Legally:
The interesting characters in this story belong to Chris Carter, 1013
and Fox as brought to life by DD, GA and the X-Files writers. I've
borrowed them for fun not profit.

This story:
I'm happy for the story to be circulated uncommercially, intact and
with my name still attached.

==========

Title - Obeying Orders
Rating - R (for language)
Classification  - X A (X-File, Angst)

Summary:
Set soon after Memento Mori. Skinner assigns Scully and Mulder a bank
robbery case. But Scully's mind isn't really on the investigation.

Scully angst. No actual MSR, but sort of heavy U(?) ST, this is not a
sex free zone.

Thanks to Sarah, my beta reader.

US4 SPOILERS: up to and including MM.

Joann Humby
jhumby@iee.org 

Story completed: February 21, 1997

===============

OBEYING ORDERS - PART 1/2

Skinner's talking to Mulder again. If I was paranoid I'd think Skinner
was scared to look at me. But it's not fear, well, not really. It's
embarrassment. Embarrassment that he has no leads, no contacts, no
hope. Not a dreamer like Mulder. Skinner can see the truth. The shadow
of the grim reaper.

They are discussing a case. I feel like a parrot perched on my own
shoulder, dispassionate but curious. The case is nothing.  Bank
robbery. Not our field.

Mulder starts out irritated, another assigned case. Designed to keep
us away from the things we need to work on. I try to remain calm. Not
to shout. Not to scream. Not to tell Skinner that Agent Mulder and I
have better things to do than deal with bank robbers who don't even
kill.  I mustn't.

OPR wanted me removed from field work. Terminal cancer. "Will you be
as clear headed in the field? Will the drugs interfere with your
fitness level? Will you be able to concentrate?" And the question they
were all too spineless to ask, "are you sure you won't just walk into
danger because you don't care enough not to?"

Mulder had fought. I had fought. The counselors from Employee Services
didn't know what had hit them when we attended sessions together. Or
perhaps they did. No matter. We had won. But we'd been faced with one
obstacle after another ever since. Work is being handed down to us.
Mostly VCS work. Always working in DC.  Mulder is fighting for
freedom. I can't join the fight. If I do, it would be just like OPR
said. I would not be good old dependable Dana Scully, the steady
professional. I would be putting my personal needs ahead of the
Bureau, ahead of the victims of crime.

Let Mulder fight. I can't afford to. Can I afford not to?

I look at my partner in wonder now. For me, this burning urgent
personal need that conflicted so wholly with the demands of my job is
new. For him it has gone on for years. I think of a time when they
closed the X-Files, put him on the dumbest wiretap job they could
find. I'd been horrified when he talked about leaving the Bureau. Yet.

---------------

The bank robbery is strange. Easy to see why it's ours. 

I think back to Skinner's office. Mulder had been ready to do battle
against its assignment to us and had then quickly succumbed. I was
worried at first, I thought that he'd given up as well. Or that he'd
taken my silence as tacit consent to Skinner's demands. But now as I
read the case files, I see why it's ours.

Five robberies, grossing near ten million dollars. No casualties. Not
yet. But with that amount of money at stake how long could that remain
true?

The robbers had walked calmly into the banks dressed as guards and
with the help of staff loaded their van. No threats, no weapons. Just
a polite request to help load their van and bank staff who couldn't
help but be helpful.

Mulder is sitting, watching the security videos from the banks.  He's
almost smiling. It's been a while since he smiled, well at least since
he smiled in my presence, without immediately looking guiltily at me.

I hear him. Try and concentrate. Maybe OPR are right, maybe I will be
a hazard in the field. Mulder doesn't believe that, doesn't want to
believe that. Focus.

I ask a question to force myself into the here and now. "Seen anything
interesting?"

"Maybe. Basically, unless the staff of all five branches are in the
pay of the gang and are all very good at passing lie detector tests
then we have to assume they handed the money over just because they
were asked nicely."

"Right. I wish I knew how to talk that nicely to my bank."

He smiles an acknowledgment before speaking again. "The security guard
costumes are only significant in the first few seconds of the raid.
They don't even bother to wear uniforms that match the bank they are
robbing. But the outfits give them just enough authority to get
listened to without someone hitting the alarm.  Five masked men walk
into a bank in normal circumstances, the staff will automatically dive
for the alarm buttons. But security guards wearing visors? Just enough
delay."

"Just enough delay for what?" I know my role in this game. He needs a
sounding board. I'm happy to play along. He's on a roll.  I give him
prompts so he doesn't lose his momentum.

"Enough delay for them to start talking and as soon as anyone hears
their voices. That's it. Game over. They hear and obey."

"But why? There are no weapons on show and the staff don't even recall
any threats being made. There's no indication that the staff were
drugged to make them more suggestible. They did all the routine
tests."

"Not drugs. Something else. It's almost as if they are hypnotised."

"Mass hypnosis? Good trick. How?"

"Don't know. I guess that's why we have to do the investigation before
we catch the bad guys."

Ah. He's got me there. Ok. The security videos need to go to the lab,
to look for strobe effects in the lights, or any other bright ideas
they've got about what was so different in the bank that day. Another
request for drugs testing on the blood samples taken from the bank
personnel. A few more hours in the office then off to San Francisco.

Mulder's watching me again. I don't have to look, I know, I can feel
his eyes tracking me, monitoring me, shadowing me. Soft eyes, that can
flick from ice to fire without any warmth in between. And yet, that
isn't the whole truth.

Ironic. There have been times when I have wanted nothing more than his
attention and he just misses the opening. One check, one quick
question, one 'I'm fine' and he will just walk away.  Where then is
the tenacity, the ferocious interrogation technique, the attack that
is Special Agent Fox Mulder's trademark? Where is it when I want it?
When I've been ready to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing
but the truth?

Did he know? Did he sense the times when I was at my weakest and back
away? And if he did, did he back off because he didn't want to know,
not really know? Or did he pull away so it really is my choice, to
talk or to stay silent? Confusing. Me, him, us. Full of ambiguity.

What did he want to know? That the experimental treatment urged upon
me by the carefully recommended doctor was doing what they claimed.
Not curing. Not waving a magic wand. But holding the fort. Protecting
me from further deterioration. Ready for the fairy dust to be
sprinkled across my body. Yeah. Well. Anyway.  I'm no worse now that I
was yesterday so he can knock off the look.

------------

The video lab has offered no new insights. I stand over the Agent
who's working on the tapes. Cut to the front of the line.  A favor for
a favor. Surprising how many people owe me favors.  And Mulder. Maybe
we aren't the most unwanted. Maybe just the most rarely acknowledged.
Doesn't matter. If people didn't owe us favors we'd never get anything
done. Not in time.

Time was a commodity the X-Files seldom had. Just like me.  Walking,
talking, living X-File. Of course, the other Agents know that as
well. The pitying looks. So.

Not a lighting effect. Fairly convinced about that.

But the sound quality isn't good enough to pick out anything more than
the words. The words inevitably are consistent with Mulder's
description. A request, politely made, willingly acted upon.

I take what little I know back to Mulder. He's sitting on the desk
watching the recordings again. Finger bouncing on the remote control
as if it's a musical instrument he has learned to play.

His eyes are alive. I wonder how I appear to him. I tell him what we
got from the video lab. Nothing.

He puts another tape in. "Watch this."

The tape runs, I see the robbery again. He rewinds. "Did you notice
the dog at the start?"

"The dog. But there wasn't a dog."

He's tapping his hand on the remote, I watch again looking for the
dog. He clarifies the point. "Just before the robbers come in. The
blind woman and her guide dog walk out."

"So?"

"So, if you watch the tape of the outside of the building entrance
you'll see the robbers' van circle the bank and then return. They were
waiting for her to leave."

"Why?"

"Because it's some sound effect thing. Some noise that might have
upset the dog so they wait for it to leave. Ultrasound at a guess."

I smile. Spooky. Even as he says it I can visualise it. Those jumps of
understanding. "Anything else?" I ask the question, anticipating a yes
in answer. His confidence level is too high for a single clue, he's
seen something else.

He loads another video film, rewinds to the right place. "Watch the
cashier, she faints a few seconds after they come in."

"A diversion?"

"Don't think so. Not from her evidence on the lie detector. And not
something they needed to do at any of the other banks. I think she was
different from the others, in some way immune and that's why they did
something to her that made her faint."

"So we need to interview her."

"First call tomorrow. Are you ready to go?"

I confirm it. My suitcases are packed, ready and waiting at home.
Years of practice. Despite not being sent out of town this last few
weeks I'm ready. I have two bags now. One for my work clothes. One for
the clothes and things I need in hospital.  I will take both. I'm a
professional.

------------------

Another bleak and soulless motel bedroom a long way from home.  Why am
I here? Because there is no better place for me to be. I bury myself
in the pillows. Imagine their soft buffeting as the comfortable caress
of a dream lover.

There would be no more lovers. Not now. Not this side of a miracle.
One night stands have seldom looked less appealing. Ed Jerse finished
that little fantasy. He attacked me, could have killed me. At least it
would have been quick. But not an experience to be repeated.

And as to the real thing? I could go out there, see if I can use
what's left of my life to charm a man, to make him love me. To carry
me to ecstasy before I die. I always hated those movies, Love Story
and that ilk. I still do. I don't need to find some man to make me
feel valuable, to make it seem as if my life was worthwhile. And
ecstasy isn't all it's cracked up to be. A passing warmth, an
exultation, a surrender, a release. Then reality returns. Miss Skeptic
that I am. And I wouldn't put anyone through that kind of roller
coaster ride. Especially not anyone I loved. To love and die. Good in
the movies. Hellish cruelty in the real world.

Ah, who am I trying to kid. Bad enough hiding things from other
people. Why am I hiding from myself?

Fox Mulder is asleep in the next room. Another lie, he's no more
likely to be asleep than I am. My partner, my friend. To love and
die. And it will be cruel. We will stand on the shore together and try
to turn back the tide. Who knows, we might even succeed. If hope and
energy and determination could make dreams come true, we would
certainly succeed. But then Mulder has dreamt of Samantha since he was
a kid.

I think of him now. I touch myself. I imagine his touch. 

Easy to imagine. The eyes would soften and melt. He would be hesitant,
shy. Yet he's a passionate man. For all the control he maintains in
front of the world, his intellect and his emotions burn. So much heat
in such a cool container.

He would wait for my initiative. Scared to make the wrong move.
Fearful of damaging me or trespassing in my world. Yet when given
permission he would probe and test and examine. Study me like the
skilled investigator he is. I can imagine him now, even as I touch
myself. I can feel him explore my body, lay my secrets bare.

Passionate and controlled. 

A recipe for ecstasy. Ecstasy and oblivion. 

And I won't allow it. Not because it would make my loss greater to
him. Of one thing I'm absolutely certain, he could not fear my death
any more than he already does, it could not hit him any harder. No, it
cannot be allowed, because it would destroy me.  It would be an
admission that I'd given up hope. Just as surely as if I resigned my
job and decided to tour the world on some sleek yacht. An admission
that I'd decided to do the things from my list of fantasies before I
die. So I won't. Admit nothing.  Admitting makes it real.

There's a cancer study that says women who orgasm regularly, with or
without a partner survive their treatment better. As a scientist I
view evidence dispassionately. Therapeutic then. I close my eyes,
relax into the rhythm and dream of a medicine delivered by my
partner's body.


END of Part 1/2


OBEYING ORDERS 2/2 


Sometimes, timing is everything. We arrive at the bank during their
early morning staff meeting. I'd really expected the staff to be
suspicious of us. Bored with telling their ridiculous story to
disbelieving police, to other FBI Agents. They must have been relieved
that four other banks had been robbed, with four other sets of staff
telling stories just as foolish as theirs. We are welcomed with shrugs
of the shoulder and bland statements that they'd told their stories
before.

Mulder is at his best. Smart, professional but good natured.  Polite,
with just the vaguest edge of flirtatious. Easy. No dead bodies to
respect. Just a group of bemused employees with unbelievable stories
and an FBI Agent who just sits and chats as if they are telling him
the gossip from their perfectly normal annual dinner dance.

He amazes me. I have no reason to believe they are lying yet they
sense my suspicion. They look sheepishly at me, even as they use
animated hand movements to recount their tales to my partner. Active
listening. And how. You wonder if they ever got the chance to say half
of this stuff to the other law enforcers. Yet so easy the way they
talk to him. They offer coffee and danishes. I wave the sticky pastry
away, breakfast was only half an hour ago. Mulder's eating for two.

As the bank opens they drift out to their jobs, slowly, as if
reluctant to leave their most attentive audience. They smile.  The men
shake hands. The women smile some more. Mulder looks buoyant. A real
case and no dead bodies. Work to do. A chance to forget. I focus on
the scene. I'm still a witness not a participant. But I'm ok. I look
the part. I listened. I can debate what was learned with Mulder later.

There are times when I feel like nothing more than a passive observer
in our cases, a tape recorder replaying the evidence, a mirror
reflecting a story. A wall to bounce ideas off.  Professional
distance. Scientific detachment. Never getting my feet wet. Right now
the feeling is worse than ever. I watch but I'm not sure I'm really
here. I need that control right now. So I don't get involved. Watch,
listen, observe.

Mulder's eyes are warm, quietly relaxing and welcoming as he greets
the young cashier who fainted. I watch. The woman smiles happily at
the attention, the focus he offers. I try and remember the smiling,
the innocence. Could that have been me, in a different life? A very
different life.

She asks him to change seat. He obliges and moves to sit opposite her,
watching her intently. I wonder what's going on.  Where's my insight?
Where are my hunches? Enough concentration to work, to follow the
procedures, but not enough to offer inspiration.

I listen to him. "Miss Davidson. Can you understand me now?"

She replies happily, quickly. "That's fine. I'm a good lip reader. I
have a little hearing. So it's no problem."

"That's good."

He smiles. His voice changes tone again, I know the discussion is
over. He's going through the motions now, just on the off chance she
has extra information, but he already has what he wanted. The young
woman is hearing impaired. He will see that as confirmation of a sound
weapon. A weapon that didn't work on her. So they found some other way
to disable her. I should tell him it's not conclusive, a coincidence.
But I won't. He's seldom wrong in these leaps.

He smiles at me when she returns to her job. Knocks back the coffee,
consumes another danish. I wince. He reacts instantly, his eyes go
solemn. He's embarrassed about smiling. I can't do this to him. Maybe
I shouldn't be working. At least not for the FBI. I've got a job. I've
got a partner. I'm on a case. Not the case I want to be on, but a
case. I'm a professional. So, I act like one.

I return his smile and speak. "So, you were right. A sound device. We
can work on the details later. Like how it hypnotises."

He frowns, as if guilty again, another leap. "I think it plays a kind
of background noise. One that makes people want to obey."

I fix him with a stare. Not because I think he's wrong but because I
know he has to say it out loud to concentrate his thoughts, to test
his own logic.

"It's not so strange. Army officer training considers tone of voice an
important factor in obtaining commitment to an order.  Babies cry at a
pitch that is tuned to their mother, demanding attention." He stops
abruptly. Turns away. Even more embarrassed now. Ah, mothers and
babies, a sensitive subject. I wonder. Is it more sensitive to me or
to him. Not something to consider at the moment.

I'm dressed in my professional finery now. My voice has its most
detached tone. Crisp, clean, decisive. "So you are claiming that
there's a background noise playing. One that people are unaware of,
yet nonetheless makes them willing to accept orders."

"And that when it's backed up with the right appearance, the security
guard uniforms. People see what they want to see. Obey without
question."

"So what do we do now?" My comment is weak and I know it, I hope he's
so involved with his explanation that he doesn't notice.

He stops, frowns, hesitates. His eyes lock on mine. Please. Mulder.
Please don't. Don't push me. Not now. I need to stay with you. Don't
send me away. I hear his voice. "Scully? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Mulder."

He sounds a little flustered as he talks. "If you need to talk.  To
get away. Just say. It's ok."

"I'm fine. I'm just impressed by how fast things are moving. You seem
to be on a roll."

He pauses. Studies the crumbs on the plate. Relents. I breathe a sigh
of relief. He starts to speak again. "Research time then. A control
device using a sound weapon. My guess is this isn't its planned use,
just the spin off from some larger project. My guess would be military
funding that was withdrawn fairly early on because it can be defended
against too easily to be a battlefield weapon. White noise, ear plugs,
whatever. Now, someone has developed it for their own personal use."

We retreat to the sanctuary of two desks, two PC's, two network
connections in the local Bureau office. Technology to take us further
along the path. Mulder's theory is simple enough. First trawl.
Projects involving the use of ultrasound, better still, projects that
have lost funding. Match against research papers in psychology that
consider sound and tonal quality as variables in spoken commands.

Mulder concentrates, I see him switch into his tense studious mode. I
wait for him to shout eureka. I'd love to hear that from him, it would
suit him. But I never have. Oh well, I launch my search, my hundredth
search, whatever. My efforts are desultory.

I idly consider a search on 'cancer', 'tumor', 'magic', 'cure'.  But I
don't. It would be an admission of my obsession.

Mulder reminds me of a fisherman. Hook and bait in the water, utterly
convinced that the very next second the fish will bite.  I wonder at
his enthusiasm, endless energy, patience. The irony of patience in
such an impatient man. I dabble. Put the worm on the hook like I was
taught but I have no expectation, no optimism. I see the line go
tense. Something's there. I read the notes and know we are on a real
trail. I pass the address to Mulder. We are in business. A team. We
chase the rabbit to its hole.

A project. Long since dead. Ultrasound as a weapon. Not useful on a
battlefield, ear defenders could protect, hah, disco music could
protect. We chase the names, the engineers, the psychologists, those
others whose work had reached an abrupt end. A husband and wife in San
Jose, just up the road from here, electronics and the working of the
human mind their specialist subjects. What could be better? Other
possibles, but the short list is short.

A good day's work. Mulder will carry on working through the night.
Chase research papers, career histories, piece together life stories.
There will be some new hunch to digest by morning.  But now. I need
food. I need sleep. I've thought enough.

------------

It's only breakfast and already he stuns me. Not for the first time.

One idea, one leap. Then boundless energy. And contacts. Who has he
used to get this data? Who would work through the night?

The grating whine of a cellular. His. He beckons me to his side, I
obey and try to share the earpiece. Normally this wouldn't work, but
Skinner is screaming. Why no report? Why was Mulder illegally
accessing the budgetary records of long dead projects, initiating
private searches on credit card use.  Mulder's reply was soft, no
semblance of a fight in it. "We can bring in the suspects today,
Sir. Or not. Your call." Without saying the words, he confirms we have
homed in on our bad guys.

Skinner growls that the sooner the better is the only acceptable
outcome. The call closes.

I rock back in my chair stunned. "Mulder. What on earth was that
about?"

He shakes his head. "Don't know. But I have a guess."

I listen to Mulder's version of events, his interpretation of the
call. Skinner's tone was wrong. Skinner never attacked just to see
blood, not just to scare Agents into working harder, faster, reporting
more frequently. So the tone could mean only one thing, Skinner was
posing for someone, playing the hard man, yet playing it so
unnecessarily hard that Mulder could tell it was intended as a
warning. But a warning of what?

Someone had tracked us last night. Someone had monitored our searches,
watched us as we chased our prey on the computer.  Skinner was telling
us about a watcher. But who and why?

I watch Mulder's eyes close. Watch the understanding race through
him. Then the rapid move to close down the openness in his expression.
But not before I saw the give away signals run across his features.
Realisation. Then horror. Then resignation.

"Mulder. What is it? Do you understand what got to Skinner like that."

"It's nothing. We need to close the case."

I glare at him, but his expression doesn't change, immovable object
now. I accept that I've been locked out and return to offer only
brisk, impersonal, disinterest in my voice. "So we have the names of
the weapon builders. What's next? How do we get the people who carried
out the jobs?"

"They are in some sort of militia group." He says it without looking
up. Utter certainty in his voice.

"Why do you think that?"

"Look at the videos. The security guards look like security guards.
But like security guards in the movies. A gang of marines or
something. Military bearing, working as a unit. They may be still
serving but I doubt it. Ex forces, they met the weapon builders in
some militia thing. You can see some hot words, phrases that militia
types use in the couple's writing.  They are there even in the
technical papers they have written.  They've picked up that kind of
language somewhere."

I nod. I don't know why I nod. I can neither confirm nor deny his
inspiration. But with his track record, I'll go along with it. "So,
what first, get the people who built it or build the whole picture,
militia men as well?"

He's staring at me. Hesitant, nervous. I want to shout, to scream out
in indignation at the doubt in his eyes. He doesn't think I'm really
with him on this. He can see I'm just following the process we've been
through a hundred times before, play acting my way through the case.
He's waiting for the drive, the initiative to return to me. How can I
commit myself to this when I have things on my mind.

My thoughts wander, jumble. A gaggle of voices, noises, images all
jostle for attention. Irrational thoughts. I shouldn't have come on
this case. OPR were right, I can't concentrate. I'm a danger to him,
not a help. I think of foolish things.

Brain tumors have been linked to the development of psychic powers.
Now that would be spooky. Maybe if I just think hard enough I can get
the names of the military types who carried out the job. That would
impress Mulder. He couldn't accuse me of just going through the
motions then. But then he's made no accusations, I'm denouncing
myself.

I think of Modell, he'd certainly got something. Can I learn to be a
Pusher, does it happen to you one step at a time, little things
first. Like influencing the waitress to notice me across a crowded
room. Or do you get it all at once. Then wham you can make a man hold
a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Go on, let's try it. Bet I can
already do that.

I stand quickly and run to the ladies room. I can cover this lapse. 
The chemo, the drugs. The...

I look in the mirror and wonder who I see, who Mulder sees. It's not
me. I'm not weak like this. I'm a consummate professional.  I'm able
to focus on my work, to concentrate. One hundred percent commitment.
Dependable. I clean my face. Dependable, Mulder can depend on me.

When I come out, Mulder is sitting by the door of the room. I should
be offended by his urge to monitor me so closely.  Mulder's arranging
backup for the visit to the engineer and his psychologist wife. He's
going to turn the hunt for the militia men over to the locals. Their
problem not ours. Let them hunt for matches to his profile. Let them
organise the SWAT team.

He watches me carefully as I walk towards the table and quickly closes
the call. "Are you ok?"

"Fine. I just need to be more careful about eating patterns and
things. I need to take my pills with food." Why do I bother lying. Of
course, what I said isn't actually a lie. Just not the whole truth.

He takes a deep breath. He wants to argue, but won't. "I've spoken to
the area office. They'll give us what we need. I've told them you'll
brief them on the robbers themselves. Here are my notes on the militia
types they need to look for. Of course we may be lucky and get
information on them when we pick up the couple who actually produced
the device but there's no harm in getting the wheels turning."

He's rambling. He wants me to go and sit in some nice, safe Bureau
office. While he goes to pick up the suspects. I keep my reply
calm. Polite. "You'll need me with you when you arrest the couple."

"No, we need to get moving on both fronts. I've arranged an armed unit
as back up. I'm not expecting any trouble but there's always a chance
they've got weapons at the house or even that some of the militia
types will be there. So, I've set it up as a raid. They thought I was
joking when I told them to wear ear protection, but there was no
problem getting them to put a team on the case straight away. Scarcely
any delay. Someone's pulling strings."

What can I do now? Tell him he doesn't need a team, he only needs me?
Tell him that despite the fact he's got a team, he still needs me?
That I can't possibly go to the office on my own? By the book. 
Bastard. The one time he wants to do it by the book. And why?  Because
of me. I nod my head. I lose again.

--------------------

There's an inevitability about what happened today. Mulder took the
armed response unit to the couple's house in the suburbs of San Jose
and the birds had flown. No problem.

Even as the local ASAC tried to explain how the suspects could have
got wind of the inquiry, Mulder was shaking his head and telling him
not to worry. This wasn't corruption in the local office. This was
someone tapping into our computer queries and finding the information.
Nothing to be done locally. Something for us to chase when we return
to Washington. The ASAC looks relieved to be let off the hook.

When Mulder hands him photographs and an address book found in the
missing couple's home, the ASAC almost cheers.  Off the hook on the
security leak to the suspects and an easy route to the militia types
who'd provided the muscles for the robberies. On balance, a good day
for the local Bureau. Well, it will be, assuming they eventually make
the arrests.

We'll fly home tomorrow.

Mulder tells me we're going to play tourist. I talk about tiredness
and pills. He insists. I give in.

--------

I'm not sure Chinese food mixes that well with my medication.  But
then, nor does anything else. And the food was delicious.  And really,
can I justify visiting San Francisco and not eating in China town?
Once more. For old time's sake at least. Maybe I won't see the place
again.

Where did that come from? That half dead view of the world. Not yet
I'm not. I'm ok. I'll be ok tomorrow.

Mulder has insisted we go for a walk along the Bay, visit the piers.
The bright lights, the kitsch, the shops selling tourist tat, the bars
and coffee shops. He insists we're tourists so we're allowed to laugh
at electronic parrots that repeat everything you say.

Why? Why tonight? Why now is it important we take this break?  Because
he doesn't think I'll get that many more chances?

We sit at a table stirring coffee and looking out at the moonlight on
the bay. Clear tonight, funny that, I think of other visits. Why isn't
it foggy?

Mulder's watching me. I tense. He's not playing now. He wants to
talk. Ok, I'll bite. I set the ball rolling. "Who tipped them off?"

He looks puzzled, as if my question makes no sense, but he answers it
anyway. "No one. They got picked up before I arrived."

I turn his answer into my next question. "Picked up?" Look at that, I
can do the same trick as the electronic parrot.

He's disappointed in me, as if I should already know the answer.  "By
whoever gave us this case, whoever monitored the computer searches,
whoever Skinner's little show this morning was for."

Ah. Someone wanted to find the successful inventors. And thought we'd
make good gophers. Looks like they were right. Who? A flash of
understanding then I feel a bitter wave of realisation.

Oh my God. Is this the price we are to pay for my treatment, for this
holding operation they are performing on me. Damn them.  Work or
die. I feel nauseous.

Mulder's watching me. I feel him read my thoughts. I'm shocked by his
next move. An oddly sentimental gesture coming from him.  He moves my
shaking hand from the cup of coffee, carefully places it palm down on
the table, covers it with his own. I feel a tremble of electricity.
His thumb strokes mine. Slowly.  Gently. Touching and not touching. 
It's nothing, yet my senses are on overload.

His voice is quiet but definite. "As long as we work for the Bureau we
can't control all the assignments. But, we can try and pick some of
our own cases. We can chase leads. We can run after hunches. We don't
ask for permission. We beg for forgiveness."  He smiles nervously.
"Trust me. I've got more experience than you on this. Leaving the
Bureau would be a big step, we could do that, but it could be a step
back."

I nod. He can read minds. Electric tingles in my fingers. I hope he
can't read what I'm thinking right now. Work. Ah yes. Work.

His eyes darken, more tension in his voice now. "But you've got to
promise me something."

I lean my head. What sort of a promise does he want?

He continues carefully. "That you won't just work through problems,
just stay on an investigation just to prove you can.  There's always
another way to handle a case."

I wince. I should be annoyed by the lecture. Even though I deserve it.

I guess he felt me flinch, he moves his hand from mine, I try to stop
my groan.

He's staring out of the window, focused on the lights of some boat
rocking in the bay. He talks again. "I don't know what you're going
through, but I can guess some of it. If only one thing matters, then
everything else is pale, unreal. I lose it sometimes. When there's
room for only one thought in my head.  You've bailed me out. Please. 
Don't hide from me."

I feel my anger build. It's a hot, indefinite thing, I'm not angry
with him. But then again, I am. How dare he sound so damned
controlled? Strange that the same quality I rate so highly in me, I
hate in him.

There's venom in my words but such an instant eruption of violence in
my tone that it shocks even me. "You did it. Didn't you? Fucking sold
yourself to those bastards for a handful of pills. How could you? How
dare you? What gave you the right?"

A pause, then his barely audible reply. "I didn't." Quietly said. 
Easily ignored.

So, I hear the words and ignore them. I know I'm not angry at him
now. But he's the only one here.

I remove the heat from my voice. Just like performing an autopsy.
Cool, detached. I make the first incision. A good, deep, long cut.
"I'm disappointed in you. If you were going to sell your soul it
should at least have been for a miracle. Not just a year's supply of
drugs that make me throw up. You work cheap."

Mulder won't look at me. A long silence. When it comes, his voice is a
pale shadow. "I didn't. I wanted to. Skinner wouldn't let me. I'd give
anything for you Scully, but only if it was mine to give. And I don't
know if selling only part of your soul is an option, I'm not sure they
read the small print. So, I didn't."

I look at him. He's ashamed. Ashamed that I thought he would?  Ashamed
that he'd considered it? Ashamed that he hadn't sold out?

I watch him closely, my voice is more measured now, I'm proud of
it. "Then who? Who found my 'experimental drugs' and my trustworthy
research doctor?"

He turns away. Won't answer. 

Then it hits me. Skinner. Skinner stopped Mulder, but offered himself.
Oh my God.


END
(by Joann Humby - jhumby@iee.org)