DISCLAIMER:  Mulder and Scully and the search for the truth all 
belong to Chris Carter and Co.  I'm just borrowing them.  I 
promise to return them in no worse condition than Chris would.:)
SUMMARY: A rough night in a station house in Jersey.
TITLE: HALF-LIGHT
AUTHOR: Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@yahoo.com)
RATING: R (sexual assault, no actual rape)
CLASSIFICATIONS: Story, Angst, M/S UST
ARCHIVE: Just let me know. 
TIMELINE: Probably somewhere late fifth or early sixth season, 
not dependant on mytharc, but prior to "Millennium". (And please
forgive one little "current event" that found it's way into
this timeline.:))

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For those familiar with "Water's Edge", this is 
the story of the night referred to in Chapter 14b.  However, 
since this story takes place years before "Water's Edge" it is in 
NO WAY necessary to have read "Water's Edge" before reading this 
story.  They're really hardly related at all.:)

HALF-LIGHT
by
Elizabeth Rowandale (bstrbabs@gmail.com)
Copyright (c) 2003



Scully was dragging, he could feel it.  Mulder was, too.  They 
were spiraling, chasing phantoms and coming no closer to solving 
their case.  Six days of hauling their tired asses back and forth 
to Jersey for fourteen and sixteen hour days, leaving roughly two 
hours of sleep time between commutes.  They'd been catching most 
of their sleep driving in shifts.  All hail the Bureau's generous 
travel budget.  Wednesday afternoon he had actually dozed off 
with his nose on a computer keyboard and awakened to a squalling 
screech from the computer and half a research library staring at 
him.  Last night they had given up and crashed in a less than 
attractive motel on their own dimes.

Now the deaths were starting to look like copycat murders.  Or at 
the very least linked to an older case.  So, tonight they were 
following the necessary and almost always unproductive protocol 
of hauling out the scum convicted of the initial murders to pump 
him for information and connections.

Scully was right this time.  This wasn't an X-File.  The thin 
thread of the extraordinary that had drawn Mulder to this case in 
the first place had faded into stark normality.  These were mere 
men perpetrating these crimes.  They hadn't found the link 
between the old and new cases yet, but he no longer harbored any 
suspicions that a court-worthy link would not be found.

He and Scully were still here because the true X-Files were in a 
lull, and the Jersey Field Office was swamped.

This town was too small to have a separate station house and 
prison.  The police station was really just an annex to the 
prison.  Convenience had helped push the agents into tonight's 
interrogation as much as anything.  But for such convenience of 
venue, the prison guards were taking their time bringing Allen 
Dalton to the interrogation room.

The agents were hovering around the grey concrete room in the 
pessimistic silence of late night fluorescent hours in a public 
institution.
 
Two agents, two cops.  Mulder was seated at the interrogation 
table, long fingers laced over Dalton's file.  A calculated 
addition; he had memorized the facts long ago.  Across from 
Mulder, beside the empty chair awaiting Dalton's arrival, was 
Sgt. Davis Ryker, a solid Good Old Boys small town cop.  Narrow-
minded at times, but reliable in a crisis.  His dark hair was 
receding a bit, his beer-and-ribs belly beginning to strain his 
silver belt buckle.  But his eyes were sharp, perceptive and 
cool.  He had been at his job a long time, knew what to expect.

Beside Mulder sat a rookie detective, Marcus Hamilton, who had 
been following Ryker through this case like a puppy dog training 
at his heels.  Mulder had figured him out of the equation and 
settled it in his mind that as long as Hamilton kept quiet, he 
could tag along and observe all he wanted.

He realized his teaching nature was less than fertile.  The funny 
part was, so was Scully's, sometimes.  She didn't have the 
patience to slow down her system.  She didn't like people 
intruding on her thought processes.  She was kind when situations 
arose, but not likely to volunteer for the position.

Tonight she was something like unapproachable.  She stood a few 
feet from the group, shoulder propped against the wall, ankles 
crossed, brows drawn in a slight scowl.  She wanted all business 
tonight.  She wanted this solved and the murders stopped and the 
two of them back in D.C. and moving on to other things.  And he 
wasn't about to interfere.  Sometimes when she hit her 
determination mode at 4am, she was fucking brilliant; she 
listened quietly from the corner, then spoke one sentence that 
turned out to be the key to the whole damn case.  They could use 
some brilliance tonight.

The hollow clunk of the door latch signaled Dalton's arrival.

Ryker straightened his posture.

Scully watched, but did not push away from the wall.

Mulder slipped into his seasoned expression of contempt.

Hamilton pushed up his glasses.

Allen Dalton was an imposing man.  Well past six feet with a 
bulky build and thick features.  He looked out of place in the 
pressed prison blues, more at home in a coal mine or biker bar.  
His skin was rough, complexion dark.  His black hair was thick 
with unruly waves despite a receding hairline.

It was hard to believe this man had ever been a little boy.

He entered the interrogation room with an air of disinterest, as 
though the whole exercise were merely an amusing addendum to his 
day, a bump in his daily schedule.  Seven years of hard time had 
not found him out of his element.

Which, in itself, made Mulder reconsider his belief that Dalton 
had had no deliberate part in the recent murders.

The guards steered Dalton unceremoniously into his waiting chair, 
then nodded to Ryker before retreating to the hallway.

Dalton sniffed and tossed his hair, hands cuffed behind his chair 
back.  "'Evening, gentleman," he said, deep voice failing to 
resonate in the concrete room.  "To what do I owe this little 
chat?"

Mulder met Dalton's steady gaze before responding.  Mulder lifted 
an eyebrow.  "No guesses?"

Dalton shrugged, unreadable.  "Should I have?"

"You don't seem as thick as some of your cell mates around here.  
I'm guessing you read a newspaper once a while, maybe catch the 
evening news, if you're allowed any television anymore."

No flinch from Dalton.  "Local paper takes about five minutes of 
my time," he said dryly.

Mulder nodded.  "So, it would be hard to miss the murders on the 
front page.  In a town with such a low murder rate, that is."

"Makes for a nice read over breakfast.  Always good to see 
there's still some action on the outside.  People getting it on."

Mulder sat, stone-faced; he didn't reply.

After a moment, Dalton chuckled softly and looked down.

"Recognize anything?" Mulder asked.

Dalton lifted his gaze, squinting in something like mild 
amusement.  "What is it everybody says?  Next generation's 
lacking in imagination.  Generation Next.  It's all been done 
before."

"You like it here?  Prison life suit you?" Scully asked from her 
place on the wall, commanding everyone's attention with her 
softly controlled words.

"Hmmm," Dalton murmured, gaze sweeping the length of Scully's 
figure.  "Now, why can't they have guards like you around here.  
Instead of the WWF rejects."

"It's the WWE now.  Don't get out much, do you?" Scully said 
coolly.

And with a flash of genuine admiration, Mulder made a mental note 
to ask Scully later how the hell she knew that.

Dalton laughed again, sportingly one-upped.  He surrendered a 
reply.  "I get my kicks around here.  Has its perks."

Mulder pushed the file folder forward and opened to a spread of 
gruesome crime scene photos.  "But no *real* kicks these days, 
eh?"

Dalton's gaze moved over the pictures, expression carefully 
controlled.  "Aimee Niemet.  Yeah.  That was a nice night.  And 
lots of beer afterward."

Dalton lifted his gaze and met Mulder's; Mulder didn't flinch, 
sustained his air of contempt.  A tired fluorescent bulb 
flickered above them.

"Mr. Dalton," Scully began, pushing away from the wall and moving 
a few steps closer to the table, "can you think of anyone in your 
past, anyone you might have corresponded with since your arrival 
here at Foley Prison, anyone who might have reason to attempt to 
reproduce your crimes?"

"Hero worshippers you mean?" Dalton asked, an amused drawl 
carrying his words.  "I don't see why not."

"Anyone you can identify for us?" Scully asked, words 
deliberately over-enunciated.

The tick of the clock on the wall was too loud.

Dalton just smiled and winked at her.  Scully's scowl remained.

"This look familiar to you at all, Dalton?" Ryker asked.  He 
gestured toward Hamilton, who produced a small evidence bag 
containing a five inch pocket knife, blade turned out, green 
marble embedded into a dragon pattern on the handle.  Hamilton 
pushed the bag toward Dalton.

Dalton gazed down at the object for a long beat.  "That's my 
lady," he said smoothly.

And Mulder's skin crawled.

Hamilton pushed up his glasses.  "You certain of that?" he asked, 
voice unprecedentedly confident.

Dalton looked up, sharp eyes pinning Hamilton.

Mulder cleared his throat.  "That weapon was used in a crime less 
than two weeks ago.  The knife used in the murders you committed 
is still locked safely away in an evidence drawer.  Saw it myself 
not 24 hours ago."

Genuine surprise flickered behind Dalton's gaze.  So, if there 
was a connection between him and the new murders, Dalton wasn't 
aware of it.  Any needed information he might possess would have 
to be routed out by the ingenuity of the interrogators.

Hamilton sat back in his chair, pulling his hands into his lap, 
no doubt feeling he had accomplished something his first time out 
on a big case.

Scully tilted one shoe back on its heel, glancing at the floor, 
then back at Dalton.  "I seem to recall something in the 
transcripts of your testimony at trial about that weapon having 
been custom designed for you.  Is that right?  Carved by an old 
buddy of yours?"

Dalton glanced Scully's way.  "You into weapons, Red?"

"Any specific hero worshippers you can think of who might go to 
such lengths as to have your weapon reproduced?" Scully asked, 
not missing a beat.

They were all watching Dalton too closely, too wrapped up in the 
moment and every nuance of his expression.  Because Mulder had 
noted the slip up of procedure and had not found a moment to 
correct it, and he had seen Ryker's eyes follow the same path and 
fall upon the same thought, but neither of them had taken the 
opportunity to catch the rookie's slack and clean up his trail: 
They were all about to pay.

Dalton's movement was one fluid stroke.  And it was so unexpected 
and so slick and so blinding that no one was able to move.  
Scully reacted, yet even she didn't have a prayer of catching the 
upper hand.

The evidence bag had been left too close.

In a single breath, Dalton was inexplicably out of the handcuffs; 
he grasped the knife, pushed it through the evidence bag, and 
with a rough hand and a hard swing, Dana Scully was on her back 
across the table with a painful crack.  Dalton's offensive bulk 
landed on top of her, pinning her down with brute force and cold 
steel at her throat.

Everyone was shouting and every gun in the room but Scully's 
swished from its holster and locked on Dalton.

But nobody moved.  And everyone fell silent.

Because the knife was at her throat and a thin trickle of blood 
was making its way toward the winter white of her silk collar.  
Her exhale held the softest whisper of pain.

"Hoo-*hoo* boy!  This is definitely my lucky day!" Dalton crowed, 
mouth inches from Scully's, and Mulder's vision tunneled as his 
weapon fell heavy in his grip.  He could see every bead of sweat 
in the deep pores on Dalton cheek.  He thought if a single drop 
fell onto Scully's skin he might fire his weapon without 
discrimination.

Scully was breathing hard, in full-on high-fight mode.  "Get off 
of me," she hissed, voice throaty and harsh.

Dalton chuckled, the sound sickening.  He shifted his weight and 
moved his free hand onto Scully's ribcage.  "Oh, not yet, Little 
Lady.  The way I figure, I've only got a few minutes here.  A 
man's gotta have *some* fun.  Let's make use of the time we got, 
huh, beautiful?"

"Get off of her!" Mulder shouted, but Dalton did not even spare 
him a glance.

"Oh, not just yet, Loverboy.  Settle down."

"Get off of her, or we blow your head off."

Dalton laughed.  "No, I don't think so.  I think you know if you 
shoot me I might be inclined not to like it.  My body might even 
reject the notion.  Might even jerk a bit.  A leg, say, or an 
arm...or a hand.  No.  I don't think you'll be doin' that just 
now."

"You're diggin' your grave here, Dalton, you know that," Ryker 
said, false cool impressively convincing.

But Dalton wasn't listening.  He had turned his attention to his 
prey.

Hamilton stood silently in the corner, weapon raised like the 
others, but conviction gone.  Sweat reflected off his forehead in 
the yellow-green light and his gun arm quivered with the weapon's 
weight.  Mulder couldn't look directly at the man.  His aim might 
slip.

Dalton's hand moved deliberately from Scully's ribcage.  "Mmmm, 
yes," he said through a smile.  "I did get lucky today.  Not 
everyday they dangle a juicy prize like you in front of a guy 
like me."  His hand slid from her suit jacket onto her blouse.  
And from her ribs up over her breast.

Mulder bit his lip and felt the veins pulse in his temple.  
Scully's jaw tightened and she glared a hole in Dalton.  "Fuck 
off," she breathed.

But Dalton was merely amused.  His calloused hand cupped the 
roundness of Scully's breast, and Mulder compulsively focused on 
the chipped and uneven breaks on Dalton's fingernails as they dug 
into Scully's carefully pressed silk.

"You put down the knife now, and maybe you'll get to stay at 
Foley," Ryker said evenly.  "You make one more move, and you're 
gonna find yourself in maximum security before you can turn 
around."  He tightened his grip on his weapon, finger pressing at 
the trigger.

"Some things are worth sacrificing for," Dalton said, attention 
still on Scully beneath him.  "What say we have a little fun 
here, Red?  One last blast for Ol' Dalton?"

His hand slid back down to her ribs and Mulder almost released a 
breath, until he realized the path the hand was on.  Dalton's 
rough palm slid over Scully's stomach, over her waist band, down 
her slacks and between her legs.

Scully's breath caught and broke into uneven rhythm as he cupped 
her crotch.  Mulder could see it in every muscle and fiber of her 
body--the utter revulsion, the overwhelming need to push this 
horror away.  "Get off of me!" she shouted, the tensing of the 
tendons in her own throat pressing her skin tighter against the 
blade and he saw the glimmer of pain in her eyes.

"Feisty gal," Dalton murmured.  "I like that."

"You've got ten seconds, Dalton, before I test out my aim.  Just 
might get lucky and blow your head off without a twitch on your 
part."  Mulder's voice was flat.  Dangerous.

But his theory never needed to be tested.  It was Scully who 
broke the stalemate.  As Dalton pawed at her crotch and ground 
his hips against hers, she arched her back as though in 
pleasurable response, banking, no doubt, on his instinctual 
reaction: and her bet paid off.  Dalton lifted his weight to move 
in synch, and on the upward push with the forearm of his knife 
hand, he momentarily slackened the pressure on her throat.  She 
took the split second to swing her head as far from the blade as 
she could strain while she viscously scratched at his eyes.

The moment Dalton's hand rose on reflex toward his face and away 
from Scully's throat, Mulder's foot hit Dalton's jaw hard enough 
to knock his weight off of Scully and the knife out of his hand.

Weapon gone, there was a blur of motion as the three men 
descended on the monster.  Scully pushed herself free of Dalton's 
body, shoving at his chest and digging her shoe into his groin.  
Dalton cried out in pain as Ryker and Mulder slapped him face 
down on the table and locked on a fresh pair of handcuffs.  
Scully shoved off the table and well out of reach.

"Stay down, Dalton!" Ryker shouted.  "Just.  Stay.  Down!"

Mulder held Dalton's wrists with one hand, kept the barrel of his 
weapon to the small of Dalton's back with the other.

Ryker took a step back to open the door to the squad room.  
"Peterson!  Minnelli!  Get in here, now!"

The two guards appeared, expressions alert and focused.

"Get that asshole the hell out of here!" Ryker snapped, and the 
two men were instantly on the task, eyes taking in the room and 
the blood on Scully's throat.

Scully stood as they worked, breathing hard, back of her hand 
gingerly pressed to her neck, blouse pulled askew and suit jacket 
half off one shoulder.  Mulder tried not to watch her.

Mulder's release of Dalton took a beat too long.  But he let him 
go.  And the two guards ushered the now docile Dalton out of the 
room.

"How the hell did he get out of the handcuffs?" Mulder shouted 
into the air.

Ryker was shaking his head.  "No fuckin' clue.  The guy's a 
fucking escape artist.  He's done it before.  Probably worked it 
loose before he ever got in the room with a Goddamned stray 
paperclip or somethin'.  Asshole guards...."

Mulder holstered his weapon and pushed past Ryker, set on his 
course.  "Are you all right?" he asked, voice low as he moved 
into her space.

Scully nodded tersely.  "I'm fine."

With gentle fingers circling her wrist, Mulder guided her hand 
from her throat and tilted her chin away, inspecting the wound.

Scully allowed the gesture with mild reluctance.

"It's still bleeding.  You need to get some pressure on it."

But his time was up.  Scully pushed him off with her forearm and 
took a half step back.  "It's fine.  I'll take care of it."

Mulder nodded, letting her anger roll off of him with the hope 
that he was not the intended target.

But his own anger was seething.  He turned toward Hamilton, who 
hovered silently by, eyes wide.

Mulder was a step toward him when Scully's hand came to rest with 
deliberate weight on his forearm.  "Leave it," she said simply.

He turned to catch her gaze, but she wasn't offering such 
intimate contact.

"You all right, Agent Scully?" Ryker asked.

Mulder could almost feel Scully tense beside him.  "I'm fine," 
she said solidly.  "I'm just going to get cleaned up."  Her arm 
brushed Mulder's as she slipped past him out the door.

Mulder stood staring at the ugly interrogation room floor for a 
good count of ten.  Then he turned on his heel, gave Ryker a 
full-on death stare.  "Get him off this case," he said, hard and 
cold, pointing toward the shadow at the edge of his vision, and 
he was out the door in Scully's wake.

He didn't try to follow her.  Not yet.  She would only be 
retreating to the ladies room and he would be the useless figure 
hovering in the hall as he had been more than once before.

It reminded him too much of the nosebleeds.

So he buried himself in front of a computer for a while, feigning 
research.  Then he paced back and forth in front of the snack 
machines in the grungy back hallway with the broken ashtray.  
Then he got another cup of oil-slick coffee, took three sips and 
poured it out in the drinking fountain.

He sat on the thinly padded bench in the hallway outside the 
women's restroom.

*****

The bleeding had stopped in a few minutes.  She had washed up her 
throat.  It stung dimly, she needed a bandage to keep her jacket 
collar from irritating the wound when she moved.  She would ask 
at the front desk.  Or retrieve the first aid kit from the trunk 
of their car.  But for now she was standing at the sink, gripping 
the sides of the cold porcelain basin, breathing a bit too hard.  
There was nothing more to do here.  She should be back out in the 
bullpen with Mulder.  She should be back on the case.  She didn't 
want to move.

Her hands were still shaking.  No amount of soap was washing his 
stench from her skin, and she could feel his presence inches 
away, lingering in her personal space, moving through the wisps 
of breath around her.  His hands pressed on her body.

Dana Scully had been here before, been in situations like this, 
suffering similar indignations.  She knew all the reactions and 
repercussions, knew her own mind and strengths and weaknesses.  
And in each succeeding crisis, she remained convinced that all 
this knowledge should allow her to walk away unscathed, to view 
her experience from a comfortably detached, clinical perspective.

She couldn't get past the part where she turned out to be human.

The part where her chest hurt.

Scully closed her eyes as hot tears burned her lids.

The rap on the door was gentle and hesitant.  Familiar.  
"Scully?"

She swallowed hard, didn't speak.  The sound of his voice had 
tightened her throat and her hands turned cold.

*****

"Scully?  How you doing?"

"I'm fine.  I'll be right out."

Her voice was off.  He'd heard it before.  Not nosebleed off, but 
off all the same.

"Scully?"

No reply.

3am with next to no one left on shift and ninety percent of them 
male.  Fairly safe bet Scully was the only one in the restroom.

Mulder pushed gingerly at the door.  "Scully?  You okay?"

*****

Scully caught him in the mirror pushing into the women's bathroom 
with his usual nerve.  She turned away, casually shading her eyes 
with the back of her hand.  "I'm fine, Mulder.  I just need a 
minute, okay?"

Her voice refused to match the cool in her words.

She felt Mulder moving behind her, settling his weight against 
the sink beside hers.

She didn't move; her hair tickled her wrist.  She tried to 
breathe, but was overly conscious of the rise and fall of her 
chest.  Her breath caught in her throat when winter-dry 
fingertips met the side of her face.

"Hey.  I'm sorry he did that to you.  It must have been 
terrifying."

*No.  Too soft.  Not now.*

She snapped Mulder off with her wrist, lowered her hand with a 
hardened expression.  "Don't victim-therapy me, Mulder.  I know 
what I’m feeling."

She felt the wave of hurt wash over Mulder and distill into 
anger, watched the inner struggle in her peripheral vision as the 
set of his jaw betrayed his every thought.
 
Mulder folded his arms across his chest, effectively withdrawing 
from her, keeping a safe distance.  She turned a cold shoulder on 
the wave of feeling this brought.  "Believe it or not, Scully," 
he said, dryly, "I was just trying to be your friend.  And I 
gotta say, you make it pretty damn difficult some days."

She closed her eyes.  *Yeah, well, you're no genius at that 
yourself.  And I just...I want to be anywhere but here right 
now...*

"I mean, correct me if I'm wrong here, Scully, but it seems 
you've given some indications over the years that it's not just 
*me* who considers us best friends."  She couldn't answer that, 
but a flicker of eyelid, a trace of tension in her brow, and she 
knew he would pick up on the truth of the statement.   He pressed 
on.  "And I don't know about you, but in *my* world, when you're 
attacked by a convicted murderer, pinned to a table with a knife 
at your throat, and then sexually assaulted by said murderer, 
that would be a pretty damn good time for your best friend to 
show up."

Scully kept her focus on the floor, catching a ghost of an image 
of herself in the grimy bathroom mirror, dark lashes against pale 
skin, lipstick worn off, hair falling across her eye.  Her blouse 
was still off center, bra strap slipping into view.  "It would," 
she whispered, a tell-tale dampness in her words.

The tiniest sliver of vulnerability was enough to soften him, to 
melt his anger.  *Mulder...*

Mulder relaxed his posture and reached out to caress her upper 
arm, then gripped it reassuringly.  His hand was so warm.
 
"I'm fine," she said more firmly.  "I just need a few minutes 
to...breathe, before I face everyone again."

Mulder nodded, never looking away, willing the eye contact that 
she stubbornly withheld.  "I'm not everyone," he said kindly.

And the tenderness pushed hard at her barely held tears.  She 
flashed her eyes to blink away the dampness, but a single tear 
escaped down her cheek.  She didn't lift a hand to brush it away.  
"No," she breathed.  "You're not."

She shifted her weight, brushed back her jacket as she lifted a 
hand to her hip and closed her eyes.

Moving on impulse, Mulder reached up and drew the backs of his 
fingers down the length of her cheek.  "It's okay," he whispered.  
And the intimacy of the moment lifted the hairs on the back of 
her neck and curled into her stomach.

*****

Scully sniffed and let go a quivering breath.  It made his chest 
tighten to catch the glimpse of pain beneath her surface control; 
he knew she would handle it, would be slick and functional again 
in the blink of an eye.  And that hurt, too.

But if just for this moment, maybe she would let him...feel...

Scully's hand left the sink and her cold fingers wrapped around 
the warmth of his hand.  The length of her midriff quivered 
behind blood-spotted silk.  *Scully...tell me what can I do?*  He 
reached out his free hand and smoothed back her hair.  She closed 
her eyes and turned into his touch and a fresh wave of tears wet 
her lashes.  She swallowed and he watched the tension in her 
throat.  She opened her eyes, but looked away.  And he let his 
hand fall.  Her grasp on his fingers remained strong.

Maybe this was all he needed to do.  Stand here.  She had done 
the same for him more times than he could count; kept him on his 
feet without a word.  Some days he was bright enough to realize 
that.

"I just wish it hadn't happened in front of everyone.  
Especially, Ryker," she said, catching him off-guard.

"What do you mean?"
 
She released a half-derisive breath.  "Well, Mulder, if you 
haven't noticed, Ryker hasn't exactly been very...accepting of 
the capabilities of female agents."

He nodded, following her thoughts.  "And you're afraid this will 
reinforce those opinions."

She lifted her eyebrows and shrugged lightly, saying it was 
obvious, but hesitating, sensing he was going somewhere with 
this.

Mulder nodded again.  "Okay.  But I'm a little confused, here, 
Scully.  Are we talking about the part where the *male* agent 
left the weapon in the killer's reach or the part where all the 
other male agents stood around utterly emasculated while you 
freed yourself."

Scully gave a mirthless laugh.  "That's what you see, Mulder.  
Ryker sees the hot red-head sprawled on a table and Dalton trying 
to get between her legs."

"Yeah, well, the hot red-head just about took Dalton's balls 
off."

She lifted a skeptical eyebrow, but didn't contradict.

"Scully, you're twice the law enforcement officer Ryker will ever 
be.  You can handle yourself in the field as well as any man in 
that room, myself included."

"I know that," she said.

And he almost smiled.  So Scully.

"It's just...frustrating sometimes.  Dealing with people like 
Ryker.  And the attitudes of people like Dalton...they only 
reinforce the stereotype."

He nodded, but didn't speak.  There was nothing more to say.  And 
she didn't seem to want it.

He reached up and faintly brushed the backs of his knuckles along 
Scully's jaw.  "You need a bandage?"

She nodded.  "I'll get it."

"Okay."

He pushed off the sink and started for the door.

Scully had turned back to the sink, and he was in front of the 
exit, when he turned and said, "Scully...did you just refer to 
yourself as hot?"

She turned and looked at him directly for a moment, eyebrows 
lifted in surprise before her veneer settled in.  "Mulder, that 
was a generalization meant to speak to Ryker's type-casting 
mindset, not to my ego."

He chuckled.

Scully lifted a skeptical eyebrow.  "What?  Is that so 
staggeringly at odds with your personal appraisal?"

She was teasing, pulling them back into their usual banter.  But 
something in her words hit him dead serious and he couldn't play 
along.

"Scully.  I may be a little too focused on my work sometimes, but 
I do look up across the desk, occasionally," he pulled open the 
door, "and you will never hear me complain about the view."  

He was across the threshold when Scully's soft voice carried to 
him, "Mulder.  I was just...I didn't mean to be...fishing..."

Mulder shook his head firmly, leaning in and holding back the 
door with an open hand.  "After five years, Scully, if you have 
to ask, I'm the idiot."  And he slapped at the door, giving it a 
final swing and leaving it flapping in his wake.

*****

She stood in the trashy blue-lit bathroom with a dull burn on her 
neck and a soft caress on her cheek.  She tried to sort through 
the mix of grey and soft pastels mingling around her.  Anger and 
hate and hurt and kindness and feeling.  Too little too late and 
everything she had ever wanted.  And the darkness that would 
never quite go away.  And she closed her eyes.

And the warmth on her cheek stood out in stark relief against the 
black.

She drew a deep breath and opened her eyes.

Med kit to retrieve from the car.  Tox screen report to check up 
on.

Mulder in the bullpen.

Mulder.

*****

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