Date sent: Tue, 17 Jun 1997 23:45:40 -0400 From: Madeleine Partous Subject: The Pact (Parts 1-10) CATEGORY: XRA SPOILERS: Mild, all seasons RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: Juan shows up in Washington with a knotty little problem: why are New York City's addicts, hookers and homeless people vanishing without a trace? FLOATERS UNIVERSE THE PACT (PART 1: INTRO/TEASER) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DEDICATION: For Constance, who's earned her name. The Floaters universe is back by popular demand, thanks in large part to the unexpected popularity of the little gay hotel clerk, Juan, who played a bit part in that story. See? Feedback works. You don't need to have read Floaters to get this one, but for the sake of those who haven't, I'll set the scene a little. Yes, yes -- this is a relationship story. What can I say? It's what I do. It's also an X-File, complete with case and plot. In Floaters, M&S go to South Beach, Miami, to investigate a slew of apparently racist and homophobic crimes. I won't reveal too much about the case itself; you'll have to read it to know more. Suffice it to say that they befriend the desk clerk, a mischievous, impish fellow who finds them outrageously bizarre, which as you'll see is saying a lot; he's also intrigued by the fact that our intrepid heroes book separate rooms. By the end of the story -- tedious but inevitable, I'm afraid -- they're only using one of them. (Look on the bright side: At least what follows here isn't yet another First Encounter tale.) So. The assumption here is that M&S are together, that they're sneaking around about it, yada yada -- you've heard it all before. And now, out of the blue, Juan needs their help. Feedback always welcome, pro and con. Since I post as I write (sorry about that but it's the only way I can maintain any discipline), you can actually have an effect on the plot... Category: X-File (MSR). Rated R overall for violence, language and creepiness; NC-17 sections will be tagged. ************************************************************ DISCLAIMER: Main characters and concepts are the property of Chris Carter and Fox. Borrowed lovingly without permission for entertainment purposes only. The plot and other characters, including Juan, are my own and as such are strikingly inferior. ************************************************************ It had been born of the hatred of men, their fear, their intolerance, their self-loathing. For hundreds of years now it had lived in the shadows of the city, growing strong, weaned on the sins of the fathers, fed by the sins of the sons. It had sought out the places where the minds of men lurched in turmoil and depravity, where bodies congregated and jostled, where the smell of flesh and sweat was so strong that the faint charnel odour of death and decay, imperceptible to the living, seemed as pungent to it as the miasmic steam from the sewers seemed to humans on a hot summer night. It thrived on the smell of the dead and the dying. But it was patient, a patience born of centuries spent laying in wait, because all that lives is dying as it breathes. This patience had given it serenity. It was so sensitive now that even an unkind thought could feed it. It thrived on the greater displays of inhumanity, but it survived on the little gestures, the flashes of violent fantasy and moments of anger in the crowds that shuffled above its resting place. YoumotherfuckerIhopeyoudie... It fed. Gimmeyourwalletor... It fed. Takeyourfootoffthebrakeorgetofftheroadasshole... It fed. Youfuckingfaggot... It fed. But now it longed for something it could really sink its teeth into. Now it was hungry for more. The urge to create is the birthright of everything that lives. For many, procreation is enough, but others are driven by a need to build, to paint, to write, to make their mark in some way on the fluid canvas of the world. And what is destruction, after all, but creation in reverse? The razing of the old to make room for the new. It knew its place. It knew that it had been sired by the collective minds of men to ensure a balance in the runaway chaos of the world. Sired by men, incubated in the bowels of the earth. An ancient, unspoken pact between the Mother and her children who had lived in the shelter of her bosom for generations and whom she'd known one day would rape her and try, inadvertently, to destroy her. When the time came, when men had gone too far, the offspring of this pact would strike. It would fulfil its destiny and redress the wrongs of its fathers. It would restore the balance of the world. It would feed. And now that time had come. NEW YORK CITY GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN FRIDAY, 1:13 AM He was sick of waiting. He'd been waiting for four hours now. Christ. New York wasn't what it used to be. It used to be you could stand on a street corner and turn three tricks in an hour. Just like that. A few fumbling moments in an alley, in a car; a few gasps in the dark, some sweat, some straining, and then it was over. Bingo. He'd be $50 richer. Then the Johns would start up their engines or jump in the train and head back to the wife and kiddies in Connecticut. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and rocked miserably. Fuck. The moist night breeze off the Hudson smelled like garbage. It clung to his nostrils and settled in the back of his throat like a hangover. No question about it: the AIDS thing had put a serious brake on his business. Even though he insisted on condoms. Even for oral sex. Those were the terms. Love it or leave it. And these days, very few people objected. Hell. He'd grown up with the disease. He knew all about it. It used to be he could make $300 on a slow night. Now he could barely scrape together what he needed for a fix. Man. He badly needed a fix. His body shuddered and it was only partly because of the cold. He needed it. He needed it fast before he started to kick. At this point, he'd be willing to cut a deal. But first someone would have to respond to his eyes, his body language. Anyone. He'd take on anyone at this point. Didn't matter what they looked like. A part of him was outraged for the rest of him. He quelched it down. Firmly. It's a little late for standards, Sammy boy. He grinned, his teeth flashing. There was no humour in it. No humour at all. Way too late. He still looked good. He knew it. He didn't look bad at all, considering he was a hooker and a junkie. The advantage of youth. He was only 23. He had a few good years left. Assuming he kept the customers. He shook his head. Don't think. Don't ever start to think. That's the beginning of the end. That's when you start to realize you're a pathetic piece of shit and everyone can see right through you. In the daylight. Everyone can see right through you in the daylight. Sam only came out at night. He flicked his cigarette butt into the shadows and crumpled the empty pack in his other hand. Great. Fucking great. No more smokes and no more money. Great. The dull throb of dance music thudded through his body as he slouched in the purple light from the neon sign over the door of the club. No one had entered or left in the last half hour. New York. Piece a shit. He shuddered again. It was gonna be Washington Square again tonight. A couple of $10 blowjobs in the shadows as the click click of scandalized heels and the muttered contempt of $300-an-hour attorneys drifted to his ears. Yeah, well, fuck 'em. He'd probably done 'em. More than once. And their made-up wives never knew. Fucking hypocrites. He drew the collar of his jacket up around his neck as he started to slouch towards the park. "Faggot." He looked up, tensing from habit, and squinted in the light of the lamp post. "Fucking faggot." He could hear the snarl in the other man's voice. Boy. It was only a boy. Seventeen, tops. Except there were three of them. Sam looked at them blearily as they lounged against the lamp post. The one who'd spoken emerged from the shadows and leered at him. "How much for a poke up your ass, faggot? Huh?" The boy slammed a hand against Sam's chest. He barely recoiled. "For you? About $1000." Sam could feel himself grinning wildly, like a madman. Christ. When would he learn to shut his trap? But there was something exhilarating in the moment. Something that felt like surrender. Like freedom. Another shove and Sam fell back. He straightened slowly. "But tell you what," he drawled, suddenly reckless. His head was swimming from the lack of H, from the certainty of defeat. "I'll fuck you for $500." The boy's face convulsed and he fell on him, fists first. That was the last thing Sam saw clearly before a shadow rose against the wall and wrapped itself around the night. He heard screams. And then he heard nothing at all. CONTINUED IN PART 2 THE PACT (PART 2) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DISCLAIMER IN PART 1 FBI HEADQUARTERS WASHINGTON, DC X-FILES DIVISION TUESDAY, 9:45 AM Special Agent Fox Mulder swung his legs off his desk and sat up abruptly, staring at the piece of paper in his hand. "Hey, Scully." "What?" His partner barely looked up. "Look at this." Dana Scully peered at her computer screen, frowning. "Why? Is it remotely interesting?" "Yeah." "Let me rephrase that. Is it interesting to someone other than yourself?" "You wound me, Scully. You really do." Mulder got up and strolled over to her chair before leaning against her desk. He dangled the piece of paper in front of her eyes. She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a very nasty word and glared at him. "Mulder, this report is due in exactly 13 minutes." He gazed at her affectionately. "Ah, my precise little Vulcan. You really should stop worrying about meaningless deadlines, you know. This report'll just get shoved into the back of some drawer along with most of the other ones we've filed over the years." Scully shrugged and batted the paper out of her eyes impatiently. "I do it for me. Just so I can maintain a ragged sense of dignity." Mulder leaned in towards her slowly. "I like it when you've lost every last shred of dignity, Scully," he whispered. "It excites me." "It takes almost nothing to excite you, Mulder. You get turned on by phallic architecture and cantaloupes, for God's sake." She sighed. "And stop waving that thing in my face. What the hell is it, anyway?" "It's a fax." Scully stared at him contemptuously. "God. I'm so glad I'm already sitting down." "From Juan." Her eyes widened and he grinned. "I knew that would get you." "Our Juan? Our little Miami desk clerk Juan?" "The same. Wanna read it?" She shook her head incredulously. "Wait a minute here. Are you saying that Juan actually wrote to you?" Mulder shrugged. "Some people like me. Why won't you believe that?" "I'm afraid. I'm afraid to believe," she murmured. "Because if that's true, then anything's possible." She tried to sound severe, but Mulder could see a smile play on her lips. God. How he loved those lips. He licked his own suddenly dry ones as he tried, with limited success, to blot out the image of what hers had been doing to him just a few hours earlier. "The headquarters address and fax number was on the register, Scully, remember? Official business. And besides, I think Juan figured out what we were almost immediately." She reached for the paper. "Maybe those shots Hansen fired at you in the middle of the night were a big clue, Muldoon." "Shots? In Miami? They probably didn't even wake him up." She smirked and read the fax quickly. "He's coming here?" Mulder nodded. "Apparently." "What do you think he's referring to when he mentions 'a big problem?'" Mulder raised his hands. "I have no idea. He's being very cloak and dagger about the whole thing." "Jesus. I can't wait to see him try to make it past security." "You can't stop people from having access to government property just because they're flamboyant, Scully." "Bet you Ralph can." Ralph was the exceedingly humourless guard on front-door duty most days. "I mean, think about it, Mulder. Ralph barely lets *you* in the building and you have a valid ID." Mulder chuckled. "I wanna be there to watch Juan cut him down to size." "That should prove interesting considering the fact that Ralph is about three feet taller than he is." "Ralph's about four feet taller than you are and he never gives you a hard time, Scullery." She smiled at him evenly. "That's because of my ragged sense of dignity, Muldoon. You look like a wild-eyed street lunatic most mornings." "High and mighty words from the person who's responsible for the wild eyes I wear most mornings, my angel." She lay a finger across her lips. Right. Shush. The walls were listening. Mulder shrugged a rueful shoulder. They'd exchanged freedom of expression for the privilege of working together. It was a price they'd both been willing to pay. But God. Sometimes Mulder wondered whether it was worth it. It put a serious crimp in their repartee. His partner seemed to deal with the secrecy much better than he did, oddly enough. Sometimes he thought she actually got a kick out of sneaking around. "Anyway," Mulder continued mildly, "I don't think Ralph's looking at your dignity when he runs the sensor stick over your body." She snorted. "Sexist pig." "Trollop." "Loser." He smiled at her. "Sorry. I'm just not motivated enough to keep insulting you. I wish I were." She smiled back. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll think of some other way to humiliate me." "Hmmm." He gazed at her for a moment and something flickered behind his eyes. She inhaled and shifted slightly in her chair. "Back to work, Mulder. Juan won't be here until tomorrow." "And tomorrow is another day, Scarlett." Filled with the promise of another night. He didn't say it out loud. FBI HEADQUARTERS WASHINGTON, DC X-FILES DIVISION WEDNESDAY, 2:37 PM They'd both kept an eye out for Juan. Nothing in his fax had hinted at an arrival time, but they knew he'd probably find a way to raise a ruckus the minute he got there. They were right. Mulder's phone trilled sharply. He yelped and almost fell over, his chair rocking dangerously as he swiped at the receiver. "God, Mulder. Why do the most ordinary things still manage to startle you so badly?" He threw her a withering glance as he finally managed to lay the receiver against his ear: "Mulder." "Agent Mulder." It was AD Skinner. "Yes, sir." Mulder heard a pregnant silence. "I've got a very distraught security guard on the other line telling me that a friend of yours is wreaking pandemonium at the front entrance." "I have no friends, sir. You know that." A pause. "Mulder..." "A little guy, sir? Very -- colourful?" "That would be the one." "Tell Ralph we'll be right up." "We?" "He's also a friend of Scully's." "Just make it stop. Immediately. Is that understood?" "Yes, sir." Mulder was talking to a dial tone. They heard Juan long before they saw him. "Let me GO, you fascist! I have rights! I pay taxes. You'd be on the STREET wearing what would have to be better clothes than these if it weren't for me. Anyway, I don't want to talk to you anymore. Mr. MULDER!" Mulder emerged from the elevator, wincing as he heard his name, and found himself breaking into a trot. Scully trailed behind him, trying desperately not to giggle. It wasn't easy. All she could see was Ralph's towering shape, stiff with a stoic and stubborn resignation. It was difficult to determine exactly what it was he was glaring at, in that the little shape whirling before him a la Tasmanian Devil was a blur of maniacal outraged activity. Mulder skidded to a stop. "Uh, Ralph." The security guard shifted his glance frostily. Scully saw Juan freeze and grin delightedly at Mulder. The little man looked very cheerful, very relaxed. She smiled. Good old Juan. He'd seen enough discrimination to learn how to deal with it. And as disruptive as his tactics were, he probably almost always got what he wanted. "Mr. MULDER! How fabulously romantic! You're just like the cavalry, sweetie!" Mulder ignored him. "Ralph. This gentleman is here on official business." Juan nodded happily, gazing at one and then the other of the men. "You heard him, you big brute. Official business." Mulder threw a look at the little clerk. Scully bit down on another giggle as she reached them. "Hi, Juan. How's it going?" The clerk grinned delightedly and took her hand in both of his. "Ms. SCULLY! God. You look scrumptious. And that outfit! It's Bette Davis all the way." He pumping her hand. "God. You're just SO chiselled, honey, so '30s, so regal. And that SKIN! Pure alabaster. Bet the bad guys just lie down dead in your wake, don't they, Mr. Mulder?" "Uh, Juan..." "Look." The three of them looked at Ralph. "If this..." the security guard stopped and looked at Juan pointedly, "...person is to be allowed on the premises, his name needs to be on the expected guest list." Ralph waved a clipboard at them stiffly. "There is no mention of a Juan Martinez on today's expected guest list, Agent Mulder." Mulder shrugged, rocking from foot to foot. "I only found out about it yesterday, Ralph. You know how long the paperwork takes." The huge security guard shook his head grimly. "I don't care about the paperwork, Agent Mulder." There was barely veiled contempt in his voice. "All I know is that no one is allowed into this building without either a valid ID..." He paused, making it clear as his eyes dropped to Mulder's badge that in his opinion, valid IDs were handed out rather too freely around the place. "...or a clear indication in writing of the individual's name and the date and time of his or her arrival." Mulder could feel himself glazing over. "Ralph. Ralph, Ralph, Ralph..." He tried to sound reasonable. Scully guffawed and he glared at her. Her blue eyes were all innocence and dancing mirth. "Watch it, babe," he mumbled through the side of his mouth. "I've taken down bigger goons than you." "Oooo, Muldoon," she purred. "I'm only five foot two. Don't make me place odds on a bout between you and Ralph." Mulder grimaced and turned back to the security guard, who obviously wasn't about to budge an inch. Mulder sighed. "Okay, okay. We'll take it outside." The big man relaxed visibly. "Good idea, sir." Mulder decided to disregard the smug triumph in his tone -- and the almost audible quotation marks around the word "sir." "Come on, you two," He scowled at the others; Juan was beaming brightly at him. "Let's do lunch." "But Mulder," Scully said gleefully. "It's almost three." "Late lunch, early dinner. Tomato, tomahto. Move it out." Scully saw the look on his face and wisely decided to do as she was told. This time. CONTINUED IN PART 3 THE PACT (Pt. 3) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DISCLAIMER IN PART 1 THE FINAL WORD BAR & GRILL WASHINGTON, DC WEDNESDAY, 3:11 PM They sat in a booth in a local reporter's hangout. The afternoon lull was in full swing; a few inebriated journalists talked too loudly and gestured animatedly from nearby tables, but for the most part, the rest was silence. A sleepy Washington afternoon, Mulder thought wryly. That special time when senators screw their secretaries in cheap motels and editors loll in swivel chairs, sleeping off their lunch martinis. That special time when faceless henchmen with mysterious agendas suddenly show up to shoot you over your cup of latte for no apparent reason. He looked at Scully. Her eyes told him she was thinking of Skinner too. Juan, meanwhile, looked happy as hell. As usual. "It's just like Murphy Brown," he cackled, looking around. "Except there's more dust in the air and no one's being amusing." "We love the show," Mulder said. "That's why we work in this town." Juan studied him. He was suddenly serious. "How have you been, Mr. Mulder?" "Me?" The little man gazed at both of them. Incomprehensibly, Mulder felt himself fidget under his scrutiny. There was something unsettling about the man. Under the glib facade, there was something sharp, observant, aware. And, oddly, a deep compassion. Mulder had caught a glimpse of it in Miami. Something told him that Juan was a master of disguises and it would be a big mistake to underestimate him. "Yes." The clerk turned to Scully. "My sources..." he grinned suddenly and the old Juan was back for a moment. "God, you know, I've always wanted to say that." The smile flickered and was gone. "My sources tell me the two of you left Miami in deep doodoo." Scully threw a startled glance at Mulder and stared at the little man. "What do you mean?" Juan shrugged. "Something about killing a fellow agent." "How do you know about that?" Mulder tried to fight the chill that was creeping up his spine. The clerk laughed delightedly, his voice high, clear as a bell. Infectious. "Don't look so alarmed, Mr. Mulder. A guy like me has a lot of friends. A lot of friends in high places with all kinds of secrets to keep." He paused as Mulder glanced at Scully. She was still staring at Juan with an expression of utter astonishment on her face. Juan smiled at her mischievously. "Let's just say some people value my... discretion." "Are you saying you arrange same-sex trysts for high-ranking government officials, Juan?" The little clerk whistled. "Whew. Sharp as a tack. But I knew that the minute I met you, Ms. Scully." He shook his head and laughed again. "Trysts. What a fabulous word. I think I'll add it to my business card." She shook her head incredulously. "You're also saying that you're here on business, aren't you?" "Well, there's business to be done, but I really did come to see the two of you, Ms. Scully." "You can call me Dana." Juan sighed and pouted dramatically. "I see. Only your close personal friends get to call you Scully, is that it? And I thought you liked me enough to be on a last-name basis." Mulder guffawed in spite of himself. In Miami, Juan had got a big kick out of the way they'd called each other by their last names. Juan had thought it was the most bizarre thing he'd ever heard. Consider the source. "You can call me Scully if it makes you feel better." She smiled at him. Juan grinned happily and peeked at Mulder under his lashes. "But I think I'll call *you* Fox, sweetie." "Don't even dream of it, Martinez." Scully patted Juan on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally. He won't let anyone call him that." The little clerk sighed. "Too bad. It's so rare to find someone whose name is so... accurate." "I'm flattered." Mulder looked insufferably smug. Scully rolled her eyes. "For God's sake, Juan; don't encourage him. He's already far too full of himself." She looked pensive suddenly and her eyes cooled. "Why did you want to find out about us, if you don't mind my asking?" Like that. All at once. Kibitzing one moment, out for the kill the next. Mulder looked at her, rapt. Hot and cold. His little Scully. Run for cover, boys. Juan met her gaze unflinchingly. "I liked you," he said simply, relaxing in his chair. "That's all. I loved the way you... well, the way you finally got together. I felt a bit like a matchmaker, to tell you the truth." "You had nothing to do with it." Mulder shivered. She was as chilly as a San Franciscan night. He noticed that the suddenness of it was even having an impact on the unflappable clerk, who'd started squirming just a little. God. She was good. And as much as he liked Juan, he knew she was absolutely right to be suspicious. Mulder leaned back appreciatively to watch what she'd do next. "Well, maybe not," Juan admitted. "Maybe not directly." "Not indirectly either." He cleared his throat. "Honestly, Ms. Scully. I meant well." Mulder almost smiled at Juan's unconscious return to formality. Poor bugger. When she felt like it, Scully could make even a hired killer's balls crawl up into his abdomen. He'd seen her do it. "You both fascinated me, that's all," Juan continued nervously. "And I'm used to government people. It's a compliment. Take it from me -- most of them are outrageously dull." "What Mulder and I do outside the office is nobody's business. Yours least of all, Juan. Whoever you are." The clerk was cringing and starting to nod helplessly. Oh, dear. When they started doing that, it was all but over. Mulder looked down. He was starting to feel sorry for the little guy. "You were talking about discretion earlier," she went on. "Now's a good time to apply it." "She's right, you know," Mulder said sympathetically. "They'd try to separate us, or worse. And we've got work to do." Juan looked at Mulder almost gratefully. "What do you mean by worse?" "There are people out there who'd use this information against us." Scully. But her voice was a little warmer now. Juan threw his hands up. "You have nothing to worry about. I promise you. Mum's the word. Cross my heart and hope to die. Your secret's safe with me." He looked from one to the other pleadingly. "I *like* you. Remember?" There was silence for a moment. The fact was it seemed unlikely anyone would notice what the two of them were up to these days. Both agents had been given the cold shoulder since their return from Miami -- no big surprise there. Scully had shot an agent who'd tried to rape her, a white supremacist responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent people. She'd killed him for a lot of good reasons. The problem was, not a lot of people saw it that way. You don't kill a fellow agent. Period. And Scully had shot him point blank. In the face. Nothing much had changed at the office, where most people had always ignored them anyway. Skinner was the only one who'd continued to support them tacitly, which was a relief; despite the fact that they'd been cleared by an internal review board in Miami, everyone else acted like they were guilty as sin. They'd been cleared -- just barely. When all was said and done, everyone knew they'd stopped a dangerous killer from killing again. But even Mulder, in his heart of hearts, had to admit that Scully could've shot him in the leg. Except that the horror of what Hansen had done, the sheer inhumanity of it, had made his survival and possible acquittal unbearable. She'd acted like a vigilante -- and everyone knew that too. Skinner had never referred to it directly. He'd just let them know, in his own way, that while he didn't exactly approve, he understood. The AD knew that he was the only friend they had left. And one night, after a particularly spectacular bout of lovemaking, Scully had dissolved into tears in Mulder's arms and admitted that maybe, just maybe, she'd acted a little hastily. He'd cradled her small body against his, nuzzling her hair, rocking her against him in the sweat-drenched sheets. "He almost raped you, Scully. I'd've killed him myself." "But you didn't," she'd sobbed, and his heart had swelled at the rare vulnerability she'd shown him. "You didn't. I did." They both knew that if they hadn't been so valuable, each in their own way, they'd have been erased. Condemned to paperwork purgatory. Filed and forgotten. Except that somebody, somebody somewhere, wanted them around. But who? Mulder knew Walter Skinner didn't have that kind of power. So they'd been left alone, with only a greater silence to remind them of their fall, and it was only during field assignments that the extent of their disgrace was evident. They worked with other agents. The other agents were polite, even helpful. But the silence around them grew like a kind of cancer. Trust no one, Deep Throat had said. He'd been right. It worked both ways. Now no one trusted them. To make amends to the powers that be, and for her sake, Mulder had started accepting more non-X-File cases, cases where their particular talents stood out in sharp relief. Serial killers. Psychotics. Sociopaths. The stuff of dark psychology and obscure forensics. Scully was one hell of a forensics expert. And Mulder knew the minds of madmen like the back of his hand. They'd solved more than 85 percent of the cases they'd tackled since the Hansen incident. A record unequalled in the history of the FBI. It had taken a while for it to sink in that this success rate only served to make their colleagues resent them more. But it also served to make them increasingly indispensable in the eyes of their superiors. Oh, well. You win some, you lose some. The trouble was that Mulder was bored. And he knew only too well that Scully wasn't bored at all, not even remotely. But he knew she also worried about him. She was finally doing the kind of work she'd always wanted to do. And she was damn good at it. But she loved him enough to know that all these high-profile cases had nothing to do with anything that mattered to Mulder. Professionally. Fortunately for them both, the thing that mattered most to Mulder right now was her. It was enough to keep him going. More than enough. But it wouldn't keep him satisfied indefinitely. Well. Mulder grinned, gazing at his partner. Satisfied maybe. Just not professionally fulfilled. Mulder didn't much care about being in the doghouse with his peers. Hell, the doghouse was where he lived. Always had. Always would. But it was a new experience for Scully. She'd become somewhat ostracized over the years because of her association with him, but she'd never been quite so invisible before. Dana Scully: Slayer of Insane Nazi FBI Agents. It was a label she'd have to live with for the rest of her life. Inside -- and out. Mulder didn't give a fuck about the outside part. Who cared what a shitload of small-minded civil servants thought of them? But he did worry about how she'd carry it in her heart. "No regrets," he'd said after it happened. "None at all," she'd replied. He wondered. NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK DISTRICT, MANHATTAN WEDNESDAY, 3:46 PM Olivia Sweeny hobbled down the treelined sidewalk along the little locked park she'd lived next to for the last 60 years. Olivia Sweeny was 79 years old -- and she didn't care who knew it. Olivia Sweeny liked to tell people where to go. She was a shrivelled up cantankerous crone who'd earned the right to speak her mind -- or at least that's how she put it. But even though you'd never know it to look at her, Olivia Sweeny was no stranger to feathers and glitter. Olivia Sweeny was a Ziegfeld girl. She'd danced and sung her way through the Depression, living the life a Riley while most of her childhood friends toiled in sweatshops to eke out a meagre living. She'd lucked out and she knew it. Mr. Ziegfeld had taken care of his girls. The price they'd paid was loneliness and isolation. All the girls lived together in brownstones and rooming houses. And most of the girls, those who'd survived, had stayed single all their lives. Mr. Ziegfeld hadn't liked it when his girls went out on dates. In those days, dates meant marriage and children. And that in turn meant goodbye Mr. Ziegfeld. Mr. Ziegfeld had invested a lot of time and money in his girls. His girls lived like angels, like queens. In return, he expected them to stay loyal to him. In retrospect, Olivia Sweeny had often thought, it was a lot like living in a high-class brothel. Without the sex. But champagne bubbled and the conversation sparkled. Life had been good, when all was said and done. The neighbourhood where Olivia Sweeny lived was still dotted with the tattered remnants of Ziegfeld's heritage. There were few girls left now. And most of them could barely stand the sight of each other. They'd been beautiful. They'd been the toast of the town. It was hard to see the vicious irony of that reflected in the eyes of their sisters. Now they were poor, relatively speaking, and most had succumbed to the dottiness of lonely old age. Too many cats. Piles of yellowed and ragged reviews from newspapers that had folded decades earlier. Sepia photographs with curled corners, pinned on sepia walls. The detritus of lives filled with the gauzy memories of what had seemed at the time like the most excitement anyone could bear. Empty lives. The stuff of dreams. A snatch of song overhead drifting from a long-extinguished speakeasy. Now the girls shuffled by, wrapped tightly in memories which looked like nothing more than dowdy threadbare overcoats to the untrained eye. But inside, deep inside, they lived in a place where the music never died and the champagne flowed like water. Now the girls wandered the neighbourhood like wisps of ghosts, pulling little wheeled carts with vague sorry bundles whose faded coverings did little to hide the obvious fact that they were worthless to anyone but their owners. Olivia Sweeny knew she looked like all the rest, the ones who were still alive. But she was feisty. She wasn't about to give up without a struggle. Olivia Sweeny planned to survive as long as she could, out of spite if she had to. She grinned and squinted at the sun as it dappled the trees. The other girls had given up a long time ago. In her mind, Olivia Sweeny sent them packing straight to hell. She liked a little drink every once in a while, well, every day, in fact, and the barman at the Gramercy Park Hotel tolerated her presence with resigned patience. Hell, she cackled. He was almost as old as she was. She'd known him when he was just a little fresh-faced bellhop, wet behind the years. Hadn't she even seduced him once, a hundred years ago? Maybe. Hard to tell. Unlike her sisters, Olivia Sweeny didn't believe in living in the past. She heard a rustle in the leaves next to her, behind the locked grill of the little park. She frowned and crinkled her nose. That smell. What was that smell? It was only vaguely familiar, like so many other things were to her now. It was a smell she knew. One she'd smelled in her friends' apartments, or wafting out of alleys sometimes, or even on herself some mornings. She stopped. Death. That was it. It was the smell of death. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. Olivia Sweeny smiled thinly. It hadn't come for her. Not this time. Death and Olivia Sweeny were old friends. She'd been flirting with Him for years. He was just saying hello as He went about his busy day. Hello and maybe, just maybe, I'll be seeing you soon, Olivia. Fine. She'd give Him a run for his money, just as she'd done with men all her life. He hadn't come for her, but she knew He'd come for someone. She'd seen his shadow before. To hell with it. Just as long as it wasn't her. Olivia Sweeny muttered and limped towards the hotel. CONTINUED IN PART 4 THE PACT (PART 4) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DISCLAIMER IN PART 1 Scully had relaxed. Somewhat. She watched and listened with one ear as Juan talked animatedly with Mulder over his cappuccino. Something about life on South Beach. Judging by Mulder's mirth, it was pretty hysterical. The truth was she genuinely liked Juan and felt no sense of danger coming from him. Over the years, she'd developed a kind of six sense about these things, a sense she'd come to trust. It had saved her life on many occasions. Both their lives. She didn't talk about it, not even with Mulder, although she suspected he'd deduced its existence. For one thing, he tended to listen to her when she assessed an individual. And when she told him to duck, he always did. The whole thing had started when her father died. Somehow, his death had served as a catalyst. The psychic on death row had known this, had known that he could manipulate her because of it. To a point, as it turned out. It was possible, too, that whatever had happened to her during her three months' disappearance had developed the gift further. An echo left over from the implant in her neck, maybe? She didn't know. But the irony of it wasn't lost on her. She was the skeptic of the two and despite this fact the gift was hers. Mulder, meanwhile, was psychically tone deaf, as far as she could tell. His grasp of deviant psychology was so profound that he could usually anticipate the next move of the most erratic madman. But his head had to do the work. She, on the other hand, often knew just because she *knew.* That was how she'd found herself in the basement seconds before the bellhop tried to kill Mulder during the Bruckman case. What she'd told Mulder was true; it felt like a coincidence, as if she'd simply pushed the wrong button in the elevator. But even as she'd pushed the button, she'd known. She hadn't known exactly what she'd find, but she knew she needed to go down there. And she'd known, at some level, that Mulder's life depended on it. One day she'd tell Mulder the truth. That he wanted to believe, but that, when all was said and done, he didn't. He couldn't. When all was said and done, he was more skeptical than she was. He was driven by a need for proof. She wasn't. On the surface, that made it look as though he believed and she never would. But the fact was she didn't require proof. And it was true that, in many ways, she would rather leave well enough alone. Why meddle in forces they couldn't even begin to understand? Her sixth sense said these forces would destroy them if they went too far. These forces were impersonal. Beyond morality. They were forces of nature that had nothing to do with right and wrong. Mulder, meanwhile, still believed in universal justice. It was actually the only thing he believed in. That. And Scully herself. This she knew. Scully also knew that universal justice was a crock. A load of crap. There was no such thing. All there was, in the end, was The intricate dance of random forces at work. Sometimes they aligned in such a way as to feel like justice. More often than not, they just resulted in inexplicable tragedies or unexpected good fortune. The luck of the draw. Period. She gazed at Mulder, who was talking to Juan and throwing glances at her every minute or so, as he always did. Her heart swelled suddenly as she looked at him. It was a feeling she was familiar with. There was something so vulnerable about her partner. Her lover. As sensitive as he was, as incisive, as well-versed in the bizarre ways of men as he was, there was this unshakeable fragility about him based, she was convinced, on the fact that he trusted too much. Despite what he believed. Despite what he said. He trusted the universe. And he was wrong. If trusting other people was a mistake, then trusting the universe was hopelessly dangerous. People could only hurt you. They could only kill you. The universe at play could destroy everything with one negligent shrug. "Captain Janeway, come in, please." She shook her head and stared at him. Mulder was gazing at her with an amused half-smile. "What is it now, Commander?" She cocked an eyebrow. Juan studied them both with naked fascination. "There's coffee in that nebula. Would you like some?" "Are you implying I'm asleep, soldier?" Mulder grinned. "It wouldn't be the first time you dropped off while I was talking, m'am." "Oh God, you're both so *cute*!" She glared at Juan, but he seemed genuinely delighted. Absently, she realized for the first time how much he looked like a cross between Peter Lorre and a young Truman Capote. "It's a bad idea to use the word 'cute' around Scully, Juan." Juan looked momentarily sheepish. "Sorry, darlings. But you *are*, you know." Scully gave in and graced him with a tolerant smile. Mulder tried not to die laughing: Juan looked as dazzled as though he'd been blessed by the Pope himself. Then she sobered and glanced at Mulder. "Did he tell you why he wanted to see us?" Juan sighed and gave her an exaggeratedly crestfallen look. "I'm in the room, sweetie. Why not ask me directly?" "Well?" The little clerk threw a pointed look at Mulder's crotch. "Oh, my. Everything still intact down there, Agent Mulder?" Don't go there, Juan. Aloud, Mulder only said sweetly: "Actually, she never does it to me." Scully rolled her eyes. "Sorry, Martinez, but we're on Bureau time. You might want to cut to the chase." "Scully..." Mulder murmured, brushing her hand with his for an instant. "Give the poor guy a break. He hasn't done anything wrong yet." "Yet." She relented and laughed. "I'm sorry, Juan. I guess we've dealt with so many covert agendas that I always assume the worst these days until shown otherwise." Juan grinned, visibly relieved. Then he straightened, his face serious. His tone was suddenly unaffected -- so much so that it startled both the agents into sharp focus. "You're right to be cautious, Scully. God knows I've learned that over the years." "So what's all this about, Juan?" Mulder studied the clerk, who propped his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers and leaned in. "Do you believe in the existence of pure evil?" he whispered. Had the little man been wearing his customary impish expression, the question would have sounded melodramatic. In this case, it didn't. Mulder glanced at Scully and shrugged. "Pure how?" "I mean pure." Juan paused and looked at both of them in turn. "Without form. Without morality." Scully tensed. "What do mean by 'without morality?'" Juan nodded excitedly and brushed her arm. "You know. I can tell." Mulder found it difficult to wrap his mind around the clerk's Twilight Zone delivery, but incredibly, Scully actually looked shaken. "It's funny you say that, actually," she began, and then looked up at Mulder. "I was just thinking a little along those lines." "How do you mean?" Mulder studied her intently. She shook her head. "Nothing. It's an eerie coincidence. What did Jung call it, Mulder?" "Syncronicity." "Yes. Except I was thinking how it wasn't evil, exactly. Just a force that manifests one way or the other, depending on circumstances." Juan's eyes widened and he nodded thoughtfully. "Exactly. I think that's exactly right, Agent Scully." Mulder sighed. "Why is it I get the feeling you're both talking about flakey stuff and for once I'm the only one who doesn't get it?" Scully studied the clerk. It was odd that Juan had pinpointed her thoughts like this, but she thought she'd probably recover. "Go on." Her partner gaped at her. She was actually buying this stuff. The clerk threw a glance at him and breathed. "Well, this probably hasn't come to your attention yet..." He paused as a bitter smirk crossed his face for a moment. "It's not about people who matter, after all." Scully shook her head. "The chase, Juan." "But from what I understand," he continued hastily, looking at her a little nervously, "this is right up your alley." Mulder caught Scully's eye. "Meaning...?" Juan waved his hands. "This isn't easy for me to talk about. It's weird as hell... and despite appearances, I'm actually a pragmatic guy." "Based on your choice of careers, I'd already surmised as much," Scully muttered. "Yes. Well. About three months ago, some of my... operatives started disappearing." Mulder sat up. "Disappearing how?" "Poof! Like that! Into thin air." "What kind of operatives, Juan?" Scully. He dropped his eyes. "Working boys. You know." She nodded. "I've lost eight in that time, some of them quite valuable... although a couple had already... uh, lost their way." Scully fought for patience. Then again, why in God's name should she expect him to be direct? Strangely, she felt a rush of affection for the little clerk. There was something breathtakingly disarming and kind about him, in spite of the derision she knew he had to endure. Something good and oddly pure. "In what way, Juan?" Mulder looked up, startled by her gentleness. The little man cleared his throat and began to play with his napkin. "Drugs. That's usually what does it." "Heroin?" When he raised his eyes, she could see that they shone with moisture. "Poor little things. You know." He stopped for a moment. Scully's breath caught. There was nothing theatrical about it at all. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was genuinely moved. When she turned to look at Mulder, she found him gazing at the clerk with rapt, wondering eyes. Juan took a deep breath. "They're just kids. Sweet misguided kids. I try to show them there's another way. You may find this hard to believe, under the circumstances, but I really do my best to take care of them." "By helping them prostitute themselves?" It came out before she could stop it. He swore abruptly in Spanish, his eyes flashing. She drew back, startled. "No. No, no. You don't get it, Agent Scully?" "You try to get them off the street." Mulder. And it wasn't a question. The clerk nodded once, tersely. "First I find them. They're poor boys, more often than not, young, sometimes much too young. It happens at times that they're already hooked on horse; often they're about to be. The funny thing is, some of them aren't even gay, you know? No one should have to do what doesn't come naturally. No one should have to pretend to be something they're not." There was something in his tone that made Scully shiver. When he looked at her this time, there was a fierce determination in his eyes. "Being gay is hard enough, Agent Scully. Selling your body to gay men who pretend they're straight when you really are is worse." She waited. "I'm old enough to be proud of what I am. I know who I am. Those kids, a lot of them, have no idea who they are... who they could be. They could be gay and proud. They could be straight and proud. More often than not, they're just confused, desperate... and vulnerable." "Vulnerable to what?" Mulder's voice was soft. Juan shrugged. "To whatever. Whoever wants to take advantage of them." "And you think that's what's happened here?" He shrugged. "I don't know. I just know they've disappeared off the face of the earth. No one's seen them: not their friends, not their dealers, not their steady tricks." He sat back and gazed at them both. Mulder tried to remember how the clerk had sounded in Miami. He couldn't. "The thing is, you both need to know that once I find these kids, I try to help as much as I can. Get them off smack if that's where they're at, find them higher-class clients for awhile until they get a sense of themselves." He looked at Mulder pleadingly. "At first they don't want to give up the life, you know? They're used to the money, the hours, the ease of it, in a way." He turned to Scully. "You'd be surprised, Agent Scully. Sex for money isn't that bad. You close your eyes, pull a few rabbits out of a hat, and if you're good enough, you can wind up a lot richer in minutes. Just like that. Even when you don't actually enjoy it, it can be pretty addictive." Mulder leaned back. "Better than slinging Quarterpounders eight hours a day at MacDonald's for minimum wage, huh?" The clerk nodded. "If you're a top escort, one trick a night will do it. Plus free dinner and dancing." Scully cleared her throat. "But you're not talking about high- class escorts in this case, are you, Juan?" He gazed at her and shook his head. "No. But when you're an addict, 80 bucks in exchange for 15 unpleasant minutes is a great way to get your next hit. And it leaves you with plenty of quality time to nod it off." Mulder patted the clerk on his shoulder and was graced with a wide, slightly teary smile. It tugged at Scully's heart, even though she couldn't in all conscience approve. But then again, she was the first to grant that she also didn't know that world at all. It had its own rules, its own reality; who was she to judge it? She'd learned to trust her gut, and her gut said that Juan was on the level. Wherever that level happened to be. And it was true that even if he took boys out of the gutter and led them towards a better life, he obviously made a buck along the way. The fact was the man was a pimp, one with a heart, apparently, but a pimp nonetheless. Still. That wasn't the issue right now, was it? "The thing is," Juan continued, looking at her earnestly for some reason despite Mulder's sympathetic hand on his shoulder, "it's not just about these boys." Strange. It was as though he wanted her approval somehow; her approbation. He continued to gaze at her. "If it was, I probably would just assume it was some psycho John out for revenge. As it happens, these missing boys are only a few of many." "What are you saying?" "According to my sources, there've been dozens of disappearances. All people who hang out on and around the streets. Vagrants. Addicts. Hookers. Bums. Old people down on their luck. The kind of people who sleep on park benches or in flop houses." Mulder looked at her. God. His eyes were beautiful, grey-green and full of dark light against the dim backdrop of the bar. "Where's this happening, Juan?" But it seemed his eyes were caught only by her. "New York." He turned to the clerk. "How many dozens of disappearances?" Juan shrugged. "A lot, but it's impossible to know how many exactly. We're talking about a big city's forgotten few. Who keeps count of people who don't count?" Mulder pursed his lips. The clerk shifted restlessly. "I'm concerned about the boys. Of course. But if what I've heard is true..." He spread his hands helplessly and looked at both of them. "...more than 40 people have vanished in New York City in the last few months. The police aren't interested. The feds? Please. These aren't voters we're talking about. So I came to you. Isn't this the kind of thing you do?" Mulder sat in complete silence for a moment. Then he squeezed Juan's arm before leaning over the table until his face was inches from Scully's. She could feel his breath against her cheek. "Whaddya say, Scullery? Should we help the guy?" A smile played around his lips but his eyes danced were deadly serious. Except for an unmistakable gleam of excitement. She knew. Scully knew he couldn't resist this. For many reasons. Because it was bizarre. Because there was no obvious -- or even feasible -- explanation. Because he believed it was impossible at this point to rule out alien intervention. Because, when all was said and done, he only really cared about the underdogs. For months now, he'd gone along with predictable cases he could probably solve in his sleep, the kind he'd made his name on, ones which got all the attention but which she knew were gradually desiccating his soul. He'd done it for her. For the sake of her sanity after the Hansen case, and for the sake of her battered reputation. All in all, Scully owed him one. She smiled faintly. "Why the hell not, Muldoon?" CONTINUED IN PART FIVE THE PACT (Part 5) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Constructive criticism cheerfully accepted" DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE ********************************************************** This chapter rated NC-17 for explicit sexual descriptions. Not appropriate for younger readers. ********************************************************** DANA SCULLY'S APARTMENT THURSDAY, 12:37 AM As if from a great distance, Scully thought she heard the sound of a key in her lock. She moaned and reached for her gun. Christ. She was too tired to shoot anyone right now. All in all, it had better be Mulder. But it was an old reflex and she felt safer with the cold feel of the steel in her hand. Then she heard the familiar pad of his feet and saw the faint warm glow of a living room lamp as it clicked on. When they'd come back from Miami, she'd made sure to change all the lightbulbs to a low wattage. That way, his night-owl ways wouldn't keep her up. As it turned out, though, he seemed to sleep a lot better than he used to. It was rare that he got up at all in the middle of the night these days. She smiled against the pillow. These days, in fact, he usually fell asleep before she did. "It's me, Scully. Don't shoot." A whisper from the bedroom door and the faint rustle of his clothes. His shadow loomed as he leaned against the door frame. "I ought to shoot you anyway," she grumbled, stretching to put her gun back on the nightstand as she squinted at his silhouette. "I thought we agreed to call it a night this time and meet in the morning." She saw him shrug. "Couldn't sleep." It was hard to resist smiling a smug, if affectionate, little smile. "Personal space, Mulder," she murmured. "I thought we also agreed we needed some." She didn't feel it was necessary to point out that it had been his idea, not hers. "Apparently, I was wrong." He yawned and threw his jacket over a chair. "It seems I've grown accustomed to your warm little body." "Are you saying you don't sleep when you're not here?" Mulder started to feel his way towards the dresser and swore softly as he bumped his foot on the edge of the bed. "Something like that." "I thought you loved your couch, Mulder." "The appeal is wearing off. What do you want from me, Scully? You want me to beg?" "That might be fun." "I'm tired, Scully. So are you. Just let me crawl into bed, okay? We're leaving for Manhattan in seven hours." She chortled. "Sure. Fine..." "Oh, be quiet." Mulder yanked open a drawer and rifled around, pulling out one of his tee-shirts and throwing it over his shoulder. "Sweatpants, Scully?" "In the dryer." "Oooo. Hope they're still warm." "They're probably still wet." He groaned and headed for the door. "You should've brought a pair, Muldoon." "All my comfortable stuff is already here. Only suits and ties left at home." "God. That explains why I keep finding so many men's clothes in the laundry basket. I was starting to think I was sleeping with more than one guy." "Okay with me, as long as they wear my size. Anyway, you'd rather I trudge to the laundromat? You're a heartless woman, Scully." And then she must have dozed, because the next thing she noticed was the rustle of the sheets and the familiar musk of his smell as he nestled in, pulling the covers over them both. She felt him spoon himself against her, his arms snaking around her waist to pull her close. He snuffled comfortably against her hair, rubbing his face against it. Scully smiled sleepily and let him tuck himself around her until he settled. "What did Skinner say?" she mumbled. "Hmm?" His voice was muffled. "Skinner. About the case." She could barely form the words as sleep began to move in. "Not too happy. Throwing me a bone. Seems I've been a good doggie." "Hmm." Mulder was asleep before she was. By a few seconds. Scully awoke aroused. His hands were on her breasts under her pyjamas, his fingers rolling her nipples languidly. She moaned a little and arched against him. "Morning." His breath was hot against her ear. God. He was already naked. And he'd found a way to pull down her pyjama bottoms without waking her up. That was new. The warm hard silkiness of him was nestled against her butt. Hot and iron hard as only the morning could make it. All in all, this little dawn ritual was beginning to feel as necessary to her as the smell of toast and her first cup of coffee. She tossed her head. "Nice of you to wake me." Mulder chuckled. "I considered the alternative. But then I thought you might be sorry you missed it." "Just as long as you're sure you actually need me conscious." "I need you. Period." Her eyes sprang open. "Speaking of which..." His arms tightened around her. "Jesus. Are you late?" Scully dipped her fingers between her thighs. "According to you, I'm always late." "Scully..." "Relax, Mulder." She studied her fingers. "There you go. Regular as clockwork." He sniggered. "Nice to know something about you is actually on time." He rolled her over onto her back and spread her thighs with his hands. "You know, the great thing about someone with your nasty disposition, Scullery, is it's virtually impossible to tell when you've got PMS." "Spoken like a true asshole, Mulder." He laughed outright and brushed her eyebrows with his lips. "Cramps, Milady?" he murmured against her eyes. "Starting." It was true. She could feel the dull ache beginning to grow in her belly. Mulder sighed melodramatically. "Guess I know what that means." "Just do it, Mulder." He smirked and flicked his tongue around her lips. "I love this time of the month, Scully. No spermicide. No condoms." She studied him for a moment. "You know we take a chance each time. Menstruation isn't remotely a viable form of contraception -- especially not the first day." He said nothing. And anyway, she knew he knew. For some reason, the fact that he was willing -- even eager, apparently -- to risk it every month always filled her with a strange, breathless excitement. The fact was it turned her on unbelievably and she knew why. Built the way he was, accidental fatherhood was probably the only way he'd accept the role at this point in time. If it happened, he'd have to deal with it. They both would. And he was willing to do it. For her. For himself, too, she rather suspected. He kissed her once, softly, just a brush of his lips against hers, and smiled. There was nothing to say, so she smiled back. "Since when does it take so little to make you happy, Muldoon?" He laughed out loud. "Since when do you call this little?" He grinned down at her evilly and thrust home hard, sinking to the root in one smooth motion. She groaned and rose off the bed with the sheer heaven of it as his arms tightened around her and he grunted, his head burrowing into her neck. Hard and deep and fast. The only thing she'd ever found that took care of her period cramps in a jiffy. He began to oblige her. NEW YORK CITY LA GUARDIA AIRPORT THURSDAY, 10:15 AM They'd made it to Dulles Airport with barely five minutes to spare. At least she no longer had cramps. The other passengers were already on the plane. Juan sat alone at the gate, lounging around with the latest tabloids and a cheese Danish, and waved merrily as he spotted them. He didn't look remotely put out by their tardiness. "Are you sure it's a good idea to take him with us, Mulder?" They were both running. "We have no choice. He's the only one who can get us contacts. Those kids won't talk to us otherwise." Juan strolled over to the ticket counter and pointed at the two of them. Even from a distance, it wasn't hard to read the irritated expression on the agent's face. "Sorry about that," Mulder gasped as they arrived. "I understand completely, sweeties. There's nothing quite as fabulous as morning sex." God. It was the old Juan back safe and sound. They were still out of breath when they settled in their seats. The three of them sat together. By the time they'd lifted off -- Scully muttered a few Hail Marys under her breath for good measure and fought the urge to slug Juan, who'd unwisely decided to pat her hand reassuringly from the aisle seat -- Mulder was ready to talk about the case. "We don't even have a case file with this one, Scully. No pictures, no background checks, no names. Nothing. None of the victims have any legal documentation. They were invisible when they were around and they're invisible now." He actually sounded excited. Jesus. They had absolutely nothing to go on. Not even a body, which could at least help them identify the victims. Mulder studied her as if he knew what she was thinking. "It doesn't matter. The sad truth is that the victims' identities make no difference." She stared at him. "How do you mean?" "Even if we knew who they were, Scully, we'd know nothing else about them. There's no record of what these individuals have been doing lately. They have no registered addresses or patterns of behaviour. The only people who might know something about their routines are also nameless and out on the streets themselves." "Meaning?" "Meaning that we're looking for a solution to a problem no one believes exists. That no one even cares about. The Manhattan FBI office won't be able to help much; neither will the local police. There's no human remains, no proof at all, in fact, that these people who don't even officially exist have actually disappeared." She threw a look at Juan. "We have no proof about it at all ourselves, Mulder. Except for his word." "That's right." Mulder grinned happily. Jesus. He was actually getting off on this wild-goose chase. "Think about it, Scully. When was the last time we solved a case without any evidence to go on?" "That's because a case with no evidence other than hearsay isn't a case, Mulder," she said tersely. He shrugged. "You don't believe Juan?" She sighed and pointedly ignored the little clerk's dramatically crestfallen expression. "I'm not saying I don't believe him. I'm just saying it's crazy to tackle a case that has no identifiable criminal act, no official missing person reports filed by local authorities or family, no suspect, no motive, no MO and no bodies." "Except for more than 40 missing people, Scully." "So we're told." "Okay, okay. Just for the sake of argument. If you were an unethical scientist who wanted to experiment on human subjects, Scully, what better place to find them than the streets of New York City?" She said nothing. "Or what if an alien race wanted to study our own without making any waves?" Scully rolled her eyes. Mulder continued hastily. "I could come up with half a dozen other scenarios. We've already seen what people are willing and able to do to fulfil their own agendas, Scully. *You've* seen it." She looked at him. The unspoken fact that she herself might have been the victim of one such agenda hung in the air between them. "Anyway..." "Anyway what, Mulder?" "You gotta admit it's one hell of a challenge." That was it, in the end. This was Mulder wanting to stretch himself. The ultimate unsolvable case. And he wanted to solve it. He was bored. And now, at least for a time, he wouldn't be. Scully bit her lip as she felt an overwhelming, almost nauseating rush of love for him. He wanted this. It was that simple. Fair enough. She shifted a little in her seat. In the cab from La Guardia, Juan turned around and beamed at them from the front seat. "So, girls. What now?" He looked as eager as a puppy. Mulder grinned and then sobered quickly. "Uh..." Scully glared at him suspiciously. "You've got some kind of demented plan, don't you, Muldoon? I don't know whether to be relieved or afraid." "A little of both?" he said brightly. "Spit it out." He squirmed against the vinyl. "I think we're gonna have to go undercover." Scully felt a sudden chill ride up her spine. "What are you saying, exactly?" Juan started giggling. "Oh, girl! I get it! We're hitting the streets -- literally." Jesus, Mary and Joseph. "It's the only way to find out what's going on, Scully." She nodded grimly. "So you're saying it's a good thing I left my Guccis in the closet." Mulder studied her evenly. "I coulda run off, Scully. I didn't. Do you wish I had?" That was a low blow. Except she knew he was really asking whether she'd wished she'd stayed in Washington. He'd promised to stop ditching her and running off on his own. She'd made him promise. Maybe this was his way of pointing out that in the past he'd ditched her for a reason. Christ. To spare her from danger. From simple unpleasantness even. Dammit. She was his partner. More than that -- she was a trained agent who'd known when she'd signed on what kind of risks, hours and messes she'd have to face. She was a woman and proud of it. There were certain things she wouldn't do, she knew that now; certain situations she wouldn't get involved in. As deviant criminals went, men were often the really twisted ones. As far as she was concerned, it made perfect sense for men to deal with their own kind in those cases. But this? This she could live with. She met Mulder's gaze. "I'll have you know I look great in plaid pants and a torn raincoat." He smiled widely as Juan guffawed. "You heard that, driver? We're going shopping at Sally Ann's!" CONTINUED IN PART SIX The Pact (Part 6) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net NEW YORK CITY LEXINGTON & 63rd STREET SUBWAY STATION THURSDAY, 1:15 PM Ivan Robnik shuffled towards the turnstile and grinned wetly at the subway attendant, who snarled and waved him through impatiently. He blinked rheumy eyes and gaped toothlessly, nodding and chuckling to himself as he pushed through the turnstile, struggling for a moment with the worn plastic bags that held all he owned in the world. Which was nothing anyone would ever want. A few cans that still had a little food clinging to them, nothing that smelled great, exactly, but Robnik knew from long experience that you could eat the damn shit unless it was actually squirming around. A few pictures of his family back home, mother, father, long dead now, and then the wife he'd left, the kids he hadn't seen in years. Kids he could only barely remember seeing at all -- and that was on the good days. For the most part, he kept the pictures for no good reason at all. Just because he had them. Just because they were all he had left from the life he vaguely knew he'd lived. He never looked at them much anymore. Not much point. If he wasn't drunk enough, they hurt him. And when he was pissed, they just made him sentimental. More and more, Robnik tried to steer clear of sentimentality. Funny. In the early days, sentimentality had been the greatest allure of drink. Now he drank to drown it out. Now he drank to drown out pretty much everything. Speaking of which, he could just hear the faint comforting slosh of cheap vermouth in the bottle he'd managed to scrounge up from begged nickels and quarters. New Yorkers were so nasty. They were getting nastier all the time. In the old days they'd given him change out of pity, which was still better than contempt, their faces twisted and oddly relieved for the simple reason that they were lucky enough to be anyone but him. Now they threw money at him just to keep him away. Which was fine. Fine with him. He had no illusions about why most of the subway attendants waved him through without a token. It was a lot less trouble than waiting an hour for the cops to show up while he made a drunken maniacal scene. Robnik wasn't crazy. He just knew how to act that way. He'd learned how to do it to get what he wanted. Anyway, he thought with a dry cackle that turned abruptly into a deep, hacking cough, the smell probably didn't hurt. Over the years, he'd learned to cultivate that too. No one wanted him hanging around, raising a fuss. Which was fine. Hell. These days nobody even wanted to get close enough to mug him. He leaned against the station wall, still chuckling as he blinked at the lunchtime crowd of commuters who filed around him at a safe distance. A few grunted disgustedly, tourists and recent arrivals, probably; for the most part, experienced New Yorkers knew how to see nothing at all. Ivan Robnik was invisible. At last. He'd escaped his previous life precisely because he'd had enough with being seen. Taxes. Debts. A job that sucked your life out for no good reason at all. A wife you couldn't please. Screaming kids who wanted stuff, always more stuff, stuff he couldn't afford and which he'd bust his ass to get. His wife. He snorted as another cough rumbled through him. She'd thought he was a bum back then. If only she could see him now. Yep. All in all, this present arrangement suited him fine. He yawned widely, rubbing his eyes with a filthy hand. Vermouth. No-good stuff. Made you sleepy instead of stoned. But hey. Beggars couldn't be choosers, right? Robnik grinned, yawned again and headed down the stairs towards the tunnels where no one ever went except others of his kind. He'd go where he always went to get some shut-eye, to sleep the booze off in fuzzy comfort away from the snap of the cold, with the warm white noise of trains to soothe him as they hurtled by. Where he slept, not even the thieves dared to tread. Robnik dropped heavily off the platform near the end of the station and began to weave his way unevenly along the wall. Moisture dripped down so that the walls glistened in the glow of the emergency lights which shone sullenly at distant intervals along the way. He liked this station. The next one was far enough away along the track to shed no light except a pinprick which he could just see if he squinted. When he thought about it later, much later, he figured the vermouth must have dulled his senses. Either that or he'd become so numb and out of touch with the harsh reality of New York life that he'd underestimated the desperation of others who were poor for different reasons. In any case, this time they'd obviously decided to deal with the dismal tunnels and the smell that rolled off him in waves on the off-chance he'd squirrelled cash in his bags like a crazy man, and he'd have certainly heard them coming if he hadn't been so anesthetized by the booze and the cold. He heard a grunt just as a fist slammed into his back and he collided against the wall with a hoarse cry, his nose impacting sharply against the humid brick. He sank down slowly, shocked and too drunk to know exactly why, except that some dim part of his mind, some remnant of the man he used to be, registered vaguely that he was now coughing blood-laced phlegm and spittle because someone had just kicked him in the chest. The kicks continued with a kind of tiresome predictability as he curled up and tried to remember when this had happened before. It had, of course. He was sure of it. Just not for a long time. He heard laughter and derisive sounds as the bags were snatched from him and the unmistakable sound of breaking glass reached his ears. His pictures. For some reason, this and not the attack itself was the thing that flooded his battered old frame with anger and pain. And right before consciousness dimmed, he heard something else. A cry. More than one cry, in fact, not in unison, but each of them shrill, tight and high with horror and agony. He opened his eyes one final time to find that he could see nothing at all. But he knew that smell. It cut through the rank odour of his own body. That smell was death. Not his, it seemed. But otherwise, the darkness was all there was. NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL THURSDAY, 1:26 PM Mulder had always loved the frowzy old Gramercy Park. To him, she was a grand old dame, a dowager clinging tenaciously to a touching kind of threadbare class. For years he'd stayed there whenever he'd come to New York to do postgraduate research at Columbia. That was before the internet had made actual physical displacement obsolete. A room had cost 40 bucks a night back then. And you could walk to the Village in minutes. Mulder smiled as he ushered Scully out of the cab. He wouldn't have traded the schlepping he'd gone through back then for all the PowerMacs in the world. Scully already knew all about it, about what the hotel meant to him. "Is it nicer than a Motel 6, Mulder?" she'd asked him that morning as she'd thrown clothes hurriedly into a suitcase. "No." "Worse?" "No." "The same?" "No. Much better." "That doesn't make any sense." "You'll know what I mean when you see it, Scully." It was still true. A room cost almost $80 now, but it was still a lot like walking straight into a '40s movie. As he signed the register, Scully stood and gaped at the old gnarled woodwork, the tired velvet curtains and scuffed marble floor that had lost its shine around the time Orson Welles had terrified America with an improbable tale of alien invasion. The desk clerk, meanwhile, was taciturn and laconic, eyeing them with a cynical leer that managed to combine complete indifference with an alert curiosity. "How long ya stayin'?" "We don't know yet." "Yeah, well, we got reservations to consider, pal." Juan leaned against the desk and gave the clerk a cool, appraising look. "Be nice to the customers, sonny. You never know who you're dealing with." The clerk summed Juan up in a glance and smirked. "Yeah, Liberace. Go ahead and tell me how to do my job." Mulder stiffened but Juan seemed completely unfazed. "Well, at least Liberace had talent, little girl. What do you have to offer?" The clerk stopped chewing his gum and stood up slowly. Jesus. He was about seven feet tall. Next to him, Juan looked like a made-to-scale model of a human being. Enough was enough. Mulder threw a look at Scully, who was staring up at the clerk with an awed expression, and pulled out his badge. "FBI," he snapped. "We're here on official business." Scully rolled her eyes. The clerk's eyes shifted slowly to Mulder and then dipped down to his badge incredulously. "You're yankin' me, right?" "No. It's a very important case. This man...uh," Mulder said evenly as he waved a hand at Juan, "is a diplomat. Top secret stuff." Now it was Scully's turn to look incredulous. Mulder was warming up to his story. He leaned in towards the clerk and beckoned him with a finger. The outrageously tall man reluctantly drew a little closer. "Political asylum case. Could change the future of the western world." "The guy looks Mexican to me," he said, throwing a contemptuous look at Juan. "South American. Drug rings, coups, the toppling of military dictatorships, that kind of thing. Heavy, heavy stuff." Juan smiled and obligingly rattled off a long string of sentences; Scully's high school Spanish was rusty, but from what she could decipher, it was a rather graphic description of what the tall clerk's mother had undergone with a lame and diseased donkey in order to produce her offspring. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Fortunately, the towering desk clerk didn't look remotely Hispanic. "See?" Mulder continued calmly. "He's a hunted man. It's vitally crucial to the security of the nation; we need you to keep quiet about it." The clerk looked unconvinced but obviously decided to err on the side of safety. He glanced at the registration form. "You're bunkin' with this guy?" "To keep an eye on him," Mulder whispered confidentially. "You know." "Yeah. Well, better watch your ass, if you know what I mean." Scully chuckled as Juan twinkled at her. "Joo got dat right, meester. Rowr." He wagged his eyebrows at Mulder. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, signing the form and pushing it towards the clerk. The tall clerk snatched the form and backed away. "New York. All the weirdos in the world wind up here." "Must be because it's the only place they feel at home, sweetie." Juan reached for his key with a flourish and flounced towards the battered mahogany elevator without a backward glance at his luggage. Mulder sighed, handed Scully her key and started dragging his and Juan's bags to the elevator. She stared at him. "What about my luggage, Mulder?" "Whaddya expect for $78 in this town, Scully? A goddam bellhop?" She guffawed, shouldered her carry-on and followed him. CONTINUED IN PART SEVEN THE PACT (PART 7) "R +" by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Email rules." ****************************************************** THIS CHAPTER RATED A STRONG R FOR SEXUAL INNUENDO. APPROACH WITH CAUTION. ***************************************************** DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE They paused outside their connecting rooms. Juan threw a bright glance at Mulder and pointed to the door. "Coming, sweetie?" Mulder shifted uneasily. "Uh..." Peals of delighted laughter rang through the hallway as Juan poked his key in the lock. "Crushed. Crushed I am to be so unceremoniously dumped by a G-man with a hidden agenda." "Look, Juan..." "Say no more." Juan lay a tragic hand against his brow. "You're using me to indulge in debauchery with Agent Scully without letting your superiors know about it. I get it. I wasn't born yesterday." Scully chuckled. "He's right, you know. What kind of girl do you think I am?" Mulder gave her a warning look. "Scully..." Juan sighed melodramatically. "Please don't mind me. I'm used to it." He grinned at them and looked down at his luggage, which lay at Mulder's feet. "My bags, young man?" Mulder threw his hands up and nodded rapidly, bending over to grab Juan's luggage. "Yes, of course. Your bags. What was I thinking?" He muttered a few impolite words under his breath and dragged the bags over to the little clerk's door. "You gonna tip me, at least?" "Oh, Mr. Mulder. I'd *love* to. Anytime." "Shut up." He dropped the bags deliberately on top of the other man's feet. "Ow!" "See you in the lobby in half an hour, Juan." "Aren't you even going to show me where the light switches are?" At this point Scully had only barely managed to open her own door through her laughter; Mulder pushed her into the room and followed close behind, slamming the door after him in almost enough time to drown out the clerk's high machine-gun giggle. They unpacked in silence, although Scully sniggered occasionally as she hung up her suits and blouses. "Stop that." She chortled. "I'm sorry, Mulder, but he's absolutely priceless. And he's got you wrapped around his finger, for some reason." He shrugged as he batted at a jacket in an attempt to beat out wrinkles. "I can't be mean to Juan, Scully. He's too..." "Helpless? I don't think so." "No. Too sweet somehow." She nodded thoughtfully. "He is at that." Mulder stopped beating his jacket and stared at her. "You really think so?" "You sound surprised." "I got the impression you didn't like him much." Scully looked at him. "That's not true, Mulder. I like him a lot. It's just..." "What?" "I just feel he's hiding something from us." "Like what?" She shrugged. "I don't know exactly." "So what does 'exactly' mean?" "I don't know." Mulder nodded and sat on the end of the queen-size bed. "There you have it, folks. Yet another insightful psycho- social analysis, brought to you courtesy of 'Empiricism is us, Inc.,' FBI division." Funny. In the old days, that kind of statement from him would've sent her right around the bend. Now it barely creased the surface. "You think I'll get a chance to wear this?" She nonchalantly held up a diaphanous deep violet teddy and watched gleefully as Mulder's eyes widened. "When d'you get that?" If his voice had been just a little louder, you could have described it as a whisper. As it was, she had to bend down to hear it. What she hadn't expected was that he'd reach up to grab her. "Gotcha..." he hissed in her ear as his arms caught her, pulling her down to him as he crushed the thin slip of violet material between them. His hand snaked up her body and rubbed the silk against her breast, his fingers pulling at her nipple through the teddy. She moaned and bit her lip. It was inevitable. "Mulder..." she murmured against his thick, sweet-smelling hair. "Hmmphmm..." His face was nestled in her chest. "We don't have time." He looked up at her, his eyes an odd mixture of light and dark. "You know me. Fastest gun in the west when I need to be." She smiled and ran her finger along his lips, which was unfair really because it just made him groan and arch up towards her. "We're meeting Juan in 15 minutes and besides I don't have cramps anymore." "I think you gave them to me," he growled, trying to nuzzle her hand. "Everything's congested down there." "You're as horny as a teenager, Muldoon." "It's a Jewish thing," he mumbled as he tried to bury his head in her breasts again. "How many times do I have to tell you? Read 'Portnoy's Complaint' already." "Are we going to have to spend the next few nights in homeless shelters? Tell me now." "It's possible." His eyes pleaded with her. She could feel him pushing against her thigh, hard and urgent. Scully sighed. "I guess I still owe you for this morning." She placed her hands carefully against his chest and pushed. He fell back and sighed happily, clutching the bedspread with his hands. She unzipped him and strained a little to pull him out so that he groaned and thrust up towards her. It took a moment to wrap the teddy around the base of him, and she smiled as he cried out and began to pump his hips. Her hand slid up and down excruciatingly slowly, aided by the smoothness of the silk, and finally she lowered her lips to capture his swollen tip. "Sculleeeee...." He began to thrash against the bed, his cries inarticulate, hoarse and high. As it turned out, they made it to the lobby in plenty of time. And of course, as it turned out, Juan was late. Mulder tried unsuccessfully to erase the goofy grin from his face. What a woman. He hadn't come that fast since he was 15 years old. Hadn't felt entitled to it. And Scully was possibly the only woman in the world who could make it feel like actual prowess. She'd wanted nothing in return, just the taste and fury of his pleasure, his release. Son of a bitch. She made him feel like a man. Mulder knew he wasn't quite over his own personal darkness. It reared its head sometimes when he least expected it; hell, it was as much a part of him as his obsession with the truth, his troublesome dick and the mole on his cheek. More often than not, it happened late at night when he was alone and Scully was too far away. He didn't want to lose his pain. It was what drove him. But Scully soothed it, and after all these years, he thought as he gazed at her while she handed the room key to the clerk, by Christ he'd earned the right to forget about it every once in a while. She'd earned that right too. All he hoped was that he brought her a third of the joy she'd made him feel since Florida. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he had. "Feeling happy and relaxed, Muldoon?" "Peachy. Dandy. All aglow." "That's my boy." They wandered over to the tiny bar. An old man wiped glasses in the shadows behind a long, scuffed aluminum counter. A few aged patrons sat at tables, nursing drinks and clutching cigarettes in claw-like fingers as tendrils of smoke rose lazily to join the haze near the ceiling. "I used to hang out here in the late afternoons, Scully. Scribbling notes on looseleaf from huge ponderous psychology textbooks. Can you imagine? No one does that now." "People still do it. You'd be surprised how many kids out there are still computer illiterate." "They probably don't spend a lot of time in this bar, though. Which, by the way, hasn't changed a bit." "Another gin sling, Harry. Hop to it, son, snappy snappy." Mulder straightened and looked up, his eyes searching the dim recesses of the bar. "What is it?" "Shhhh." He peered into the shadows. And then he grasped the counter with one hand, leaning against it. "I don't believe it, Scully. She's still alive." "Who?" "Miss Sweeny!" He was gone, swallowed by the dimness. By the time she found him, he was sitting at a table with an old, oddly regal woman. Her back was straight, her yellow-white hair pulled back sharply from her face. She was thin as a lathe, brittle and sharp, and despite her white wrinkled features and the threadbare overcoat she wore, it was obvious she'd been beautiful once. Staggeringly so. Her eyes were a washed and even blue, wide still and traced in black as though the woman still took pride in them. A thin slash of scarlet lipstick stood out in sharp relief. She was patting Mulder's hand as he sat enthralled beside her, obviously beside himself with delight. "After all these years. Fox. Is it really you, boychickel?" She patted his face with a dry hand, and Scully noticed that her long nails were yellow and cracked. Scully gazed at him as his eyes closed and he lay his cheek against her hand, drawing his own up to press hers against his lips. For some reason, there was something that was both unbelievably touching and excruciatingly erotic about the gesture. Christ. He'd never cease to amaze her. Mulder loved women. By definition. There was something incredibly sexy about that. And maybe his gallantry, which she could tell wasn't remotely forced, turned her on precisely because it bode so well for their future together. Mulder loved the woman inside. He always had. Under the circumstances, the odds were good he'd love her still when she'd grown to look like this woman sitting before her. Now he looked up at Scully with a wide grin. "Miss Sweeny, this is Dana Scully." The older woman blinked up at her. "Ah. Your lady love." Scully felt herself blush. God. Mulder shrugged and actually tittered. "My partner. I'm with the FBI now." The older woman studied him frostily. "Hmmmph. Stupid career choice. Why would anyone want to join the feds? All they do is stop people from having a good time." "Uh..." "Anyway," she interrupted him, raising her eyes to look at Scully once again. "I don't care what you say. You'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to see she's your lover. Sweet Jesus. Do you kids think you invented sex?" "No, ma'am," Scully murmured politely. These was quite probably the strangest first words she'd ever exchanged with anyone. "I should hope not. Well." The woman smiled at her. "Don't marry him, girl, whatever you do. Take it from me -- you'll be grateful in the long run." "Miss Sweeny was a Ziegfeld girl," Mulder added helpfully, as though this fact had anything to do with the conversation at this point. "Ah." "Sit down, girl. Sit down. Have a drink. HARRY!" she bellowed suddenly. Scully sat and threw a glance at Mulder, who was still clutching the woman's hand. "We used to hang together in this bar, Scully. She'd tell me all about her life with the Follies. Incredible stuff." God. He looked positively childlike. "You call her by her last name, Fox? Ridiculous. What kind of way is that to treat a lady?" Scully smiled thinly. Funny how everyone but she herself seemed to be allowed to call him by his first name. "Yooooooohooooo! Where arrreeee you!" Juan's high merry voice was unmistakable. She felt a wave of fatigue wash over her as she leaned back in her chair. Great. The guest stars were all here; now all they needed was Dame Edna and they'd be all set. It was going to be a long, long case. CONTINUED IN PART EIGHT THE PACT (Part 8) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Reader satisfaction guaranteed or your money back." DISCLAIMER IN PART 1 Juan was grinning widely as he approached them, squinting through the smoke and the cloudy afternoon haze. "Mr. MULDER? Ms. SCULLLLY? That you?" "Simmer down, Juan," Mulder said. "We're right here." He arrived at the table and smiled at Miss Sweeny. "You poor dear lady. Are these two hitting you up for money? I *keep* trying to make them stop, but you know kids these days." Scully moaned softly and buried her head in her hands. The older woman studied this new apparition coolly. "And you are...?" "Uh, this is Juan Martinez. He's... involved in our current assignment. Juan, Miss Olivia Sweeny." The little man nodded and grasped the woman's hand. "Charmed." She smiled thinly as she looked him over. "We had many boys like you back in the old days, sonny. Dancers, most of 'em. Cute as a button." "Old days, ma'am?" Scully's voice was muffled. "Miss Sweeny was a Ziegfeld girl." "How FABULOUS, darling! All those feathers and sequined gowns!" Scully raised her head shakily. "I think I need a drink, Mulder." His eyes widened. "You're not smoking again, are you, Scully?" She growled. Miss Sweeny cackled and raised her arm. "We all need a drink. HARRY? For God's sake, you old fart... are you dead?" The bartender leaned over the bar and gazed at the old woman. "I wish I was. What the hell is it now, Olivia?" "Gin sling. And...?" "Whisky. Neat," Scully said tersely, ignoring Mulder's startled expression. "For you?" "How about a vodka Slushie, Mulder?" "Water." He glared at her. Harry nodded. "Water. Whaddya think dis is, buddy? Niagara Falls? Go back outside and read the sign." "What's it to you if I have water? They're ordering alcohol, aren't they?" The bartender stood and stared at him, his eyes narrowing. "Hey. I remember you. Years ago. Ya used to take up space, drinkin' friggin' water fer hours and reading egghead books, dintcha?" "Great. I'm cursed with his photographic memory," Mulder muttered. "Get him a glass of water, Harry, and leave him the hell alone. What about you, Mr. Martinez?" Juan turned to the bristling bartender. "I'm a simple fellow. Pina Colada, please. Extra coconut." Scully could feel a whopper of a headache coming on. Her whisky arrived just in time. Juan stared at the rum and coke he'd finally been forced to settle for under the duress of the bartender's contemptuous glare. Scully downed her drink in one gulp. "So who's payin'?" Harry stood next to the table with his hand out. She choked down a giggle as everyone turned and stared expectantly at Mulder, who rolled his eyes and took out his wallet. As he handed the bartender a credit card, Scully waved her glass in the air. "Run a tab, barkeep." He looked down at her. "Wanna 'nothuh?" "Yep." "Scully..." She eyed her partner. "Shut up and drink your water like a good teetotaller, Muldoon. Mama wanna 'nothuh." The first one was warming her belly nicely and making all of this more believable somehow. Mulder was still staring at her. "Well, at the very least, Scully, you'll make a convincing street person at this rate." She hiccupped. "All in the line of duty." He nodded and gestured at the bartender. "That's it, Harry. The shortest tab in history. One more whisky and then ring it up." "Party pooper," Scully grumbled. Olivia Sweeny, meanwhile, was taking demure sips of her drink and eyeing both of them over the glass. "What's all this about, Fox?" Juan sputtered and reached over to pat the older woman's hand. "We're on a mission of mercy, sweetie." "So much for going undercover," Scully snorted. "With Juan around, we'll make the front page of The Village Voice by morning." "I thought Ms. Sweeny was a friend of yours, Ms. Scully." "We've only just met," she murmured serenely. "But she's an old friend of Mulder's." "Don't call me 'ms,' young man. It's a load of rubbish. I'm single and proud of it. Miss. Miss." "Pardon me. Miss," Juan repeated agreeably. God. He looked thoroughly delighted by the whole outrageous business. Mulder sighed and lay a hand over his eyes for a moment. "I thought Miss Sweeny might have some insight on this case. She was a great sounding board back then -- and she's familiar with the street scene." "As for you, Miss Scully," Olivia Sweeny continued as though Mulder hadn't spoken, "don't tell me you're jealous of a wrinkled old crone?" She chortled and pat Scully's hand kindly. "Don't get me wrong, dear -- it's very flattering." "I am not jealous." "Good. Good. Although God knows, if I were 40 years younger, I might just give you a few reasons to be." The older woman wagged her pencil-thin eyebrows at Mulder. He looked beseechingly at Scully. "She's kidding." Scully waved a tired hand in the air. "Yeah, yeah... whatever. Can we get down to business, please?" She gulped down her second whisky. Mulder gave Miss Sweeny a quick synopsis of the events and watched in amazement as she leaned back and pursed her lips. She didn't seem remotely surprised. "I've felt it too. Out there. On the streets." Her words cut through Scully's mild alcohol-induced euphoria. "Excuse me?" "This thing. Something in the air. I thought..." Mulder leaned in towards her and lay a hand on hers. "You thought what?" The older woman took a deep breath. "I thought it was personal." Scully shook her head. "How do you mean?" Miss Sweeny turned to look at her. "It's been lurking around for awhile. Death's what I call it. You may think that's silly." She shrugged a little defensively. "But there's a smell, a feeling about it... I suppose I've been thinking it's waiting for me." Mulder looked at his partner. Juan abruptly stopped sucking air through his straw. "Do you know anyone who's disappeared?" Miss Sweeny shrugged again. "Haven't seen a couple of the girls in awhile. But that happens. They go on binges and stay inside, or they break a hip and reappear months later, hobbling along, grumpier than ever. The fact is we don't talk to each other much. Anyway, the girls don't live on the street, Mr. Martinez, thanks to rent control. Some of 'em just act like they do." She sighed and looked a little sadly at her now-empty drink. "We're easy targets, I suppose. Some people who know what we are think we've got money squirrelled away in our mattresses, our bags. But we don't. All of us live on social security and what we managed to save -- which wasn't much. We weren't paid a whole lot; Mr. Ziegfeld took care of us as long as he was around, but after that..." "No pension plan with the Follies, huh?" Mulder said sympathetically. But he'd known it already. "The Follies were Mr. Ziegfeld. When he went, it all went." Scully nodded. "So you're saying that some of these women have been attacked in the past?" "Mugged. Even killed. Sure -- it happens." "Were you ever attacked, Miss Sweeny?" Mulder asked softly. She looked up and brightened considerably. "Once. Kicked the bastard in his inheritance and then ran like hell. Betcha he's still singing soprano." He chuckled. "Attagirl." "So," Juan said, suddenly matter-of-fact. It was still startling when he talked that way. They all turned to look at him. "What now?" He waited. Mulder drew himself up. "You already know. We're gonna get the right clothes and we're gonna hit the streets." Miss Sweeny grimaced. "How unpleasant, dear." "You're telling me." Scully looked longingly at her empty glass. "Juan. You know who to talk to, right?" The little man shrugged. "I know some people who know what's going on. But they also know who I am, which means they won't believe I'm living on the street." "It doesn't matter. You can tell them what we're up to." Miss Sweeny looked up suddenly. "This is an adventure, isn't it, Fox?" "Uh..." "I can help." "Why?" Scully said, amazed. "Well, for one thing, I'm a bored old bag. But even more selfishly, I'd like to stop this thing before it comes after me." "You think it will." Mulder. "I think it might. It's already been sniffing around." "Miss Sweeny," Scully began; all at once she was feeling perfectly sober, unfortunately. "This could be very dangerous. The Bureau has no right to recruit civilians in..." "Poppycock," the older woman snapped, pointing at Juan, who drew back in alarm. "What about him?" Good point. Scully glared at her partner. "Well, Mulder?" "Yes. It's just that..." "Nonsense. Besides, you realize, don't you, that the homeless shelters only take one sex or the other? Are you willing to let your lady love sleep next to drunks, drug addicts and hardened criminals without anyone to look after her?" "I can take care of myself, Miss Sweeny," Scully said tightly. She didn't add that the protection of an unarmed 80-year-old chorus girl probably wouldn't amount to much. The older woman snorted. "You don't know anything about these kinds of places, dear heart. I do. Over the years, I've had the dubious pleasure of sampling a few." "She's right, Scully. Miss Sweeny's an experienced New Yorker. She can probably get these women to talk to her more easily." Scully just sat and stared at him. His eyes were dark, but he was using them to speak to her and there was something in them she recognized. Compassion. Concern. Love. For her -- and, in a different way, for Miss Sweeny. She could read the subtext. If something was really out there, if an individual or a group of individuals was preying on the city's most helpless citizens, Scully might be able to protect the old woman. What Miss Sweeny actually believed her own role to be didn't much matter to Mulder. He wanted her safe. Safe and alive. For his own reasons. And he wanted Scully to help make sure she stayed that way. Christ. It was always something with that guy. She nodded once. "Okay. But this is a federal matter and you'll have to do what I say, Miss Sweeny." Mulder nodded quickly and grasped the older woman's hand. "Yes. Scully's got a lot of experience in these kinds of things. We appreciate your help, but for your own safety and for the sake of this case, you'll have to listen to her. Is it a deal?" Miss Sweeny snorted. "Fine. Although I guess we'll find out soon enough whose experience really matters in this case, won't we, dear?" Scully smiled evenly. "I guess we will." Mulder cleared his throat. "Okay. Let's hit the road." CONTINUED IN PART NINE THE PACT (PART 9) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "You never call. You never write. What's a mother to do?" DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL THURSDAY, 4:16 PM They found everything they needed at a local Salvation Army store. "Ten bucks for *this?*," Mulder said contemptuously, holding up a threadbare light-blue leisure suit jacket. "It's highway robbery." "Forget it, Mulder. It's not your colour." "It's also not in my price range. Jesus." He poked through a bin until he unearthed a mangled tweed jacket with worn elbow patches. "Now this, on the other hand..." Scully sighed. She'd quickly settled for nondescript grey slacks and a thick beige wool overcoat that still held together and looked relatively clean. Warmth was of the essence. New York in January was nothing to sneeze at. So to speak. "Mulder. You look like a drunken professor in that thing." "My favourite teacher at Oxford was a drunken professor, Scully, and his jacket was worse than this. Anyway, speaking of things which aren't your colour..." he stared pointedly at the overcoat she was holding, "beige definitely isn't." "I beg your pardon?" "Makes you look pale and drab." "Does it?" Scully's lips were a thin line. "Always has." "Most of my clothes are beige, Mulder. Why didn't you bring this up before?" "I've been meaning to." "I see." "Grey's not your colour either." "Most of my *other* clothes are grey, Mulder." "I know. Big mistake." She glared at him as he tried to squeeze his lanky frame into a rather dashing black raincoat that was at least three sizes too small for him. Even if he managed to fit into it without cutting off all the circulation to his head, he'd freeze his ass off out there in this weather. Scully smiled. "Looks great, Mulder. Go for it." By the time they'd lined up to pay for their new wardrobes, Scully had relented. Besides, watching Juan moan and wring his hands as he tried to pick out something with flair from the bins of uniformly tedious clothes had put her in a better mood. The poor Salvation Army Sergeant had stood by and stared at the little clerk with a mixture of fascination and dread. Miss Sweeny, meanwhile, had sat bolt upright on a straightbacked chair, hands tight around the handle of her little metal cart, and cackled delightedly through the whole proceedings. It was all positively surreal. Scully stopped her partner from paying for the raincoat at the last possible moment. "You can't wear that, you big lummox. It's 40 degrees out there." "But Scully..." She handed him a heavy brown overcoat she'd picked out for him from a rack when he wasn't looking. "It's you. Try it on." The damn thing was at least two sizes too big. Mulder grumbled as he pulled it on and stood there, buried in it. She only barely managed not to laugh out loud. He flapped the sleeves at her. "It's too big." "It'll keep you warm. Just roll them up." "I'm willing to bet I don't look cool, Scully." "No. You look warm. Now shut up and pay for it before they throw us out of here." The woman behind the counter had given them a long disapproving look. "Hmph. Well. I must say you certainly look as if you could afford to shop elsewhere instead of taking these clothes away from people who need them." "People who need them can't afford them," Scully retorted testily. "Anyway, don't let appearances fool you, ma'am," Mulder added. "We got the stuff we're wearing from the Sally Ann's on Long Island. Much better quality, I have to say. And better prices." The grim woman stared at him in disbelief. "That's an Armani jacket you're wearing, mister." "See? I rest my case." "Hurry, Mulder. Gotta make the liquor store before it closes." Mulder snorted and followed Scully out, dragging a despondent Juan with him as Miss Sweeny trailed serenely behind them. By the time they wandered back out in their new outfits -- the huge desk clerk at the Gramercy Park had made a point of ignoring them completely -- their mirth had diminished somewhat. The late afternoon sun peeked down weakly through bare wind-whipped trees as a brisk winter chill began to rise from the sidewalks. Sewer grills vomited steam in great billows which broke apart and swirled in tatters, dancing in the sudden gusts which whistled around the corners of stoic brownstones. Suddenly, Scully thought as she shivered and pulled her overcoat tightly around her, it no longer felt like much of a lark. Mulder threw her a look. "You still look great, Scully. Muss your hair or something." "It's moussed, Mulder. It won't budge." "Great. That's just great. What kind of street person mousses their hair?" "I did it this morning. What do you want from me, Mulder? You want me to rub dirt on my face?" "It would be a start." "Anyway, you're in no position to talk. You still look like a goddam GQ coverboy." "I do not." "Do too." "Oh, hush up, both of you," Miss Sweeny rasped as she pulled her cart noisily behind them. "Christ. You're not remotely convincing. Neither of you. The only one who's pulling it off is Juan here. And me -- but then I'm an expert." She laughed and coughed suddenly. Mulder turned to her solicitously. "You okay, Miss Sweeny?" "Leave me alone. I was wandering these streets when you were still a whippersnapper pooping in your drawers." "He still does it." "Shut up, Scully." It was true that Juan looked spectacularly seedy. He'd managed to find the exact combination of clothes that somehow suggested he was half crazy, derelict and probably incontinent. His hair, which was thinning anyway, blew around madly in the wind. Mulder squinted at him. God. When had he found the time to sprout stubble? His face was shaded with rough grey and white hairs. It suddenly occurred to him that Juan was probably older than he looked. But son-of-a-bitch. What a character actor the guy was. It left him breathless with admiration. Mulder gradually realized Scully was staring at the clerk too. "That's... remarkable, Juan." He bowed. "Thank you, sweetie. The fact is, I always like to immerse myself in a part." Mulder shifted uneasily and wondered why he didn't find this surprising. "You're always playing some kind of role, aren't you, Juan?" Uncanny. Mulder looked at his partner. She'd echoed his thoughts exactly. The little clerk smiled and returned her gaze evenly. "Don't we all, Agent Scully?" Miss Sweeny coughed again. "You'll be okay. Once you've been on the street a couple of days, you'll look the part too." They began to walk towards the Village. They sat in Washington Square, blowing on their fingers and watching warily as a street crazy pirouetted around, singing at the top of his lungs and lunging at an imaginary enemy every once in a while, his matted locks shaking in the wind as he punched and flailed at nothing. Juan had wandered off in search of his "connections," as he put it; Miss Sweeny sat elegantly on a bench, staring frostily at two college kids who were necking noisily on the bench next to theirs. Mulder stirred restlessly. The young couple were oblivious to their surroundings, moaning into each others' mouths and groping wildly. The fact that they were both women didn't help. "Hey, Scully..." he murmured, running his hand up over her shoulder and pulling her a little closer. She turned and fixed him with a glare. "Don't even begin to dream about it." "Kiss me. Just a little kiss." "You're absolutely outrageous. What the hell's the matter with you?" "I think you probably know." She slapped his hand. "Get away from me. Jesus. We're *working!*" He moaned, closed his eyes, and tried to ignore the sounds drifting from the other bench. "Is he always like that?" Miss Sweeny said amiably. "Always. He's completely insatiable." Mulder opened one eye and looked at them. "I wouldn't talk. They call her Sexpot Scully back at the office." "Don't listen to him. He's clinically deranged." Miss Sweeny chortled. "Yes. Well, I've always known that. But as far as I can remember, he never used to get any back in the old days." He sat up, outraged. "You don't know that." "Oh, please. It was written all over your face. In fact, I'm surprised you don't have hair on your palms." Mulder gaped at her, ignoring Scully's guffaws. "He does. He shaves them every morning." Scully batted her eyelashes at him. He smiled suddenly, despite himself. God. She was breathtakingly adorable. He sighed and let himself enjoy the sight of her. "Of course... you realize... dis means war." He used his best Bugs Bunny. She laughed, gave in and leaned into him. "So nuke me, wabbit." Miss Sweeny groaned, muttered an expletive under her breath and began to rummage in one of her bags. "Somebody please give me an insulin shot before I go into a coma." By the time he looked up again, Juan was approaching their bench with a thin, tough-looking Hispanic man in tow. CONTINUED IN PART TEN THE PACT (PART 10) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Feedback is a form of payment that Fox can't sue over." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE The thin man studied the three of them rather contemptuously along a needle-sharp nose. "These are the guys? Jeez, Juan -- they stick out like a sore thumb. Well, except for her." He waved a hand at Miss Sweeny, who pulled herself up even straighter and bristled delicately. "They'll adapt, CK," Juan said soothingly. "Give 'em a break. They're okay." CK -- One, Mulder thought wryly, the fragrance for men and women, by the looks of him -- gave Scully the up and down for a second. "Well I gotta say. A hot little number, this one, eh?" Mulder smiled and stood slowly before leaning towards him. "I'm not half bad either." The other man sneered up at him. "Is that a fact?" "Yeah. And guess what? You'll have to get through me to get to her." "Oh, for Christ's sake, Mulder." Scully. "Ooooo," CK said, teeth flashing. "A big macho man, huh? Packin' heat make you tough, Mr. Government gringo?" Mulder kept smiling and ignored Juan's withering looks. The new arrival nodded, grinning widely, and then suddenly thrust his face right into Mulder's. "Everyone's armed to the teeth around here, G-man. Don't go pickin' no fights if you don't want your lady to get lonely real fast." Mulder didn't budge an inch. "Stop this right now," Scully hissed, suddenly standing, "or I swear I'll shoot you both." CK turned to look at her admiringly. "Man. Feisty lady. I like that." She smiled at him. "I should point out I'll shoot you first." "Ay! Hothothot." CK laughed and wagged a hand. "Okay, okay. I'll lay off your girlfriend, babe. He's not my type anyway." She threw a look at Mulder. "Are you done?" He feigned astonishment. "Me? He started it." CK suddenly began to laugh uproariously. "Oh, man. Yeah, man. I'm a big bad Chicano, right? Gotta protect your bitch, huh?" Mulder lunged towards him and yelped as he ran smack into a suddenly immoveable Juan who'd somehow managed to plant himself firmly in his path. The little clerk was anything but jolly, nor was he remotely ineffectual as he blocked Mulder's way, fixing him coldly. "That's enough. He's just trying to goad you." Mulder gaped at him in disbelief. "Out of my way, Juan." "I don't think so. You're acting like an adolescent. He's agreed to help and I'm not going to let you screw it up." Scully watched the clerk, spellbound. There was no mistaking the quiet authority he radiated, the cool confidence. Where the hell had *that* come from? There was no trace at all of the frivolous Juan. She shivered. Who the hell was this man anyway? They knew nothing about him. Nothing at all. Mulder, for once, was actually speechless. CK danced a little behind Juan, as though the smaller man was a big brother shielding him from a schoolyard bully. It was a bizarre sight, to say the least. "Yeah, G-man. You want me to help, you better not mess with me." There was the sound of a slap as Juan whirled suddenly and his open hand connected with the other Hispanic's face. "Ow!" Scully winced, but it was clear that CK was more startled than hurt. Juan exploded in rapid-fire Spanish and smacked the other man again as CK actually whimpered and tried to cover his face with his hands. He was talking too fast for Scully to catch any of the diatribe. "Juan... hey, Juan. Stop." Mulder reached over and grasped the little man's hands gently from behind before he could continue to rain blows on the hapless CK. Juan stiffened for a moment and then relaxed almost imperceptibly. As he turned towards Mulder, Scully caught his expression. There was still a hint of fury there, but it was laced with humour and a certain growing softness that looked suspiciously like affection. "You're a surprising man, Mulder. I must say you never cease to amaze me." Mulder said nothing and continued to gaze at him. Scully knew what he was thinking. He was thinking he wasn't half as surprising as Juan was. The clerk disengaged his hands mildly, smiling. "Okay. It's over. CK's gonna be a good boy now, isn't that right, CK?" The other man nodded sulkily. "You're an idiot, sonny. Now make nice with the G-man like I told you." "Okay, okay." Scully heard a cough and turned. Miss Sweeny. She'd forgotten about her in all the excitement. "If you ask me, you're all nuts," Miss Sweeny snorted as she got up and winced, rubbing her back. Apart from this comment, she seemed completely disinterested. New Yorkers. Christ. Nothing ever seemed to surprise them. Mulder chuckled drily and whatever tension still remained suddenly dissipated completely. The tough Hispanic was all smiles now, as if all had been made right with the world somehow. As if they'd all participated in some kind of complex non- verbal ritual that had set the parameters of the pecking order. And Mulder had the uncomfortable, vaguely humiliated feeling that as alpha males went, Juan had won. Oddly enough, this didn't seem to bother CK one bit. "Let's get some fuckin' coffee, man. I'm freezin' my fuckin' ass off." They made their way to a decrepit coffee shop off the square where it was clear that only their relatively clean appearance allowed them to find a table without their raising more than a few eyebrows. Scully still eyed Juan warily. He'd started kidding around again along the way, making googly eyes at strapping university students and indulging in shameless innuendo. CK had laughed with him unselfconsciously, as though the little man hadn't been slapping him around a few minutes earlier. She'd been suspicious of the clerk since he'd arrived in Washington. Nothing he'd done lately had done anything to diffuse that. This last thing least of all. Yet what she'd told Mulder in their hotel room was true. Despite his lightening changes, there was still something about him she liked and ultimately even trusted. To a point. But what? And more importantly, why? It was all the fault of this bloody intuition of hers. Scully was beginning to wonder whether she should reconsider the almost automatic faith she placed in it. What if she was wrong? What if this time it was leading her astray? Yet there was something intrinsically kind about Juan -- this she knew. A basic goodness that was actually palpable. What confused the issue were the roles he played. She had no idea who the real Juan was and she was fairly certain that Mulder was just as confused as she was. Juan was a good man, for some reason. But who was he? They sipped cappuccinos -- Mulder watched a little sadly as Miss Sweeny spiked hers surreptitiously from a tarnished silver flask -- and listened to CK's description of recent events on his turf. It was easy to glean from his occasionally swaggering remarks that he was a small-time pimp who specialized in keeping young men supplied with drugs and relatively safe from other harm. Scully noticed occasional spasms of distaste cross Juan's face as the other man spoke, but he said nothing and listened attentively. In this part of the Village alone, more than a dozen people had simply vanished over the last couple of months. "A couple my boys, you understand? It really fucked me up and it's bad for business, as if things ain't bad enough. But it's mainly the street crazies, the ones totally fucked in the head. Couple winos, couple glueheads and junkies." "All addicts of some kind?" Mulder. "Nah. Mostly the regular locos, you know? The ones that was locked away in nutfarms until the money ran out. The real crazy motherfuckers. And then they don't take their pills no more, they don't live any place, they just hang in the square and scream and laugh." Scully nodded. She couldn't quite remember the exact figures, but it was well documented that a significant majority of street people were former mental patients who had been released during the late '70s and '80s when budget cuts hit the institutions. It had been thinly disguised as rehabilitation, as an attempt to reintegrate borderline functional patients into the real world. Even back then, everyone knew it was a crock. Most of these men and women had simply lapsed back into madness as their prescriptions ran out and their ability to recognize that they needed the drugs to live relatively normal lives had been eroded by escalating illness. They were lost within months, swallowed by nightmarish realities of their own making. Tragic. And now no one remembered who they'd been. Or even that they existed at all. She looked at Mulder and saw the same sorrow in his eyes. God. They were even starting to think alike. Scully refused to dwell on the implications. "But the thing is that's only part of it, you know?" CK continued. She turned to look at him. "How do you mean?" "Everybody who hangs around here kinda knew these people. They was always just around. And then one day, poof. Gone. After awhile, you notice you haven't seen 'em. Except that's not all." She stirred impatiently. "People find bodies these days, but they're not the missing goons." "Who are they?" CK shrugged. "I dunno. Punks. Muggers, maybe. They got knives, guns sometimes, just lyin' next to them in the dirt. I don't go near that stuff but some do, the really fucked up ones that wanna check them for cash and drugs and shit. Junkies don't got no shame when they're kicking, you know?" "And?" Juan said a little testily. "From what I hear they're just dead, you know? Just lyin' there. They ain't been shot or stabbed. Just not movin' and not breathin'." "What happens to the bodies?" Mulder. CK pulled out a cigarette and lit it despite the large no- smoking signs plastered on the walls. Mulder's nose crinkled but Scully found herself looking at the cigarette longingly. Jesus. "The cops come eventually and take them away." Mulder sat up excitedly. "You hear that, Scully?" She stared at him. "Of course I heard it. I'm sitting right here, aren't I?" He shook his head. "Don't you realize what this means?" Miss Sweeny blinked and seemed to wake up suddenly, although Scully suspected she'd been listening intently all along. "What the hell's wrong with you, boy? You're speaking in tongues." "We've got a lead." "What?" "You wanted bodies, Scully. You got 'em." "But they're not the right ones." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter. It's a start." "Mulder..." "It's the first tangible thing we've seen, Scully. I can't believe you, of all people, aren't excited." She glared at him as he turned to CK. "Where's the nearest precinct?" The thin man grimaced. "I don't hang around there, G-man." "You don't have to. Where is it?" "Five blocks south." He nodded and got up. Much as Scully hated to admit it, there was something infectious about his excitement, as ludicrous as it seemed under the circumstances. "You guys stay here. We'll be back soon." She groaned and rose to follow him. CONTINUED IN PART 11 CATEGORY: XRA SPOILERS: Mild, all seasons RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: Juan shows up in Washington with a knotty little problem: why are New York City's addicts, hookers and homeless people vanishing without a trace? FLOATERS UNIVERSE THE PACT (PART 11) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Do *you* think I'm Spooky?" DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE By the time they climbed the stairs to the police station, Mulder was grateful for the coat she'd forced him to buy. The wind whipped with a vengence now and even the dull grey sky seemed taut and heavy with brooding thoughts of snow. The door swung shut behind them as they entered the steamy heat of the building. Uniforms swarmed and snarled at two-bit hoods who shuffled and sneered next to an ancient wooden counter buried in paperwork. Victims and suspects alike lolled side by side on pew-like benches against dark green walls. It felt like barely controlled chaos. "Remind you of Barney Miller, Scully?" "Not even remotely." "Me neither." They walked towards the counter and stood, watching a clerk bellow on the phone as she pointedly ignored them. "I'm tellin' ya. There's no place left in lock-up. Haul yer ass up heahr and take dese guys out before I come afta you myself, you got that?" "NYPD Blue?" Mulder asked conversationally. Scully snorted. "How the hell should I know? The camera jiggles so much in that damn show you can't tell what the place looks like." "Remember who you're talking to, Scully. I have to take dramamine just to watch it." "Look, buddy. How many times do I gotta tell you? We're up to our asses in whores and drunks heahr. What the fuck is de matta witya? It's fuckin' freezing and now they're tryin' to get booked just to get out of the fuckin' *cold*, you asshole." "Such language for a lady," Mulder murmured. "Don't be a fucking sexist pig, Mulder." "Ooooo," he cooed, raising an eyebrow at her. "Talk dirty to me, baby doll." "Fuck off." He chuckled. Scully straightened suddenly. "Night Court." "Huh?" "It looks like Night Court without any of the charm." Mulder squinted and looked around. She was right. Scully smiled grimly and took out her badge, dangling it in front of the clerk who finally peered at it reluctantly and sneered before resuming her diatribe into the receiver. "Do you have a hard time understandin' English, mister? Huh? Is dat it? What part of 'kiss my ass' are ya havin' a problem understandin'?" Scully rapped on the counter and leaned in towards the other woman. "We're here on business, lady. Get your finger out." Mulder stared at her in utter amazement. The thing was, it worked. The clerk lay a hand against the receiver and glared up at them. "Yeah, yeah. Everybody's heahr on business. What the hell do you want?" "We'd like to talk to someone about the thugs who've been turning up dead in alleys." The clerk's eyes swivelled towards Mulder and froze for a moment before running up and down his body appreciatively. She smiled widely. Mulder smiled back. "Is dat a fact?" "Hey. I'm talking to you." Scully snapped her fingers impatiently in the other woman's face. The woman jumped and scowled. Mulder pursed his lips. "Scully..." "Shaddup, Mulder. You with me, lady?" "Yeah, for Christ's sake. Sheesh. You fuckin' feds are all the same. Well, welcome to the real world, sweetheart. Take a number." "Uh, I don't think we're legally required to do that," Mulder said ingratiatingly. "I think legally you have to assist us immediately." He suddenly felt his testicles wither as she shot him a look. "Siddown. Fill out dis form. We got a million cases like the one you're talkin' about. Gimme some details an' I'll see what I can do." Scully looked at him and grabbed the form. "Uh, miss..." "Drop it, Mulder." She pulled him towards a bench as the other woman resumed her phone tirade. They sat down next to a dishevelled woman who rocked and hummed to herself, clutching a tattered cloth bag to her chest. Her hair hung in grey strands against her wrinkled, dirt- encrusted face. Oddly enough, her smell was manageable despite the humid heat of the precinct. There was an incongruous whiff of lavender about her which almost counteracted the arid scent of dirt and neglect. Scully felt a sudden burn behind her lids. In her own way, this battered old woman with crazy eyes and a broken grin still clung to a stubborn, shredded pride. She shook her head angrily and willed the tears away. She handed him the form. "I think we should just keep walking and show our badges until someone talks to us, Mulder. I mean, they can't stop us, right?" He nodded, staring at the elaborate form with a glazed expression. "It would take us a year to fill out this damn thing, Scully." "That woman is obviously unclear on the concept. We're federal agents. We can do what we want." Mulder looked up at her and grinned. "And you love that, don't you, Scully?" She shrugged. "It's occasionally convenient." "All gone." The street woman next to them had suddenly stopped humming. Scully turned to her kindly. "I'm sorry, ma'am?" The woman nodded and grinned at her. "All gone, you see." "How do you mean?" She waited, feeling Mulder's warmth against her arm as he leaned in towards the old woman. "Like that, my dear," she explained reasonably. "Just like that. They all go." "Who?" Mulder's voice was gentle. "Oh, you know. The others." "Others like you?" "Hmmm. But then he went too." She suddenly looked ravaged, her lower lip trembling as though she'd just at that moment remembered something crucial. Scully lay a hand against the woman's shoulder. "I'm sorry." The woman looked up wildly and shook her head. "Oh, no. No. Not like that. Not dead. Antonio's not dead." "I'm sure he's okay." "No no no no. You don't understand." The woman was becoming shriller. Scully glanced at Mulder quickly. His eyes were riveted on the woman. The older woman eyes pleaded at them through her hair. "I'd know if he was dead. He's gone. Just gone." "Ma'am..." Scully began soothingly, rubbing the woman's arm. "Where do you think he went?" Mulder interrupted. Scully stiffened. The woman relaxed as she looked at him gratefully. God. This was probably the first time in years that anyone had listened to her for more than 30 seconds. She rocked earnestly. "I don't know. Gone to join the others, I suppose. We're all going." "All of you?" She nodded, smiling. "A nice place. Goin' to a nice warm place." And then her lips trembled again as tears began to wander down her face, leaving white tracks in the dirt. "Oh, but I miss him. Miss him so. So miss him so much miss him so I..." She trailed off into incoherent mumbles and lapsed into tuneless humming once again. Scully stared at Mulder's face. His expression was unreadable, but she knew him well enough to recognize the diffuse pain in his eyes. For some reason, she was almost intolerably moved by the sight of it. Scully leaned towards him, her eyes closing as she pressed her lips quickly against the dark stubble on his chin before drawing back once more. "Let's go, G-man." CONTINUED IN PART 12 THE PACT (PART 12) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE OEDIPUS: Do you think you can say such things with impunity? TEIRESIAS: I do -- if truth has any power to save. OEDIPUS: It has -- but not for you; no, not for you, Shameless and brainless, sightless, senseless sot! -- Oedipus Rex, Sophocles "WARNING: Send feedback or I'll start quoting stuff in the original Greek." After wandering drab pea-green hallways for what seemed like an eternity, Mulder finally succeeded in capturing the attention of a plainclothes lieutenant on his brisk way to somewhere else. To Scully's astonishment, he did it the hard way, by pinioning the man against the wall. She couldn't exactly blame him. Everyone whose eye they'd tried to catch had mumbled something, waved a hand and stared pointedly at his or her watch before speeding up and disappearing around one of the building's apparently numberless corners. The man was startled, to say the least, and he stared up at Mulder's badge, paling visibly. The fact that Mulder was waving it about an inch from his face probably didn't help. "See this?" He said amiably. "Yeah, yeah, I see it. Whaddabout it?" "Do you know what it means?" "It means you're feds," the other man said weakly. Mulder smiled and shook his head. "No. It means we're allowed to stop you in this manner and request politely that you assist us immediately." "I'm busy. Can't ya ask someone else?" Mulder leaned even closer. "But I like *you.*" The other man cringed and pressed himself back into the wall. Scully chortled and let him squirm for a moment before laying a hand on her partner's arm. "We're having a hard time convincing anyone that we're even here, sir. This'll only take a few minutes." Mulder backed off but seemed prepared to lunge again if the detective made a run for it. The man smoothed his jacket and stood up straight. "Awright, awright. What is it you want?" He looked up at Mulder hastily. "Uh, I mean, what's the problem?" Mulder batted his eyelashes at him as he ran a hand through his hair and tossed his head girlishly, shrugging. God. He was totally outrageous. Scully shook her head admiringly. The fact that Mulder never seemed to give a damn what anyone thought of him was one of the things she loved most about him. In any case, they now had the detective's undivided, if somewhat squeamish, attention. Detective Wojanis turned out to be more helpful than they'd dared hope. As it happened, he was familiar with a couple of the missing street people and had been personally involved with the investigation of three of the murdered hooligans. "Something like two dozen petty criminals have turned up dead in the last few months," he said as he waved them towards chairs opposite his desk. "At this point the deaths are being treated individually, as separate cases." Scully looked up at him. "You don't think there's a pattern? I mean, that's a fairly high number of unexplained deaths." Wojanis pursed his lips and shrugged as he rocked on the balls of his feet a safe distance from where Mulder was sitting. "This is New York, Agent Scully. It's true we're looking at a quite a few deaths here, but it's not that unusual. These kids get snuffed all the time, by their dealers, their fences, rival gangs." He scratched his nose. "Don't be fooled by the official murder statistics, ma'am. A lot of people die in this town. Hell, we're not even sure these assholes were murdered at all." "How do you mean?" He shrugged again, a little defiantly, she thought. "No sign of violence. No stab or gunshot wounds, no evidence of strangulation or poison or overdose. These guys are just dead. For no apparent reason." "Autopsy reports?" He nodded as he turned to his desk and picked up three manilla file folders a clerk had deposited there minutes earlier. "Natural causes. Whatever that means." Scully studied the paperwork for a long moment. Mulder was being unusually well-behaved as he lounged against her, peeking over her shoulder. He looked up at the detective. "These autopsies weren't thorough." She glanced at him. He was right. And the fact that he could tell so quickly was impressive. Every once in a while, Scully forgot how good he was at this. Wojanis shifted uneasily. "Minimal autopsies, as they're required by law. We don't have the time or the manpower to spend a whole lot of time on these kinds of cases." According to these reports, the subjects had simply stopped living. There was no evidence of internal trauma in the chest or body cavity and, as the detective had already mentioned, no sign of external violence. "The coroner didn't do any work on the victims' heads." "Other than a visual examination, no. Too time-consuming." "I don't get it, Lieutenant." She looked at him. "Surely the fact that there's no other evident cause of death would make the need for a cranial autopsy obvious." Wojanis pointed to one of the coroner's scribbles. "As I recall, he decided against it based on the lack of external symptoms, Agent Scully." She snorted. "That's ridiculous." The detective drew up and bristled. "We do what we can." "Are the bodies still in the morgue?" Mulder. Wojanis shook his head. "They've all been claimed. The last death happened a week ago." "Nice to know someone cared about the poor buggers," Scully murmured absently. Mulder looked at her. "About them, maybe. Not about the street people who've gone missing altogether." The detective blew air sharply through pursed lips. "There's no evidence whatsoever that anyone's missing, Agent Mulder." "You've heard the rumours. You admitted as much." "Of course I've heard rumours. And that's exactly what they are. What do you suggest -- that we comb the city to look for people with no names and no faces?" Wojanis sighed and sat down heavily in a battered wooden swivel chair. "Fact is, we can barely handle the street crazies, hookers and addicts we've still got, Agent Mulder. Say you're right and a few of 'em have disappeared lately. I hate to say it, but so what? Why would we want to find them? So we can bring 'em back to hang around the alleys and parks? So we can book 'em every second day, fill up the beds at Bellevue, stink up the drunk tanks? As it is, we don't have the budget to deal with dangerous criminals properly. You know that. " Mulder said nothing and Scully waited for a moment, studying him, biting her lip. He had something in mind -- but what? In the end, it didn't much matter. The file on the latest victim described the death as the 26th of its kind in Manhattan over the last three months. None of the bodies, according to what she saw as frankly slipshod autopsy reports, exhibited any definable cause of death. Missing people were one thing. This was quite another -- but it was just as much of an X-File. "Actually, Detective Wojanis," she said bluntly, "the fact is there's something going on here that the NYPD isn't dealing with -- and it doesn't have anything to do with street people." Both men looked at her, startled. "You've got 26 similar victims who seem to be dead for no reason and you're trying to tell me these deaths have nothing in common?" Wojanis pulled at his collar uncomfortably. "Look, Agent Scully. I told you. These cases are being treated individually. That boils down to maybe two or three per precinct maximum, although one is much more common. No one's studying patterns here." "The cases should be brought together, Detective. They should be viewed as one case until there's sufficient evidence to prove otherwise." Mulder stared at her. Shades of Miami -- in reverse. But it was unusual for her to acknowledge these kinds of patterns. Was she actually coming to the same conclusion as he was? Entirely on her own? He grinned. God. Could it be he was finally rubbing off on her just a little? And then she gave him a look. "Don't get too excited, Muldoon. I'm not sure what I believe yet." Son of a bitch. She was reading his fucking mind. Wojanis's gaze shifted from one to the other. "Yeah. Well. Interesting idea, Agent Scully. I'll bring it up at the annual meeting of every detective in Manhattan." He suddenly clapped a hand against his forehead. "Oops. Forgot. We don't have that kind of meeting." Scully made an impatient gesture. "Don't give me that crap. It's a question of mustering your resources a little." "What resources, for Christ's sake?" Wojanis stopped rocking in his chair and glared at her. "Fine. Whatever." She got up and leaned across the desk. "I want all the files on these cases and I want them by tomorrow. I want you to keep me posted about any new victims and I want to be personally implicated in any further autopsies. Is that clear, Detective?" Mulder tried to catch his breath. Jesus. She was so sexy when she did that. And the thing was, she was right. Whatever else they'd come to investigate, and even if the hypothesis which was percolating in his brain turned out to be a dud, there was definitely something rotten in the Borough of Manhattan. Wojanis just sat and stared at her. "Perfectly clear. As you know, I'm just dying for something to do." To his credit, he kept the words relatively venom-free. She handed him a card. "Use the cell phone number. By noon." Mulder stood and began to follow her towards the door. He smirked. After all, there was nothing to add. "By the way," Wojanis said. "It's true what they say, huh? The government doesn't pay very well." What the hell was he babbling on about? "We're undercover, Detective." Scully. Right. Their clothes. Mulder had already forgotten about them. Wojanis snorted. "Really? That's beautiful. That really is. I can't believe I didn't figure it out right away." He started laughing outright. Mulder grinned. "Are you saying we're not convincing, Wojanis?" The other man threw up his hands. "Me? Wouldn't dream of it. You're the big bad government boys -- hell, you *always* know what you're doing. Personally, though, I think you look unemployed, not unemployable." "Don't worry, Wojanis -- this is just the beginning. Agent Scully and I are on a downward spiral. After a few more weeks without medication, we'll blend right in." Scully rolled her eyes. "Don't encourage him, Mulder. He's already not taking us seriously enough." The detective stopped laughing abruptly. "You're wrong, Agent Scully. I take my job very seriously. If you wanna know the truth, I even agree with you." She looked at him with new respect. Interesting. This was a man with real integrity after all. Overworked and underpayed, certainly. But he hadn't entirely let go of his ideals despite the thanklessness of his work. "But as it happens," he continued, "I just don't have the luxury of spending time on cases that don't matter. And frankly I'm surprised you do." "If he says anything about the use of his tax dollars, Scully, I'll hold him down and you can let him have it." The other man smiled weakly. "Get the hell outta here and try to stay out of trouble. You're giving me a headache on top of my headache." "Tomorrow, Wojanis." "Yeah, yeah." He pushed them through the door, not unkindly, Scully thought, and shut it in their face. CONTINUED IN PART 13 THE PACT (PART 13) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "100% cancer-free!" Hi there. I'm going to be away for a couple of weeks, so although I may get a chance to send out part 14 before I go, there's going to be a short hiatus on chapters. I apologize for the slow pace of this thing, but I'm having a lot of fun -- in fact, more than I've ever had with one of these long stories -- so I appreciate your patience. Thanks for all the kind letters. When they emerged from the precinct, the wind had turned vicious and the sky was close to dark. Scully shivered and smiled faintly as she felt Mulder's arm tighten around her shoulder, drawing her closer as they headed back towards the coffee shop. She luxuriated in the warmth of him for a moment, reflecting absently that they were walking, as they did almost everything these days, in perfect unison. Love's first glow, she thought a little ruefully. They were both still smitten and she knew it; sometimes, every once in a while, she wondered how long it would last. After all, they'd had a few good spats over the years. In fact, hadn't they gone through a stage when they'd barely talked to each other civilly at all? It all seemed vague and distant now. She could be bitchy as hell and she knew it, knew that he knew it too and for some reason actually seemed to revel in it. He, on the other hand, was no bed of roses either. Self-centred in many ways. Obsessed. Moody and often silent when he wasn't actually babbling. But the fact was they both knew each other extremely well. They'd had time enough to learn. And the tension that had often sprung up between them back then had stemmed, she rather suspected, from frustrated lust on both their parts. Well. That was then. They'd spent years building the foundation: now it was time to move in and enjoy the house a little. She smiled again and wrapped her arm around his waist. "You take a lot of chances, Mister..." Mulder looked down at her and grinned. She knew he'd get the Star Trek reference. Mirror, Mirror. The Original Series. God. Mulder really was the King of Nerds. Unfortunately, she was his Queen, and what did that say about her? "So do you, lieutenant. So do you." "I mean, we're walking arm in arm in broad daylight." He shrugged. "It's almost night. And no one knows who we are, Scully. That's the beauty of big cities." "DC's a big city." "Not big enough." She could hear the regret in his voice. Oddly enough, he seemed to hate sneaking around a lot more than she did. Scully got a thrill from the secret life they led, although it was probable at this point that they were fooling absolutely no one who mattered. Skinner, for one, had given them enough strange looks to make them both wonder whether he'd sussed them out. At any rate, he'd obviously decided to say nothing about it. For now. As for the veiled ones, the hidden ones who played in the shadows, she was damned if she'd let them have any more say in their lives. They'd already stripped them of almost everything they'd had and she wasn't about to let them have this. Hell. She was prepared to kill them if they tried. By the time they made their way back to the cafe, CK had already slipped away on some shady errand with fervent promises, at least according to Juan, that he would introduce them to some people in the morning. "Whatever," Scully snorted. Juan turned to her a little disapprovingly. "It would be a mistake not to take that guy seriously. He knows a lot of people." "So does Mulder. And I don't like hanging around most of his friends either." "She's so mean, isn't she?" Mulder said lightly. "Pretty as a picture, but man -- nasty, nasty." Juan nodded thoughtfully. "Wouldn't want to get on her bad side." "I don't know, Juan. Something tells me you're already there." "Oh, shut up, both of you." Miss Sweeny, who'd been poking a pen at the New York Times Crossword and mumbling crossly to herself since they'd arrived, finally looked up. "Don't listen to them, dear. Stay feisty as hell and don't give men an inch unless they offer you a mile -- it keeps 'em on their toes." Scully suspected the old woman knew a thing or two about that. "Great. We're stuck on the streets of New York with Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford, Juan. Hold on to your privates." "Are you suggesting Miss Sweeny and I are ball breakers, Mulder?" "I didn't say it. Did I say that, Juan?" "I didn't hear you say that. You'd never use such unladylike language, Agent Mulder." "Assholes," Miss Sweeny muttered. Mulder's eyes widened in feigned astonishment as he wagged a finger at her. "Now, now, Miss Sweeny. You're being a bad influence on Scully." "And *stop* calling her that, Fox! It's absurd." "Her other names are already taken, ma'am," he said sweetly, smiling lasciviously at Scully. "Mulder..." Her tone was dangerous. All she needed now was for the whole world to know he used her given names for her breasts. "Taken how?" Scully stood up suddenly. "That's enough. Let's do something." "Like what?" Juan squinted up at her curiously. "The shelters. It's a cold night; they'll be packed." Mulder nodded. "Juan's already booked us some space. The woman's shelter is about nine blocks away. We'll walk you." "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." Miss Sweeny cackled. "Hope you're armed, sweetie. Otherwise we're both in big trouble." Scully glared at her. "Believe me. This is a cakewalk compared to what we're used to." "You obviously haven't spent a night in a shelter, little girl." Mulder got up and stretched. "Don't worry, Miss Sweeny. It takes a lot to spook Scully. Well, except for cats. She really gets weirded out around cats." "That is *such* a lie, Mulder." "At least," Miss Sweeny said wearily, "it'll be a relief to separate the two of you for a while. People in love are a real pain in the ass." "As it happens, I don't love him anymore." "Hah." They paused for a moment outside the door, shivering as they pulled their coats tightly around them. Scully felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the real street people out there, the ones who had to spend the night out in this. Funny how you never really thought about the lives these people led. You saw them from the corner of your eye when you saw them at all, and meanwhile their lives went on, minute by minute, day by day. She knew that only the fairly together ones ever made it to the shelters. The others, the vast majority, spent freezing nights in alleys and on benches in the world's wealthiest nation. Ridiculous. God. She was starting to sound like Miss Sweeny. Mulder handed her a piece of paper. "That's the address of both shelters. Call me if there's anything." "As it is we have a no chance in hell of convincing anyone we're legit, Mulder. A ringing cell phone'll cinch it." "Everyone carries cell phones these days, Scully." "Idiot." "Just use it if you find anything important. And be careful, okay?" She knew he was really asking her to keep a close eye on Miss Sweeny. "I doubt I'll be getting much sleep in any case." "Ah, c'mon. You can sleep anywhere. Keeping you awake is the hard part." "Maybe that's because nothing exciting ever happens to me when I'm horizontal, Mulder." Juan giggled. "Ooooooo. Low blow." "It's okay. I'm too confident a man to sink to her level." "Anyway, what I really want is a shower." "Don't do it, Scully. The smellier you get, the more convincing you'll be." "Oh, good. Something to live for." He stooped and kissed the tip of her nose. "See you in the morning." CONTINUED IN PART 14 THE PACT (PART 14) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "The Pact: alive and kicking!" This portion of "Pact" brought to you by Vatican Laundry Detergent with powerful added SinGuard (TM): "Not just White! Pure and Bright!"* * ATTENTION FOX LAWYERS: This is a joke. The only payment I receive for writing this bloody thing is mockery and threats for taking so long. DEDICATION: This was, and continues to be, for Connie Wojanis, whose patience, friendship and support takes my breath away. DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE (Remember part one? Bet you don't!) NEW YORK CITY FRIDAY, 12:02 AM It had fed and fed and yet its hunger seemed to grow. It grew. Its hunger fed it and it grew stronger, but with this strength came a new, more desperate hunger. This was its destiny. The stronger it grew, the more it would have to feed. It would feed until balance was restored, until the poison released by the Mother's misguided children was absorbed and rendered harmless. It had started with the small ones, the petty thieves of the city. But as its power grew, it would turn to bigger game. To do so, it would flow over the mistakes of mankind, its victims, absorbing them inside itself to give it strength and direction. It would use their need, their anger, their innocence, to guide it. And in its wake it would leave only the empty shells of those who preyed on weakness, those who tarnished Her world, blemished it, sentenced it to death. Already it could feel the clamour of new voices within the blackness of its belly, the lost ones whose anguish informed it, whose own losses mirrored its own. Soon it would be ready to surge out into the world after bigger quarry. It would wash over the infernal machines, the power plants with their hot toxic metal hearts, the factories of man which vomited filth into Her waters, Her skies. It would surge over poisoned earth leached by man's chemicals and find the sources of the rape against the Mother. In its wake it would leave only silence. And with time, the broken machines and the shells of the men who had run them would be reclaimed by the earth. They would return to the bosom of the Mother which had borne them. Along the way, it would find new voices to guide it until it carried in itself the entire outrage of the human race. In the end, mankind itself would direct its own downfall. So it was ordained, and so it would be. Soon. NEW YORK CITY WOMEN'S SHELTER, EAST VILLAGE BRANCH FRIDAY, 12:10 AM Scully had expected far worse, but it was still pretty bad. They'd found their way past the tiny, cramped lobby where children and women crowded, some frightened and quiet, others demanding attention loudly. It was obvious that some had been beaten, by husbands, boyfriends or pimps most probably, but the saddest sight of all were the children, most of them young and all of them drawn and exhausted but wide- eyed with nervousness as they clutched their mother's hands or cowered against walls. "They won't even let women bring their sons in here past the age of 12, did you know that?" Miss Sweeny said conversationally as she coughed and wiped her mouth. Scully pursed her lips. She knew that. What she didn't know was where the boys went in those cases. "Sometimes they go to children's shelters," Miss Sweeny continued as though Scully had spoken out loud, "but then they may get caught up in the system, so most mothers with older boys just don't come to these kinds of places." "You know a lot about this kind of thing, ma'am." The old woman shrugged. "Had a few landlord problems over the years. The bastards." She coughed again. "They're rolling in dough but they lock you out when you're just a couple weeks late with the rent." Scully studied her companion as they waited in line near the desk. A lone harried woman behind it was trying to deal singlehandedly with the chaos. "Cold night. Makes it worse. Everyone wants a warm place to sleep," Miss Sweeny muttered. "This cough of yours..." Miss Sweeny snorted derisively and waved a hand. "It's nothing, sweetheart. I'm an old bag. Everything's starting to go. But I'm not doin' too badly, so don't you go worrying your pretty little head." Scully felt herself bristle lightly. "Has Mulder told you that I'm a doctor?" She kept her voice low. Miss Sweeny stopped coughing abruptly and stared at her. Scully chuckled. "It sounds like bronchitis to me. Or the beginning of pneumonia. You should get it checked out." The older woman was still staring at her. "You know, angel, I hate doctors. Smug, self-satisfied bastards, every last one of 'em." Scully choked, which made Miss Sweeny grin widely. "Besides, dearie, you don't need a degree to come up with that kind of diagnosis. It's bloody obvious." Scully was still coughing. "You know, you really should get that checked out, love. Sounds nasty." Miss Sweeny's tone was positively gleeful. The cough finally sputtered to a halt as she gave the old woman a baleful look and turned to the social worker behind the desk. NEW YORK CITY MEN'S SHELTER, EAST VILLAGE BRANCH FRIDAY, 12:14 AM Mulder and Juan had finally found their beds in a large room where about 20 cots were jammed in against each other. Not much privacy, but then, most of these men were probably used to sleeping on top of hot-air grills in rat-infested alleyways. Mulder squinted at the harsh lights, grey walls and equally grey linen. All in all, he shuddered, he could understand why someone would choose a grill over this when the night wasn't cold enough to snap your ass off. He glanced over at his companion. Juan had been strangely quiet since they'd left the coffeeshop. There was nothing madcap about him now; he looked serious and tired as he tested the cot's spring before sitting on it gingerly. "You okay, Juan?" The little man looked up. "I'm fine, Mulder." Sure. That's what they all say. He felt a sudden pang of loneliness for Scully and wondered how the women were doing. Christ. She could take care of herself. She always did. Still. Even though Juan was a lot of fun, all in all he'd rather be sleeping with her. "At least it's fairly clean," Juan muttered. "This your first time?" The clerk guffawed. "Oh, no. I usually stay here when I come to New York to take in a few shows. The laundry service is particularly first-rate." Mulder chuckled. "Must be because there's so little call for it in these parts." That much was certain. A miasma of odours ranging from simple dirt to dried urine and vomit was beginning to rise in the overheated air as other men in various states of disrepair drifted in and began to settle for the night. Mulder's stomach lurched and he tried to reason with it. That's what he always did when nausea hit, which was quite often, unfortunately. Stupid of him to try, really, because reason had never worked before. He cursed silently and wished that God had seen fit to equip him with a stronger stomach. One like Scully's. Nothing disgusted that woman. Christ. She could eat animal parts during a fucking autopsy. He'd seen her chow down on a burger once while cutting open a man who'd been dead for weeks, and just the sight had been enough to make him run for the nearest toilet. Well. She *had* thrown up that time with the Space Amish, hadn't she? Of course, that was because she'd almost done the nasty with a gender-shifting alien who caused people's insides to explode during sex. Hell. He'd never get sick over a little thing like *that*. Must've had something to do with her Catholic upbringing. "Feeling a little queasy, Mulder?" He looked up to see Juan's impish face sparkling at him, although there was genuine sympathy there too. "My, my. Well. I always figured you were a sensitive guy." Mulder sneered wanly at him. "We'd better hurry if you want to ask these people questions, sweetie. Lights out in half an hour." Most of the men growled or flailed at them; Mulder's stomach churned and flopped a few times despite the fact he hadn't eaten much all day. Scully hadn't eaten much either, he suddenly remembered. He hoped she'd found time to grab something. Then he took that thought and the images it summoned in his mind and laid them aside *very* gingerly. They hit paydirt with a fearful old man who smelled better than most of his neighbours. He also made a certain amount of sense. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." His eyes roamed restlessly as he huddled on his bed, his back to the wall. "I seen two of my buddies go away." Mulder leaned a little closer. "How d'you mean, 'go away'?" "Like I says, they was there and next thing you know they're gone. Just like that." "Were you drinking at the time?" The old man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You a cop?" Mulder shook his head wearily. "You look like a cop." "Cops dress better, sir," Juan said sweetly. "It don't matter. You sound like a cop." "I'm looking for my father," Mulder began. "And no one wants to help us. He's been on the street for years." He tapped his forehead with a finger. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," the old man nodded and grinned. "There's the rubbies and there's the crazies. Sometimes they're both. Anyways, the only difference is the rubbies ain't nuts. But both of 'em go away." "So you're saying you ain't nuts, right?" Mulder smiled at him. The other man nodded vehemently and kept grinning. "No, sir, no, sir. This is whaddya call a career choice." "So what about your friends?" "I was gonna join 'em; they usually had a bottle by the afternoon. Sometimes I get one but I always share, you know?" He seemed terribly serious all of a sudden. "I always share. Always." "I'm sure you do. So you were going to join them?" "Yeah, yeah. But then I sees this black cloud, this terrible thing, you know? An' it was dark in the alley, it gets dark so early in winter. That's when I seen that there was these guys there too, young punks, and they was makin' fun of my buddies, and one was kicking ol' Herb, who ain't never hurt nothin', not even a fly, and Herb..." The old man's lips began to quiver and Mulder felt a pang as tears began to spill from the other man's eyes and snot bubbled out of his nose. "Juan..." he murmured. "You got a tissue?" The clerk shot him a dour look and pulled out a large elaborately patterned handkerchief which he handed reluctantly to the man. "Versace," he said through clenched teeth. "It's for a good cause, Juan." It was obvious the old man was completely tanked. He snuffled noisily into the handkerchief, which led to little spasms of distaste and grief in Juan. Finally, he calmed down enough to look up at the two with rheumy eyes and a tear-streaked face. "You were saying that Herb..." "Yeah, yeah. Herb was jes lyin' there, kinda jerkin' around. I couldn't see much an' I was scared, you know? I wanted to help, but I ain't as strong as I was..." Tears began to threaten again as Mulder patted the older man on the arm. "I know. It's perfectly understandable. So what happened?" The man sniffed and snorted noisily into the handkerchief. Juan swore softly in Spanish. "So the cloud just moved up, you know? Then you couldn't see nothin'. Not my buddies, not those punks. It was like there was nothin' there except this blackness, which kinda... kinda..." The old man grasped for words. "Kind of what?" Mulder said gently. "Kinda just... boiled, you know?" He smiled triumphantly. "That's it. It was boiling like. Ain't never seen nothin' like it. So I got the hell outta there." "Did you go back." The old man shook his head sadly. "I was scared. An' then I never seen them again. They found the punks later, though. Dead. I heard about it from Sal down at the mission. They been findin' a lot of bodies, but it ain't never ours." He sniffed and wiped his nose. "We just go away. That's what they want anyway, ain't it?" Mulder jumped as a high trilling sound cut through his concentration. Jesus. The cell phone. Scully wouldn't use it lightly under these circumstances. Something was up -- or something was wrong. He yanked it out and pulled it open, watching as Juan tried to soothe the old man who'd pulled back closer against the wall, gibbering uncontrollably. Mulder turned away and in to hide the phone as best he could. "Yeah?" "Mulder, it's me." God. Why did she always say that? He fought down a strange mixture of panic and irritation. "Something wrong, Scully?" He heard her expel a sharp breath. "Detective Wojanis called. Fortunately, I'm in a room with very sane mothers who think I'm some kind of undercover cop at this point. The phone pretty much cinched it, but at least no one panicked." "Been there. Why'd he call?" "They've found three more bodies in a subway tunnel. Kids, 20 years tops; one Caucasian, one African American, one Hispanic." "Did they kill each other?" "There's no evidence of trauma whatsoever, Mulder. Just like the others." "See? Who says we can't all get along?" She ignored him. "I'm on my way to the morgue. Wanna come?" "Wouldn't miss it for the world. Juan's not being remotely amusing tonight." CONTINUED IN PART 15 THE PACT (PART 15) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Where every chapter is Small Potatoes" *** RATED R FOR LANGUAGE AND SEXUAL INNUENDO **** DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY MANHATTAN CENTRAL MORGUE FRIDAY, 2:11 AM Mulder walked into the all-too-familiar smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde. Scully was leaning over the body of a naked black youth who even in death seemed to radiate good health and... impressive fitness. She was wrapped in her usual shapeless surgical greens, her face buried in a mask and goggles. God. She still managed to look totally sexy. Of course, he was the first to admit this might be the result of the innumerable fantasies he'd wrought over the years involving exactly this setting and this precise, deceptively unalluring, wardrobe. Mulder tried to tell himself that it was irrational to be jealous of a corpse despite Scully's proximity to certain frankly surreal areas of it. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. As men went, he was fine, great, somewhat exceptional even. As Caucasian men went, apparently. Christ. Wasn't that supposed to be a stereotype? Except that, as a man, this was one stereotype he wished his race was saddled with. White people got all the really boring stereotypes. He shifted uncomfortably. How long did rigour mortis last anyway? Twenty-four hours. Something like that. He bit his lip. That was about 10 hours too long, judging by the estimated time of death she'd reported over the phone. Jesus. Well. At least the body didn't smell yet. Mulder wasn't sure his stomach could've coped with yet another revolting odour. "Scully?" She looked up. "Hmmph?" It was clear she was completely engrossed by the glistening guts in front of her. What a woman. "Anything?" "Not yet, Mulder. But I'm not exactly surprised." A snorted expletive came from the shadows near the wall. Mulder look up, startled. A very rumpled Detective Wojanis emerged into the light, running a frustrated hand through sandy, close-cropped hair. It was clear he'd been pacing for a while. Yet another thing that didn't jibe with Mulder's fantasy. In his elaborate dreams, there'd been no men around at all, dead or alive, except for him. Which was just the way he liked it. Just him, Scully, gleaming metal surfaces and a whole lot of readily unfastened surgical greens. Oops. Judging by the uneasy look on Wojanis's face, Mulder had glared at him for no good reason at all. "Uh..." "Yes, Detective?" Mulder said briskly. "I..." The detective threw a glance at him. "Um, the three boys were found a few hours ago." "And?" He could've sworn he heard Scully chuckle and he cursed himself for the sharpness of his tone. "They were, um, dead." Mulder thrust his chin impatiently at the autopsy table. "I'd already figured that part out." "Yeah." Wojanis squirmed before shoving his hands into his pockets defiantly. "But they're just like the others. No apparent cause of death." "So?" "So she's actin' like we've been covering somethin' up." "Who?" "Her." He pointed weakly at Scully. "Agent Scully?" "Yeah." "I find that hard to believe. Agent Scully is a consummated professional." She glanced at him over her mask. Her eyes were warm and dancing with mirth. "I think you mean 'consummate,'" she sniggered. "I always say what I mean." "What the hell are you guys talking about?" Wojanis said plaintively. "Nothing. You were saying, lieutenant?" "Look. I'm just as fed up with this as you are." Wojanis looked pleadingly at Mulder. "All these punks dead for no reason. Believe me -- it's gonna make the news one of these days. And then it'll be up to the NYPD to clean the whole mess up." "So you're saying you hope Scully finds a reason." The detective threw his hands in the air. "Yeah! Yeah, of course I hope she finds a reason. I mean, we're talking about the city's refuse here, but that doesn't mean I sleep better at night knowin' these corpses are poppin' up like fucking daffodils in springtime!" Mulder nodded. "Could you step outside, please?" "Huh?" "Agent Scully and I need to review the findings." Wojanis gazed helplessly from one to the other. Scully nodded. "I've already informed Lieutenant Wojanis that all the cases will be officially transferred to the Manhattan FBI office in the morning." She stood up straight and stretched her back. Christ -- she had to be exhausted. Scully was never at her best in the middle of the night. Mulder suddenly smiled wolfishly. Well. Of course, that depended on the circumstances. But generally she was always better when she'd had at least eight hours' sleep. "You got no call to do that. Agent Mulder, she's got no right..." "She has every right," Mulder snapped. "At this point, these cases should be examined together. There's enough evidence to surmise that they're related." "It's circumstantial at best..." "Give us a few minutes, Detective." The other man gazed at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he nodded and walked out. He turned to her. "Well?" Scully looked at him. "Well what?" Mulder stepped up to her. "You got something that justifies taking this out of local police hands?" He looked down at her. The harsh light reflected sharply from her goggles. God. "You know I do, Mulder. More than 20 bodies, similar victims, no apparent cause of death upon cursory autopsy." "Doesn't prove a thing." She stared at him. "Isn't that my line, Muldoon?" "Not this time, apparently." He gazed at her evenly as she pushed the goggles up over her forehead and lowered her mask, breathing deeply. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her face that suddenly made him want to lick it. "Don't get me wrong, Scully. I think you're right. But we don't have any evidence." She snorted. "When's that ever stopped you?" He bristled. Then he stopped. "Just do the autopsy, okay? Including the brain. We gotta find out how they died." She said nothing and studied him evenly for a moment before raising her mask. "Sure, Mulder. Fine. What..." "Scully, *please*." Mulder escaped while she sawed through the victim's skull, reassuring Wojanis and sending him home to wait for further news. He grabbed a coffee and debated getting one for her, but she never drank the stuff after eight or so, even when she had to stay up. Funny. Scully loved her sleep, but she had an amazing ability to stay awake and alert when she had to. In fact, she was better at it than he was. He returned to find her talking excitedly into her pocket tape recorder. She turned it off and looked at him. "No question about it, Mulder. I'll need tissue samples to be absolutely sure, but at first glance there's no question that we're looking at massive internal cerebral trauma." "What kind of trauma?" She spread her hands. "You name it. This guy's brain looks like someone swung a bat at it." She paused. "From inside." Christ. She was positively glowing with excitement. "Drugs?" Scully shook her head. "If it is, it's nothing we've ever seen. It's almost as though every cell exploded individually." "Exploded how?" Scully pulled off her gloves with a wet snap and turned to him. "For Christ's sake, Mulder. I don't know! Why does it matter right now? It killed him. It would've killed anyone." He shrugged. "They're gonna want answers." She gave an exasperated sigh. "Who?" "We've appropriated the case, Scully. We have to be able to defend why we did it." "Since when? When did you start caring about that stuff? Jesus, Mulder. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? Something strange is going on here. We've got bodies with jello for brains and no other cause of death. Isn't that enough of an X-File for you?" He shrugged. "You've only done one autopsy. There's no proof that we're looking at more than an isolated case." She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, eyes wide. "You're making fun of me." It was Mulder's turn to stare. "I'm not." Scully nodded vehemently and flung her mask and goggles on the counter. "You *are*! You're laughing in my face. Just because I'm actually agreeing with you for once." He guffawed. "How can you be agreeing with me when I haven't come to any conclusions yet?" "You can't deny you think there's something wrong here." Mulder shook his head. "I don't deny that. I'm just not willing to draw any conclusions based on one corpse and a lot of speculation. This is too important, Scully. Too many people have already died, and just as many have gone missing. We need to be sure we've got a case when the local FBI heavy asks us what the hell we're doing." He waited. He could feel her anger crackle in the air. "I mean, we've been shafted before, Scully. Remember Miami?" She cringed visibly and he suddenly hated himself for reawakening the memory. But dammit -- it was true. She'd unilaterally decided to transfer the case to the Bureau and frankly they were treading on thin ice here; it would take almost nothing for their New York superiors to dismiss them and send them back to Washington with their tails between their legs. Especially if they suddenly claimed that more than 50 deaths and disappearances were somehow related. It would look like yet another Mulder-and-Scully circle jerk. He wanted to spare her this and besides, he wanted to know the truth. He needed to know they had a leg to stand on before they made any kind of claim. And doing so required proof. Dammit. Before Miami, he'd never given a fuck about proof. Since then, he'd used proof to rebuild their reputations, bit by bit. He'd done it for her. And now she was acting as though he'd betrayed her. Mulder looked at her. She was pale; tired. Her lips were drawn and tight. His heart swelled. But judging by how mad she looked, she wouldn't grant him this emotion either. Would she? She didn't. "Give me a break, Mulder. There's no relation between what happened in Miami and what's going on here." Christ. Her voice was ice. "Scully..." She waved a hand and brushed by him suddenly before he could reach for her. "I'm going back to the shelter. You wanted me to look after Miss Sweeny and right now she's there alone." "Listen to me, Scully. I'm just saying..." Scully shook her head. "Drop it, Mulder. I don't need to hear you rationalizations. But I'm not about to forget what apparently happens when I finally open my mind up around you." She gazed at him evenly and he felt stabbed by it, alone, deserted, although part of him suspected he wasn't entirely blameless. "You don't want me to act like this, do you, Mulder? You don't know how to take it. You own the patent on the X-Files, isn't that right? You always have. The fact that I've spent four years immersed in your madness means nothing to you; as far as you're concerned, you're the one who's entitled to the crazy ideas and it's my job to tag along spouting good reasons why you have to be wrong. Except you often aren't, at least in your mind. But maybe Hansen was right, Mulder. Maybe you go for theories no one can prove or disprove one way or another. That way you're always safe." She shrugged as she reached for her coat. "I don't know what possessed me to believe you'd be willing to share the intimate little paranoid universe you've forged for yourself." He felt an abrupt flare of anger. She didn't understand. Not even remotely. "For fuck's sake..." "I'll be back in the morning to do the other autopsies. This time I'll start with their heads. And I can't wait to hear your refreshingly rational explanation for what I'm sure I'll find." "Sure, Scully. Fine. *Whatever.*" As the door swung shut behind her, he felt blood pound through him and wondered what the hell had just happened. CONTINUED IN PART SIXTEEN THE PACT (PART 16) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Am I a 'shipper? Nah. I just don't have a problem with best friends sleeping together." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY MANHATTAN CENTRAL MORGUE FRIDAY, 10:13 AM Mulder made a point of arriving late the next morning. Nothing had improved overnight; if anything it was worse because now he was mad as hell too. After she'd left, he'd spent the first couple of hours tossing and turning on his cot back at the shelter, burying his nose in his overcoat to drown out the smell and listening to Juan's contented, even snores. Juan was just like Scully; apparently, he could sleep anywhere. His belly crawled with the fight they'd had. Mulder had fought down the almost overwhelming urge to call her. He needed to talk to her, to make up somehow, but he knew she wouldn't listen. She'd just see it as an acknowledgement of guilt on his part, and dammit, he'd done nothing wrong. Hell. He'd only played the role she always played. And he'd done it for a good reason. Not to taunt her; not to discredit her. Just because she wasn't doing it this time and it was an important role, one he'd come to rely on when his own excitement got out of hand. She'd always grounded him. And now she was pissed off that he'd turned the tables on her. Despite the fact he'd put up with it graciously for years when it came from her, despite the fact that she'd made a career out of undermining his theories. Well. It was true he hadn't always been altogether gracious, but he'd never stormed out of building because of it. So maybe he'd snapped at her once or twice. That was all. No big deal when you considered how relentless she was about spouting protocol and logic when they patently didn't apply. And now for once he'd said the kind of stuff she always said and she'd gone ballistic on him. God. It was completely outrageous. Still. It was their first real fight since Miami and he was shocked by how badly it had shaken him. Christ. They used to fight all the time and it had never seemed to matter much back then. As the minutes turned into hours, he felt his own anger rise until he could taste it like bile in his throat. His stomach churned, but now it had nothing to do with the smell. The smug, self-righteous little bitch. Nothing Doctor Scully ever did was wrong. Everything Spooky Mulder did was full of shit. That's what it all boiled down to, wasn't it? At least he'd never shot a fellow agent in the face. And he'd never shot his partner. How many times had she pointed a gun at him at this point? Never mind the time she'd actually pulled the trigger. Bitterness twisted through him as he lay there and he gasped suddenly, biting his lip. Jesus. This wasn't a train of thought he wanted to take. Not ever. Not with her. He didn't blame her for any of it. Certainly not Hansen's death. Despite the fact that Hansen's death had come close to ruining their careers and he'd spent the last long months doing bullshit work to fix it. They both had. Goddammit. Both of them. Not just him. Except she actually liked that kind of bullshit work. Didn't she? She'd never cared for the X-Files as much as he did. Why should she? She'd been assigned to debunk him, after all. It wasn't her passion, her quest. It wasn't what made her heart beat faster. He knew she cared about him. This much he knew. But the work they'd done had never resonated in her as it did in him. Had it? A warning bell went off somewhere inside him. There was something in this, something he couldn't quite grasp but which he suspected she'd tried to tell him last night. Fuck it. It didn't matter. He couldn't bear to dwell on it anymore. She was being a bitch and that was all there was to it. God only knew he was used to it. Or so he'd thought. Maybe he'd been wrong. Mulder walked into the lab, affecting a kind of swaggering indifference. He nodded at her. Scully threw him a perfunctory look and nodded back. Great. His stomach knotted. It was just like the old days. The days when for some reason they'd stopped talking altogether. "How's it goin'?" She wiped her hands and looked down at the dissected remains of another corpse. "Fine. Same pattern as last night's John Doe." She poked a scalpel at a rosy mess of brains. Mulder coughed and looked away. "It's almost as though the cerebellum imploded. I'm waiting for results on tissue samples." "Blood work?" "Preliminary results show no signs of drugs or alcohol in yesterday's body. This one indicates trace amounts of crack cocaine." "Enough to do damage?" She snorted. "Not even close. As I said last night, no drug I've ever seen could do this. In fact, I've never seen a brain in this condition, even in advanced stages of degenerative disease." "Sounds like there's a paper in it, Scully. Fame and fortune await at last." He winced; the sarcasm had slipped out before he could stop it. She studied him coolly. "If fame and fortune interested me, Mulder, I'd've never settled for the FBI basement." He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Is this the third body?" Scully nodded and began to systematically strip off gloves and gown. "They're all the same. Identical." It was hard for him to stay focused when she removed any item of clothing, but this time his blood pressure barely wavered. His lack of reaction chilled him. "Any theories on what may have caused this, Scully?" She shrugged and turned back to face him. "Nope. As you know, I usually try to steer clear of advancing any theories until I've got something to back them up with." Unlike you, Mulder. The words hung between them. He grit his teeth. "Yes. Which probably explains why you rarely have any theories at all." This time she looked up sharply and her eyes blazed at him. "Better no theory than one you can't even begin to defend, don't you think?" "Depends on your point of view, I guess." "I guess." God. He hated this. It was petty and stupid and it made him want to yak up what little breakfast he'd managed to choke down. For some reason, though, he couldn't stop. "Anyway, now that you've transferred all of this to the FBI, I guess we have to go over there and face the music." She said nothing as she continued to clean up. "I mean, it's a bit of a shame, because we know they don't like us much, right? At least the police don't know us. We could've used their resources for a while longer and actually talked to people who don't think we're some kind of lepers." Scully stopped moving and lay her hands calmly against a countertop. "What are you saying, Mulder?" "By making this a federal issue, you've opened us up to close scrutiny. The FBI's not gonna ignore close to 30 bodies, regardless of who the victims are. And believe me, Scully; they're gonna watch us. We coulda been working with good old helpful Wojanis; it's true you've pissed him off a little, but he doesn't have any good reason to hate us. Yet." She nodded. "Unlike the FBI, you're saying." "They don't trust us." Scully whirled to face him. "So what? You've never trusted them." "I've never trusted anyone. You know that." "Oh yes. That much is clear." Something in her eyes right then made him want to ram his fist through the nearest wall. He felt his throat tighten but the words kept spilling out of him like pus out of a pimple. "Anyway, Scully, it's not the point." "You're right." She stood up straight and he could see the tension in her body, the tightness in her face. "The point is that you're saying I've fucked everything up again. I've handed this case over to people who hate us because I killed a colleague. Okay -- so he was a monster, a mass murderer, a racist, a rapist. But he was a fellow agent, right? And that's all that matters." Christ. "I'm not saying that at all, Scully. I'm just saying they're not inclined to be helpful right now. That's all." She nodded, her eyes glistening. But she wasn't giving in, not an inch. "So even though we all work for the same organization, although our names have been cleared, I should act like I'm guilty and stay out of their way for the rest of my life. Is that what you're saying?" Mulder shook his head wearily. God. Every part of him hurt. "It would've been easier to avoid it. That's all I'm saying." Scully continued to gaze at him as she reached for her coat. She was fighting back tears. And she was winning. "Yes. Well, I can certainly see why you're confused. You know me: I like it when everything's easy. That's why I love the X- Files. That's why I've devoted the last four years of my life to them. They're such an easy alternative to real investigative work." With that she brushed by him and for the second time in a few hours slammed her way through the swinging door. That did it. To his horror, Mulder felt bile rise and claim him. He leaned over the sink helplessly and, as quietly as he could, retched away breakfast. CONTINUED IN PART 17 THE PACT (PART 17) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Help me. I think I'm channelling Darin Morgan's dog Fluffy." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY MANHATTAN FBI OFFICE FRIDAY, 2:41 PM Mulder had been mortified that she might have heard him vomit, but as it turned out he'd worried for nothing. By the time he'd caught up with her, she was standing outside, trying to flag a cab. She never asked him what had held him up, either. Self-centred bitch. They'd taken a stiff, silent ride across town to the FBI offices, and from there things had gone steadily downhill. Mulder was dazed to discover that things could actually get worse. They waited for more than an hour before an assistant to the assistant of the Chief of Operation's assistant would deign to see them. Scully seemed unaffected by the obvious slight as she pored over notes, reports and files. At this point, Mulder thought a little uneasily, she probably knew a lot more about these cases than he did. For some reason, she seemed completely taken by this whole business. Right. Now that there were actual bodies in the picture. Before it had just been another of Mulder's flakey wild goose chases. Hell -- this had been his case. And now she'd managed to take this away from him too. They were finally called in, and the meeting with the assistant went pretty much as badly as Mulder had expected it would. The two of them sat facing a man who was probably younger than Mulder. The fact wasn't lost on Scully; he caught the glance she threw at him and it took all he had to stop himself from wiping it off her face the hard way. Great. Now he was experiencing violent impulses. Towards his partner yet. His lover. His lover. Right. The word settled sourly in the back of his throat and twitched around a little. "Hmmm," the assistant said finally as looked up from the file on his desk. "In light of who you are, I was expecting to read about flying saucers in Central Park." "Really?" Mulder said sweetly. "Why? Have you heard something?" He felt Scully bristle next to him and almost laughed out loud. "Oh, you know. The usual," the thin young man continued calmly. "But the funny thing is that, pound for pound, I'll bet the crazies who report them are less of a burden on the taxpayer than the X-Files are." Lovely. They were in for a hell of a joyride. "I'm sure your views on the X-Files and federal policy in general are fascinating, sir," Scully said drily -- God, good for her, "but the fact is we're here for a much more concrete reason." "Yes." The other man nodded, glancing at the file again. "Which raises the question: why you?" "Well, here's what's happened...," Scully began. "According to this," the assistant interrupted, "Agent Mulder requested the case personally from Assistant Director Walter Skinner based on..." He peered deliberately slowly at a piece of paper. "Based on information from an unnamed source which Agent Mulder vouched for." "Uh..." "AD Skinner granted the request, somewhat reluctantly, it says here, due to your recent stellar success rate and an apparent willingness on his part to give you the benefit of the doubt. Is that correct?" He looked up coolly at Mulder. More than anything in the world, Mulder wanted to wrap his fingers around the other man's stringy ferret neck and squeeze, gently at first, then hard. "Yes, sir," he said through his teeth. "Except..." "That's probably more than I'd be willing to do, but AD Skinner is an unusual man, from what I understand." "Yes, sir, he is. He's exceptionally intelligent, for one thing." It was impossible to tell whether the little bureaucrat had recognized the veiled insult. "In any case," the man continued laboriously, "it says here that the assignment you requested, Agent Mulder, had to do with missing... uh... missing street people." It was actually kind of relaxing to feel livid rage against someone other than Scully. "Initially, yes. But Agent Scully here..." "Now you present me with a file about dead youths whose brains have all allegedly exploded in some way. That's fascinating. Are you certain space aliens aren't somehow involved in all this?" Sweet Jesus. Mulder felt sweat pool in his armpits. Someone had better restrain him soon or he'd do serious permanent damage to this guy. Not to mention that he was being unbelievably and deliberately sexist. He'd ignored Scully altogether since she'd stepped through the door and hadn't even acknowledged her when she spoke. This little pimply-faced pencil-neck was treating Scully like she was nothing more than Mulder's secretary. More than anything else, that made him want to rearrange the bastard's face with his fist. Mulder suddenly sat up and leaned forward a little. "Dr. Scully will tell you, sir, that the case has become more complicated since that report was filed." He suspected there was no mistaking the cool menace in his voice, at least judging by the fact that the assistant drew back just a little. He turned in time to see a startled expression on Scully's face, one laced with gratitude and... God, was it possible? Just a touch of warmth? At least the other asshole was keeping his mouth shut. Suddenly, cold fingers seemed to pinch Mulder's spine. He shivered. Son of a bitch. Maybe the bastard wasn't ignoring Scully because she was a woman. Maybe he was giving her the cold shoulder for what she'd done in Miami. "Go ahead, Agent Scully." "Um. Yes." She shifted in her chair. "What we're looking at now, sir, is documented evidence that close to 30 bodies have turned up in the city in the last few months, all of them exhibiting the same lack of external symptoms or apparent cause of death." "Muggers and small-time hoods, if I remember correctly." "Yes. Most of them have prior arrests, although a few had clean records." "And for some reason, Agent Scully, this leads you to believe the deaths are related?" Her jaw muscles jumped. "It's not an unreasonable assumption, sir, particularly when you consider the virtually identical forensic reports on the victims which show no discernable cause for decease. I've personally conducted three autopsies since last night, and what I've found..." "I've already had the privilege of studying your initial report on the matter, Agent Scully." He paused. "So has the Chief of Operations. It's very sketchy stuff, quite frankly, although I'll grant you that it raises a few questions. " The assistant leaned back and turned to Mulder once again. His gaze was even. "What I still don't grasp is what any of this has to do with your original assignment." Mulder shrugged. "We think the disappearances are somehow related to these deaths. Sir." He added it as though it were an afterthought. Scully made an impatient sound. "Actually, it's possible the two are unrelated." She ignored Mulder's startled look. "It's irrelevant in any case. We can't afford to ignore these many similar deaths in such a short period of time." Mulder sat back and tried to stop his mind from reeling. "Any theories, Agent Scully?" She shrugged. "It would be irresponsible to speculate wildly at this stage. But I also think it would be unwise to entirely dismiss the possibility of a new kind of virus or bacteria." Mulder's mouth dropped. What the hell was she talking about? The thin young man's face seemed to tighten. "Are you suggesting that this could be some kind of plague?" "It's too early to tell. I need more data. But I can safely say that I've never seen anything like this. No one has, as far as I know. And it's my professional opinion that the situation warrants close and immediate attention. In fact, I've already e-mailed my findings to the Centers for Disease Control to see whether there's any precedent for this kind of devastating cerebral breakdown." "What?" Mulder twisted in his chair and stared at her. "I'm sorry. I meant to tell you." He felt his mouth open and shut a few times. "That's ridiculous, Scully, not to mention alarmist," he snapped. "If it's a plague, why would it restrict itself to muggers who attack helpless people in alleys, parks and subway tunnels? And why have so many of these people vanished without a trace? How the hell do you explain that?" She studied him frostily. "There's absolutely no evidence that anyone has vanished, Mulder. None. Zip." "That's because they've vanished!" His voice rose and he felt his face flush. "Guess what the fucking definition of 'vanished' is?" "Please..." Mulder glanced at the assistant, who seemed positively gleeful. "I'm getting that the two of you aren't in complete agreement, but let's try to remain civil." "It's absurd to conclude that a virus is responsible for all this, Scully. You don't have any proof..." "No." She shook her head. "I don't. And I haven't come to any conclusions, Mulder. For Christ's sake. I'm not a complete fool. But the fact remains that virulent viruses may be carried by rats and other vermin, and in this town, the best place to find them is in alleys, parks and subway tunnels." "Rats?" His tone was incredulous. "Now you're just being narrow-minded. Remember the Middle Ages, Mulder? The bubonic plague wiped out half the population of Europe in a few years. Rats were responsible that time too." "You never mentioned finding bite marks, Scully." "The virus could be airborne." She was calm, but he knew her well enough, God, he knew her so well, her mood swings and her mind, the smell of her, her smallest gestures and movements, the way her muscles shifted under her milk-white skin, the dimples she showed when she frowned, the intricate whirls of her ears, the thudding of her heart, the way her body writhed when he aroused her, the silky roundness of her breasts, the left one just a little larger as if to shield her heart, the pucker of her nipples, the dip of her waist, her soft belly and deep, succulent navel, the smooth flare of her hips, the inexplicable complexity of her tattoo, the freckles on her ass, the ticklish spot near her groin where the hair met her thigh, the firm subtle knot of her timid clit, the layered petals of her slit, the bumps on her knees, down to her tiny perfect feet and even the exquisite little mole on her second right toe. He knew it all intimately but he'd never met this part of her. She was tense and shaken and isolated and determined, and finally he saw that she was scared. He realized at last that she was terrified that she'd stumbled on a terrible disease, some horrific epidemic that would make the bubonic plague look like sniffles in comparison. And he trusted her knowledge and experience enough to know that she would never talk like this unless it was a real possibility. Despite his own instincts. Despite the fact that he was certain somehow that the rubbies, the addicts, the hookers and the street crazies had something to do with it. He'd always had a sense about these kinds of things. This time, he was fairly sure a plague had nothing to do with it. At least not in the ordinary sense of the word. But something strange was definitely going on. And Mulder felt in his guts that it was dangerous. Very, very dangerous. CONTINUED IN PART 18 THE PACT (PART 18) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net COMING SOON: "You thought the fight was scandalous; stay tuned for the reconciliation." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE Scully's sense of urgency had obviously rubbed off on the assistant in spite of his agenda. His manner remained cool and cynical, but within an hour, they were directed to an office with a computer complete with modem, fax and a couple of telephone lines. The office was in the basement, which didn't surprise Mulder one bit, but at least there was a bathroom with an actual shower. His flash of insight had faded somewhat, but with it his anger had also died down a little. The problem was that Scully continued to act as though he didn't exist and he couldn't quite remember why he'd felt, for a moment, as though he'd understood what she was feeling. For one thing, he was pissed at her for not backing him up in that paper-pusher's office. She'd essentially dismissed his take on the case. As far as she was concerned, apparently, they were dealing with two completely different sets of X- Files. Hers and his. They couldn't afford to show divisiveness in public; they were too vulnerable. Surely she knew this. Surely she knew exactly what the cost might be if they didn't stick together. All he knew for certain was that she believed something he didn't, that she was worried about it, that he believed she was genuinely worried, and that as intriguing as it was, it was a red herring. One thing hadn't faded, on the other hand, and it was the one thing they agreed about: the conviction that whatever they were dealing with was extremely dangerous in the bigger scheme of things. He didn't know why. But he'd long given up on second guessing the instinct. In any case, Scully's continued aloofness grated on him. That and the fact that he couldn't quite shake the resentment he'd built up that night when he'd writhed alone on his cot in the smelly shelter. They were civil to each other; Scully was immersed in her research and she kept him posted -- that was about it. He could smell her fear and her tension, but she categorically rejected the few advances he managed to muster. She'd shut him out, for some reason, and he was only vaguely alarmed by how quickly he got used to being alone again. There was a familiarity to the silence, to the distance. He'd lived with it for years despite the warmth that had always lain right beneath it, despite the unspoken complicity between them which, after all, had been there since the beginning. Tenderness didn't come particularly easily to Mulder; right now, for whatever reason, he didn't feel fond enough of her to keep trying. Anyway, he'd never been good at making the first move. And now they were working in separate directions, following different paths. He continued to speak to street people, meeting up with Juan to hear their stories, which were eerily similar. Meanwhile, Scully searched medical databases, conferred with experts and waited for another chance to conduct an autopsy. They worked through the weekend. He spent nights at the shelter with Juan, talking to muddled, frightened men. She slept on a cot in the office, although she ventured out once to change clothes and fetch necessities from their hotel room. In her own way, she was conscientious. When it became clear he wasn't returning to the hotel, she brought him clean socks and underwear, his shaving kit, toothbrush, deodorant, a couple of shirts, even his cologne, oddly enough, which he'd discovered some time ago she'd always loved. All without saying much of anything. Miss Sweeny had decided to return home after a couple of nights at the women's shelter. She'd tagged around after Juan until the clerk had called Mulder on his cell phone and ranted on in a mix of English and Spanish about the old lady's effect on his own investigation. Apparently, she kept insulting the pimps and the pushers. So Mulder had escorted her home because she was determined to walk and he'd be damned if he'd let her wander the streets alone right now. When they arrived at her brown, oddly frail apartment, she'd insisted on talking about Scully. "You know, Fox," she muttered as she dumped her cart by the door. "You're a big fool. Always been." He shifted restlessly and watched the dust motes dance. Pale winter light slid through the slats of her blinds. The apartment was neat, ordered, but he could see that thick dust layered every available surface, the worn tables and chairs, almost as if she'd long ceased to inhabit the space. Shining wood gleamed in precise paths along the floor, almost as if defying the surrounding dust, daring it to encroach. By following these trails, Mulder could tell where the old woman walked and where she no longer went at all. Miss Sweeny had never invited him in when he'd been a student. He'd often walked her to her door, as if she'd been a date in high school, and then she would nod at him tersely and close the door in his face. But even back then, he'd been able to tell how much she cared for him, how much she appreciated his gallant concern. She was beautiful still. Now, as he gazed at the framed photographs on the wall, their glass tarnished by neglect and dust, he knew the extent of that beauty. She'd always been beautiful. And it wasn't just a function of her flawless face or the perfect body that had carried it. That Sweeny spark shone through the pancake makeup and the feathers, the legs that wouldn't quit, the faded sepia and rhinestones. She'd been feisty as hell back then, but she'd danced the dance for the pleasure of men and, he smirked wryly as he squinted at a particularly breathtaking clipping from 1939, undoubtedly for her own purposes as well. He was willing to bet Olivia Sweeny had never been a pushover. Even though the yellowed photo was curled and cracked, there was no denying her power and easy sensuality. Yep. She must've broken a shitload of hearts in her day. All in all, he was glad his hadn't been one of them. "Did you hear what I said, Fox?" She was at home now, and seemed relaxed for the first time. The brittleness of her had given way to a smooth languidness which he had little doubt echoed the way she'd carried herself when New York had been at her feet. "Um... something about a fool." "Yeah." She peered at him as she collapsed on an overstuffed sofa and reached for a bottle of gin and a well-used glass on the endtable. The bottle had no dust on it at all. He looked at her. There must have been something in his face that she could read, because she grunted impatiently and waved him to a chair. "Give it a rest, Fox. I'm dead already." He shivered. Miss Sweeny coughed once and looked up at him. "Abstinence is for the young, dearie. I mean, I'm 80, for Christ's sake; I've got no future to stay healthy for. At least this way, I don't dwell in the past." She drank to forget. Of course. Like most cliches, it was true. Mulder felt a bittersweet surge of affection for the old woman. He smiled at her. "You've always done what you've wanted, Ma'am." She chuckled. "Damn straight." She waved the bottle at him. "Want some?" "No thanks." "A snort or two probably wouldn't hurt you, you know. Help you let go a little." He shrugged and sat down on the edge of an armchair. For some reason, he wasn't in any hurry to leave. He was worried about her. But that was only part of it. "I don't need to let go, Miss Sweeny. I'm fine." He winced as he said the words. She cackled drily. "Oh, yeah. Of course you are. You've always been fine, haven't you? You were fine when I met you." Mulder said nothing. She was making him uncomfortable, but there was something strangely soothing about it. For some reason, her age, her relative distance from him, made this kind of thing easier to take from her. And maybe she was right. He was tired and confused and his body, his soul, it seemed, ached for Scully. It was odd because on the surface, he didn't care at all if she never spoke to him again. That was how he dealt with it. That was how he'd always dealt with things. But this was the first time that the lack of feeling hurt more than the anger, the abandonment, the tightness in his chest. "Okay. Maybe I'll have one drink." Miss Sweeny grinned at him. "Attaboy." NEW YORK CITY MANHATTAN FBI OFFICE MONDAY, 4:11 PM Scully sighed and leaned back, cringing as bones cracked in her spine. Christ. Her muscles sang and she felt her pulse beat through her arms, her legs. She couldn't remember ever feeling this tense. Dammit. Only three bodies. Only three fucking autopsies to go on. The fact that they were identical proved something. She just didn't know what. Neither did the CDC, for that matter. One of the centre's leading pathologists had actually called her to ask her more questions, questions she'd had no answers for. He was as perturbed as she was, as perplexed. But he also pointed out that she only had three cases and that she might want to seek the exhumation of a few more bodies. For some reason, Scully suspected more would turn up before she'd even have a chance to file the requests. She sighed and leaned her face in her hands. There was no sign of unusual viral or bacterial activity in the tissue samples. Of course, there was also nothing left *alive* in the tissue samples. It was unbelievable. Massive destruction which verged on sterilization. The Centers for Disease Control had confirmed her findings: no sign of organic life left in the brain mass at all. The atoms were there. They just weren't connected anymore. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen. The molecules which were the basis of life were made up of these elements; in these cases, they'd been split apart. It was like a surreal kind of organic fission, as if a neutron bomb had gone off inside these poor bastards' heads. What in heaven's name could cause something like this? Scully moaned against her palms. The real nightmare lay in the fact that there was no limit to what the cause might be. Humanity had spent years screwing around with the natural course of things; they'd built bigger and bolder antibiotics which only led to bigger and bolder bugs. Cancer was bad enough; AIDS had taken the world by surprise. Never mind the fact that genetic mutations, not viruses, might be at the root of the problems -- what had caused these mutations in the first place? Man's incessant meddling. His unending need to control his environment, to make things easier in the moment without any respect for the long-term effects of his pursuit of happiness. She used the term "man" very deliberately. Surely women, left to their own devices, would've found another way. So maybe they'd have gossiped and argued about it for awhile. But it would never have occurred to them to slash and burn the world. Would it? And now she was faced with something she couldn't dismiss as coincidence, if only because the new designer diseases were always breathtaking in their randomness, their complexity, their relentless inexplicability. Hell. Even TB and smallpox were killers again. Better at it. More lethal than ever. They'd adapted. God. And to think people were worried that cockroaches would outlive them all. As bugs went, they were manageable, because at least you could see them. Now she was faced with three bodies that were bodies for no reason, and right now she couldn't explain how they'd got that way. Cockroaches would've been a cakewalk. Memories of Mulder broke through her mind like sun through thick cloud. God. Right. And then there was Mulder. She tried to remember what she'd done to him, why she'd been so mad at him. There was a reason. There had to be. Something about how he'd suddenly become the sceptic when she'd finally made a leap of faith. Something about his infuriating smugness, his tacit belief that he was the only one who knew the truth. Street people. He was concerned about disappearing street people. Right now they were looking at something that might possibly spell the end of life on earth and all he could think about was his silly little case. It wasn't that she didn't care about the fate of these people. It was just that right now, if this was as big as it looked, there might be no one left to look for them. Not her. Not Juan. Not Mulder. Not anyone. The thing was, she wasn't even angry anymore. It was just that right now, she didn't have any time to worry about it. Scully lowered her hands and stared grimly at the flickering computer screen in front of her. She sighed again. There was no time for any of it. Except that at some level, she missed him. Mulder broke down right about the time he'd gulped his fifth drink. Later he would only remember vague snatches of what he'd said, but it had something to do with his sister, of course, and the way his parents had been when she'd vanished, their silence and his guilt, and Phoebe somewhere in there, for no good reason at all, and the years of loneliness, and then Scully, Scully, Scully. Scully because she'd been sent to spy on him. Scully because she'd tried him and pushed him and almost killed him, and then she'd accepted him and rejected him and also she'd vanished, she'd vanished too, taken from him like his sister was, and he'd been left with nothing except a gaping hole where she'd always been, and then the memory of what she'd meant to him for a thousand years and how he'd wanted her, Scully, his friend, his parent, his lover, and he couldn't have her this time around because he just couldn't ask her, and at one level he knew he should've asked her long ago but he was frightened, so frightened he'd lose her, just like he'd lost them all. At one point he thought that maybe he'd cried a little, but Miss Sweeny had held him and cradled his head, it seemed, and whispered with a gin-soaked breath that matched his own that it was okay, that everything was all right, because after all he had Scully now, didn't he? And then he wondered about that, foggily, and wondered what he had. "She loves you, Fox." "How d'you know?" His voice was slurred and the room, now dark and lit only by the yellow glow of streetlamps, roiled around a little. "Believe me, it's obvious." Even in his drunken state, he could hear the affectionate sarcasm in her voice. "She doesn't love me right now." Mulder felt her stir. "Of course she does. You're just having a fight. Jesus H. You really *are* new at this, aren't you?" He wavered backwards and stared at her blearily, closing one eye so she'd focus already. "You don't know her like I know her. "Hah. You don't know her as well as you think. Anyway, you're not exactly a walk in the park, you know." "Me?" "The woman deserves a sainthood for putting up with you. You're a case, Fox." She tapped his head lightly, and for some reason it actually hurt. "Not much room inside that thing for anyone else." "But I *love* her!" He could hear the kind of inebriated outrage he'd heard many times before, on friends, on suspects, on girlfriends, even on Scully once. Just never on him. "This does." She lay a dry, white hand on his chest. "Your mind has another agenda." Now that was confusing. "What kind of agenda?" "I dunno. You tell me." But the fact was he could no longer speak at all. And then he vaguely remembered a cab, and Juan at the door of the shelter waiting for him, and somewhere in the back of his brain he knew that ironically this was probably the only place he could show up in this state without making a scene, and it was nice to know that Juan was with him, soothing him, but as unconsciousness claimed him, he only knew that for some unknown reason he felt a lot better. CONTINUED IN PART 19 THE PACT (PART 19) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "I agreed to continue writing the damn thing. I never promised it would actually ever end." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK DISTRICT, MANHATTAN TUESDAY, 6:34 AM Olivia Sweeny was a seasoned drinker. It took a lot to keep her down. At this point, the alcohol didn't even get her drunk anymore. It just helped her relax, at least temporarily. And the effects of the booze, combined with the fact that she was a goddam fossil anyway, usually meant she was up by five every morning. She wished she could sleep. But it was the fate of the old, wasn't it? Just when you no longer had the strength to get going, you couldn't sleep to fill the empty hours. There was a time when she'd treasured her sleep. Longed for it, swiped at it, grabbed it whenever she could. Now the act of lying in bed alone at night, rigid, awake, felt like a painful travesty of the life she'd led. So she usually rose early, since her body saw no reason to stay horizontal, and when the early morning TV shows were particularly unendurable, she went for walks in the neighbourhood just to see the city come awake. Olivia Sweeny loved New York. In all the years she'd lived here, the thrill had never quite faded. On sun-dappled mornings, she felt the same excitement that had filled her lungs when she'd arrived at the height of the Depression. New York mornings. The sleepy bustle in the morning, the gradual rebirth of chaos, the smell of coffee and bagels and pretzels, the sharp tang of yeast and garbage, the stubborn pigeons and gulls who eked out a living on scraps and refuse, the loudmouthed bluster of shopkeepers and strange in-your- face joy that was palpable beneath it, the rattle of metal grills going up to reveal the maws of pawnshops and stores with their signs for bankruptcy sales they'd been advertising for years, the swirl of steam from the sewers, the frowning business ladies in two-piece suits and sneakers, the insistent caterwaul of car horns, the yellow blur of cabs. Olivia Sweeny loved it all. And even though the city had changed, it had somehow managed to stay very much the same. There were more bums now, more street crazies yelling abruptly at nothing; people looked poorer overall because the rich ones stayed hidden now, but for the most part the city that sprawled around her was still familiar, still unmistakable. New York. This particular winter morning, the air snapped but there was a deceptive warmth to it too, the kind that only Manhattan could muster, a coy hint of springtime just before the next cold blast descended from the north. Miss Sweeny didn't trust it but she enjoyed it while she could as she wandered in search of the morning paper and a 24-hour liquor store. That lovely boy Fox had depleted her stock, although she didn't begrudge him for it. He'd needed a drink badly last night, and besides he'd been so good to her when he was a fresh-faced student and she was already old and cranky. All in all, she'd never quite understood why he seemed to love her stories and even her company so much back then. God only knew she'd spent enough time insulting him at first, mocking his gangly form, his eagerness, his naivete. She'd done it in the hopes he'd leave her alone, even though a part of her loved the attention and she'd even blossomed a little under its warmth. She'd spent an eternity alone and she was used to it. She'd also forgotten how nice it could be to sit facing someone, just talking for awhile. Olivia Sweeny had always been known for her caustic wit even though the muscles had rusted over the years. And that young Fox had been smart enough to catch all the slights she'd thrown at him, but for some reason he didn't seem to care. With time she'd let him in a little, regaling him with outrageous tales of her days with the Follies, tales made all the more fantastic because they were actually true. It took her a long time to realize how much he'd come to mean to her. By the time she'd grasped it, he was gone. He'd been very mysterious about the whole business. Something about a new job, about how faceless employers had come looking for him and he'd finally be able to explore something that had weighed on him for years. That was all he'd said, and he'd already been far away before he'd left at last. To her surprise, it had taken a lot of gin slings to get over him. But in time she had. Olivia Sweeny always got over everything. Except that now he'd reappeared out of nowhere, a painful reminder that she'd let herself go a little, that she was less prepared than ever to interact with other mortals. Her self-imposed solitude had seen to that. She snorted. Or maybe there was something lawful about it after all. Maybe you drifted away from humanity as you got closer to meeting the Big Guy, the one who, when all was said and done, called all the shots despite mankind's big, tragic earthbound dreams. Olivia Sweeny knew she was close to breaking the shackles of the flesh. She'd lived well and she had no regrets. For the most part, she'd done no harm to anyone who wasn't asking for it. Maybe she hadn't done a whole lot of good either, but then she banished the thought with a shrug. What the hell. She'd entertained the troops, hadn't she? Kept hopeless spirits shored up during America's dog days. How many people could claim as much? And if she'd looked out for herself a little along the way, well... who could blame her. She'd only taken from men who had to give *something* if only to redeem themselves a little. As she cut through her usual alley towards her standard haunts, she suddenly drew up and sniffed. She knew the alley like the back of her hand, or at least as well as you'd want to know any alley, and she'd always pooh- poohed the old tarts who'd waved scrawny fingers at her for her habit of using these routes for expediency's sake. Hell. She'd lived in New York for most of her life and no one had ever managed to scare her off the streets. Olivia Sweeny went where she wanted and that was all there was to it. And maybe her defiance and lack of fear had served her well, because except for that one time when she'd kneed a guy so hard he'd wound up writhing in tears on the asphalt, she'd never even been accosted. Until now. A young man materialized out of the shadows, and as faint light played across his face, she saw that he was leering at her. Thanks to the light she also caught the unmistakable glint of metal in his hand. Long, sharp metal. "Okay, Grandma. Gimme your purse and nobody gets hurt." Christ. It was like bad dialogue from an old gangster movie. She felt a spasm of terror but still humour ran through it *sharp like a knife it cut like a knife sharp and deadly and exquisite like a blade through butter* and it was all she could do not to laugh out loud. Anyway, she'd been a smartass all her life. "I don't have a purse, sonny. Never took to 'em. And I don't have any money either. Look at me, for God's sake." And then from nowhere suddenly there was an overpowering smell in the air, one she recognized. It was all too familiar, in fact, except she couldn't quite place it. The alley wasn't particularly long, but she cursed her old heart which had started to hammer dully against her ribs as if there was still something she could do about the whole damn business. There was no way in hell she could run for it, even assuming she could outrun the bastard -- Christ, she could barely hobble on a good day when humidity didn't choke the streets. The black glistening walls dripped a little from the thaw and there were the vague shadows of huddled, smelly garbage bags, but even their sharp fumes weren't enough to mask the other odour whose primal immediacy made the human threat in front of her fade in comparison. A carnal odour. That was it. As if she'd stumbled into a slaughterhouse. The overwhelming stench of death. The kid didn't really scare her anyway, which was probably stupid except that mere mortals never had, but Sweet Jesus, *this.* This sent sweat bubbling out through her pores. She'd smelled it before. And as the sweat ran cold against her flesh, she knew that this time, it was coming for her. Mindnumbing blackness reared up against the walls and the distant light from the street winked out as though it had never been. She registered a hoarse male cry, as though it came from far away, but it had nothing to do with her. As coldness embraced her, she felt the scream echo in her own mind. Death was nothing. Death was freedom. This, whatever this was, had no beginning and no end. And she knew somehow as she was swallowed by the darkness that this thing would never let her die, that it would never let her rest. For a moment she sensed the presence of others before consciousness blurred, and her last thought was one she'd had many times before. Olivia Sweeny wasn't about to give up without a struggle. CONTINUED IN PART 20 THE PACT (PART 20) *** NC-17 *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "At last, what you've all been waiting for: A modest tribute to Red Shoe Diaries in the midst of a sweeping epic spanning, well, okay, one generation. Not even." WHAT THE CRITICS ARE SAYING ABOUT PART 20: "God. Like, this chapter makes Meredith's Birthday look like a mushy love story, you know? I mean, can't you write something sweet again, like Ode to Paula Graves?" -- A shaken fan "I don't get it." -- My boyfriend "Why can't you get a *nice* hobby, dear? Like holding up liquor stores?" -- My mother "I'm just glad you didn't dedicate it to me. And take me off your mailing list. I have a reputation to uphold in the community." -- BeckyD "No, I mean it. I really don't get it. It's crap, right?" -- My ex-boyfriend DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE ************************************************************ This chapter is rated NC-17 for graphic and unsentimental sexual descriptions between consenting adults and may be offensive to some. NOTE TO PARENTS & GUARDIANS: Not appropriate for younger readers. ************************************************************ NEW YORK CITY MEN'S SHELTER, EAST VILLAGE BRANCH MONDAY, 8:29 AM At least when he woke up the next morning, Mulder threw up for a reason. There was a kind of grim satisfaction in that. Son of a fucking son of a bitch. As he sat with his head propped up against one of the least grimy shelter toilets, he realized dazedly that he was actually longing for death. Although he'd probably settle for unconsciousness at this point. The fact that he was able to sit there at all was an indication of how awful he felt. The disgusting setting was strangely soothing. After what felt like an eternity, he raised his head and wiped his mouth with a shakey hand as he tried foggily to remember when in recent fucking history he hadn't felt nauseous. He couldn't. Still. Bits and pieces of his evening with Miss Sweeny drifted through his mind, and it seemed to him he'd confronted something important in himself, something that could make all the difference where Scully was concerned. But what the hell was it? Shit. Shit shit shit. It was gone. Except that he still felt better than he had, in every way except physically, that is. It was a shame he couldn't remember why. In any case he'd finally made it to the office with a solicitous Juan in tow, although the little clerk seemed suspiciously mirthful whenever Mulder winced at sudden loud noises or leaned against the wall until his stomach stopped trying to jump free of the rest of him. "You really don't drink much, do you, sweetie?" Juan cooed as they reached the FBI building. "No." "You don't like it?" "Jews don't drink much." "That's a shocking generalization, girlfriend. Most of my best Jewish friends are appalling drunks." "Not where I come from." "Martha's Vineyard? How many Jewish people are there in Martha's Vineyard, for God's sake? Betcha the fags beat 'em two to one." Mulder pursed his lips for a moment. Then his eyes widened and he stopped walking. Juan paused and turned to look at him quizzically. "How the hell do you know about that, Juan?" "I know how many fags there are everywhere, darling..." Mulder shook his head impatiently and flinched. Christ -- head-shaking was definitely crossed off his "To Do" list for the day. "The Vineyard. How do you know I come from Martha's Vineyard?" The little man's expression didn't change, although Mulder could've sworn his eyes narrowed for a split second. "You told me." His voice was deceptively light, but there was a trace of the other Juan in it, the efficient one, the one who (couldn't be trusted?) he'd caught a glimpse of a few times on this trip. The same man who'd stood between him and the pimp, what was his name? CK. "I never told you, Juan." And then the clerk grinned and shrugged. Suddenly, his familiar facade was firmly back in place. "Sure you did. Don't you remember? Last night, when I put you to bed and you swore I was your best friend. You went on and on about a lotta things." "Me?" "Yeah." He shook his head and smiled, stepping up to Mulder and slipping an arm through his. The agent tensed, but it had nothing to do with the physical contact. "About your childhood, your sister, Agent Scully... you were sobbing your heart out, sweetie. Poor dear. My mother warned me about women, you know. They always break your heart." Mulder sneered at him half-heartedly. The fact was it was possible he'd babbled on and he couldn't remember a thing. After all, he'd never been that drunk. But still... He had a faint recollection that he'd said something about Scully before he'd passed out. That was all. And he'd trained himself for years to be cautious before opening his mouth. That guard never went down; even when he'd been with Miss Sweeny, he'd be conscious of it at some level. Only tell them what they already know. Both the old woman and Juan knew he and Scully had had a fight. Miss Sweeny knew about his sister; he'd told her years ago. Besides, even Mulder wasn't paranoid enough to think she was in any position to use information against him. But Juan... Mulder wasn't entirely sure what he thought of the guy. And he didn't think he'd ever spill his guts -- God, bad metaphor right now -- around him until he understood who he was. Juan was pulling him towards the door of the FBI offices at this point. He followed meekly; his stomach, in any case, wasn't inclined to allow any sudden moves. His throat tightened. He was about to see Scully. Christ. The thought obliterated all other misgivings. NEW YORK CITY MANHATTAN FBI OFFICE WEDNESDAY, 9:51 PM Two days flew by as the two agents buried themselves in what increasingly seemed to be their respective cases. Mulder's might have looked flakier on the surface, but Scully was just as frustrated by the lack of hard data. Two more bodies were brought in and dutifully dissected; both showed the same trauma as the previous three. The pencil-neck assistant occasionally poked his head through the door and smirked at her. "No news yet on the Great Plague, Agent Scully?" She grit her teeth and smiled through them. "We're doing what we can, sir." "Glad to hear it." He'd made it clear that the only reason he personally allowed the charade, as he put it, to go on was that he'd received instructions to, quote, "do nothing to impede progress until irrefutable proof surfaced from the proper authorities that there was nothing to worry about." It was a breathtakingly succinct triple insult: aside from the charade part, he was also saying that irrefutable proof that there was nothing to worry about was no doubt forthcoming *and* that Scully herself wasn't considered a proper authority to confirm this either way. Fucking charming. Other agents, meanwhile, avoided her -- and Mulder to a lesser degree -- like... well, the plague. Apparently, it had taken all of about two hours for everyone to know who she was. Mulder was hardly around in any case. He seemed to be deliberately making himself scarce, spending time with Juan, she assumed, and showing up now and again to use the fax machine or the computer. She barely noticed. They'd fallen into a terse pattern of information exchange and occasional noncommittal inquiries into each other's well-being. Scully had a feeling he wasn't nearly as consumed by his investigation as she was by hers, but he was methodical despite the lack of promising leads. He'd come in on Monday smelling of stale booze and just the look of him had been enough to break through her concentration for a moment. She'd stared at him. "You okay, Mulder?" "Yeah. I'm great." She sniffed at him. "God. You smell like the inside of a biker bar." "Thanks, Scully. Coming from you, that means a lot." She'd bristled then and dropped the subject, but she'd spent the short time he'd hung around the office throwing him surreptitious glances. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear that Mulder the Teetotaller was completely hungover. It figured. He'd probably spent the night in some Village joint chatting up long-legged blond women. In fact it would've been just like him to do it out of spite. What she didn't catch were the looks he gave her when she wasn't looking. On Tuesday afternoon, he'd wandered in nonchalantly and nodded at her. "Hey, Scully." "Hmm?" "You heard from Miss Sweeny?" She peered up at him above the rim of her glasses. "Huh?" "Miss Sweeny." He was obviously trying hard not to be sarcastic. "You know the old lady you met all those years ago when we were still talking?" Scully sighed irritably. "We're just busy, Mulder." "Right." She turned back to her computer as a slow burn of anger began to rise up her neck. "So what's wrong with Miss Sweeny?" "I've tried to call her since yesterday and there's no answer." "Maybe she's too grumpy to pick up the phone. The woman's not exactly big on social niceties, Mulder." He expelled breath sharply. "Christ, Scully! You don't even know her. You don't know the first thing about her. That crusty stuff is just on the surface. She's a real sweetheart." "It's a bit of a cliche, isn't it? The cranky old lady with the heart of gold." Scully said it almost absently and jumped as Mulder's fist impacted on her desk. "It's just like you to summarize and dismiss, isn't it, Scully? That first-rate scientific mind. Just stick a name on it and file it away." She spun in her chair and blazed at him. "You've never respected anything about what I do, let alone my scientific mind." "Oh, shut up, already!" He was shouting. "What the fuck is wrong with you anyway? Huh? I'm talking about a helpless elderly lady and all you can do is twist it around to use it against me!" "Oh yeah, right. The Great Fox Mulder, hero to the masses. I'm trying to deal with something that could kill all the Sweenys in the world, Mulder, all of us, you, me and everyone else, and you can't even show me the most superficial support..." "Yeah, well, maybe that's because I'm too busy basking in all the support you've shown me over the years." His voice had cracked all of a sudden and she'd flushed hotly for some reason as unmistakable tears filled his eyes. Then he was gone, and it took her a few moments to realize that tears had been sliding down her own face for some time now. By the time he showed up again the next day, she'd concluded that if they didn't resolve this thing between them one way or another, they were actually in real danger of ruining everything. It seemed incredible to her. What in God's name had they done? And why the hell couldn't they seem to stop doing it? But he was having none of it. "Mulder..." He dropped a file on the desk and sat stiffly on the other side of the table. "I've collected enough accounts to piece together some kind of trajectory for the disappearances. "Listen, Mulder, I..." He looked up quickly and the look in his eyes was enough to make her shut her mouth. God. There was no love in them. There was nothing at all. His eyes were dull and opaque like slate. Scully felt something rip inside of her. God. Mulder. It's me. "I know you don't agree with me, Scully, but inasmuch as we're still officially working together, you need to hear this. I don't know whether there's a connection between the bodies and the disappearances. As you've pointed out many times, I don't have any proof. For what it's worth, though, I'm convinced there is a connection, and albeit surprisingly, I've occasionally been correct in the past." She said nothing. "If there's any possibility there's a connection, and if this thing really is some kind of plague, then you can't afford to dismiss it." "I don't want to dismiss it, Mulder." she said softly. He studied her coolly for a moment. "Okay." He flipped open the file and pulled out a map of Manhattan. "Judging by the timeline of the stories Juan and I have collected -- it's true some of them are vague, and you can't entirely trust every source, but we've managed to talk to close to 60 people who knew someone who's vanished, plus about 15 eyewitness accounts -- then it looks as though there's been a gradual progression of disappearances from one end of the island to about this point here." Scully looked at the red pen markings on the map. The trail ended close to the river. She pointed to a few spots. "They seemed to have looped back here. And there. Here too." In fact, the Gramercy Park district seemed to be a recurring hotspot. Mulder nodded. "Yeah. Every once in a while, it's as though whatever this thing is goes back to a familiar neighbourhood for some reason." She winced. "Thing, Mulder?" He shrugged. "Call it what you will. Based on the pattern we see here, it seems plausible that someone or something with some kind of intelligence is responsible." "So why not just say someone?" He looked at the wall for a moment. "Many people we talked to described some kind of black cloud in the vicinity. I'm not saying I'm blaming a cloud for this, Scully." He suddenly turned to her. His eyes were dark. "I'm just saying I'm not prepared to entirely dismiss a description that's been corroborated by so many independent witnesses." "I see." She shifted uncomfortably. "Any theories?" "I have plenty of theories." A ghost of a smile played on his lips and then was gone. She squinted. The words rang a bell somehow. "But I don't think I want to discuss any of them right now." Scully felt a twinge. He'd never hesitated to share his wildest hypotheses before, even when they'd been irritated with each other. But this was much worse than irritation, wasn't it? This had something to do with trust. And Scully was afraid that somewhere in the past few days, they'd stopped trusting each other. That had *never* happened. Not once. Not since the early days. They'd tested trust in the arctic and they'd both emerged unscathed, reinforced, in fact, in the conviction that it was the one inalienable thing they shared. And now, for no good reason at all, for no reason she could even remember, it seemed that trust was gone. Scully couldn't bear to think that it might have been irrevocably banished. By what? By nothing. By nothing that mattered. She took a deep breath. "So you're saying there's intelligence behind this but that it isn't necessarily human." Mulder shrugged and got up. "I'm not saying anything. I don't know of any human being capable of doing what you say has been done to those kids, but I suppose it's possible." It didn't ring true. And for some reason, she couldn't stop insisting. "What do you think these dead kids have to do with this?" He looked down at her. "I really don't know, Scully. Muggers, maybe? They were in the wrong place at the wrong time?" "In every *case*?" Now he drew back cautiously. "Well, you could hypothesize that their presence actually brought the entity, called it somehow." "But why?" She was desperate now. He had some kind of theory, that much was obvious, and he was dead wrong if he believed for one instant that she was in any way inclined to dismiss it. Dammit. When all was said and done, she never had. Surely he knew that. Didn't he? "I really have no idea. But right now I'm going over to Miss Sweeny's place." Scully forced herself to relax and sit back. "Still haven't heard from her?" "Nope. It's probably stupid, but I'm worried." He picked up his overcoat and headed for the door. "I'm coming with you, Mulder." She saw him stiffen as he reached for the doorknob. "That's really not necessary, Scully. It's getting late; I'll just check in on her before heading back to the shelter." "I want to go with you. I need to know she's okay." Suddenly the only thing that mattered to her was that he didn't leave her sight. Scully watched his back as he stood by the door. Then he shrugged almost imperceptibly. "Suit yourself." NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK DISTRICT WEDNESDAY, 11:21 PM They left the cab on the corner and walked towards Olivia Sweeny's brownstone. The night was dark and overcast, but the thaw had held and it was still surprisingly warm. The two of them walked side by side, but they'd exchanged few words since they'd left the FBI building. Mulder had made it patently obvious he wished she'd stayed behind, and the tension between them was thick enough to make the cabbie uncomfortable, or so she thought. Idle chitchat wasn't Scully's strength, and she didn't have the energy to sustain it. She just couldn't bear to be parted from him right now for some reason, even though being with him was unbelievably painful. She could feel his heat next to her as they walked, the brush of his coat against her sleeve every now and again, but it was accidental now; there was no warmth to it, none of the familiar physical hovering he excelled at and which had occasionally got on her nerves over the years. She'd have given almost anything to have it back at this moment. The cries from the alley took them both by surprise. Scully jumped and turned, trying to see through the darkness. She could feel Mulder tense against her. "Scully..." The cries came again, hoarse, high, and then she was off and running, her shoes resounding sharply in the night. She pulled out her gun. "Federal agent! Hands in the air!" He stared after her. Just as she vanished in the gloom of the alley, he was off like a shot behind her. "Scully! Don't!" "Hands in the air!" He could see her running and then suddenly he saw only an immense boiling mass of black which writhed against the wall. Oh Jesus. It was pure darkness, blacker than anything he'd ever seen. At that moment the smell assailed him, gutwrenching, poisonous, like days-old death. Mulder's eyes began to tear. "Scully!" Two youths were sinking to the ground, clutching their heads, their mouths wide in agony. He watched helplessly as Scully gaped at the roiling apparition for a split second and then spun on her heel towards the boys. "No! Stop!" Mulder gagged once and covered his mouth, reaching for his own gun. He staggered towards her just in time to see the black mass rear up and lunge at her. She looked back just as she was about to reach the now motionless bodies and threw her arms in front of her face. "Oh, God, please..." He fought the urge to retch as he threw himself at her. And then, unbelievably, just as he reached her, he saw the thing pull up abruptly, hover, and then melt back into night. Then he landed on her. Hard. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled away from all of it, the horror of it, the bodies and the garbage, the stench which was fading quickly. "Christ, Mulder. Get *off* me!" She flailed at him. And then he snapped. He kneeled up and grabbed her shoulders. "You're a fucking lunatic, you know that? What the hell were you trying to do?" She tossed her head and continued to push him away. "My job! I was trying to do my job! Now let me go." He snarled at her then and grabbed her, his anger cresting until it was all he knew. Her eyes widened and he knew that at some level she recognized that something had changed, but he no longer gave a damn. She was rubbing against him as she fought to get out of his grasp, and he felt himself harden, the anger overflowing suddenly into lust, and then, as he looked at her, her fiery hair falling across her face, her own anger lighting her features, he knew he had to have her, dammit, he had to take her because she was all he had. His body ached with missing her, his soul, his eyeballs were burning with it, his blood pounded through him because he missed her missed her God he missed her and he'd kill himself before he'd lose her, before he'd let this thing they were doing to each other rip them apart. He growled at her once and caught the strange look in her eye just before he flipped her over and she fell heavily on her hands and knees; he threw her coat up over her back and then the harsh sound of a zipper cut through the air as he pulled her pants down in one smooth motion. She was crouching in front of him now, gazing back over her shoulder with what looked like startled defiance, and then she pushed up against him, deliberately. His breath caught and although he still clutched her shoulder with one hand to keep her from squirming away, suddenly it seemed that she wasn't trying. Her hair glinted at him and she was so sexy, God, she was everything he'd ever yearned for as she crouched there, her beautiful panty-clad butt in the air. God. He wanted her. And then he must have unbuckled his own pants because he could feel the cool air on his erection but he was frenzied now and all he could do was reach down to push her panties aside as he penetrated her with a grunt and fell against her back, pulling her coat back down to cover her, to keep her warm, to keep her secrets to himself. Godohgodohgod oh it was so tight and wet she was wet she was waiting for him and ready she oh god she wanted him and then he rose up and began to push, clutching her to him as he thrust, no gentleness now, no time, hard and deep and fast she liked it like that Scully she oh loved it like that and he loved her so much as tears broke and fell and he heard her cry and moan beneath him as she bucked and pushed back against him her back arching her hair whipping as she clutched him inside her oh... "Love you..." He gasped against her neck... "Scully oh..." And then he reared up and gathered her hair, pulling up her head so he could see her, see her face, and she expelled little moans as he galloped against her. "Mulder, God... oh yes..." And then he reached down desperately to palm her soaking core through her panties. He was incapable of finesse now but he ground his hand against her in the rhythm he knew so well, the rhythm she loved, so that she'd join him when he broke apart. Her breath stuttered and he felt her convulse around him oh Scully ScullyScully and she bucked up against him violently, almost sobbing as he stiffened and cried out, falling against her once more, clutching her tightly as the jets pulsed through him, releasing, claiming, filling, and they rode the spasms together in excruciating pleasure that bordered sweet agony. Mulder was resting against her back, gasping for breath. He was dazed because the last thing he remembered was a mindbending climax, and now he could feel his seed seep down past where he was still buried inside her. Jesus. They were in an alley. He pulled out gently, eliciting groans from both of them, and he wrapped himself around her, rolling onto his back and pulling her against him so that no part of her touched the ground. Thank God and the Salvation Army for the thickness of his overcoat. He turned her over gently so that she faced him and then he buried his hand in the hair at the back of her neck. Her face was wet against his, but it was impossible to tell whether the tears were hers. He kissed them for good measure, murmuring against her cheek. "Love you, Scully. Love you." She nestled against him and buried her face against his neck. "Yes," she murmured, kissing the flesh there and making it jump. He gasped. She chuckled sleepily. "Can't stay here, Scully." He said it, but even though he could feel moisture beginning to seep through his coat, at this moment he'd've willingly stayed on his ass on the asphalt for the rest of his life. "Hmmm." Scully propped herself up and looked at him, her eyes dancing with laughter. She traced his lips with a finger and he shuddered. "You may be right, Mulder. After all, we're in a New York alley in the middle of the night." "Yes." "There's garbage everywhere." "Indeed." "Rats, probably." "No doubt." "Not to mention two bodies a few yards from where we're lying." "Too true." "And some weird black stinking cloud that left for some reason but might come back any minute." "It's possible." "Maybe even some kind of virulent virus." "So you keep saying." "All in all, I think we probably shouldn't stay here." "Okay." And then she laughed outright, nuzzling against him and kissing his cheek quickly. She rose awkwardly, wincing. "My pants are ruined, Mulder." "That's too bad, Scully. They were such a nice pair." She yelped as they fell and she grabbed at them. He grinned, got up gingerly, zipped himself up and then reached around her from behind so that she shivered against him. He held her against him for a moment, kissing her hair, and then reached down to hike up her trousers, tucking in her shirt as he went. His hand snaked down and insinuated itself into her panties, lingering among her curls for a moment, playing with them. She gasped sharply and leaned back against him. "Mulder..." she murmured warningly. He chuckled and pulled his hand out, taking her zipper up with it. Then he smoothed her blouse and pulled back, turning her to face him. "You okay?" He was serious. "I'm fine, Mulder." Her eyes dipped and she smiled quickly. "You?" "Never better." "Good." She looked up and tilted her head towards the bodies which lay huddled against the wall. For a moment, she looked a little guilty. "Forget it, Scully. You knew they were already dead. She nodded and grimaced, but there was light in her eyes for the first time in a long time. And a renewed determination. "So, Muldoon. Looks like we've got work to do." CONTINUED IN PART 21 CATEGORY: XRA SPOILERS: Mild, all seasons RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: Juan shows up in Washington with a knotty little problem: why are New York City's addicts, hookers and homeless people vanishing without a trace? FLOATERS UNIVERSE THE PACT (21/?) *** R+ *** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net A reminder: The Pact belongs to an alternate universe where neither cancer nor a lack of ova on Scully's part are an issue. After all, this thing started in August 96, long before we knew about these temporary setbacks. MP DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE ************************************************************ This chapter rated a strong R for sexual innuendo and is not appropriate for younger readers. ************************************************************ Scully gave the bodies a cursory examination as they waited for the police to arrive. Dead, all right. No outward sign of trauma. No surprise. Mulder hovered over her as she looked for lifesigns; he was solicitous, curious even, but best of all, he was back. And he was emitting unmistakable afterglow. He nudged against her as she straightened, his hands in his coat pockets but his nose against her hair. God. She guffawed and pushed him away. Gently. "Well, Scully?" She looked at him. "Well, at first glance it looks like they're just like the others." "Hmm." He was smiling a little goofily, but she knew it wasn't because he was taking the deaths lightly. It was just that he was delighted right now -- and despite the seriousness of the situation, for once, she was in complete agreement. "At least it's dark enough that the cops won't notice what's happened to our clothes." "Ahhh come on, Scullery. We're finally starting to look like real street people." He wasn't going to be serious. That much was obvious. Except... never mind the cloud and the bodies, all of which were bad enough. There was the question of what had brought them out here in the first place. Scully took a deep breath and reached up to rasp her hand against his stubble. He leaned his face into her palm, nuzzling it, and just the feel of him was enough to start a slow smolder in her groin, even though the rapidly cooling legacy of his recent passion was beginning to stick uncomfortably to her underwear. God. They hadn't used a condom. Under the circumstances, she almost laughed at the thought. Fortunately, she'd just finished her period and the odds of her getting pregnant were next to nil. Pregnant. By Mulder. For some reason, the thought only served to stoke the fire. "Mulder..." She felt her eyes close a little. "Hmm?" "Um, Miss Sweeny." He pulled up and stared at her. "God." "It's late." "We still gotta check." She nodded. "Okay. But we have to wait for the police." He squirmed. "Maybe I should go..." She studied him for a moment. "Okay. I'll join you when the cops get here." He nodded rapidly and turned to head back out of the alley. Then he stopped abruptly and faced her. "Come wait out on the sidewalk, Scully." "I've got a gun. For God's sake, Mulder." This was exactly what she'd never wanted to hear from him. He was looking at her and she could see the whites of his eyes. "Even so. Please." Scully stood for a moment, defiant. Then she sighed. He was worried about her -- that was all there was to it. It had very little to do with the fact that she was a woman. Over the years, she'd come to know him well enough to know that Mulder, unlike most of the men she'd met, didn't have a sexist bone in his body. And yet he recognized the differences between them, acknowledged them tacitly, accepted them. Differences. Not weakness. In his mind, it never touched on competence. It never had anything to do with her abilities. Just with a recognition that her body would break faster than someone who weighed twice what she did. It was logical. Dammit. Hell. Anyway, it was even more complicated. She'd feel the same way if the tables were turned and Mulder was staying behind in the alley instead of her. He hadn't moved. He stood in the faint light from the streetlamp, waiting. "All right, Mulder." He smiled at her. And reached out a hand. Scully walked up to him and took it. "But let's meet at the hotel instead. It's right around the corner." He said nothing but his eyes were narrow and they glinted in the muted light. "After all..." she trailed off, looking down at herself. Mulder chuckled and pulled her close for a moment, brushing his face against her hair. "Feeling a little funky, Agent Scully?" "A little. I could definitely use a shower." She drew back and pulled away slowly, holding his hand until distance dictated otherwise. He let her go and she kept walking. "And besides," she added casually over her shoulder as she headed for the street, "I think I need to share a bed with you tonight, Agent Mulder." She glanced at him, smiling. His teeth shone in the dark. NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY PARK HOTEL THURSDAY, 12:54 AM Scully had wandered back to the hotel shortly after midnight after giving her report and arranging for morning autopsies. It was all beginning to feel tediously predictable. Except that this time, she'd seen them die. She'd seen the mystery of it, the inexplicability of their bodies against the pavement. And she'd seen a boiling mass of black that smelled like death. The same black cloud Mulder had described from accounts he'd gleaned from drunks and derelicts. She'd worked with him long enough to give him the benefit of the doubt. There was something to it. Something which didn't eliminate her theory about a virus of some kind, but which definitely added another variable to it all. She had no idea what the swirling black mass could be. Except that she'd seen it draw away from her at the last moment, as though it had reconsidered. The result of intelligence? Instinct? The random force of air currents? Scully didn't know. There was no way to tell. But whatever this thing might be, it was possible that it was carrier of sorts. A carrier for a new kind of disease. Hell. She'd seen a human fluke worm. Anything was possible. And this, perhaps, was at the root of the fight she'd had with Mulder. He still believed her mind was closed. It was even possible that she herself had done everything to sustain that particular fiction. But surely he'd realized over the years that the things she'd seen had had an impact. Scully could've sworn she'd let him see in subtle ways that she'd begun to acknowledge the viability of... extreme possibilities. Still. Maybe it was her fault. Maybe she'd got so good at being a foil for him that she'd started disagreeing by rote, long after she'd stopped dismissing his theories. She'd taken them seriously for years. Very seriously. But maybe, just maybe, she'd neglected to let him know. Scully shook her head and stepped in the shower. The hot water sluiced over her body and she revelled in it; the hotel was nothing to write home about, but it felt like a Hilton after nights alone on an FBI cot. She could still feel Mulder's comforting presence between her legs, and she smiled into the water. All in all these days, she got squirrely when he wasn't there on a regular basis. She needed him inside her. Often. It was that simple. Scully was complicated in some ways; not in others. She was the first to admit it. And in his own way, he'd helped her realize this about herself. He'd made it possible for her to acknowledge an animal part of herself she'd never really dared to face before. One thing about Mulder: he wasn't always politically correct. But he relished the woman unleashed, and he demanded the same abandon from her that he showed her himself. There was nothing straightforward about Mulder's lovemaking. He was just as capable of sniffing her like a dog and mounting her abruptly as he was of lying helpless, whimpering and writhing under her hands. At other times he might explore every inch of her body while her thoughts initially lay elsewhere, cataloguing her slowly, ruthlessly, like an anthropologist in search of a bone fragment, until her hips bucked helplessly in search of release. Or sometimes when she longed for him he might sit like a buddha, impervious, and force her with his passivity to make love to him by degrees, seducing him gently, until he gave her the gift of his moans, his sweat, and sometimes there was nothing to do but to use her hands and mouth on him until he surrendered, groaning, until his fulfilment was the only thing that mattered to her even if it happened outside herself. And it was only fair, because there were also times when his own pleasure seemed irrelevant to him, when he'd shrug off her hands, her mouth from him unless he dictated its actions, intent only on making her world shatter that he might watch her fall apart and land in his arms, broken, naked at last, his erection tight against her but forgotten, so that even when she tried to reach for him groggily he would gently steer her away, soothing her, cradling her, content it would seem in her sleepiness, her pleasure, her completion. In this, as in all things, he was complex, unpredictable, thoroughly Mulder. Scully lay in the darkness, smiled, and waited for him. When she awoke he was lying next to her, wrapped around her, his hand nestled in the curls at her apex where he liked to keep it while he slept. Scully could hear his even breathing. He was dead to the world but he was with her, and that was all that mattered, and she knew, at some level, that it was probably also the only reason he was sleeping. She closed her eyes, sighed, and joined him. They were late leaving the next morning. By the time Scully awoke, he was already making love to her, his head buried between her thighs. It had resulted in a pleasant dream, but the reality was infinitely better. Scully moaned and arched against him. "Slowly, Mulder. Make it last. I've had it with three-minute sessions." He raised his head and smiled at her, licking moist lips. "I know. I've been enjoying this for some time now." "Shut up and work." He chuckled. "Slave driver." And then his mouth was all there was. In the end, it took a lot longer than three minutes. By the time they made their way to the hotel coffee shop for breakfast, it was 9:50 and Mulder had already filled her in on the previous evening's events. He'd knocked on Miss Sweeny's door for a while before breaking his way in, and he'd found no trace of the old woman. Scully shuddered to think about the fear he must have felt, the horror he'd anticipated about finding her body lying there somewhere in the dark. For some reason, the old woman meant a lot to him. Like a favourite aunt somehow, or the grandmother he'd never known. Both his parents' mothers had died in European concentration camps during the war; it was something he rarely talked about. "Gone. Her apartment's just empty, Scully. Everything in place. Her bed's made, even." She'd studied him as she got dressed. "Maybe she went away on a trip?" Mulder shook her head. "She's got no family left. Doesn't know anyone outside the city and you know she wasn't very sociable to begin with." "So. What are you saying?" He'd looked up at her then. "I think she's vanished, Scully. Just like the others. She said she'd felt some kind of presence, remember?" Scully had nodded. What else could she do? "We'll put an APB out on her, Mulder. It's possible she's just wandered off." It was true. It was the most likely explanation. But as they left the room and she felt him rigid against her, she had to admit that he was probably worried for a reason. CONTINUED IN PART 22 THE PACT (22/?) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net An alert reader sent along data from USA TODAY which bears sharing in light of our heros' little adventure in part 20: 20% of women are at their most fertile immediately following their periods. Who knew? I work in the paramedical field and didn't know this. So the lesson here is: Never mind what you read in fanfic -- if you're with a steady partner but you don't want to get pregnant, there's no such thing as a "safe" time to have unprotected sex. MP DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW YORK CITY GRAMERCY COFFEE SHOP THURSDAY, 10:05 AM Mulder had shed his grubby street gear in favour of a dark grey suit. Judging by the appreciative looks Scully kept throwing at him, she was as happy about the change as he was. She also looked great, fresh, rested, with that particular rosiness and sparkle she got when she was thoroughly well laid. He smiled. All in all, he felt pretty good himself. They'd both tacitly agreed that their days as wannabe derelicts were over; Scully had never taken advantage of the situation after that first night anyway and he'd probably culled as much from the street life as he could hope to get. He'd even made a few friends along the way. In an odd, disorganized way, the street community was surprisingly tight; at this point Mulder figured he could walk up to almost anyone in the neighbourhoods he'd frequented and at least get a wave and a hello regardless of the clothes he was wearing. And now they were having coffee, and although they hadn't discussed anything about what had gone on between them, Mulder knew they were finally together on this somehow. Neither of them were great at talking about their problems. It was odd, considering how eloquent they were both capable of being at other times. But the mystery of their relationship lay in a connection that had always thrived below the surface, independent of words. Still, at some level he understood what had happened. There were issues that remained unresolved between them; misunderstandings from the past which hadn't yet been healed. One day, they would have to face them. For the time being, they were still building. For the time being, their hands and lips, their bodies and hearts, were doing the talking. When the foundation was solid enough, it would be time to explore their uneven history. That time was close. Mulder could feel it. As it was, he could hardly bare to be separated from her. When separation became impossible for both of them, they would talk about all of it at last. When there was no chance of permanent damage. When sifting through the past would only make them stronger instead of tearing them apart. They'd been through so much. Love in itself was probably not enough to keep them together. Fusion. That was where they were headed. It was where they'd been heading for years, perhaps even for lifetimes. It was a lot harder to rip through something that didn't have any seams. One day they'd confront all of it. Now she was studying him over a smoking espresso. "So what do you think this is, Mulder?" He fought the urge to shrug. It wasn't easy. Jesus. Total disclosure. Let her laugh if she had to. What he'd said was true. He had plenty of theories, one of which was more compelling than the others. It was an outrageous one, perhaps. But he couldn't shake it. He looked at her and hoped she'd listen. "The truth, Scully?" She smiled warmly. "Always." She leaned over and prodded his chest. "It's out there, right? That's what you keep saying. But you've proven time and again that it's in here too." Mulder felt tears prickle and he took a deep breath. God. He loved her so much. When all was said and done, that was all there was to it. He lay his hand on hers against his chest and grasped it. "Don't make fun of me. Okay?" Her eyes were serious as they scanned his face. "I won't, Mulder. Believe it or not, I never have." He stared at her. Could it be that it was true? Could it be he'd misread it all these years? Mulder shook his head quickly. No time for this now. "I think there's a thing out there, Scully. Something that's absorbing these street people somehow and killing the others." She pulled her hand away and her voice was low, but there was no exasperation there, no derision. "Absorbing them how?" "I don't know, exactly. Except that they've all vanished." "And what about the bodies?" "I think these people are attacked, aggressed somehow, and this thing kills the ones who attack them." "Muggers." He nodded. "Thieves. People who prey on the weak." Scully said nothing for a moment. "Why?" It was barely a whisper. He shrugged, finally. "It's wreaking vengeance, for some reason. But my feeling is it's got a bigger agenda. I think it's part of some greater plan, Scully. Something that's been unleashed. Maybe it's the result of man's folly. Maybe it's just the manifestation of one twisted mind. Who knows? But I agree with you that it's very, very dangerous." She looked at her cup for a long moment. "So you don't believe a virus or bacterium is involved?" He leaned forward earnestly. "Maybe. Maybe that's how it kills. I just don't know. But whatever it is, I really do believe it's selective." Scully nodded. "You may have a point, Mulder." He leaned back, stunned. "I mean," she continued, "we've seen several bizarre cases, all of which manifested very specifically. Hoodlums in alleys, in parks, in deserted byways. All dead, all exhibiting the same inexplicable symptoms. There's no evidence that this cerebral trauma, as devastating as it is, has spread to any other segment of the population. And then there's the missing people." She looked up at him. Mulder waited, breathless. "Sixty accounts? Fifteen eyewitnesses? Even I'm not rigid enough to dismiss those kinds of figures, Mulder." And then he grinned widely, just because he couldn't help it. "So what are you saying, Scully?" She smiled a little ruefully. "I'm not sure. I just know there's never been anything like this. And I know that I trust you, even though you're a complete lunatic. Idiot." Mulder chortled and leaned closer towards her. "You're not just saying that because I made you come three times in less than half an hour, are you?" Scully lowered her head, shaking it. "No. And besides, that's nothing. You only came once, but I made you scream." "Apples and oranges, Scully. We men have to build it up: we can't afford to spasm and sigh discreetly every 10 minutes. Anyway, you definitely made enough noise to scare the maid away." "It was subtle noise." "Subtle by freight train standards. My ears are still ringing." "Idiot." "You just used that one." She suddenly grabbed his tie and pulled him towards her. Her lips tasted like coffee, lipstick and soap. He suckled for a moment until she pulled back with a low moan which sent tired blood rushing to parts he'd hoped rather optimistically would lie quietly for awhile. "You're taking advantage of me, Mulder." "Hardly. I'm the victim here. It's not my fault you're insatiable." She smiled at his mouth and leaned back. "My oh my. You're a fine one to talk." And then they heard a high voice from the front of the restaurant. "Agent Mulder? Agent Scully? Yooooooohoooooooo!" Her eyes rolled. Juan. The little clerk finally saw them and scurried over. He screeched to a halt at their table like a cartoon character and it took everything Mulder had not to burst out laughing. Juan gasped for a moment, looking from one agent to the other before winking broadly at Mulder. "You didn't come home last night, sweetie," he finally said, wagging his finger at him. "Everyone at the shelter was worried silly about you." "Uh..." "We figured you'd passed out drunk in a gutter again. All the bums are out scouring the streets for you as we speak." Scully laughed delightedly. God. He looked at her radiant face and thought ruefully that it had probably taken the astute little man about five seconds to figure out what they'd been up to. Great. Just great. Except that as much as he wanted to, he was just too relaxed to get worked up over their lack of privacy. Miss Sweeny. Jesus. The memory of her cut through him suddenly, followed by a gush of inexplicable guilt. She was gone. Just like the others. There was something in Mulder that never allowed him to stay happy for any length of time. One of these days, that thing, whatever it was, would have to bear closer examination. He'd come this close to happiness lately, thanks to Scully. He could almost taste it. These demons of his would have to make room for it. For her. He shook his head. The problem was, he'd have to face them first. He'd used them for years to fuel him; it was normal that now they were fighting him every inch of the way. Fighting for their own survival. They were a part of him, dammit -- they didn't want to die. Remember your quest, Mulder. Remember Samantha. Remember the truth. Scully interfered with his quest. Just by being there. Just by loving him and making it impossible for him not to love her. God. This was absolutely not a place he wanted to go. Scully. His throat tightened as he looked at her. She was everything that mattered to him now. Whether these demons of his liked it or not. They could all go fuck themselves. "Isn't that right, Mulder?" He looked up suddenly. "What?" "I was just telling Juan that we decided to come back to the hotel. You were saying before that you'd done everything you could at the shelter." "But that place is like home now, Agent Mulder! Aren't you gonna miss it?" Juan's eyes were twinkling. "I mean, why would you want to stay cooped up in a room with Agent Scully when you could be hanging out with me and the boys?" Mulder smirked and nodded. "It wasn't too bad. Scully brought a deck of cards. We played pinochle all night." "Reeeeallly! Who won?" "We both did," Scully said mildly. "Many times." "Ooooo! You *go*, girls!" "No one says that anymore, Juan." She was laughing now. "Oprah does. And if it's good enough for Oprah, girlfriend, it's good enough for me." Mulder groaned and signalled for the check. "Anyway, I'm glad to hear it," Juan continued happily. "The two of you were long overdue for a good game of cards." "Yeah, yeah, whatever," Mulder mumbled, reaching for his wallet. "Let's drop the colourful euphemisms and get back to work, shall we? We've got a lot to do." "That's actually why I'm here." Mulder looked up at him. The little clerk was suddenly very serious. "What d'you mean?" "I guess you haven't heard. It was on the morning news. Four people found dead in New Jersey, right on the other side of the river. Same lack of external symptoms. They haven't released autopsy information yet, but there's been a leak that the FBI and CDC have been looking into the possibility of a plague." Scully stared at Juan. "You've got to be kidding." "Nope. And now the press is all over it. It's only a matter of time before they find out how many deaths we're really talking about here." A chill ran up Mulder's spine. Juan. If anyone could leak information to the press... It couldn't be. He refused to believe it. And yet... Scully was right. They didn't know the first thing about him. He looked up to find her eyes on him. God. She was thinking exactly the same thing, wasn't she? Mulder had trusted Juan with extremely sensitive information. He'd talked freely with him as though he were just another agent on the case. Why, in God's name? Just because Juan had brought the case to his attention? Just because he liked him? In retrospect, it was staggeringly unprofessional. Maybe he'd become too embroiled in his personal problems to pay enough attention to what he was doing. Maybe it was true. Maybe you couldn't mix business with a private life. Maybe it made you careless. Dangerously so. Juan was still standing and he was studying him now, his eyes narrowing in that way they did when he became that other person. The one who couldn't be trusted? "I know what you're both thinking and you're dead wrong," he said evenly. "If I'd done that, why the hell would I come here to break the news to you?" Something flashed in his eyes, that same volatile anger they'd caught a glimpse of before. "You don't trust me." It wasn't a question. Scully shifted. "We don't trust anyone. You know that, Juan. We've learned the hard way." He turned to her suddenly and snapped. "Spare me the melodramatic platitudes, Scully. Sometimes you need to trust someone. By closing all the doors and windows, you've effectively blocked out all the light." Mulder sat without moving. Christ. Who was this man? Juan had turned back to him. "You're sitting in the dark now. Both of you. Paralyzed and cocooned in your paranoid little world. I'm not the first one who's tried to show you that you've locked the door from inside. The light is out there and you've been free to go all along, Mulder. So has she. But you're happier believing that the prison you inhabit belongs to some other agenda." He stopped for a moment and drew a deep breath. "But now that Scully's in there with you, the darkness isn't quite as intolerable, is it?" Mulder felt anger rise. "Who the hell do you think you are?" "I was sent here to help you. Madre mia, don't you see that? Just as they all were. The man you called Deep Throat. The one you called X, and a handful of others who've surfaced in your path over the years. That first man was my friend, Mulder. My close friend. He died because of you. Because of what he tried to lead you to. The others who came after him were simply following orders, but he..." Tears rose suddenly in the little man's eyes and he brushed them angrily away. "He did it because he believed in you. Because he trusted you, you son of a bitch, more than you've ever trusted anyone. And believe me -- he had a lot more to lose than you ever will. In the end, he lost it all." "Juan..." Mulder could feel his heart pound in his throat as he swallowed. "But the fact is he did believe in you. And fool that I am, so do I. In both of you. Out of respect for his memory, it's true. But also because I've gotten to know you." He looked over at Scully and smiled tightly. "In fact, Agent Scully, your putting up with this neurotic beanpole for so long makes me think there might still be hope for him." She was absolutely speechless. Mulder rose smoothly and towered over the little man, grasping his arm suddenly. His bicep was as hard as a rock -- no softness to it at all. "I think we need to talk more about this, Mr. Martinez," he whispered silkily. "Elsewhere, preferably." His gun was out but he kept it sheathed in his jacket as he played it against the other man's chest. His heart thudded dully and blood sang in his ears. Juan looked up at him and smiled suddenly. There was warmth in it, but very little humour. "I think you're right, Mr. Mulder. On our way to New Jersey, perhaps?" "Good idea." "The gun's really not necessary, you know." "I'm a nervous man." He threw a look over his shoulder at Scully, who'd risen a little shakily. "Ready?" "Oh, yes, Mulder. Hell, at this point, I'm looking forward to the ride." CONTINUED IN PART 23 THE PACT (23/?) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Send in the clones! Don't bother -- they're here..." DISCLAIMER IN THE MIDDLE AGES, WHICH IS ROUGHLY WHEN THE PACT STARTED... Note: Comments about the Ford Taurus in this chapter are for dramatic purposes only and in no way are intended as a disparagement of either the car or the company. Really. I love Fords. Buy one if you can. Mulder was silent until they'd bustled Juan into the car and headed out over the bridge. As they started and stopped fitfully through the midday traffic, Scully called the Manhattan office and confirmed that four nightwatchmen exhibiting a complete lack of trauma had been found dead that morning in and around a mercury processing plant a few feet from the river. Less than 15 minutes from Manhattan as the crow flies, in fact. Unfortunately, there was nothing about their own car's pace that remotely resembled flight. By the time they reached the turnoff, bumper-to-bumper traffic had taken its toll and the Taurus had found a way to overheat despite the January chill. Mulder swore as he let the car roll to a halt near the embankment. They were still a good 20 minutes from the plant. He slammed the steering wheel suddenly. "Fucking bloody piece of shit Taurus. Ford can kiss my ass. Why the hell does the Bureau make us rent these motherfuckers anyway?" Scully pursed her lips and slipped him a sideways glance. He rarely swore like this. In fact, it had been awhile since she'd seen him this wound up. The whole business was starting to get to him, although God only knew it was perfectly understandable. The fight they'd had, Miss Sweeny's disappearance, the fact that when all was said and done they hadn't a clue about what was going on here. How many victims were they up to anyway? She tried to add them up; if you factored in the disappearances, the number was now close to 100. Her heart bobbled for a moment. Sweet Mother of God. She'd known, of course. At some level. But she'd avoided doing the arithmetic. Ignoring the hearsay about people vanishing hadn't hurt either. But even without the latter, the fact was the number of actual deaths was extremely alarming. What the hell was this thing? Meanwhile, Mulder's knuckles were white against the wheel. She leaned towards him, glancing back at Juan who was staring out the window a little forlornly. Mulder had slapped cuffs on him over his and her own objections, but she'd dropped the subject fast when she'd seen the look on his face. Juan. There was no question the little man had reached into her partner and grabbed him tightly by his paranoia. But the look on his face had been infinitely more complex than that. Mulder felt betrayed by him. It was that simple. Betrayed again. By someone he'd trusted, someone he'd liked innocently, like a normal person would, just like everyone was entitled to like someone in the real world. It was a luxury he rarely allowed himself. Trust no one. That edict had become his life. Except... I used to only trust myself. Now I only trust you. She'd heard the tape he'd made in Puerto Rico, at least the parts of it that had survived the static and the escape. The words had touched her deeply, more than she'd been willing to acknowledge at the time. And now, even Scully had to admit he might be right. Maybe there was no one they could trust. Juan. Of all people. Jesus. "Mulder..." she murmured, laying a hand on his arm. It was rigid and she could feel him shake through the cloth of his coat. She touched her forehead against his shoulder for a moment without thinking, which made him jump almost imperceptively. He looked at her, startled. "It's only an overheated engine, Mulder. We just have to let the damn thing cool down for a minute, okay?" Mulder smiled faintly. "The voice of reason, Scully." "I always say..." "Do what you're good at." He finished the phrase for her and brushed her face with a finger. But it had worked. He relaxed visibly. And then he turned and looked at Juan. The little man shifted, although there was nothing nervous about it. He met Mulder's eyes coolly, but there was no mistaking the warmth in it, the affection. The affection he always had when he looked at him. Mulder said nothing for a moment. "So," he began conversationally, "inasmuch as we're stuck here for the time being, let's talk." Juan glanced at Scully and shrugged. "Sure, sweetie. If you like." "Who are you?" "Oh, dear. Have you lost my business card?" Mulder stiffened. "I'm through joking, Juan. Who are you?" The little man's eyes were suddenly as steely as her partner's. "Juan Martinez. Businessman. I wish I could give you a serial number, Agent Mulder, but as it happens, I don't have one." "Speaking of business," Scully said before Mulder could retort, "I've been wondering how you can afford to stay away from your job at the hotel all this time." Juan laughed delightedly. "My *job*, Agent Scully? The White Knight's mine, darling. What did you think?" "We thought you were the desk clerk." He nodded, still smiling. "Well, I'm a hands-on kinda guy. Plus most of the guests are old friends of mine. Or new ones. At least that's always what I hope." Mulder said nothing. "Besides, you know, it's kind of relaxing," Juan continued. "Keeps me sane in light of my day job." "Which is?" Mulder's voice was tight. "Please remove the handcuffs." "Answer the question." Juan looked over at Scully, raising his hands towards her. "You can tell your lovely partner I won't say another word until he removes the damn handcuffs." His voice was deceptively light. She studied him for a moment. There was a strange determination in his eyes, even... Pain? Christ. Could it be he was hurt by this? Could it be he hadn't anticipated the extent of Mulder's distrust? Whatever. In any case, it was clear he was stubborn enough to keep his mouth shut if he didn't get what he wanted. Stubborn. As stubborn as Mulder. As outrageous as it seemed on the surface, they were two of a kind, weren't they? "Take the handcuffs off him, for God's sake. You've already searched him; he doesn't have a gun." "I don't want him to run off, Scully." "He could run off now. You haven't cuffed his legs." "He wouldn't get far." "He won't get far without them, Mulder. Let him go." Mulder sat for a moment. Then he dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the key. It took a second to uncuff the clerk, who leaned back and rubbed his wrists. "That's better. I never like to wear handcuffs on a first date." Mulder expelled a sharp breath. "Cut the fagella crap, Juan. I want to know what's going on." Juan bristled and straightened. "Fagella crap, Mulder? I'm exactly what I am." "I'm not talking about that. It's time you were straight with us." "Straight?" "Juan..." He smiled tersely. "What do you want from me, Mulder? I've guided you, protected you, watched over you. I did what I was asked to do by a man who knew his days were counted, a man I loved for more than 20 years." "Deep Throat?" Scully asked in a low voice. "You never knew his name. And you won't hear it from me. All I can tell you is that he was as consumed by the truth as you are. Both of you. But in order to continue his search, he was obliged to play a dangerous game. In the end, it got him killed." Juan turned his head as tears threatened once again. The two agents waited, shifting uncomfortably. "What you probably don't realize is that you were his heir apparent, Mulder." Juan was looking out the window. "He had high hopes for you. But they killed him before he could show you the way." "What way?" Mulder was whispering now as he strained towards him over the seat. The little man shook his head. "I wasn't privy to all of it. No one was, as far as I know. Except your father, I suspect, and they took care of him too." Mulder groaned and leaned his head against the headrest. Scully's heart had started a slow, dull thrum. Jesus. Oh, God. "You think there's an organization behind the coverup, don't you?" Juan was sitting back calmly now. "You're right. But you don't understand the extent of it yet, or even the reasons for it. If you knew, you'd be horrified by how prosaic all of it is." "How do you mean?" Scully. He shook his head. "I only know bits and pieces. It's safer that way. But you should know that there are many of us who've been fighting them for years. The one you called Deep Throat. Ordinary business people, doctors, lawyers, clergy, a handful of top-ranking military personnel. Even Skinner, although he's been kept largely in the dark for security reasons. Senator Matheson and a slew of others in the government, men and women who've understood that conspiracy lies in their midst. Agents in both the CIA and the FBI. You've even met a few." Mulder gaped at him. "Why?" Juan shrugged. "Because they're using us, Agent Mulder. They're using all of us." He turned earnestly to Scully. "You got a taste of it with the smallpox vaccine. We've all been tagged, for some reason. All of us, all North Americans, certainly, and a boggling number of other people around the world. Everyone who's been vaccinated." "But what are they using us for?" The little man nodded. "Yes. That's the question, isn't it? And that's why we're looking for answers." "You don't know?" He shook his head. "We have theories, but no hard proof. Every theory we've formulated is blown away by stranger evidence. Whatever it is they're doing..." he paused and took a deep breath. "Whatever it is, it's more convoluted than we're capable of understanding." The atmosphere in the car had become ominous, stifling. Scully coughed and lowered her window, her eyes shutting in relief as brisk air flowed over her face. God. "So what does all this have to do with it?" Mulder asked suddenly. "I mean, you got involved in this case. Why?" Juan lowered his own window and snuffled fresh air for a moment. "Most street people were once confined to institutions. You know that, Mulder." "And?" "Throughout the '50s, '60s and '70s, it's our belief that many institutionalized people were used as guinea pigs in top-secret experiments." Scully stared at him in disbelief. "What kind of experiments, for God's sake?" Juan gazed at her without expression. "We don't know for certain, but there's compelling evidence that it's got something to do with an extraterrestrial influence of some kind." She could feel Mulder's excitement, even though her own mind was beginning to rebel. Juan. Who the hell was Juan? It was ludicrous. Someone had to be playing some elaborate prank on them. On Mulder. They were being jerked around once again. What else could it be? "And now," Juan continued, "years after their release from institutions, these same people are disappearing. Why?" Silence grew. At last: "You're saying it's part of another coverup." Mulder. Juan shrugged again. "I don't know. We're trying to find out." "Well," Scully cut in a little sarcastically, "it'll be interesting to find out whether a street person decided to wander over to the Jersey shore last night. Or whether the four security guards we're heading towards were secretly muggers or dealers, which as far as I know are the only types of people who've died in these cases." The two men turned and stared at her as she leaned over and turned on the ignition. The engine spat once and then hummed evenly. "I think the car's ready, Mulder." He cleared his throat, grimaced, and shifted out of park. CONTINUED IN PART 24 The Pact (24/?) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Now see 'ere, mate. This Mulder is dead!" "'Ee's not dead. Ee's pinin' for the fjords!" DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE NEW JERSEY McMASTER MERCURY CO. THURSDAY, 1:42 PM It was obvious that whatever was going on at the mercury plant had already drawn a lot of attention. Scully shivered as they rounded a bend in a heavily wooded area of the shore road. The trees were thin and winter stark, grey and brooding; they loomed darkly, vaguely ominous in the weak afternoon sun. Mulder hit the brakes and narrowly missed ramming into the back of a black unmarked van which was parked haphazardly in the thick muddy ruts which scarred the red dirt road. He looked over at Scully. She recognized the van too. She'd seen dozens of them over the years. "I think we're late, Mulder. The government's already here." "Yeah. The government -- or the military." Juan chuckled drily behind them. "Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference, don't you find?" He leaned over Scully's seat and peered ahead. "Ay. What's going on here?" He pointed towards a high grill fence bristling with barbed wire that was just visible behind the trees. Scully squinted. It was difficult to make it out exactly, but she could definitely see movement and the glint of sun dancing on metal. Then one man stepped into full sight. Jesus. Guards. Armed to the teeth, if the size of that guy's assault rifle was any indication. And he was wearing full camouflage gear. Army. "Looks like this case is finally getting a little attention, Scully." Mulder calmly unbuckled his seat belt. She didn't feel it was the right moment to bring up the fact that their case and whatever was going on here might not actually be related. Other than the deaths, and even these were uncircumstantiated at this point, nothing here matched the patterns they'd found, at least as far as they knew. Unless the guards had been slain by a virus, of course; one that was spreading outside Manhattan city limits. Or maybe the contamination had originated elsewhere and was simply spreading here as it had in New York City. Maybe she'd been right all along and Mulder, for once, had allowed himself to be seduced by a red herring. Scully shook her head quickly. Speculating without data was a dangerous game. And experience had shown her time and time again that when all was said and done, Mulder rarely ventured far off-track despite his occasionally bizarre theories. She unfastened her own belt and suddenly froze. God. Unless they were looking at more than one unsolved mystery here. Maybe it wasn't a matter of red herrings. Maybe they were looking at two parallel cases which had simply collided for some reason in the dark alleys of Manhattan. Son of a bitch. "Mulder..." He turned to her just as Juan yelped and pointed to a dark, grim-faced man who was striding towards them as purposefully as he could through the mud. A man dressed entirely in black. Mulder pursed his lips and opened the car door. He looked down at the ground for a moment and grimaced before stepping out. "Hope you brought sensible shoes, Scully." As it happened, she had. She cautioned Juan to stay put and was relieved when he showed every willingness to comply. Apparently, he found the apparition as alarming as she did. She joined Mulder outside the car, squelching towards him through the muck just as the man reached them. "I'm sorry, but this area is restricted. You'll have to turn back." Mulder flashed his badge at the man, who regarded it coolly. "I know who you are, Agent Mulder." Scully's blood chilled. Of course. "Then you know why we're here, sir. And you are...?" The man's even gaze swivelled to meet her own. "This isn't an FBI matter, Agent Scully." Right. "I think that under the circumstances we have the right to see some ID, sir," she continued icily. Mulder shivered next to her. The man actually laughed. "I think not, ma'am. This was never your business." "We have every reason to believe that this matter is connected to a case we're investigating..." Mulder interrupted, only to be interrupted himself. "Yes, so I understand. Although the Manhattan FBI office doesn't seem convinced this case of yours bears close scrutiny." Scully muttered something and pulled out her gun. "I don't know who you are, sir. Unless you show us that you have some kind of authority here, I'm perfectly prepared to arrest you for obstructing our investigation." The man laughed again. Fuck. He was really beginning to get on her nerves. Then he waved behind him at two soldiers who were making their way towards them, rifles out and ready. From where she was standing, the men looked genuine enough. She could just make out their U.S. Army insignia. But that still didn't prove anything. "I've got a dozen people in there who'll be happy to show you their IDs, Agent Scully. And then you'll have to deal with the consequences of obstructing *their* investigation." Asshole. It took everything she had not to kick him in the shin. It was obvious that Mulder felt the extent of her rage. He stepped smoothly up to her, not blocking her way, exactly, but making it harder for her to lunge at the bastard. "We just need to cover all the bases, sir. You might want to utilize Agent Scully for the autopsies; she's had a lot of experience lately with these kinds of death and she's been working closely with the Centers for Disease Control, which have also expressed concern. I'm sure you're aware there's a chance that some kind of extremely dangerous virus is involved." Her mouth almost dropped, but she clamped it shut. Jesus. She never thought she'd live to see the day when Mulder actually sucked up to anyone. The soldiers were standing right behind the man now, their rifles erect. Christ. Men. In their world, everything revolved around erections of one kind or another, didn't it? They were never satisfied unless *something* stood at attention. The man smiled thinly. "I'm fully aware of the work you've done, Agent Scully. And I can't deny that we don't know what caused these deaths. We have every intention of making full use of your reports in pursuing this matter." He reached into his coat pocket and took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Scully felt Mulder stiffen against her. Morleys. She'd've recognized the red-and-white pack a mile away, but she'd never seen this particular bastard before. "For the time being," he continued smoothly as he lit a cigarette, "your orders are to return to Washington pending further instructions." Scully's outrage was abruptly interrupted by the sound of a car door slamming behind her. She turned in time to see Juan emerge. The man looked past her. "Ah, Mr. Martinez. It's been a while." Jesus. Juan walked up to where they were standing. His face was absolutely without expression. "Carrington. I should've known you'd be buzzing around here like a fly around..." "You know, Agent Mulder, you don't help your cause by associating with this kind of element." The man threw his cigarette on the ground without bothering to step on it. He leaned towards Mulder. "Aren't you in enough trouble already? I mean, sometimes it looks like you're deliberately trying to destroy yourself." He nodded at Scully. "Along with whoever's naive enough to get involved in your bullshit." That did it. Scully lunged, only to find herself forcibly restrained. Juan. He'd caught her arm from behind. And he was holding on with a steel grip. She turned at him and snarled quickly, then drew back in surprise as his forehead met hers. For an instant. For a heartbeat, she felt his breath against her lips. "Don't." It was enough to startle her into momentary stillness. Mulder didn't notice, or at least he pretended not to. His voice was as cold as the other man's had been. "You can understand that I'll want confirmation of our recall." The other man shrugged. "Feel free. Call Skinner's office. They tried to reach you this morning. Apparently, you were... too busy to take the call." There was no mistaking the leer he shot Scully. Oh, God. Oh dear sweet Lord. They knew. She and Mulder had turned off their cell phones that morning. For an hour. No more. For privacy. Just because they'd pretended for 60-odd minutes that they could have a life. Sweet Jesus. Scully stood absolutely still and tried not to tremble. Who the hell was this guy? Who the hell were they dealing with here? Juan knew him. That much was clear. If they could just get the hell away from this place, he might tell them what he knew. Right now, it was all they had. "Mulder," she said tightly. He shook his head. "Just tell us what's happened here, sir." "Get in your car. Go back to Washington." The soldiers had moved closer. "Mr. Martinez, I'm afraid you'll have to stay here for questioning." "We're not leaving without him." Suddenly, two rifles were pointed right at them. "Oh yes, you are." "You have no right..." "I have every right, Mr. Mulder, as you'll see when you report back. Mr. Martinez is a security risk. We've been watching him for years, but his presence here seals it. And if you don't want to get into any more trouble than you already are, I suggest you get in your car and drive straight to the airport. Am I making myself clear?" She could feel Mulder's frustration, his anger. It radiated palpably, but for whatever reason, he appeared to bite down on it. "I..." "You're dabbling in things you can't even begin to understand. So far, you've gotten away with it. Don't press your luck, Agent Mulder. Or hers." It was more than a veiled threat. Juan protested feebly but she recognized the look in his eye as he gazed back at them over his shoulder. Determination. And a cold, cold hatred she'd never seen before. But it wasn't aimed at them. "Go." That was all he said as he was led away by the two armed men. The man in black stood where he'd stood since the beginning and gazed at them. Scully felt helpless and she didn't know exactly why. On the surface, it was true that the two of them could probably take the man on now, but the very fact that he was willing to stand there without apparent backup seemed to indicate either that the woods were crawling with his operatives or that for some reason he believed he had absolutely nothing to fear. Both contingencies were terrifying. Mulder's fingers were suddenly wrapped around her bicep. He pulled her towards the passenger side, opened the door, and threw a warning look at her as he gestured her in. She went. What else could she do? Her mind was still reeling. Within seconds, he was seated beside her. He twisted the key and revved the engine, slamming the car into reverse as mud spit whining from the wheels. They backed away along the road and she sat stiffly, watching the motionless shape of the man in black retreat into the distance. CONTINUED IN PART 25 THE PACT (25/28) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "The end is nigh!" This Chapter Written in SurroundRead (TM)* EXCITED READERS TALK ABOUT SURROUNDREAD (TM), THE EXCITING NEW BREAKTHROUGH FOR A TOTALLY NEW EXCITING READING EXPERIENCE: "Wow! What can I say! It's as though the words were... like... right there in front of you!" A. Lien, California "I've never seen anything like it. Words -- everywhere I look! Just there, you know? As though they've actually been put there by some higher intelligence, although that's obviously impossible judging by the content..." Fool Hardy, Quebec "I... I can't talk about it. It's just too incredible. Words in black, flickering in two dimensions on my screen... I... Excuse me." R.O.T. Floorlaughing, Florida "I never realized before how elaborate words are. They're filled with letters -- millions of letters! Thanks to SurroundRead (TM), I finally get it. And punctuation... I mean, what's that all about? Awesome!" Marita, Washington DC "After a while, the story doesn't even matter, you know? You get caught up in the whole feeling. SurroundRead (TM) touches all your senses, except your hearing, taste, smell and touch. Unbelievable." BeckyD, Ontario * Available in some locations only. A few. Very few. Actually, none. DISCLAIMER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST Mulder stared straight ahead as they bumped along the dirt road towards the highway. His mind was reeling. He could feel Scully next to him, the heat of her, her tension, and he could smell her too, that bittersweet tang of Scully freaked, a mixture of delicate sweat, soap and perfume. He'd learned to read her body language because it was usually the only way he could tell she was having any kind of reaction at all to outrageous situations. He'd also caught this particular fragrance from her often over the years, often enough that he could interpret it now; it generally went straight to his head. To name one part. This time, though, he was too shaken for any part of him to respond. Christ. This thing was bigger than he'd imagined. It was unbelievable. The turnoff to La Guardia airport was straight ahead. He grit his teeth and spun the wheel in the opposite direction. "Mulder..." "We gotta talk, Scully." She said nothing and leaned back into the seat, but he could sense her disapproval. It radiated palpably, except that right beneath it he could also feel her curiosity and even an unmistakable warmth. God. She was willing to listen. Maybe even to support him? It tugged at memories which hinted at other times she'd done this for him. Many other times. Quietly. He'd supposed he'd always noticed, but for the first time Mulder wondered whether it was possible he'd conveniently forgotten some of the details. In the end, could it be she'd always supported him? In her own way, perhaps. But still... How many times had he dragged her on wild-goose chases? How many times, in retrospect, had she willingly followed? He drove for a few miles in silence before turning off onto a sideroad. Then he killed the motor and allowed the car to roll to a stop on the shoulder. Mulder turned to her and expelled a breath as softly as he could through pouting lips. Pouting lips were good. Pouting lips worked every time. Well. Almost every time. Scully studied him coolly, although he could tell she was momentarily distracted by his mouth. He tried not to smile. "Um..." she said. "So." "Yeah?" She was still staring at his mouth, although he could tell her distraction pissed the hell out of her. It was hard to ignore the warm glow in his groin which inevitably followed that particular look when she graced him with it. "I think we should hang around, Scully." That did it. She looked up at his eyes, her own wide. "What?" He nodded rapidly. It was also hard to ignore the unbelievable cold blue of her eyes when she looked at him like that. "This is a mindfuck, Scully. They're trying to weird us out. I think something's going on back there. And I think we should try to find out what it is." Her eyes blazed at him. "Mulder, what we have to find out is if we've really been called back to Washington." He shrugged. "So what if we have? If we call, we're opening ourselves up to precisely what that man in black wants us to do." "He was a man dressed in black, Mulder. Period." "A man dressed in black. A man in black. Whatever." "What if it's true? What if we're expected back?" Mulder took a deep breath and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. "Then I'd have to question where Skinner gets his orders." Scully said nothing for a moment. "Unless it's true that we're meddling in something that lies beyond our jurisdiction." He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time, Scully." To his surprise, she nodded grimly. "Might be the last, Mulder." He smiled. "Might be." And then he was shocked to find that she was smiling right back at him. For some reason, his heart seemed to soar giddily for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was light and playful, which probably surprised him more than it did her. "Besides, Scully. If this is as big as we think it is, we have a duty to find out if a coverup's involved." "Really? A duty to whom?" He laughed before turning suddenly serious. "Juan. All of America. Humanity as a whole. The entire universe. Who knows?" She nodded again, but a smile still played around her lips. "Well. Who am I to stand in the way of such breathtaking nobility?" Juan. "We can't leave him there, you know. There's no way to know what they'll do to him." "Assuming he's been telling us the truth, Mulder. I mean, how can we be sure he's not on their side? It was obvious he knew that guy." It was. Except that it was obvious they weren't close friends. And at this point Mulder was convinced the little man knew a lot more than he'd let on. "I just don't believe it, Scully. But I do believe there's more to Juan than meets the eye. And I want a chance to find out what that is." Not to mention that he still liked the guy, dammit. And all in all, he didn't want to see him get hurt. He didn't have to say it. The look on Scully's face made it clear she understood. Besides, Mulder knew the truth about Scully's own motivation. She still believed in a killer virus or bacterium, and quite frankly there was no way to dismiss that particular hypothesis. If it was true, and if the government was somehow involved in a coverup, the ramifications were staggering -- and potentially deadly. When all was said and done, he figured it was probably more than enough to convince her that returning to Washington wasn't an option. She'd seen what they were capable of. More than once. And it was beginning to dawn on him that maybe, just maybe, she'd come to distrust the powers that be just as much as he did. It was funny. He thought he'd known this about her. But he was just beginning to see that at some level he'd never really absorbed it. She'd come over to his side a long time ago, hadn't she? And he trusted her; for years now, she'd been the only one he trusted. Yet... It was possible that deep down he'd never really allowed himself to trust her completely. You are the only one I trust. He'd said the words to her that time when she'd pointed an alarmingly steady gun at him at the height of madness, when her extreme paranoia had seemed a painful parody of his own. The words had been true. But to what extent? He'd trusted her more than he'd ever trusted anyone. But in his world, that wasn't even close to trusting completely. This he'd never done. Until now. Until the fight they'd had, which for some reason had made him realize how much of himself he still kept guarded. God. That was what the fight was really about, wasn't it? She'd finally opened up to the extreme possibilities he kept ramming down her throat. Her mind had broken free at last, spontaneously, and all he'd done was act as though she was wrong again. As though she hadn't understood. Again. Except this time she'd been talking like he always had and he'd acted like she always did. He felt a rush of inexplicable shame. Suddenly, it was a lot easier to understand that from her point of view, he always subtly behaved as though he knew better. And in this case, she'd been right to get enraged, because this time she'd been more Mulder than he was. A virus. A bacteria. A nameless foe killing people for no apparent reason, reducing their brains to inorganic material. It was outrageous. It was a hell of an X-File. It was the kind of thing that would have captivated him in the old days; before the Hansen incident had rendered him cautious for their sake, for her sake, he'd've spent hours trying to convince her to take this kind of stuff seriously. This time she'd taken it very seriously. All by herself. And he'd practically dismissed it to her face. Jesus. Mulder's heart contracted all of a sudden. He looked over at his partner, who he suddenly realized was gazing at him with rapt attention. "Uh, Scully?" She kept staring. "You get it now, don't you, Mulder." Son of a bitch. She'd never stop surprising him. "What?" "You know what. Why we fought." "Christ, Scully. How the hell do you know what the fuck I was thinking?" She smirked at him. "Forgive me. I keep forgetting how you still believe you're the sensitive one." He shook his head mutely. She was doing this more and more. And although he suspected that she knew him extremely well, that she knew him better than he did, this was getting a little weird. One day they'd have to sit down and she'd have to tell him how she did it. One day they'd have to talk. Really talk. That day was long overdue. But now wasn't the time. Mulder reached for his cell phone and tried to ignore her smug little smile. It was irritating because all he wanted to do right now was kiss her, which was almost always what he wanted to do these days. He felt his blood chill. God. Those bastards knew. How had he ever allowed himself to believe they could hide anything from them? It didn't much matter in the end. For years now, the men in the shadows had been using each of them to get to the other, and it had started long before they got physically involved. Their sleeping together was a technicality at this point, and it was the tacit, if derisive, acknowledgment of this fact by the man in black that was the most chilling thing of all. Their greatest weakness, each of them, was each other. It was no truer now than it had ever been. "Who're you calling, Mulder?" "The Gunmen. We need a plan of the mercury plant. I assume you brought your laptop?" She nodded. Of course she had. It was a throwback to the early days when she'd religiously tap out field reports while they were still literally in the field. "We'll get Byers to e-mail it." You just had to love the '90s. E-mail access via cell phone in the middle of a Jersey forest. "What are you suggesting we do?" "I think we should go there tonight, Scully. Check it out. If anyone can let us know the best way to get into the place, it's got to be Frohike." He'd think about the rest of it later. For the time being, the really odd thing was that no one had followed them to make sure they drove straight out of the area. It was bizarre. It pointed either to the fact that these people didn't consider the two of them to be serious threats, or that they assumed they'd follow orders like good little scared- shitless FBI agents, or that the situation at the plant had got so out of hand that no operatives could be spared. If the man back there knew as much about them as Mulder suspected he did, it was likely he wasn't falling for the first two possibilities. Which left only the third one. And that was downright terrifying. He threw a side glance at Scully and thought maybe he'd keep his thoughts to himself. CONTINUED IN PART 26 THE PACT (26/28) ***NC-17*** by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "How can it be almost over? I'm still missing 23 damn parts!" -- an irate reader ************************************************************ THIS CHAPTER RATED NC-17 FOR SEXUAL DESCRIPTIONS. PARENTS AND GUARDIANS TAKE NOTE: NOT APPROPRIATE FOR YOUNGER READERS. *********************************************************** DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE Night fell suddenly as it did in the winter; they'd waited in the car, reading e-mail from Byers and biding their time. Mulder had started up the car on several occasions, leading them further into the woods and parking again, trying as best he could to cover their tracks, but as the cold rose he'd found himself restarting the motor and cranking the heat. It was actually nice. It was nice to sit there as thin, helpless frost painted branches on the windows and their breath began to billow in the nippy air. Eventually he would turn on the engine for the sake of the heat, but best of all he liked the fact that the cold drove Scully to snuggle against him, and he sat with his arm around her, studying the information that appeared as if by magic on her laptop screen. "You gotta admit, Scully. Those guys are amazing." She nodded grudgingly, her fiery hair rustling against his collar. "Yeah. God only knows how Frohike got hold of this kind of information about an obscure plant in New Jersey." "I'm sure he did it out of his love for you." She snorted. "Just for this, he can have me." "I'll kill him first." "You're such a caveman, Mulder." "Ugh." He brushed his lips against her hair. Fortunately, Scully always carried bags of nuts and dried fruit which were at least marginally enough to sustain them through the day. A bit of a struggle ensued as he wrestled for her bag in search of her secret stash of Snickers bars, but in the end his physical mass was enough to guarantee that he could snarf down a couple before she had a chance to draw a weapon on him. By that point he was practically sitting on her anyway as he inhaled the chocolate bar; he held her purse over her head with one hand as he chewed and she clawed at him ineffectually between giggles. "I'm bigger than you are, Scully," he explained reasonably as he held her head gently against the passenger side window. "I need more calories." "Bastard," she snarled, flailing at him. "Those were *mine.* You die." "Um," he breathed. "What if I said I'd make it up to you?" She stopped moving and eyed him warily from her inelegant position pressed against the window. "How?" He smiled and pulled her towards him suddenly. Scully groaned, turned her face away and slapped at him vaguely, missing him by a mile. "You smell like a goddam chocolate factory. And your teeth are coated with the shit. What the hell do you want?" He sucked his teeth loudly for a moment and tugged her towards him. "There. Better?" "You still stink." "So do you, Scully." "Oh, my. Such a clever rebuttal." He grinned and rubbed his forehead against hers. "I could make you come," he whispered silkily. "Oh, stop. You big man. I'm so excited." Her voice dripped sarcasm but he recognized the glitter in her eye. "It's the least I can do. C'mon, Scully. You're dying for it. Let me make you come." "Sex. The last refuge of the little mind." She chortled and waved feebly out at the surrounding forest. "Besides, they're out there, Mulder. They could be watching. Behave yourself." He drew back just enough to look astounded but not enough to lose his grip on her. "Out there? In the woods? Watching us just sitting around?" "You know it's possible." "Anything's *possible*, Scully, but it isn't likely." He leaned back up against her and caught her earlobe in his mouth. She moaned against him. "Come on, Scully. Come on." Mulder nibbled at her and felt a rush of glee as she began to writhe against him. The problem was he was too drained right now to respond to her physically beyond a noble stirring, an attempt at hardness which he knew was a lost cause in light of the morning they'd had, but he drew great satisfaction from her obvious arousal. He wanted to please her. Right now, it was the only thing he wanted. They'd have to face more than enough unpleasantness later. Scully pushed up against him as he slid his hand suddenly down her pants and found the already moist root of her. Her breath exploded against his cheek as she drew up taut and flung her arms around his neck. "Mulderrrrr," she moaned against his throat. "Not now." "Oh, yes, Scully. Right now." He knew the language of her body. He knew exactly how to make it sing and dance. As his fingers settled around the nub of her, he knew exactly how long it would take to make her gasp and stiffen. His other hand reached up to pull her face against his neck as he got down to business, and her moans were muffled against him as he rubbed and pulled gently. She could play him like a finely tuned piano. That much was true. And she'd done it time and time again. As it happened, though, he knew how to pluck her like a rare and beautiful violin. His little Scully. He knew her well. It took scant minutes before she seized up and froze against him, her mouth open wide against his throat. His fingers drummed against her for a moment longer, drawing it out, and he lowered his lips to catch her moans in his mouth. His hand stopped its motion moments before it became painful for her and he cupped her gently as she recovered, her lips moist against him, her breath humid on his neck. Mulder pulled out his hand and studied it seriously. "Hmmmm." "Shut up." He chuckled and quickly sucked her moisture from his fingers. "You have an oral fixation, Mulder," Scully grumbled sleepily against him. "Yes." It was four o'clock. The sun would be setting any time now. "Take a little nap. We'll head off in a couple of hours." She said nothing. She was already asleep. Mulder nodded and wrapped his arms around her as he leaned back to wait. CONTINUED IN PART 27 THE PACT (27/28) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net "Believe me -- when you see what you're in for, you'll be grateful for part 26." DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE By the time Scully stirred, the cover of night was complete. The sky was overcast and no stars were visible; the trees were black on black, a jumble of gnarled, twisted shadows which seemed to jump and lunge in the illumination cast by occasional passing cars. Mulder said nothing as she pulled away from him and yawned, stretching. The engine was already running; he'd turned it on some time back as the cold grew more intense. The mud would have frozen by now. It would be a fucking charming walk through the forest. "What time is it, Mulder?" "Six thirty." "God." She shook herself. "You should've woke me." He smiled and shrugged, but the darkness was so deep that she probably couldn't see him. "What for? You didn't bring a pack of cards." "Didn't see the point. We never use them." "That's the problem with euphemisms." It was so easy to banter with her, so comforting somehow, but he couldn't help wondering if she was as nervous as he was. After all, it wasn't every day they slipped surreptitiously into a restricted area guarded by the military. It happened sometimes. Just not every day. He grinned. God. A part of him was actually looking forward to this. A part of him always did. "Ready, Scully?" "I'm never ready for this kind of thing." He nodded. "Yeah. My mother was right. I shoulda become an accountant." "Hey. It can still happen. Don't let the dream die, Mulder." He turned his head, peering along the road, and backed up towards the highway. NEW JERSEY McMASTER MERCURY CO. THURSDAY, 7:15 PM They left the car a safe distance from the perimeter of the plant. Thanks to the Gunmen, they knew exactly where the electrified fence ended near the water; according to Frohike, there was almost a foot of space before the riverbank began. "It's probably guarded," he'd written in his e-mail -- encrypted, of course. Frohike was the most paranoid man on the planet. In fact, the sheer glorious extent of it always filled Mulder with a kind of breathless wonder. Christ -- Frohike firmly believed that the Cancerman was single handedly responsible for the assassinations of John and Bobby Kennedy *and* Martin Luther King. Outrageous. "And security's bound to be tighter than ever," he'd continued in his letter, adding: "Watch out for dogs." Great. Dogs. Mulder hated them. He was scared of them, although he'd never told Scully. Hell. He'd've been scared of Queequeg if the little mutt had been just a little less ridiculous. Once, when he was 12, soon after Samantha's disappearance, a rotweiler had tried to father his children. Mulder had laid there, too terrified to fight, humiliated, surrounded by laughing kids, until his father had appeared out of nowhere and yanked the fucking thing off him. He'd never referred to it again, but it was probably the only time he'd seen his dad show any backbone. Bill Mulder had lashed out at the other kids, practically screaming at them about how dangerous this could've been and how they should be ashamed of themselves for letting it continue, and despite Mulder's tears of abject humiliation, he'd been proud of his old man. For once. Bill Mulder had salvaged his son's dignity that time. They'd walked home together, Fox sniffling still, wiping his eyes with a grimy hand as he tried to understand why he felt so dirty, so small. His father had rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, Fox. You didn't do anything wrong." By then, his father rarely spoke to him at all, so the words had startled him. But there'd been something in his tone that seemed to refer to something much bigger than what had just happened. You didn't do anything wrong. God. Samantha. Mulder had spent the next 20 years trying to convince himself it was true. But that day on the Vineyard, as they'd walked home together, he'd felt close to his dad, closer to him than he'd felt in years. Closer than he ever would again. It was dark as hell but cold enough at least that no wild animals could possibly be roaming around. Unless they were really, really hungry. Mulder held the sole flashlight, a powerful sodium one with a shutter. The barred light bounced faintly off the trees as they picked their way through the woods. He'd tried to take Scully's hand at some point because the ground was treacherous, but she'd glared at him and waved him away. Half-frozen wet leaves slipped underfoot and they'd both almost lost their balance several times. And then he stepped wrong and dropped hard, flailing and muffling a cry as his coccyx impacted sharply against the rock-hard earth. "Shit!" He blinked away involuntary tears. "You okay?" Scully reached for him. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, propping himself up gingerly and wincing. "Don't damage your ass, Mulder. It's a part of your body that means a lot to me." "Everything's about you, isn't it?" They were whispering, but in the eerie silence of the winter woods, their words seemed to bounce around and amplify. Scully shivered, crouched down and spoke in his ear. "You're sure you know where we're going?" "Can't you smell the river, Scully?" She sniffed. It was true. It was a smell like old, cold steel, and it was getting stronger. She wondered why she hadn't been conscious of it before. Scully helped him up. "You know, if we're that close, it's strange that the dogs haven't caught our scent and started barking." He stopped brushing off leaves and stared at her. God. She was right. Dogs. He shuddered. It was one of his worst nightmares. Packs of huge dogs, black as night, dark as death, emerging out of nowhere, highlighted suddenly for a moment by some obscure source of diffuse light, their jaws open and slathering before they disappeared again into the gloom right in front of him. It was always the same. In his dream he always stood paralyzed, unable to run, waiting in the inexplicable silence, smelling them coming, tasting their blind animal hatred, knowing exactly what was about to happen, helpless, always helpless, and then suddenly the first one was there, a mass of frenzied fur and gleaming teeth and burning breath as it lunged up and tore into his throat. Yep. He'd awoke screaming a lot of times thanks to that one. Meanwhile, they were close enough to have alerted the hounds of hell, and there was nothing. Cold sweat had broken on his face but he felt a flush of relief. No dogs. Maybe there weren't any dogs after all. It was impossible to know exactly how she knew, but this time, when he reached for her hand, she didn't push him away. The glow was the first indication that they'd arrived. Faint searchlights played against the river from the buildings above, and he could see the gentle ripple of black water as it lapped against the bank. The river smell was almost overpowering now, metallic, icy, but paradoxically swampy and rich. They lurked at the edge of the forest, studying the scene. From what Mulder could tell, there was no sign of life at all. The fence ended close to the water, but there was more than enough room to get around it if they were willing to risk getting their feet wet. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but hardly impossible. According to Frohike, that's where they'd find a weakness: a narrow non-electrified wire door. An emergency exit. A necessary concession on the part of the owners. That way, if disaster struck before anyone could cut the current, employees could still get out. The door faced a river with a swift current, which made it unlikely that anyone with a conflicting agenda would arrive by that route. Besides, based on the wee-hour deaths of four security guards, Mulder had little doubt that the area was usually well-patrolled both day and night. Times were tough for politically incorrect industries. He felt Scully brush against him and lowered his ear to her mouth. Her breath was silky, hot and inadvertently arousing; he squirmed for a moment. "It looks as tight as a prison, Mulder. Why go to so much trouble for a mercury plant?" He shrugged and leaned closer as he whispered. "Fear of environmental terrorists? This place has got to dump tons of toxic waste into the river." "Or maybe the army set up additional security measures since this happened, like Frohike said." "Maybe. Except there's nothing new about that fence." The best thing of all was that there was absolutely no sign of guard dogs. For now. "So. Let's go." Mulder chewed his lip and crouched down, loping from shadow to shadow with Scully right behind him. He stopped suddenly in front of the fence and woomfed as she barrelled into him, almost knocking both of them over. "Jesus. Be careful," he hissed. "Sorry." The faint light from the searchlights roamed across the water but it seemed listless, diluted, as though it had been designed for effect rather than purpose. Scully nudged him and pointed to the fence. "I don't know about you, Mulder, but I don't get the feeling there's any power running through that thing." She was right. He just didn't know why it felt that way. There was something dead about the fence, and in fact the entire area felt oddly desolate and lifeless. Scully reached into her pocket and slid down towards the river bank. He squinted after her as she leaned over the water for a moment before scrambling back up to where he was crouching. She was holding a sealed evidence bag filled with water. Mulder stared at it mutely. Then she grinned at him and tossed the bag almost nonchalantly against the fence. It exploded, bursting open as it hit. Water ran down the metal, streaming. There was nothing. Not a fizzle, not a spark. The damn thing was turned off. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other. Then Scully snorted, slapping a hand over her mouth to muffle it. "Shhh, Scully." She kept chuckling. "Oh, yes. I'd better. The dogs and guards will be swarming in a second." The maddening thing was, it was true. The fucking place felt absolutely deserted. Christ. "Let's just check the door, okay? It's still easier than climbing over the fence." She nodded, but her body still shook with laughter. And of course, as it turned out, the door was unlocked and ajar. The fact that the fence wasn't electrified made crossing onto the bank child's play. Mulder clutched the wire and swung around, dodging a searchlight for good measure, although he was increasingly willing to bet that no one was watching. He reached a hand out for Scully. She didn't take it. Neither of them were surprised by the open wire door, but just as Scully prepared to cross into the compound, he clutched her arm and pulled her up against him. She gasped and resisted for a brief moment. "Don't be smug, Scully," he breathed in her ear. "This is weird. The place was bristling with soldiers a few hours ago. Don't let your guard down." She looked at him, her face glowing faintly white in the river's reflecting light. "So what are you saying?" "I don't know why it's so quiet. Maybe whatever happened here is back again." She was suddenly still. "Maybe the door is open because everyone escaped through it. Those that got away." Her eyes flashed and it took him by surprise. "Are you trying to scare me, Mulder? Is that it?" He drew back. "No, not at all. Why are you snapping at me, for God's sake?" Scully studied him silently for a moment. Then: "We still don't know anything about what really happened here. I think it's about time we find out." And then she turned her back to him and slipped through the gap in the door. There was no sign of life. The courtyard was empty. They neared the main building, still dodging the feeble searchlights from habit and training, although Mulder suspected his partner was just as spooked by the lonely desolation of the place as he was. For some reason, neither of them was surprised to find that the heavy green emergency exit door was unlocked. Mulder pried it open and unshuttered his flashlight, aiming the beam cautiously down against the floor so that it pooled sharply as the two of them stepped inside. The interior was darker than the night they'd left behind. He listened for a moment, feeling Scully next to him, taut and alert, but there was no sound at all and he took the liberty of bouncing the beam against a wall. Nothing. They walked as quietly as they could, but still it seemed their footsteps resounded more loudly than they should. Which was probably why they weren't especially surprised to hear the sharp sound of a machine-gun bolt being pulled back behind them. "Hands in the air." They'd heard the words before. Mulder shot a glance at Scully before doing as he was told, and he was relieved to see her do the same. But both of them were experienced enough to recognize that the voice which had spoken was shakey and almost unbearably young. The kind of voice that belonged to someone who was still wet behind the ears and completely alone. "Now turn around. Slowly." They did and caught the confirmation of a single shadow in the darkness. Then Mulder lunged. He heard an outraged "No!" from Scully as he landed hard against a body that tumbled beneath his own. A frightened, helpless expletive followed as he came crashing down on top of someone, and Mulder heard the satisfying clang of a large weapon falling and skidding across the floor. And then Scully must have found the flashlight and pointed the beam dead on him because he suddenly found that he was propped up and staring down on a young soldier who looked even more amazed and terrified than he suspected he did himself. The poor kid was so beside himself that it took them almost 10 minutes to calm him down, although the sight of Scully seemed to work wonders, especially when she started to pat him and reassure him soothingly. Mulder was not about to get jealous of a 19-year-old boy. He was not. He was definitely not. Finally, they'd managed to lead him to a part of the plant where emergency lighting still cast a faint glow. As they walked, it became increasingly clear that the place had been completely trashed. The vague shapes of twisted machinery and equipment loomed, many of them looking as though they'd actually been partially melted down, although the metal was now cool to the touch. Holes gaped in walls and Mulder could hear the sound of water rushing from somewhere. In any case, droplets dripped from pipes overhead and as far as he could tell, virtually all the sturdy industrial overhead lamps had been blown out. The place was a disaster. Luckily, the young soldier, Perkins, James, Private First Class, as he referred to himself a little breathlessly, had obviously not been told that he and Scully were persona non grata in this particular establishment. Their badges actually seemed to impress him and he relaxed visibly. That was a switch. He was finally persuaded to sit down, nodding gratefully at Scully who continued rather irritatingly to fuss over him like an overprotective mother, and then he told them everything. His story, it turned out, was even more incredible than the surreal setting. "Are you here alone, Private?" Mulder asked briskly, ignoring Scully's disbelieving look. Perkins nodded. "They didn't see any point in leaving more people behind. I mean, look around you. How much more damage could anyone do?" "Who didn't see the point?" The soldier's eyes widened and then narrowed with a kind of ponderous suspicion. "Whaddya mean, who? The other feds." Mulder nodded as knowingly as he could. "Ah." "So what are you guys doin' here anyway? All the others have already left." Scully cleared her throat. "We were called here as part of the backup. The whole thing's top secret so we were told we'd find out what all this was about when we got here." Perkins smiled at her. Jesus. The kid had it bad. Mulder tried to remember if he'd ever been young enough to fall in love in five seconds flat. He suspected that maybe he had. "Oh." Perkins kept smiling at her. "Well, like I said, they've already gone." "Where?" The private shrugged again. "They figure it's heading for the nuclear plant about 50 miles north of here. The Anderson Nuclear Facility." "What do you mean by 'it's heading?'" Scully. Mulder figured he might as well let her question the kid. Apparently, there was nothing he wouldn't tell her. "This thing. No one knows what it is exactly. No one here was left alive to describe it." He felt his blood chill as he leaned over the soldier, who drew back immediately. Fuck. Whatever those other "feds" were, they'd obviously scared the crap out of this guy. Men in black. It figured they called themselves feds. For all Mulder knew, they were. "I don't get it, Perkins. We were told four security guards died." The young man laughed shakily. "Yeah. That's what they told the press. They said four guys were dead because their bodies were found outside by civilians who reported the incident. But lemme tell you -- by the time we got here, everyone inside was dead too. The entire fucking... uh, sorry, ma'am." Scully graced him with a tolerant smile. "The entire night shift. Every last one. Close to 35 people." Sweet Jesus. He looked up to find Scully's eyes wide and fixed on his. "Dead how?" Perkins shook his head. "I'm not sure. I mean, it's not like they gotta tell me anything, you know? But I heard people were wigging out because there was no sign of death at all. I saw a couple of bodies. Just lyin' there like they were asleep or something." "So what do our, uh, colleagues think it is, Private?" "Between you and me, I don't think they know what the hell it is. But I also heard stories about a huge fuck... uh, a big black cloud or something. Some people are saying it's like pestilence, a plague that's come down to wipe us out, like the apocalypse, you know? My buddy Collins is born-again and he's completely freaked, but he was ordered to follow the feds to the nuclear plant." Scully frowned and pushed hair out of her face. "Do you have any idea why they think it's heading for Anderson?" Perkins threw a coy, shy glance at her and shook his head. "Nope. They just do. I mean, I've worked with those feds before, the guys in black, you know? So have you, right? They don't even have a goddam name, that's how classified they are. And we're not allowed to ask questions. Nuthin' ever seems to weird those guys out. But I gotta say I've never seen them this squirrely." Mulder nodded tightly. "When did they leave?" "About 20 minutes ago. You can catch up with 'em if you speed a little. Anyway, I betcha the state troopers never mess with you, huh?" His tone was blatantly admiring. God. Mulder tried to ignore the sudden dull thud of his heart against his ribs. "Tell us how to get there. Fast." CONTINUED IN PART 28 THE PACT (28a/28) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net Well, it's almost over at last, just less than a year after it began. Sorry it took so long, folks, but keep in mind I did write a few vignettes and one long thing, Cruise, in the interim. While I'm not entirely sure what led to the delay, I think the key here is that I wrote The Pact for me. That's probably the first time I've done that with fanfic. In this story, I've experimented with several themes and techniques which meant a lot to me, and hopefully some of you were entertained along the way. As stories go, this one drifts and wavers, but in the end I do hope it works in some odd way. I have to say I have a soft spot for it, in part because it's probably the last long piece of fanfic I'll be writing. Thanks to all of you who've been both patient and indulgent. And if you haven't written yet with kudos or criticisms, please do -- it means more to me than you imagine. Note: I've broken this into two parts for downloading ease, and *not* because I can't stick to a pre-established number of parts, thank you very much... On the other hand, some of you probably suspected I wouldn't be able to wrap this up that easily... 28b follows shortly. Madeleine DISCLAIMER IN PART ONE As it turned out, it was a good thing the state troopers were either asleep or busy doing something else. The term "speeding" didn't begin to do justice to what Mulder was doing. Scully was actually nervous and he could feel it, which was interesting because she generally drove faster than he did. Perkins had shown them a wall map of the area. A side road broke away about 15 miles from the plant and weaved its roundabout way towards a side entrance to the facility. If they put the pedal to the metal, it was possible, just possible, that they could reach Anderson before the army convoy. It was also possible that the convoy would take the side road, although it was unlikely when expediency was all that mattered; either way, the agents had a chance of getting there first. If they did, their badges would be enough to gain them admittance. If the man in black reached the compound first, they'd never get past the gate. The rental car flew along the interstate, and even Mulder had to admit he was impressed by how fast the damn Taurus could go when you kicked it in the ass. He'd never pushed it this hard, and despite the high-pitched hum of strain and the unmistakable smell of overheating oil, the speedometer insisted they were grazing 100. He prayed that all the deer and moose in the area were off at a lodge reunion somewhere. A couple of bumps indicated they'd already hit a few low-lying lifeforms, which made him wince because he really hated contributing to roadkill, but if anything big strayed in their path at this speed, both the animal and the car would be history. "What do you think we're heading towards?" Scully's voice was almost unnaturally calm. He shrugged. "I think you know." She shook her head. "I don't, Mulder." He expelled an impatient breath. "You saw what happened at the mercury plant, Scully." "What I saw was damaged equipment. What I *heard* was a soldier with peachfuzz talk about dead bodies I didn't see, a black cloud I didn't see, and a story about how this 'thing,' as he called it, is heading towards a nuclear power plant." "Christ, Scully! You saw the fucking cloud! You saw it in that alley just as clearly as I did. It even lunged towards you, for God's sake!" She was stiff beside him and he could feel the buildup of tension in the car. God. Not this. Not now. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his heartbeat. She was just doing her job. She was doing what she always did. She was doing what she was good at. She was keeping him grounded. If anything, he thought ruefully, she was doing what he expected her to do. What she'd pointed out just days ago was all he usually allowed her to do. "I'm not denying what I saw, Mulder. I'm just saying that there's no proof this is the same thing. And while I'm willing to grant that those people died and that they may have died of the same mysterious causes as those Manhattan thugs, the fact is we don't have any evidence. Anyway, that's not all." He waited. The fact that he was suddenly willing to listen seemed to have an immediate effect; the tense atmosphere began to dissipate and he saw her relax visibly. "Okay, Scully. What else?" There was no mistaking the look on her face: gratitude, affection and approval. Just like that. Apparently, his willingness to listen without dismissing her was it all it took. He looked at her wonderingly for a moment but the road demanded most of his attention. God. She was trying to advance a theory, wasn't she? This was how she did it. This was how she'd always done it. How often had he listened? He squirmed a little against the seat. Jesus. Scully had theories too -- of course she did. And he'd said that horrible thing in Manhattan about how she rarely had any at all. She did. She'd always had them. The truth was that he'd always been so enamoured with his own that he'd rarely listened to hers. Even though the fact of the matter was that in most of the cases they'd faced together, her final analysis was just as plausible as his own. More logical. Less daring, perhaps, but also... He hesitated. Also more likely to be the truth. In many instances. And even when he was convinced that he was right, had he ever acknowledged the mental discipline and ruthless logic of her approach? No. Well. Maybe once or twice. But not often. Jesus. "This is the thing, Mulder. That cloud or whatever it is has never wreaked any physical damage as far as we know. It's always been seen in New York City alleys. The only victims so far have been muggers and pushers and pimps. Now all of a sudden we're supposed to believe this same cloud has crossed the river and for no apparent reason is melting down equipment in a mercury processing plant, killing dozens of innocent people along the way?" "Maybe it's gotten stronger," he offered. "Maybe. So why the new agenda?" "Maybe this was its agenda all along." She stared at him. "Excuse me?" "I don't know, Scully. Maybe it was just gathering strength before this." "By killing muggers and absorbing rubbies into itself?" Her tone was incredulous but he refused to allow it to get to him. "Who knows? It's possible. Anyway, think about this: how many black clouds with any kind of agenda whatsoever do you think there are in the vicinity? I mean, what are the odds there are two of these things?" There was silence for a moment. "Some kind of localized infestation, maybe?" "Hmmm. Infestation by what?" Scully shook her head. "Hell, Mulder, I don't know. Something organic, possibly. It's not any less feasible than assuming we're talking about a sentient cloud with a desperate purpose." "You're right, Scully. It's no less feasible. And no more." He was quietly thrilled to see her nod reluctantly. God. Logic. He'd never really tried to convince her using her own language before. He'd argued with her. Ignored her. Dismissed her. But he'd never talked to her on her own terms. It had never occurred to him that it might work. "Okay, I'll cede the point, Mulder. But has it occurred to you that this might be a coverup on the part of the government? I mean, you of all people." She chuckled. "I'd've thought you'd jump on it in a second." "What kind of coverup?" She shrugged. "Maybe they're using this as a smokescreen to divert attention from what's happened in New York. If Juan is right and those street people have been killed or kidnapped in connection with experiments conducted on them while they were institutionalized, this would be a great way to cloud the issue. I mean, why the threats by that Carrington guy? Why were we called back to Washington, if in fact we were? What's the Bureau's involvement in all this?" Mulder smiled. Whew. Not bad. He knew she'd begun to share his paranoia about conspiracies and coverups, but this was flirting with Frohike territory. "Interesting, Scully. But then why would all those guys be careening towards a nuclear facility at top speed and in a total panic if the whole thing was their own invention?" She laughed out loud. This was good. This was wonderful. Here they were, heading towards God only knew what, and they were completely together. Even though they didn't really agree. It was amazing. "That's true, Mulder. Except we don't have any evidence yet that anyone other than us is careening anywhere." Another good point. It was absolutely true. And then he sobered quickly. "But we can't afford to take the risk that it's an elaborate hoax. Whatever else is going on here, damage on the scale we found at the mercury plant would constitute a disaster of monumental proportions at Anderson. If those guys aren't responsible for all this, it would certainly explain why they're in such a rush to get there." She said nothing, but he knew what she was thinking. He was thinking the same thing. Damage to containment units. Damage to exhaust systems. Meltdown. Anderson was a powerful plant, one of the most important in the eastern US. From what he'd heard, it also boasted state- of-the-art security and failsafes. But in his heart, he believed none of it would be enough to stop this thing if that was, in fact, what they were facing here. They had to get there first. "Mulder!" He snapped out of his reverie and jumped. Scully was pointing ahead mutely. Pointing at proof. The highway dipped in front of them and rose again. In the distance, cresting a hill some miles ahead, was the muted light of cars and trucks. Dozens of them. The convoy. Mulder swore and slapped a switch. The headlights died. Then the rear lights of the last vehicle in front of them winked and faded as it disappeared below the rise. They were in total darkness, driving at close to 100 miles an hour. "D'you think they saw us, Scully?" "I don't know. All I know is I can't see the road, so I suspect you can't either." "Jesus, Scully. How far is the side road?" She rummaged through the glove department and pulled out his penlight, aiming it at the map she'd kept neatly folded on her lap. They'd just passed the first sign for Anderson -- 25 miles. "Just down a stretch. Maybe four miles?" God. They wouldn't make it. They'd catch up with the convoy before they got to the side road. Assuming, of course, they didn't drive off the highway and straight into a moose the size of a house. "You have to slow down, Mulder." He grit in his teeth. "We can't. We can barely get there in time as it is." "Mulder. For God's sake. Either way, we won't make it like this. We'll run into them or kill ourselves first." He already knew that. Didn't she realize he already knew that? Hadn't he just said the same thing in his head? "Mulder! Please..." He swore, pounded the steering wheel once with his fist and pumped the brake. She was right. Of course she was right. She was almost always fucking right. As the car slowed to a stop, he lay his head against the steering wheel and fought back tears of frustration. God. They were all gonna die, weren't they? The good guys, the bad guys, everyone alike. They were too late. An explosion would be nice and fast but it would kill everyone for hundreds of miles. Not good. A meltdown would be nice and slow and would kill fewer people by degrees, depending on how far the government would go to cover up this particular nightmare. Another Chernobyl, a la American. Radiation everywhere and then slow death and then misshapen babies and then... And then... And then a whole lot of news coverage and CBS specials. And Scully rotting slowly before his eyes over years if she wasn't lucky enough to evaporate instead, leaving a shadow of herself imprinted on the passenger side before the car itself was swallowed by a wall of fire, and he'd be spared the sight of it only because he'd be a shadow himself. He wanted to hold her so that at the very least they'd be one indistinguishable shadow, but he was so tired suddenly. Then he felt her shaking him. "Mulder. For Christ's sake, listen to me." He raised his head before he realized his face was streaked with tears. This startled her; she gazed at him for a moment, reaching out to draw a finger down his cheek, her eyes wide with surprise and sudden tenderness. "It's okay. It's not over yet." She was absolutely calm. And then he gradually realized she was pointing out her window. He looked. It was almost impossible to see anything at all, but as he squinted, it slowly dawned on him that the car had stopped right in front of a turnoff. A dark road wound through the trees. The side road. It was the fucking side road. "I think I miscalculated, Mulder." She smiled thinly. "Maps. Don't trust them." And then he whooped loudly, grabbed her despite their seatbelts and hugged her fiercely for about a nanosecond before twisting the key. The engine roared into life and he spun it into the intersection. It would have been difficult to navigate the winding, shaded road in daylight without headlights. It was next to impossible at night. The beams bounced against trees and made them lunge hugely so that they seemed to jump out on the road in front of them. Mulder's hands were tense on the wheel and his fingers had started to cramp and prickle. He was so intent that his neck was starting to seize up too. "Try to relax, Mulder," Scully murmured. She was cool as a fucking cucumber. Christ. He'd've done just about anything for just a quarter of her composure. But the gods of the universe were apparently smiling on them and their efforts to save the damn eastern seaboard. Before long, they saw the sign which pointed to the dirt road which the wall map back at McMaster had shown led straight to a delivery side entrance at Anderson. When your incoming shipments involved uranium and your outgoing shipments were nuclear waste, it was probably best to keep them discretely shielded from the public eye. Well. They'd done a hell of a good job. He swerved onto the road and accidently bit his tongue as the car careened and bounced over the mud tracks. "Shit!" He spat once and swallowed blood. "You okay?" "I don't think I've ever felt better, Scully, but thanks for asking. You?" She chortled. "Fine. Well, a little stressed, actually, but I blame my job." "That's the '90s for you. Everyone's working too hard." He loved her like an absolute maniac. And then almost like an afterthought the road ended suddenly and he just had time to pound the brake as a wire fence loomed up before them. The car skidded and spun on the frozen dirt. "Jesus!" Scully reached forward and clutched the dashboard. The Taurus stopped. "It would be just like you to kill us just as we got there, Muldoon." "Next time we save the western world, princess, you can do the driving." "I'll hold you to it, serf boy." The sharp beam of the sodium flashlight revealed a chilling sight. The gate looked as though it had been blown apart. Mangled remains of twisted metal littered the area and the fence itself was contorted and warped as though it was a broken body heaving along the ground in a desperate attempt to escape... ...from what? The gatekeeper's shack lay in ruins, shattered and sprawled across yards as if a tornado had hit it. There was no sign of life. Mulder stood for a moment, playing the beam of his flashlight against the anguished metal and watching the coils of his breath as they roiled in tatters in the frigid winter air. "Look on the bright side, Mulder." He felt Scully shift next to him. "We haven't been vaporized yet." He nodded grimly. Except there was no way of knowing whether silent, invisible, odourless radiation wasn't caressing their bodies as she spoke. Condemning them to death. Well, he could live with death. His own, unfortunately. Not hers. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. They had to do this -- and they had to do it fast. He walked through the gate. And then Mulder heard a low growl just as he caught a glimpse of distant lights which suddenly cut through the forest. The main facility lay a short distance away, almost hidden by the woods, and the glow of its powerful lights danced in slices through the trees which schussed in the wind. A growl. And then a growl joined by others, and then a snarl, and that was when he knew. Dogs. Motherfuckingsonofabitch. Dogs. And then the pack crested the slope through the trees. It was his nightmare exactly. Except for the noise they made, and the smell of their fear. He watched them as they approached as if in slow motion, four of them, no, five, huge motherfuckers, Dobermans he thought almost absently with a part of his mind that hadn't gone completely dead, and they ran into the light from the facility, highlighted for an instant against the trees, all slathering jaws and teeth and sweat, and then they disappeared in a hollow where the clearing met the woods, a dip, nothing more, before re-emerging at last, but this time he heard them as they came, he smelled them, and he would have pissed or something if everything he was hadn't frozen solid like a lake, like a sculpture, like an ancient photograph. "Mulder!" She had never been in his dream. He couldn't look at her but he felt her next to him, and somewhere, somehow he could feel her own fear, but it had nothing to do with the dogs. He was frightening her. His immobility, no doubt, and maybe even his eyes frozen wide, and the shaking in his body, and suddenly he knew that she understood it all, that she'd grasped in a flash the depth of his fear, and it was just like Scully not to question it, not to judge it, but just to stand in front of him, her back to the approaching horror as she forced his head down towards her with her hands until her lips were against his mouth. "Don't look, Mulder. Don't move. Don't think. Let go the fear. Just let it go. I love you. I love you, Mulder, do you hear me? Trust me." She'd somehow managed to remove everything but her face from his field of vision and he found himself gazing into the heat and warmth of her eyes which were clear and bright despite the darkness. He realized dazedly that she'd never spoken those words to him before, that she'd never said she loved him, not in so many words, although he knew it was true and he'd accepted the lack of the words despite the fact he'd used them himself so many times before, but it was something he'd come to take for granted, that she couldn't say them, that she wouldn't say them, that it was something she protected and reserved as a last resort. A last resort. And this was it. She'd saved the words until he needed to hear them the most. He gazed into her face, the face that lit his darkness, and only knew her complete lack of fear as he barely registered that the dogs parted around them and ran, their breaths steaming, the smell of their fear intense as they galloped past them out through the gate and into the night. And then he found himself leaning against her, his arms around her. He was trembling and gasping in her hair, his heart pounding against her, and she held him for what seemed like hours but had to be moments. She pulled back slowly. "They were scared, Mulder. Those dogs were terrified." "Yes." He could only look at her. "They were more frightened than you were." "Yes." "Why, Mulder?" He drew himself up and breathed. Jesus. More frightened than he was. Why? By what? "Scully..." "Something's in there. Something those dogs couldn't deal with." She studied him for a moment as if gauging his readiness before nodding almost imperceptibly. "Come on." CONTINUED IN PART 28B THE PACT (28b/28) by Madeleine Partous email: partous@total.net DISCLAIMER LIES ELSEWHERE The area was deserted, as deserted as the mercury plant had been. But as they neared the edge of the woods, Scully cried out and stumbled. He barely caught her. She'd fallen over the body of a man which lay face down in the frozen leaves. It was almost tediously predictable. Scully leaned down resignedly in search of a pulse she knew she wouldn't find. Then she gave Mulder a look and straightened before breaking into a trot towards the building. More bodies littered the parking lot around the plant. Mulder saw three, four, and then more unmistakable shapes huddled in the shadows near the wall. No movement. No movement at all. And there was no time left to check for lifesigns. The nearest door yawned open but lights still shone brightly from within. Mulder felt a desperate rush of hope -- which lasted for all of five seconds before the nearest lights sputtered, died, and then brightened again for a moment before fading to a pale yellow glow. Jesus. Without knowing exactly why, he ran past Scully, practically pushing her aside. She protested and pushed back, but he'd deal with her righteous indignation later. More bodies. Oh, God. Everywhere. Sprawled on the floor, leaning up against the walls, arms out, legs akimbo, expressions of horror and pain on their faces. Not now. No time. He ran past them, dodging them, jumping over them when he had to. There was no telling how many corpses there were. A city of the dead. But for some reason he knew he had to keep going until he found it. For some reason, he knew he had to stop it. For some reason, he believed that he could. Mulder could hear Scully behind him, he could feel her, but this time he knew somehow he was the one who felt no fear. He was past feeling. Past thinking. Thanks to her. She'd helped him get past it. Then he ran and turned the corner and the smell hit him moments before the sight of it did. Days-old death. It was so pungent that it brought tears to his eyes. But he saw it through the slit of his lids, roiling, mindnumbingly huge, horrorblack against the whiteness of the walls. Panels flickered around the vast room like something out of Star Trek, insane random green and red lights, and more bodies, a few still writhing in the wake of the thing, but most of all the immense space was filled with the black boiling thing. "Mulder!" For no reason that he understood, he kept sprinting towards it, just because it had to be stopped, because he needed to stop it before it ate the world. Fox Mulder, saviour of the planet. It was crazy. Stupid. Impossible. "Mulder! Stop!" But as he neared it he felt the rush of something which reached him beneath the stink of it, the rush of something he recognized, ohgod no she was in there, God he would've known her anywhere, Miss Sweeny Jesus Olivia Christ she was in there. He realized shakily that at some level he'd known it all along. And then it was all he could see. Into the abyss oh yes into his deepest darkest fear because he'd beat the dogs thanks to Scully and he knew now that fear lay within, an illusion, a construct, and he would never ever ever be held hostage by it, never again. "No! God!" Scully. And just as he reached it he heard the sound of voices, male voices, and the sound of guns, and he thought he saw Carrington first, and then more men as they broke through the door, and then Scully, he saw Scully, standing helpless and horrified as the men swarmed around her, and then he saw nothing as his world turned to black. Silence. A profound, fathomless, silence. The smell had faded to nothing. First there was peace, for an instant. While it lasted, it felt like the end of pain. But then he felt the essence of the thing. Not evil. No. A force. An elemental force. And for a moment, he was part of it. For a moment, he knew what it wanted as it flowed through and around him. The price it expected mankind to pay, the pact, the pact, the cost of it, the aim, the goal, the relentless drive to heal the earth at all cost; it was fulfilling its purpose, no more, no less, to heal the earth that man had raped, had scarred, had tried to kill. Something stirred within him, as dry as an ancient desert wind. An ancestral memory, an archetypal taste, as binding as circumcision, a deal with God, whoever this god was, a neglected agreement, and then the mission of this thing, this manifestation of man and nature combined, to right the wrongs of the race, and then images of the Mother, the Earth Mother broken and bleeding, sliced and ravaged by Her ungrateful children, her forgetful sons. The anguish oh god the pain the horror the horror the horror. It was programmed to purge the Mother of her children's negligence, even if the devastation it wrought took thousands of years to heal. And Mulder felt that the real horror lay in the fact that even those thousands of years might be shorter than the time it would take to fix the damage his race was still doing, would continue to do, until there was nothing left, no chance for the Mother to mend, no future, no future at all. Mulder felt all this at some level but thought was elusive as he felt himself drawn into the thing's purpose, his own hatred drawn and gathered as fuel, his fear, his loathing of injustice, the wounds of the hurt he'd received at the hands of men. He felt himself sway and fall. And then through the miasma of memories and emotion came a presence, sharp and determined and unwilling to yield. He gasped in the darkness. Olivia. Her being seemed to shine in the blackness for a moment before he felt the presence of others as they swarmed and teemed and rose around her, obscuring her with their darkness. He felt the fear and loathing of countless hearts and minds, consciousnesses which had been battered and misused, driven to despair by personal weakness and the helping hand of men with impenetrable agendas. He felt flashes of memories that weren't his own: sudden lights and the sudden spasm of electrical currents through helpless bound bodies, the whirring sound of glittering drills overhead, the subtle injuries the machinery had left behind, the fogginess of minds dissected and destroyed for inexplicable purposes. And then he felt their anger, most of all; anger and hatred against those who'd done these things, the offspring of the pact, the misguided men who'd chosen to take nature into their own hands. But then she was back, undaunted, defiant. Olivia, Miss Sweeny, like a beacon in clinging muggy night. Others swarmed around her but this time they couldn't touch her light. Fox. Oh, God. Her voice was a whisper which tore through his mind like a claw. He moaned and rolled himself into a ball, at least he felt he did, although there was no actual sign that his body was there at all. Listen to me. He nodded quickly. Yes. Help me make them understand, Fox. They don't realize they're trapped. This thing is using us, all of us. Don't you see? As if we haven't been used enough. No. Please. Give me your strength, Fox. You shouldn't be here. You don't fit in here. You're still alive. Still alive. He was still alive. You ran in. No one's ever run in here. It doesn't know how to deal with it. Help me. But it's just doing its job. The words were formed in his mind before he even knew what he was saying. It was true. Who was he to get in its way? It's going to kill millions, Fox. It wants to kill everything so the earth can start again. Maybe it's right. Olivia. Maybe this is supposed to happen. Tell that to the millions of innocent lives who have nothing to do with what's gone wrong. He moaned. Tell it to Dana, Fox. Go ahead. I dare ya. Hah. Double dare ya. Tell her you're willing never to see her again. Suddenly it was the Miss Sweeny he knew: feisty, irascible, sarcastic. Scully. Jesus. No. What do I have to do? Just give me your strength, Fox. I always said you had more than enough of it. Lend it to me. They need to see this isn't the answer. And it's not like I'm alone. It was true. He felt the faint lifeforce of others around her, others who believed as she did, others who wanted out, who wanted freedom. Now. Fox. Before it's too late. Before it gets to the core. God. The reactor core. Scully. The place was about to go up in a mushroom cloud, wasn't it? That's what the bloody thing wanted. But he'd done nothing wrong. Scully had done nothing wrong. Hundreds of thousands of people for miles around had done absolutely nothing wrong. The sins of the fathers. And now the sons were being made to pay. The sons and the daughters. No. Outrage flooded through him and he could feel the sheer, triumphant power of it. The darkness seemed to close in for moment, tighter than ever, as if to crush him, silence him, but it was no match for the light that exploded suddenly, and then there was nothing but bright, blinding light. Scully... As if from a great distance, he thought he felt the light intensify, and just as he was flooded with a strange exhilaration, he thought he heard the sound of voices. There was fear still but stronger now was a kind of freedom and a joy, and that was all he saw before the light brightened unbearably and splintered, flying apart, but he felt Sweeny's triumph for a moment before darkness fell once more. When Mulder came to, the first thing he saw was Scully, of course, as always, her familiar, beautiful face tight with concern, her eyes large and blue-black. She wasn't dead. My God. They were both still alive. He groaned and reached for her but she stopped him with her hands on his biceps as she thrust her chin towards a spot behind his back. Jesus. Where were they? He squinted in the harsh light. It was a small, nondescript room with sterile white walls and a plain wooden chair on which Scully sat. He was lying on a narrow cot. Then he wrinkled his nose, suddenly revolted. What the hell was that horrible smell? Then he realized it was coming from him. A gutwrenching odour was rolling off him in waves. God. Bile rose in his throat and he gagged once, waving Scully away as she tried to clutch him. "I'm fine," he gasped. He fought down sickness and swallowed. "It's okay." Then he looked up at her. His clothes smelled terrible, a mixture of fear and sewage and death. "I stink, Scully," he said mournfully. Her eyes widened and crinkled. "Yes. Yes, you do, Mulder. Although I never thought I'd live to hear you admit it." He sat up on the bed and swung his feet over the side, groaning, as he tried to remember why every inch of his body hurt. Then he remembered she'd pointed behind him. Mulder turned his head gingerly. A burly soldier bristling with full camouflage gear stood at attention near the door, his rifle against his chest. The man stared straight ahead and didn't blink. "Hi, there," Mulder said amiably, expecting no reply. He got none, although Scully chuckled drily. He turned back to her. "What happened?" She grew suddenly serious as she gazed at him, folding her arms over her breasts. Uh-oh. Not a good sign. She only did that when she wanted to distance herself from him. "Scully?" She sighed and pushed her hair from her eyes. God. She looked so tired, so pale. What had he done to her this time? What had he put her through? "Well, Muldoon, it looks like maybe you saved the western world after all." He stared at her blankly. "You don't remember a thing, do you?" He shook his head. "Well, first off you ran right into the *fucking* cloud. Remember that?" He winced. Her eyes were suddenly blazing as she hugged herself tighter. He could see thin tight lines deepen around her mouth and there was no mistaking the anger in her voice, the exhausted outrage. "No. No, I don't, Scully." He really didn't. "You vanished into the thing. Just like that. It swallowed you up just as the convoy arrived. It was great and I want to thank you -- you left me to face them alone." "Scully, I..." "Luckily for both of us, they saw you go in there. Otherwise they would've locked me up as a lunatic and used major artillary on the damn thing." "Hard to believe they resisted shooting at it just because I was there." "You're right. Apparently, they tried back at the mercury plant and found out it didn't work." "And then what happened?" Scully said nothing for a moment but Mulder could see she was struggling not to cry. God. "Nothing for ages. I knew you were alive, though. For some reason. I just didn't know if you were hurt. But the cloud stopped moving the minute you got in there and we just all stood and waited to see what it would do. It was surreal, frankly. All of us standing there, watching this thing. And then it just started to boil furiously. God. The stench was unbelievable." "Believe me, Scully," he said ruefully. "That much I know." "Carrington dragged me back. I didn't want to go..." And then the tears broke for real but she made no sound, no sound at all. They coursed down her cheeks and he stared at them mutely. She was so beautiful. "I know, Scully," he said softly. "It looked for a moment like the damn thing was expanding, like it was going to flow over everything. And then it broke apart. It just... flew apart. The force of it blew down some doors, broke a few panels; we had to cling to doorjambs and pillars. It was absolutely unreal." He just kept staring at her. "And then?" Scully took a deep breath and leaned back, but she lowered her arms and rested her hands on her thighs, rubbing. "And then there was nothing except you lying in a heap in the middle of the room. Alive. A few bruises, nothing more that I can see, but we'll need to have you checked out." "In case this thing was carrying a virus." She shrugged. "If it was, you're either immune or a carrier, based on how fast other victims died. It's possible. Although I'm starting to think that's not how it operated." "No. It went inside people's heads and literally blew their brains out." She looked up at him sharply. "How do you know?" Mulder shook his head. He couldn't remember. He didn't even know where the words had come from. They sat and waited tensely to be summoned, which Scully assured him ironically was inevitable. Mulder paced a little but that only made the smell waft and that was more than any of them could handle, including the poor private whose eyes teared whenever Mulder approached. God. He'd've killed for a shower, but it was clear the taciturn G.I. Joe wasn't going to acknowledge anything he said to him. According to Scully, they were both in deep doo- doo -- again. Carrington had barked as much when he'd broken through the door and found her standing there in front of the cloud. As for Juan, she'd seen no sign of him. By the time someone came to get them, Mulder was nauseated and dying for a whizz. Then the memories of what had happened hit just as he left the room and he doubled up in the hallway, crying out as his head hit the wall with a dull thwack and he slid to the floor. Scully was on him in a flash, her hand against his face, cool fingers against his brow. The memories flooded in and he was helpless to stop them. Consciousness blurred but never quite vanished as he moaned against her. "I... remember. Scully..." It was true. He remembered it all. Mulder recovered quickly, although he could tell Scully wasn't convinced. Fortunately, his little seizure in the corridor was enough to get them both evacuated fast for further observation. Damn, she was good. In about 10 seconds flat, she'd managed to get everyone around them vaguely worked up about the possibility of a cloud-related plague. The soldiers and G-men drew back and began to avoid them studiously. Scully also found a way to browbeat the guards into letting Mulder wash up. They escorted him to a men's room and skittered aside as she threw them a scathing look and followed him inside without a backward glance. It did wonders. Mulder was feeling shakey and even a little weepy, which was irritating, but he decided to forgive himself because he'd rarely felt this tired. So even though it was mildly embarrassing, he let Scully help him wash off the worst of the stink because he could barely stand to touch himself smelling like this; besides, there was something soothing about the coolness of her hands as she cleaned him up gently. He even let her guide him to the urinal because he was swaying with fatigue, although he drew the line at allowing her to unzip him and batted at her feebly, turning away, which made her smile. She was never further than a foot away and this time he was grateful for it. An ambulance pulled up to the door, and it was quickly obvious they were going to be accompanied by grim and very efficient security. Two of them. Big guys. Jesus. They were really in for it this time. As they turned to leave the compound, Mulder looked up to find Carrington standing in front of him. He jumped, which wasn't lost on the man in black; he smiled thinly and reached in his pocket for a cigarette. "I was hoping to see you alone, Mr. Mulder." "Well, I've got kind of a busy social calendar these days. Call me next week and we'll do lunch." The other man shook his head. He was still smiling. "You're mighty glib for a man with a price on his head." The words chilled him. He felt Scully straighten and lean almost imperceptibly against him. "There's a price on all our heads, sir. One way or another. The trick is to learn how to live around it." God. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be alone with Scully. He wanted to take a long shower and then he wanted to tell her what he'd remembered in that hallway. And then he wanted to fall asleep in her arms. Was that so much for a man to ask? But the other man wasn't done with them. "I'm not sure you realize this, Mulder, but you may have saved hundreds of thousands of lives today." Mulder gaped at him. Was it possible his eyes were actually warm? "We have reason to believe that thing was trying to achieve a reactor breach. Not just a meltdown, Mulder. A nuclear explosion." He looked at him, astounded. "How do you know that?" The man shrugged. "Call it a hunch, Mr. Mulder." "But this is madness, right? X-Files material. Crazy stuff. The kind of stuff no one believes." Carrington laughed. "Surely you realize by now that the price on your head stems from the fact that on the contrary, many people believe you. The veracity of what you do isn't in question by those who know better, Mr. Mulder. The problem is you meddle. Sometimes accidently, sometimes on purpose. But because you've done this thing today, I'll let you in on a little secret. In some ways, you've stumbled closer to the truth, time and time again, than we have." Scully snorted and the two men started, turning to her. "He already knows that. We both do. If you really want to thank him, teach us something new." Carrington's eyes narrowed. God. She was bluffing. It was a dangerous game, but it stood a chance of raising the ante. "All right, Agent Scully. How's this? You don't know who your enemies are. You think you do -- but even though you're right in some ways, you're wrong in more ways than you know." Mulder felt a shiver as the words of the Cancerman suddenly danced through his brain. "You've become a player, Mulder." "Stop feeding us insinuations and riddles. He smiled again. "You don't know who you work for, Scully. None of us do. Remember that." She said nothing for a moment. Then: "I need to take Agent Mulder to a hospital." Carrington nodded and looked at Mulder once again. "Of course. But I'm feeling generous because quite frankly I didn't particularly relish the thought of dying today, although that would've been better than surviving and watching the horror as it happened. So I'll tell you what, Mulder. I'll give you two gifts. The first is the fact that I'll overlook this incident. As far as I'm concerned, you were never here. There'll be no reprimand on your files, no record of this at all." He paused for an instant. "Unless, of course, you'd like to be heros. I can arrange that too. Your faces could be plastered on Newsweek and Time in a few hours. Think about it -- America needs heros these days." Mulder coughed. "Uh..." "Don't be ridiculous," Scully snapped. "What else?" The man in black laughed out loud. "Too modest, huh? Anyway, that would involve your second gift, which is that I'll allow you to ask me for anything you want." Mulder froze. Jesus. He studied the other man's face, his cool, calculating eyes. The fucker was playing with his head. "Anything?" His voice was a whisper. "I said I'd allow you to ask for it. Then it'll be a question of whether I can do it for you. If I can, it'll be a question of whether I *want* to do it for you. Plus you only get one request, so you'd better make it good. Oh. And you have to decide right now. This second. The ambulance driver's getting angsty." Mulder's mind reeled. Sweet Jesus. He felt Scully stir against him. "Don't play his game, Mulder. He's toying with you." It was true. But Christ -- it was worth a shot. They'd ripped so much of him away already. What was this tiny added humiliation in the scheme of things? Anything. Anything Carrington could do. And then anything he'd be willing to do. It probably didn't leave much. Samantha. God. Would the son of a bitch give him Samantha? How about Scully? Would he give them answers about what had happened to her when she was abducted? Or what if he could remove all blame for the death of Hansen from her professional life, orchestrate an official announcement from the highest sources which would absolve her completely? His father. What was his involvement? Would he tell him why they'd killed him? Krychek. Would they give him Krychek? And what about the fucking black-lunged bastard. Could it be possible to find out once and for all if Cancerman was his father? Samantha's? His mind raced and he couldn't keep up. So many questions, so little time, he thought giddily and almost giggled. Then... He knew. He suddenly knew the only thing he could ask for which the man in black would be willing to give him. "Juan," he breathed. Scully looked up at him, amazed. Carrington's expression didn't change but there was a new warmth in his eye. "Mr. Martinez? Consider it done." Scully stared at one man, then the other. Mulder felt a wave of fatigue. "He's not working for you, is he?" "Oh, no. Unfortunately, Mr. Martinez has been working against us for a very long time." "But you're willing to let him go." "We all have our jobs to do, Mr. Mulder. That includes Mr. Martinez. But you should know that if you hadn't asked for him, he would have... conveniently disappeared." There was something at play here, some bigger game he couldn't grasp. He felt as though he'd been tested and as though, in a bizarre way, he'd passed. Tested by the enemy? He could hear Carrington's words echo. "You don't know who your enemies are." Christ. His head was pounding steadily now. Carrington turned to the nearest guard. "Get Martinez." Juan looked pale and drawn but otherwise unharmed, although there was a suspicious-looking bruise on the side of his face. He'd been hit. At least once. He was subdued as the guard led him in but there was nothing bogus about the way his features lit up when he saw them. Then he sobered and nodded. It was clear he had no idea why he'd been brought to the door. "You're free to leave, Mr. Martinez. Thank you for your cooperation and I apologize for any inconvenience your stay may have caused you." Carrington was being unabashedly sarcastic and Mulder had to fight a sudden overwhelming urge to go for his throat. Trust no one. Especially not this man. God. He'd almost let himself get seduced by the bastard's enigmatic hyperbole. And then Juan looked up and smiled smoothly. His tone was identical to the other man's. "Think nothing of it, Carrington. The pleasure was all mine." The man in black smiled that tight little smile and drew out another cigarette. "I'm sure we'll get together soon, Martinez. I hate it when we drift apart." "The feeling's mutual. As an old friend of mine once said, a man you knew well, remember? Keep your friends close -- and your enemies closer." "Wise words. These days, though, it's so hard to tell them apart, don't you find?" Then Carrington waved a weary hand. "Get them out of here." Juan insisted on staying at the hospital while they waited for Mulder's blood tests. They were all exhausted, Mulder most of all; it was all he could do not to fall asleep against Scully's shoulder. She debated insisting that Mulder stay overnight for observation and then decided against it. She'd had enough of the whole thing. Right now she wanted to go back to the hotel and she wanted him with her. Besides, she knew him well enough to know that the last thing he needed right now was a night in a hospital bed. Scully led Mulder out to the car with Juan's help. The little man looked alarmed. "Is he okay, Scully?" "I think so. Just tired." "So you don't think a virus killed all those people after all?" She glared at him and thought she detected a twinkle in his eye, but it was gone before she could be sure. "No." God. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to talk at all. "Do you know why you're dismissing the virus theory?" Juan continued relentlessly. She sighed. "No." Mulder leaned against the car, his face white and tight, but there was something oddly relaxed about him too. It had been there since he'd emerged from the tatters of the cloud. "So. Juan, my man. We're still waiting for explanations." The little man shrugged. "Later, amigo. Now's not a good time. You know they're watching us, of course. They'll be vigilant for awhile before their attention wanders. It always does in the end." "You can't possibly leave without telling us a little more, Juan." Scully. He turned to her and studied her fondly. "Oh yes I can. Right now I'm a danger to you both, and as it happens, I *know* you're a danger to me." He grinned and then turned serious once more. "It's not the right time. Any more information right now would endanger you both. But the time will come, I promise you. Right now, though..." he paused as he gave Scully a quick impulsive hug, "it's time for Juan Martinez to return to Miami and fill out register slips at the White Knight Hotel." He looked at Mulder. "Anyhow, I miss the drag queens. Your straight world's a big pain, you know that?" Mulder smiled at him and wondered why he was so fond of the little guy. "You're telling me. I mean, look at what I'm stuck with." He pointed tiredly at Scully. She rolled her eyes. "C'mon, loverboy. It's time to tuck you in with a Teddy." "I like your teddy better, Scully," he murmured sleepily, leaning against her. "Ay, enough, I'm outta here." Juan grinned again, and pat Mulder's face before slipping away into the night. Scully barely managed to get Mulder in the shower for a quick soaping. Once in, he was fine, although by the time he emerged, smelling fresh and sweet, his eyelids were drooping again. "Come to bed, Mulder." She patted the sheet. "That's never been something I can refuse when you ask it, Scully." He grinned at her and yawned. He was asleep the second he'd curled up around her. Hours later she felt him stir beside her, his hands urgent on her, his body taut against her. Their lovemaking was brief, passionate and without words, but she relished his possession of her, his overwhelming need for her. They were awake for a few minutes only -- he dozed off still inside her, having rolled to the side unconsciously so as not to crush her, and she kept him nestled safely within her body for the rest of the night. "What happened in that plant, Mulder?" The morning sun streamed through the window. They were still exhausted, but she knew he was content, his body draped against her, his hand playing idly with the curls at her core. "I'm still not sure. It hasn't all come back to me." And then, almost as an afterthought: "Miss Sweeny was there." She opened one eye and looked at him. "I'm sorry?" "I felt her, Scully. Her and dozens of others. Their anger, their outrage... I think that thing, whatever it was, used the strength of powerful emotions to fuel itself." "I see." "Come on, Scully. It's not any more ridiculous than a lot of other X-Files you've dealt with in the past." "No. You're right. They're all more or less equally ridiculous." He bit her shoulder playfully and she yelped. "Brute." "Scientist." "That's not an insult, Mulder." "It would be to me." "Don't worry. No one will ever call you a scientist. I promise." "Thanks." He snuggled against her. "So what do you think that thing was?" He said nothing for a moment. Then: "I think we created it, Scully. All of us. I think it was trying to save the planet." "By destroying it?" "By destroying it in the short run. By getting rid of its worst enemy." "Who?" "Us, Scully. Humanity. I mean, look around. Look at what we've done." She squirmed against him. "You're saying it was a smelly intelligent cloud with an eco-terrorist mission?" "It's interesting. Who are the real terrorists, Scully?" "Yes. Well. Meanwhile, Carrington was right. You did save thousands of lives." Mulder rubbed his lips against her hair. "Yeah, but at what cost?" "What do you mean?" "It's possible that thing was just doing its job, Scully. I hope that by saving those lives, I haven't doomed the planet." She guffawed against his chest. "Oh, come on, Muldoon. No one's that important." "Yeah." In this case, he prayed it was true. END