealy, and God help 
them if it was--had deliberately banged their car.  If he'd 
wanted only Susan Nexton, he was a fool to announce his presence 
to the Feds.  And Nealy was no fool.  He was playing with them.
     Mulder's gut told him Nealy was there tonight with a very 
different agenda.
     He heard the shuffle of movement on the far side of the car.  
Scully was creeping along the side to the back.  He sensed as 
much as heard the light tap as the toe of her shoe hit the 
pavement, felt her shadow as she moved around the trunk and slid 
up beside him.
     "Do you see anything?" she breathed.
     "Nothing.  It's too damn dark here.  We're sitting ducks 
like this."
     "There's a dent in the roof of the car.  Whatever it was, it 
was heavy."
     He nodded, still scanning the darkness around them.  "Maybe 
we should--"  Her hand on his forearm cut him off.
     "What was that?"  She was squinting into the shrubbery on 
the far side of the street.  As he followed her gaze, there was a 
second rustle of leaves, a hint of movement.  "There," she 
prompted.
     "I don't know..."  He tilted his head.  "You go left."
     She nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment of connection 
before starting across the street in a slow jog at half crouch, 
paralleling his own movements to the right.
     Scully dropped to one knee at the far curb just as Mulder 
raised his weapon a few yards away.  "Freeze!  FBI!" she shouted, 
her voice rough with its commanding intensity.  The point in the 
bushes they were both focused so intently upon offered no 
response.
     "Come out where we can see you!" Scully said, but she 
glanced at Mulder, and the consensus between them was that the 
entity they sought was no longer present.
     Mulder moved first, gun still raised as he circled the end 
of the thick wall of shrubbery, visually searching the open yard 
beyond.  Scully was right behind him.
     "He's gone..." 
     "Where the hell is he?" Mulder spoke under his breath.
     Scully's breathing quickened.  "Susan..."  She was already 
stepping backwards.
     "No, he was out here.  He came to us, Scully, we don't want 
to lead him to her door."
     She glanced around once more and shook her head.  "We've 
lost him, Mulder, he could be there already."
     But still he shook his head.  "I don't think so, Scully.  
It's us, he wants us."  *He wants you.*
     "It could be a trick, Mulder."  Her voice was urgent now, 
thick with adrenaline.  She was going to run...
     "We could lose him."
     "Then you stay here.  Find him.  One of us has to protect 
Susan."
     "No.  Scully!"  He risked too loud a call, but she was 
running already, her heels smacking the concrete sidewalk, her 
shadow flickering in the moonlight.  And he knew she was right.  
But he didn't want her alone...not with Nealy, not again...Not 
this woman who had nestled her small nephew so tenderly in her 
arms just a few hours ago.  "Dammit!" he whispered, but he kept 
his gaze on the pulsing shadows at the edges of the yard.  *Where 
are you, Nealy?  _What_ are you...?*
     
     
     Scully circled the house, creeping sideways, her back 
against the worn siding, gun reassuringly heavy at her shoulder.  
She was breathing hard, struggling to quiet the sound.  The doors 
seemed secure, the windows closed.  She squinted up at the second 
floor, unnerving herself with the need for *that* precaution, but 
all seemed quiet there, too.
     She was mildly relieved, beginning to think perhaps Mulder 
was right, perhaps she should rejoin the hunt down the block.  
But who the hell was she kidding?  Her apartment had been 
airtight as well.  She slipped her free hand inside her suit 
jacket and pulled out her cell phone.  Dialing Susan Nexton's 
number in the darkness, eyes darting around her, she silently 
blessed her long time habit of memorizing the phone numbers of 
every vital witness on a case.  It wasn't easy without Mulder's 
memory, but it kept her sharp, and it had paid off on more than 
one occasion.
     "Ms. Nexton, it's Agent Scully,"  She was whispering, but 
still she felt horribly exposed.
     "Yes?"
     "There's no need to worry.  But Agent Mulder and I just saw 
something out here that we're checking out now..."
     "What kind of thing?"  Her voice rose in a tension too near 
panic.  Come on, Lady, stay cool for me.  "It was him, wasn't it?  
It's--"
     "You're going to be fine, Susan.  Just keep your doors 
locked and stay away from the windows.  Don't open the door for 
anything or anyone, understood?"
     She heard Susan swallow, then she managed a soft, "Yes."
     "I'll call you back," Scully said, and clicked off the 
connection before she could hear the response.
     She dropped her phone into her pocket and tightened her grip 
on her gun.
     *Dammit.  You're here, Nealy.  I know you're here.  Come out 
and play.*
     
     
     Mulder cursed the darkness.  His contacts never seemed to 
correct as well in deep shadow.  Ironic, since he lived most of 
his life in back hallways and basement dens.  Scully was the one 
with the cat eyes.  She could navigate through what he saw as 
utter blackness like she was moving on radar.
     The neighborhood around him had seemed all evening like a 
cozy, sheltered piece of Americana.  But now he felt like the 
only human body for miles around.  He saw nothing but looming 
trees and overgrown bushes, heard shadows rustling in the wind 
and breathing on the back of his neck.  It was moments like this 
he always wondered what the hell had possessed him to choose this 
job for a career.  *Okay, Buddy, the world is full of monsters 
beyond anything you've ever learned about in your safe little 
world of academia, and we're looking for volunteers to run around 
with nothing but a flimsy handgun and try to catch a few of them 
and lock 'em away.  What's that you say?  You want to sign up?*
     Mulder circled the house nearest their car, took note of the 
single light burning in an upstairs window.  Nealy could be in 
any one of these houses by now, creeping unseen along a shadowy 
stairwell.  Waiting for an unsuspecting victim as he had for 
Scully.  Up any one of these trees...like the one from which he 
seemed to have dropped upon their car.
     Something rustled in the underbrush behind the tool shed.  
His pulse was pounding in his ears like the wind as he took off 
across the yard.
     
     
     She was in Susan Nexton's back yard, scouring the clump of 
trees that sheltered the house from the mildly busier side 
street.  There was no protocol for this scenario.  Nothing to 
dictate proper procedure.  Invisible strings tugged her toward 
the Nexton house, certain that at any moment she would hear 
echoes of tortured screams.  But the saner side of logic kept her 
in the yard, acting on the assumption that what they had seen 
might not have been Nealy at all, but a lost dog running through 
the night.  And she couldn't pretend she wasn't shoving down hard 
on the memory of Nealy's previous attack on her, determined not 
to let fear or anger cloud her actions.
     The night was fast turning cold.  Autumn was creeping into 
the air, the warm afternoon sun no longer kept is power through 
the twilight hours.  Her pumps slipped lightly on the damp grass 
beneath the aging trees.  The chill seemed to seep through the 
leather into her bones.
     
     
     *Goddamned raccoon!!*
     He'd nearly blown its head off out of frustrated anger mixed 
with an eerie suspicion that the raccoon *was* Nealy.  But its 
behavior had soon proven a little too aimless and inept for a 
criminal genius.  And Mulder had sympathized with its 
incompetence just long enough to let it run away.
     He cursed again and kicked at the nearest tree trunk, 
burning off his adrenaline to restore his more capable cool.  
What in fact acted as the more effective wet blanket, was the 
sudden, vivid impression that Nealy might be just feet--just 
*inches*--away from him, crouched in the foliage, watching with 
eyes that could see in the dark.
     Mulder lifted his gun and redoubled his search, bolstered by 
the lights still burning in the bedroom windows above.
     
     
     Scully was about to circle the house once again, check the 
doors and windows.  But she never got the chance.  A throat 
tearing growl from above gave her less than a second's warning of 
the impending attack.
     *It* hit her like a ton of lead, slammed into her body as it 
dropped from the heavy branches, and all she was clearly 
conscious of was the cold metal still in her hand and the hot 
ripping pain across her chest.  Then the wet grass on her back, 
soaking through her suit coat, and her head smacking hard into 
something sharp.  Not enough to knock her out, but the pain was 
momentarily blinding.  *He* was over her, pinning her to the 
ground, and his smell was horrid and dizzying and hideously 
familiar.  Black fur above her, muscles, teeth...
     She kicked, hard.  And she felt the heel of her shoe dig 
into something soft.  A yelp in the darkness, like an animal 
brutally shunned by his master.  She shoved, struggled to break 
free, gasping for air.  Her gun arm was pinned to the ground by 
his weight, but the grip was still solid in her grasp.  The thing 
above her withdrew a bit, thrown by the unexpected pain, and by 
some miracle she was able to roll free.  A second kick hit its 
mark, and, still lying on her back, she swung her gun around to 
take aim.  But the shadow above her moved like a ghost against 
the night sky, and in a whirl of motion she hadn't a prayer of 
catching with a bullet, bounded across the span of yard leading 
to the Nexton house.
     *"MUULLLDDEEERR!!"*
     The crash was like a waterfall as the solid black mass leapt 
panther-like through the thick night air and on through the first 
floor window of the Nexton home.
     
     
     *MUULLLDDEEERR!!*
     He turned in slow motion, or at least it felt that way.  The 
horrible, haunting cry carried on the wind through the stillness 
and oppressive shadows.  And her voice penetrated his skin and 
ran through his veins like ice.
     He could barely move.  His limbs were like iron.  *Scully.  
Jesus, Scully.  No, NO, *NO*!  Not now, not again...*
     "Scculllyyy!"  And in a blind burst of speed he took off 
across the empty yards.
     
     
     It took a moment to regain her bearings.  The searing pain 
on her chest had mixed with a sticky dampness she knew was blood.  
Her vision had cleared, but she wasn't sure of her legs yet.
     No time like the present to find out.  She shoved to her 
feet, took a few unsteady steps, then with growing confidence 
jogged across the yard toward the broken window.  It was higher 
up from here than it had looked from a distance.  She could 
barely see in over the sill, let alone knock out enough of the 
remaining glass to climb inside.  "Susan!!" she shouted, knowing 
it was probably useless.
     She slammed her hand into the brick wall in frustration, 
simultaneously propelling herself away and toward the back door.  
She yanked open the lockless screen, took one appraising look at 
the upper half's window pains, stepped back, and kicked.  Her 
first try jammed the hell out of her knee and offered no help.  
Her second the same.  The third, a near flying kick born of 
desperation and adrenaline, broke through the glass.  She nearly 
fell, when her heel caught in the window frame, but she caught 
her balance and jammed her hand through the opening, careless of 
the fractured glass.  She was eternally grateful when the inner 
knob turned easily and let her inside.
     "Susan!"  No answer.  But somewhere above the baby started 
to cry.  Scully moved through the lower floor room by room, 
creeping along walls, blasting through doors, slapping on lights 
and sweeping the expanses with her weapon.  Her head and chest 
throbbed wildly, but the pain was keeping her sharp, keeping her 
moving.
     "Susan!  Where are you?"
     She had come full circle, returned to the back family room.  
He wasn't here.  Unless, of course, he was the size of a house 
fly.  And that--wasn't a thought she could deal with right now.
     He had to be upstairs.
     The light switch at the bottom of the stairs did nothing to 
dispel the gaping darkness above.
     
     
     "Scullyyy!  Sculllyy!!"
     He took in the scene at a glance.  Two broken windows.  An 
open door.  Lights on on the lower floor.  He pushed through the 
door, squinting into the light, broken glass crunching beneath 
his feet.
     "Scullyyy!  Where are you?"
     A resounding crash from above was his only response.
     
     
     She found the light to the master bedroom and switched it on 
to reveal Susan Nexton, curled tightly on the floor beside the 
bed, rocking gently in time with her tears.  Fear wafted off of 
her like perfume, but from Scully's perspective she showed no 
apparent physical injuries.  Through a half-open door at the far 
end of the room, Scully could just make out the crying baby, arms 
holding him standing at the side of his crib.
     "Susan?"  Scully said, never lowering her gun or her guard.  
Only her voice.  "Where is he?"
     "Scullyyy!  Where are you?"  Mulder.  Downstairs.
     "Susan?"
     Susan's wide-eyed expression wasn't enough of a warning for 
Scully to avoid the hit she took from behind.
     He came from the shadowy hallway, flying like a pouncing 
jaguar, and hardly losing momentum as he knocked Scully aside and 
descended full body upon Susan Nexton.
     
     
     "Scully!"
     The screams deafened him as he flew up the stairs three at a 
time.  He knew the ragged voice wasn't Scully's--at least he 
hoped he knew.  The single lighted room led him to the sounds 
like a beacon.
     But he froze solid at the top of the stairs as the two 
gunshots shook the aging house.
     "*Scully!*"  He broke through his momentary paralysis, and 
sprinted to the doorway.
     "Mulderr..."  Just the sound of her voice, breathless though 
it was, cleared his tunnel vision.
     Scully sat on the floor, a few feet away from him, her gun 
still aimed, but her arm beginning to sag.
     Susan Nexton, no longer screaming, whimpered softly as she 
shoved herself tighter and tighter into the corner where the bed 
met the nightstand.  She seemed desperate to detach herself from 
the body.
     The body.
     Thomas Nealy lay crumpled on his side, his blood oozing onto 
the soft cream carpet.  A flesh and blood, white skinned, man.  
Naked on the floor, eyes open and vacant.
     With a pained glance toward Scully and her bloodstained 
clothes, Mulder crossed the room in three strides and crouched 
down to check Nealy's pulse.
     "He's dead," he said softly, and he heard a soft sigh escape 
his partner's lips.
     Mulder reached out a hand and gripped Susan Nexton's 
shoulder.  "You all right?  Susan, are you hurt?"  She never gave 
a definitive response, but her manner was enough to convince him 
of her physical, if not mental, well being.
     And that was all he needed to propel him to Scully's side.
     "Scully?  Where are you hurt?  What happened?"
     She was sitting up straighter now, her gun lay on the carpet 
at her side.  She was moving with marked trepidation, and he 
tried to hold her still, urge her back.
     "I'm all right," she said hoarsely.  "He attacked me 
outside.  From the trees."
     Mulder was fingering the remains of her shredded blouse 
front, careless of the blood spreading to his fingers, struggling 
for a clear view of the skin beneath.  "Jesus, Scully..."
     "I hit my head on something..." she said distractedly, her 
hand moving to the back of her hair.  She cringed at something 
one of them touched.
     Mulder couldn't pull his eyes away from her chest.  Beneath 
the smears of blood, her skin held four distinct and neatly 
spaced slashes--Deep and ragged.
     Like the swipe of a giant claw.
     
     *          *          *          *          *
     
     The hours at the local headquarters were long and tedious.  
They made their statements, then made them again.  They answered 
questions.  So did Susan.  No one was questioning that Thomas 
Nealy had again escaped prison by unknown means, that he had 
broken into Susan Nexton's house, or that Scully had fired 
justifiable shots to save Susan's life.  It was everything else 
in their stories that didn't add up.
     And, of course, there was the inevitable phone call to 
Skinner, to try to soften the blow of what would appear on his 
desk the next morning.  Soften it for Mulder and Scully, as much 
as for Skinner...
     Washed and dressed, Scully's wounds seemed a bit less 
serious, though no less painful to Mulder's eyes.  Her head 
injury had been checked out by paramedics at the scene, and there 
were no apparent signs of concussion.  Pure luck.
     It was after midnight when the two bedraggled agents climbed 
back into Mulder's car and headed for home.
     They spoke very little on the drive to Scully's mother's 
home.  Exhaustion was their silencing companion, though Mulder 
was intensely aware of his partner's presence.  Of her golden 
aura permeating the confines of the cluttered car.  He did his 
best relaxing when she was unwinding beside him.
     Only his concern for her sustained his lingering tension.  
The true horror of what had almost happened (what he, as her 
partner, had almost *let* happen) had clutched his chest sometime 
during their hours of paperwork in the station house, and 
wouldn't let go.
     Her desperate call through the darkness would haunt his 
dreams for endless nights ahead.
     Nealy had deeply shaken Scully with his first attack at her 
apartment.  Mulder had been well aware of her reaction at the 
time, though Scully had, of course, denied him the honor of 
comforting her.  Only tonight had he learned a bit more about 
what had shaken her confidence; What had scared her.
     But this knowledge still had not lowered her guard, or 
brought her to speak.
     His only comfort came in the rare moment of trust she had 
bestowed upon him a few hours before.  He could only ask so much 
of a single day.
     Glancing up at the house numbers in the darkness, Mulder 
reluctantly rolled the car to a halt against the curb in front of 
Margaret Scully's home.  Scully looked up at the familiar scene, 
apparently in no hurry to move.
     "Had enough of the relatives?" he asked with a small smile.
     Scully breathed out softly, signifying appreciation, if not 
actual humor, and reached for the door handle.
     On impulse, Mulder climbed out of his own side of the car.  
He circled to Scully as she retrieved her briefcase from the 
floorboards.
     Scully pushed her door closed and looked up at him, a tad 
surprised, but accepting his gesture.
     He smiled softly, holding her gaze.  "Good day's work, 
Scully."
     She slipped her bag over her shoulder.  "I'll see you in the 
morning, Mulder," she said and turned toward the path to the 
door.
     But he reached out and gently grasped her upper arm.  "Look 
at me," he said softly, and she instinctively raised her head and 
drew her blue-green eyes to meet his gaze.  Sometimes he dreaded 
the trust she had in him.  It was much easier to deny the 
responsibility.
     He saw the reflection of the tender concern in his own gaze 
as it washed over her; her lids fluttered ever so slightly.  His 
focus slid to her bandaged forehead, across the ragged scratches 
on her chest.
     "Are you sure you're really okay?" he asked, keeping his 
voice firm, but unable to fully hide his concern.
     She gazed at him for a long beat, searching 
for...something...  And he felt his own thoughts stir as though 
she had rifled through them.  Then she offered a gentle, 
placating smile and said, "I'm fine. Just a little sore."  And 
that small concession--from Scully--was like a gift.
     Mulder sighed, accepting her assurance based more on her 
color, her eyes, her carriage, than on her honesty.  "Okay.  Just 
get some rest, all right?"
     She nodded, and he thought he saw her tense at the use of 
her neck muscles.  "I will.  You, too."
     He nodded dimissively, and she didn't pursue it.  She knew 
better after so many years.  She took a step up the path.
     "Good night," he said, and, bouncing his keys in his hand, 
he turned to go
     "Mulder?"
     He almost didn't hear her.  So soft...
     "Yeah?"
     She didn't speak.  Her brow tensed and her gaze swept the 
walkway at their feet.  The ends of her hair blew to touch the 
corner of her little girl's mouth.  Her arms hung dispassionately 
at her sides, but as he watched her, her left thumb slid slowly 
across the pads of her fingers, and back again.
     A gesture he knew so well.  Her sole expression of disquiet.
     "Scully?"
     "Call me next time," she said, her voice as soft as the 
night air.
     And for a moment, her words meant nothing.  And then--they 
meant everything.
     *Scully...what happened that night?  You wanted me to call 
you?  Did you need me?  Were you frightened?  Did something hurt 
you?  Tell me...*
     He watched her, fed off the brief flashes of eye contact she 
offered, cursed the blinding shadows.  He offered a small nod of 
reply.  "I will."  The tenderness in his own voice surprised him.
     She swallowed, and again there was the physical tension.  
Yes, she was in pain from the attack.  But all he could focus on 
was the slight trembling of her lips as she drew her next breath.
     And then it happened.  The distinctive shift of her 
shoulders.  And before he could think, Fox Mulder reached out and 
slipped his fingers beneath the shoulder of Dana Scully's blouse.  
Catching the satin strap between his fingers, he gave a quick 
tug, then let his hand fall away.  He'd had no idea the skin of 
her shoulder was so silky to the touch...
     Scully raised her eyes from the place his hand had just 
left, and beneath her steady gaze Mulder lapsed into a shy smile 
meant to put her at ease.  For a moment her expression lay 
unguarded...but he caught nothing concrete beneath the surface 
surprise, the wary confusion, before her gaze fell away and the 
wall sank into place.  "Thanks," she said plainly.
     Mulder reached out and touched her cheek, just for a moment.  
Her delicate skin was flushed with warmth.  She didn't raise her 
eyes.
     "Take some Tylenol," he said softly.  But she seemed no more 
aware of his words than he.  Only his voice.
     She nodded.  Maybe on reflex.
     "Good night," she said, and he could not push away the 
regret as she withdrew from his hand.
     "Good night, Scully."
     The wind against his wrist was a poor substitute for her 
gentle breath.
     
     *          *          *          *          *
     
     She watched as Mulder's car faded into the distance, and 
left her in coolness and silence.
     The porch light of her mother's home still burned for her, 
though tonight there were no lights in the downstairs windows, no 
fluttering curtains masking eagerly watchful faces.  Scully 
strolled up the narrow pathway, listening to the leaves rustle in 
the trees, taking her time, needing to slow things down to a pace 
she could handle after the non-stop action of the past few hours.
     There was a dampness in the night air, and the stars had 
begun to fade behind a layer of greying clouds.  Rain would come 
soon.  Bringing change.  Sometimes that was good.
     *Mulder...what did you tell me earlier tonight?  My 
God...could you have meant what I heard?*  She closed her eyes, 
and quelled the quivering in her stomach.  Their conversation 
seemed days ago, yet only a minute before...
     Scully fished in her trench coat pocket for her key ring.  
She still kept a key to her mother's house right beside her 
own...and Mulder's.  She only used it for moments like this one.  
Or when her mother needed a favor when she was out of town.  
Plants watered, turtle fed.
     Dana slipped the key in the lock and turned, gripping it 
with both hands and popping the lock as quietly as she could.  
The foyer was lit by the faint penumbral glow of a jar lamp in 
the living room.
     This house that had been a whirlwind of voices and activity 
when she left, now lay in stillness and slumber.
     She felt the warmth of Mulder's palm against her cheek.
     She felt tired.
     "Hey, wild child."
     She jumped like an over wound clock.  Her hand was only 
stopped in its path toward her weapon by a subconscious 
recognition of the voice.
     "Jesus, Bill, you scared the hell out of me."
     She squinted as his pajama-clad figure took form and emerged 
from the shadowy couch.  His robe hung loose at his sides, 
slippers on his feet.  And for a moment, he looked fourteen years 
old again.  "I'm sorry.  I think I dozed off until I heard the 
door."
     "What are you doing up?" she asked, glancing at her watch, 
though the effort was futile in the dimness.
     "I was just waiting for you."
     Dana hesitated a moment, then sighed wearily and let her 
eyes fall to the grey tile her Mother had spent so many hours 
choosing.  "Bill, I'm tired.  I don't want to do this right now, 
okay?"
     Bill frowned at her, took a step closer, blocking the light 
and burying her deeper in shadow.  "Do what?"
     A soft exasperated sound from the back of her throat.  
"Defend my life to you.  Explain why you were right and I was 
seven, eight hours late again.  Bill, I just want to go to sleep, 
all right?"  It wasn't really a question.  She turned to go.
     "Hey, wait, wait.  You think I'd only wait up for you to 
yell at you?  Come on, Dana, give me a chance here."
     She stopped, still didn't turn back.  But his voice was warm 
to her.  And tonight...maybe she needed that.  "What?" she asked 
softly.
     "I just..." he shrugged.  "You seemed pretty pissed off at 
me earlier, and I didn't want to leave things like that."
     Dana looked up at him over her shoulder.  Meeting his gaze 
now, her weariness momentarily pushed aside.
     "Bill, we fight all the time, we always have.  Since when 
does that bother you?"
     "Since you didn't snap back," he said plainly.  "As long as 
you're yelling, I know we're okay."  A faint smile mixed with his 
genuine concern and Dana could not help but be touched by it.
     She let her gaze fall again, but not to pull away this time.  
They were quiet for a moment in the sleeping house.  Bill 
patiently awaited her response.  A real concession from Bill.
     "We're okay," she said at last.
     He nodded.  "Good."  Then, "Have you eaten anything?"
     "Yeah, I...Mulder had some sandwiches in the trunk."
     Bill stepped closer, and the removal of his shadow let the 
light spill across her own disheveled form.
     "Oh, my God!  Dana, what the hell happened to you?  Jesus, 
are you okay?"
     She was shaking her head, pushing away his concern, too 
exhausted to indulge him.  "I'm fine.  I'm all right.  The 
paramedics checked me out, I just...need some Tylenol and some 
sleep."
     "What happened?"
     She drew a deep, slow breath, then closed her eyes and 
exhaled, but she didn't speak.  She felt Bill's hand close gently 
upon her shoulder.  "Come on, come sit down a minute."
     She was too wrung out not to just do as she was told.
     Dana dropped onto the couch, propping one foot on the edge 
of the coffee table.  She leaned her arm against the back of the 
couch, rested her temple against her fingers.
     Bill settled beside her, giving her her space, but leaning 
forward in concern.
     "What happened, Dana, were you attacked?"
     She nodded.  "Yeah.  But, I'm okay.  We, umm....we ended up 
staking out a woman's house, trying to protect her.  Thomas 
Nealy--he's a convicted serial killer who's been making 
some...unexplained escapes from prison lately to *continue his 
work*," she said with poorly masked disdain.  "He, uh....," she 
moistened her lips, kept her focus on the couch cushions, "He 
tried to kill me several weeks ago, and--" she felt Bill's intake 
of breath "--And tonight, when he came for this woman, who had 
also escaped him in the past and in fact helped to convict him--
he tried to finish up the job while he was at it."
     "Oh, my God."
     She glanced at Bill's expression, and was surprised by his 
pale countenance.  Was he really so shocked at the danger in her 
work?  Or was it just easier for him to deal with it from 3,000 
miles away...?
     "Where was Mulder when this was happening?"
     She answered without anger.  "Searching a few houses down.  
I just got the lucky end of the search.  He tried to keep us 
together, I was the one who broke away."
     "Did you catch this Nealy?"
     Dana drew a delicate breath.  "In a manner of speaking.  I 
shot him, actually.  He died at the scene."
     Bill nodded quietly.  "Have you had to kill people before?"
     Dana's eyelids sank slightly.  She swallowed, but didn't 
speak.
     "Does it get any easier?"
     "No." She shook her head.  "But it starts to make more sense 
somehow."  Then after a moment she glanced up.  "Mom doesn't 
know...I mean, I think she knows, but--"
     "She's in denial," Bill finished for her.  "Understood."
     She offered him a tired smile.
     "Are you okay?"  Bill asked softly.
     A car drove by, and the headlights threw shadows across the 
room, over Bill's shoulder.
     "Yeah."  She said softly.  "I'm fine.  I, um...I think I 
left my laptop down here, I need to make a few notes on the case 
before I crash..."
     Bill took his cue.  He stood and moved a step forward.  
Resting a hand briefly on Dana's shoulder, he kissed the bandage 
on her forehead, then turned to go.  "Good night," he said 
without turning, and she answered softly, "'Night."
     Her eyes slipped closed as she sat in the darkness.  And for 
tonight...maybe she would sleep without dreams.
     
THE END
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