From: "Paige Caldwell" Date: Sun, 11 Jul 1999 19:40:27 EDT Subject: xfc New "Dogs of War" 1 of 3, X, MSR, NC-17 Source: xfc Title: "Dogs of War" Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: X, MSR Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through "Biogenesis" Archive: Please do, just let me know where. Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me. No infringement is intended. The lyrics are taken from Pink Floyd's masterpiece album "Momentary Lapse of Reason". Author's Note: My never ending gratitude to Kimberly at Clinique's Hidden Gems, to Galia who most graciously designed a page for a Paige and to a treasured beta who encourages as well as she writes... Summary: Post "Biogenesis". A tongue-tied, twisted, earth-bound misfit returns from the Ivory Coast. The dogs of war are waiting for her... and she is waiting for them... Part 1 of 3 The dogs of war don't negotiate The dogs of war won't capitulate, They will take and you will give, And you must die so that they may live You can knock at any door, But wherever you go, you know they've been there before Well winners can lose and things can get strained But whatever you change, you know the dogs remain.... He waited in the shadows of her apartment. Summoned from his sleep by a phone call, he snapped to attention and quickly dressed. Without hesitation and devoid of much thought, he made his way to where she lived. He broke into her apartment with little effort, leaving no trace of fingerprints from his one gloved hand. When she opened the door later, he studied her profile in the light from the hall. Not out of fascination, although he was tempted. She had become interesting this past year. She had proven to be resilient, undaunted by any obstacle thrown in her path. She carried herself like a professional. She did not rely upon her gender for special consideration nor did she make any excuses for it. Unlike the other woman, Krycek thought. The one who had been allowed to hunt in the pack. A bitch in heat. Going down on all fours to an old, lecherous canine to get what she wanted. Except the fool was so caught up in his own rise to power that he didn't see that his mate was sniffing out another. He squinted through the darkness, shutting out images that disgusted him. There was a mission to accomplish. He was sent to intercept a discovery that threatened his master, to take it by force if necessary. Yet, there was something wrong. The woman stopped in the doorway, pausing to set her suitcase down on the floor. Her gaze circled the room as if she suspected that danger lurked in the darkness. Without a word, she reached to the back of her waistband and drew out her gun. "Come out, come out wherever you are..." Dana Scully sang to him in a toying voice. He froze in the corner of the livingroom. How could she have known that he was there? His own gun lifted to parallel hers in the darkness. He drew in his breath and waited for her next move. "I may not be able to see you, but I can smell your stench from miles away," she called out. "But, I can see you..." His whisper sliced through the shadows. Scully pushed the suitcase into her apartment with her leg. Her eyes strained towards the corner of the livingroom as she responded, "Well, those beady little eyes are more used to the dark than mine." Her hand glided up the wall to the light switch. There was no fright in her eyes. They were apathetic. At first, he was startled by her reaction, balancing surprise with fear of his own waning effectiveness. But, as she carefully shut the front door, he understood her lack of fear. Lowering his gun, he said to her. "You found it, didn't you?" "What is it you think I've found, Krycek?" she asked, cupping her gun with her other hand. She slowly moved to the sofa which separated them. "The answers to all your questions," he responded obscurely. "No, not yet." She shifted her legs apart, establishing a firing stance. "But, I think I'm in a better position to get those answers now." "From me?" Krycek snickered. "You know better than that, Scully. I don't negotiate." "That's right," she sneered back. "You obliterate." The man grinned. He held his gun out to the side in a placating gesture. "Don't be bitter, Scully, it's nothing personal." "I intend to make it personal," she advised him coldly. "I intend to use whatever means I have in securing what I want." "Which is what? Your partner back safe and in sound mind?" Scully arched her head to the side. She was contemplating him. In a baiting tone, she spoke, "Don't you have a question of your own that needs answering, Krycek? Did I or did I not find the other pieces to the artifact?" "Did you?" His gaze sizzled into hers. "If I did, what would it be worth to your master?" "I told you. I don't negotiate," Krycek reminded her. "Then you're going to have to crawl back empty handed." Her analogy was not lost on Krycek. Nor was her attitude. It wasn't haughty. It was assured. This woman was unmoved by threats. And, she wasn't bluffing. She had reached a level of certainty that could only be attained by having found the perfect trump card. "Where are they, Scully? Do you have them with you?" "Please...," she scoffed. "Don't insult me." "What is it you want in exchange for your little discovery? "I...want...him...back...," Scully emphasized each word. "It's beyond my control," he related. "I want him back," she repeated, "Nothing more and nothing less. Take that to your master like a good boy. Tell the Dog of War that a bitch has sniffed out and dug up the bone he's been looking for." "He may decide to just put the bitch down," he warned her. He could tell that she was unimpressed with his last remark. "I have nothing left to lose and your master has everything to gain," Scully remarked. "So, that doesn't make me expendable, Krycek, it makes me safe." For a moment neither spoke. Krycek saw her fingers tightened around her gun. Her posture conveyed that mind and body were converging, becoming one with her weapon, poising for a split second reaction in which she would fire it. "I'll have to get back to you," he said finally. Her finger eased back on the trigger. "Don't keep me waiting long," Scully advised. "A dog's instinct is to bury the bone where no one else will be able to find it." "You'll hear from me within twenty-four hours." ...... Into the distance, a ribbon of black Stretched to the point of no turning back A flight of fancy on a windswept field Standing alone my senses reeled A fatal attraction hold me fast, how Can I escape this irresistible grasp? Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I.... Scully exhaled slowly and slid the dead bolt into place. Locking him out was a symbolic gesture. There was no stopping him or others who would hunt her down. She was afraid, but fear had taken second seat to her vindictiveness. The cumulative effect of the Consortium's actions had finally unleashed that part of her that was dark. They had stolen from her, deceived her and twisted her beliefs to the extent that she could barely maintain a rational thought. It enraged her that they operated with such impunity. Beyond reproach, impossible to stop, they surpassed the worst of war criminals. They were the dogs of war. No, she would not curtail the nature of the beast. She would allow it to rise forth and command her thoughts and actions. Permit that sixth sense, a intuitiveness as sharp as any dog's fangs, to clamp down on their scrawny necks. It was because of them that she had been forced to fly alone. She had been deprived of her navigator. Without him to steer her though a unchartered sky, where stars were no longer just stars. Her hands fumbled at the controls of her first solo flight. She had not been prepared to find what she had found. She had gone to the Ivory Coast to seek out the remaining pieces of the artifact. She found two more buried in the sand near the alien craft which must have archived them. As her eyes lifted to the circling skies, panic overwhelmed her. She was spinning out of control. Crashing was no longer a threat, it was inevitable. No wonder she hated flying... No wonder Mulder said she grounded him... An earth-bound misfit was capable of exerting a strong force of gravity. She reached for her portable phone. When she spoke, her voice was gritty. "Okay boys, we have twenty-four hours. Let's make the most of them." ........ A restless eye across a weary room A glazed look and I was on the road to ruin The music played and played as we whirled without end No hint, no word her honor to defend I will, I will she sighed to my request And then she tossed her mane while my resolve was put to the test Then drowned in desire, our souls on fire I led the way to the funeral pyre And without a thought of the consequence I gave in to my decadence.... There were moments in each day when the voices in his head grew silent enough for him to maintain a lucid thought. It was then that he stopped struggling from the inexorable prison of his straightjacket. He would stare at the camera with such hate that he hoped the viewer's eyes would be seared into blindness. To finally obliterate the vision that she had created for herself and for him. He knew she was there. The dark, treacherous woman of his past. The one who had caused him to slip and fall into this hole of insanity. Even in this state, where coherency wavered without a moment's notice, he knew the truth. The madness began a long time ago. In a momentary lapse of reason, he chose to believe her. Without realizing it, he began to trust her. And, without thinking much at all, he bedded her. She was there...watching...waiting... From the minute he awoke and found her in his apartment, he knew that he had fallen victim to her manipulations. He fought back the panic and disgust in an effort to trick her, to preserve the last tenets of reason that were being drowned out by the torturing voices. When the phone rang, both of them glanced at it and then back to each other. He swallowed against a dry throat as she reached for the phone. Bracing himself, preparing himself for the caller who he knew would be Scully. Scully.... He had managed to make his voice curt when he spoke to his partner. He had difficulty forming words that he wanted to be clear to her, yet ambiguous to the woman on the opposite side of the bedroom. "Prove me wrong," he countered when his partner contradicted his theory about the artifact. Yet, his mind was screaming out to her to find the proof and find it fast. He was slipping. Sinking into a pit of quicksand, he writhed around on the bed, his fingers stretching out to reach hers... Scully... Cold, thin fingers closed around his. Not, the warm, certain ones of the woman who had taught him the real meaning of trust and love. It was the other. The ugly parody of what he once thought sublime. She sat on the side of the bed, reaching behind her back to unfasten the clasp of her bra. "Give in to it, Fox," her voice was no longer the voice of temptation. She stripped off the bra an let it fall to the floor. She was not enticing. She was grotesque. She leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "The year grows late, Fox. Neither one of us wants to face the future alone." One slip and down the hole you fall..... It was then that he fought back with every ounce of strength left to him. He threw her off of him and tried to rise up from the bed. As pain shot through his temple, his knees buckled. He fell to the ground and grasped his head in agony. When the blackness passed, he saw that she was standing over him. Had there ever been a softness to her eyes? He doubted it. They appraised him now with a singular cold determination that was more frightening than death. He began to moan a name that would be his last sentient thought for days. Scully.... ...... I will always be in here I will always look out from behind these eyes It's only a lifetime... He sat in a chair behind a prominent mahogany desk. He had risen in status this past year. The office had belonged to his predecessor, a man of refined taste but lack of insight. But, not him. No, this office suited him well. He crushed his cigarette in a crystal ashtray and immediately lit another. He had recently changed his consumption to ulta low, filtered cigarettes, thinking it less damaging to recently rehabilitated lungs. Yet, he had replaced quality with quantity. The pull of each drag was almost desperate. The taste was unsatisfying. He should give it up once and for all. No, it was too late to teach an old dog new tricks.... "We have a problem..." the voice from the doorway broke into his thoughts. "Is that the royal "we", Alex?" CSM appraised the man through the slits of his eyes. "Are you speaking in terms of something that affects us all, or is it another attempt to align yourself with the ill-fated Russian aristocracy?" "Why isn't it possible for any of us to have a normal conversation?" Krycek whined. "What's wrong?" Was your visit to Agent Scully less than you bargained for?" "Actually, bargaining is exactly what Agent Scully has in mind," the man retorted. "Good," CSM took another drag from his cigarette then held it out to study it closely. He tried inhaling it again. "Good...very good." "I thought we don't negotiate," protested the other, not understanding his superior's response. "Again, the use of the royal "we"," he snickered. "You don't negotiate, Alex. I do." "Fine," grumbled Krycek. "What does His Lordship command?" "Did she find more pieces to the artifact?" CSM asked. "If she didn't, then she's playing one hell of a bluff," declared Krycek. "No, the stakes are too high," CSM considered. "She has what we...excuse me...that I want. Dare I ask what she wants in return?" "I would think that answer is rather obvious..." a chilled voice rang out from the doorway. CSM's eyes widened with delight. He couldn't help himself. The affect this woman's voice had on him was almost as potent as what he had discovered between her legs. Arousal was no longer the result of a well maneuvered scheme. The Goddess of the Hunt had pierced his decaying libido with one release of her bow. The arrow had hit its mark. He didn't care that she flaunted his affection like a trophy. She gave credence to the conclusion that he was a renewed man. "Diana," he practically crooned her name. "The experiment must continue," Fowley stated firmly "With a little more time I am certain it will be successful." "My dear, the experiment has failed," CSM replied. "A week has passed and Agent Mulder has not shown any improvement. His resistance to the experiment leads me to conclude that he is an unlikely subject." Fowley crossed over to the desk and gripped it tightly. Her dark eyes lowered to the man behind it. In a soft, appealing voice, she pleaded, "Just a few days more. I'm not asking too much, am I?" "Scully gave us twenty-four hours," Krycek's voice interrupted hers. Fowley turned to give him a withering look. "You give her too much credit," she said. "She lacks the instinct to be a valid threat." "Her instinct has led her to discover the valid threat," CSM commented. "The message of the artifact must remain in our control and for our exclusive use." "Then why don't we just take the pieces from her?" demanded Fowley. "Because that same instinct was sharp enough to evade our watchful eyes when transporting them back." "There are others ways..." the woman pointed out. "I am not inclined to waste any more time or resources on a solution when one has already presented itself." There was a noticeable edge to his tone. "Agent Mulder has in the past and continues to ignore the voice of reason. Even now when it consumes his every thought. " CSM stood up from his chair and moved around it. Placing a firm hand over Fowley's, he spoke to Krycek. "Make the deal, Alex." When Krycek left the room, he turned to Fowley and caressed her cheek. She tried not to shrink away from the smell of his tobacco stained fingers. "Remove the implant," he instructed her. "We'll never have this opportunity again," she urged him one last time. "My dear, we are the creators of destiny." His hand slithered down her neck to where her blouse fell open above her breasts. "We don't wait for opportunities. We make them." End of Part 1 ...... "Dogs of War" X, MSR, NC-17 Paige Caldwell Part 2 of 3 And still this ceaseless murmuring The babbling that I brook The seas of faces, eyes upraised The empty screen, the vacant look.... Fowley stood outside the room where Mulder sat huddled against the wall. She gazed at the screen, searching for movement of the hazel eyes that were fixed on the camera. They were almost glazed over from hours of vacant staring. She knew the pattern. It would not be long before he began to fight again. Resisting the voices, thrashing against the restraint of the straightjacket. Hurling foul obscenities at the camera. At her. How did they ever get to this point? She stared down at hands that were starting to spot with the signs of age. She was no longer a young woman. Gone were the years where she easily enticed men with a flash of her smile or arch of her head. She had been magnificent in her thirties when both her regal bearing and swift intelligence had gained her entrance to an elite circle. It was there that she learned that power was as intoxicating as love. She allowed it to tempt her away, justifying her loss as one easily recovered. Except too much time had passed. Absence had not made the heart grow fonder, but distanced it. Mulder had found another. Scully. A woman whose skepticism had drawn him like a moth to the flame. A flame not easily extinguished, despite her efforts. She had used her persuasion with the others in trying to distance them. Scully's first abduction had been her idea. She had believed that the woman would not withstand the trauma of the tests, that once released she would fade into the background. But, she didn't... The troll...a pint sized caricature of a woman had stolen what was hers. Gazing at him now from the view of the camera, she was soured by what she knew would happen next. Once freed of the implant, he would no longer her persuasion. He would return to a quest which was futile. He would yield to a woman who was infertile, in both body and belief. That she had not been given enough time to change his path filled her with resentment. Resentment... The idea took shape quickly. The controls were still in her hand. She had one last chance to influence, if only through an imparting thought. As she lifted the microphone to her mouth, she chose words that she hoped would have a lasting effect. "You will never forgive Scully for what she has done. She has taken the truth and handed it over to the enemy." ..... There's an unceasing wind that blows through this night And there's dust in my eyes, that blinds my sight And silence that speaks so much louder that words, Of promises broken... The voices were gone. For a moment, he braced for the pain that followed each attempt at stifling the voices. Other than a stinging sensation in his right ear, there was no punishment to silence. His eyelids slowly opened. He was in a regular hospital room. His arms were no longer pinned around his waist. The camera that mocked him was gone. He realized then that he had been released from the white padded cage. And, she was there. Scully. Sitting beside his bed, her hand reached out to clasp his. "How are you feeling?" she asked. The sound of his own voice seemed unusually loud. He knew it wasn't when she leaned forward to hear it. "Vacated..." She offered him a tentative smile. He struggled to speak with a tongue that felt numb. "What happened, Scully?" The edges of her mouth turned down into a frown. "It was an implant, Mulder. Similar to a cochlear implant designed for the deaf. An electronic device was placed in the sensory canal of your ear. It depolarizes peripheral neurons to produce auditory sensations..." "Except it wasn't inserted to improve my hearing," he interrupted in a gruff tone. "Actually it was," she replied. "But it was modified with an unknown technology to make you hear the voices of those who wanted to command you." "Not junk DNA turned on by the effects of the artifact?" he asked. He paused to cough and clear his throat. "Not telepathy like Gibson?" She shook her head solemnly. "No. Just an exclusive membership card to the Consortium's Lab Rat Society." she explained. She gave his hand a squeeze as if she was shaking it in introduction. "Welcome, new member. My name is Dana..." "Holy shit," he murmured in disbelief. His head fell back to the pillow. He had suspected foul play the moment Diana had shown up at his apartment to watch over him. He had hoped that she was there to guard a more distinctive secret. He had wanted the artifact to enable him to perceive the thoughts of others. "It's been removed," she assured him. It was a simple enough explanation, but hardly satisfying. He would have preferred to have been mutated into a six foot Gibson. Not just a test subject for the latest implant. His eyes met hers. The knowing look she gave him made him feel ashamed. She had been forced to submit to more indignities than he would ever know, yet had rebounded with a composure and strength that knew no limits. Chagrined, he pushed away his disappointment and asked. "Where is it? Where's the doctor who removed it?" "Mulder," she said gently. "It's gone. The implant, the doctor, the medical records....everything. The experiment has been concluded. The Consortium got what they were looking for." Her choice of words instantly caught his attention. When she averted her eyes, he knew there was more. "Which was what, exactly?" Mulder twisted his hand around to grip hers. "Scully...what are you not telling me?" Scully's gaze shifted back to his. They were pale against the artificial glow of the fluorescent light. "I had the proof, Mulder," she confessed. "I found the missing pieces of the artifact off the Ivory Coast of Africa." "You found them?" His gasp was not from shock but excitement. "I found them and...I traded them, Mulder." "What?" His fingers moved up to her wrist. "I traded them for you," she responded calmly, trying not to flinch at the pressure of his fingers. Anger suddenly sizzled through his brain, opening the door to uncomfortable thoughts. "I can't believe you did this," he said through gritted teeth. "The artifact was the key to the truth to everything we've been looking for. Everything. Sandoz told you..." "Sandoz is dead." "Dead?" "His body was found...well, in a fashion similar to his colleague's." "And, the other two pieces to the artifact are missing." "Yes." It was then that she sighed. Sighed. What was it about this woman that when faced with incredible loss or exasperating circumstances, her reaction was always the same? "So, we have nothing..." he concluded bitterly. "Nothing?" An edge had crept into her voice. That was better. He wanted her to acknowledge the enormity of this loss. To feel as deflated as he did. "Unless you consider defeat as something to count," he mocked. "Mulder, I have suffered enough defeats in my lifetime to dance around this one without missing a step." She was a smooth dancer at that. "What good is the truth when you lack the sanity to comprehend it?" Smooth but sharped tongued. "We're not talking about me," he burst out. "We most certainly are," she insisted. "What did you expect me to do? Leave you in that padded cell indefinitely?" "I expected you to do your job," he retorted. "To not make it personal. To use that steadfast logic consistently, not just when it suits you." That one got her good. He could tell by the hurt in her eyes. But it didn't make him feel better, it made him feel miserable. "Mulder, it wasn't like that...it was..." "It was like what?" "It was what you would have done," she stopped as her voice cracked. When she spoke again, her tone was more measured. "It was the same as being handed a vial of an experimental vaccine. A vaccine capable of saving mankind. But, rather than turn it over to the Bureau's labs or make any effort to preserve the formula, it was rushed to Antarctica to save a life." This was the problem in loving a woman who was smarter. She always had the perfect answer. "You certainly had that analogy handy," he said weakly. "I thought I might need it someday," she murmured. Scully leaned forward and tore his fingers from his wrist. She grasped his hand with both of hers, pleading with her eyes and her voice. "Mulder, you once said you needed me, that my science and rationalism saved you. I should have told you then. I'll tell you now. I need you as much as you need me." "No, you don't Scully." He refused to be swayed. "You just think you do. Your science and rationalism is being tested by the truth and it scares you." "It does more than scare me," she confessed. "It threatens to annihilate everything I believe in. When I saw that alien craft..." "Alien craft?" It was his voice's turn to crack. She didn't answer. She didn't have to. Her silence spoke louder than words. "And, you left it there?" he cried out in disbelief. "Well, what would you have me do? Rent a u-haul?" Her response was more sarcastic then he expected. "How true to form," he denounced. "Rather than accept it, Dana Scully either refutes it, turns her back on it, or in this instance, trades it." "Rather than listen to that whiny little voice inside your head, would you please just hear me out?" "Get out." "What?" "You have taken the truth...everything that I was looking for...and handed it over to the enemy." "You're being ridiculous." "I will never forgive you for what you have done." The words flew out before he could stop them. He didn't mean them. He tried to fight against the words, cringing with horror at his own voice which sounded so cold and convincing. They had convinced her. The effect was mirrored in her eyes. Heartache. Rejection. Disillusionment. The pupils of her eyes began to grow smaller, retreating, fading away into a vacant blue background. Stop, his mind screamed out to her. She was gone. He clasped both ears and began to rock back and forth, trying to still the voice that had just condemned them both. ...... On the turning away >From the pale and downtrodden And the words they say Which we won't understand "Don't accept that what's happening Is just a case of others' suffering Or you'll find that you're joining in The turning away"... Scully sat down on her bed and studied the work she had spread out over the comforter. A book on pre-phonetic Native American languages was poised on her right. The bible was positioned on her left. And in between were the duplicate set of rubbings the Gunmen had made from the pieces of the artifact. The artifact. Her plans were forgotten, subdued by despair. The artifact had become a source of great contention. Already it had cost lives, challenged faith, struck down science, and ended partnerships. Ended partnerships. It was strange that she defined their relationship within professional parameters. Was this her attempt at turning away? Was she trying to ease the pain by making their relationship less significant? It was significant. He was significant. She needed him. She loved him. But, in her attempt to prove that, she had lost him. Who was it who said that the road to hell was paved with good intentions? Whoever it was must have had her in mind. Must have known that she would chose him above duty... must have known that she was done allowing relationships to be sacrificed for revelations.. Must have known that she would eventually turn an empty bed into a desk... Tears began to spill down her face again. Not the hot, angry tears that she had cried on the way home from the hospital. These were different. They were tears of a weary heart and a beguiled mind. She had deceived herself into thinking that they had reached a level past misunderstanding. She had foolishly believed that they were close to taking the next step... It was then that she heard the noise, the sound of her front door opening. ..... The sweet smell of a great sorrow lies over the land Plumes of smoke rise and merge into the leaden sky A man lies and dreams of green fields and rivers, But awakens to a morning with no reason for waking.... Albert Hosteen was tired of the life he found himself still trapped in. Old age and disease had eaten away at his flesh and muscle, turning a once proud warrior into a pathetic carcass of feeble bones. Had he the strength to lift himself out of the hospital bed, he would have gladly lit the torch to his own funeral pyre. He would return himself to the land of his forefathers. A land where danger was limited to the creatures of the forest and not the sky. Yet, he remained. Bound to this lifetime by those who traveled far for his translations. He would stay long enough to help those who needed it. He waited for days for the female agent to return, the one whose hair rivaled the color of burnt sienna. When she didn't, sending three of her scouts in her place, a grin of amusement spread across his weathered face. The Lone Gunmen. His people would have found a better name to describe such an odd trio. The one with the flowing blond hair and glasses reminded him of the White Owl. The second, a man of quiet reserve but with fear frozen in his eyes could have been called "Deer Caught in the Headlights". And the third...well...even his native tongue had limitations. He sensed a strong loyalty among these men to the two FBI agents. He did his best to help them. Translating was the easy part. Understanding the meaning was more difficult. But these scouts were cunning. The grasped a understanding that he didn't. They found hope in a situation he had concluded to be hopeless. When they left, he knew that his work was done. He would live no longer. He would not be coerced or forced to aide the dogs that he knew would come sniffing around for him soon. When they arrived they would find him gone. His soul would be released into the sunset and his ashes would be scattered to the wind. There would be nothing of him left. Not even a bone for them to chew on. End of Part 2 "Dogs of War", X, MSR, NC-17 Paige Caldwell Part 3 of 3 On the wings of the night As the daytime is stirring Where the speechless unite In a silent accord Using words you will find are strange And mesmerized as they light the flame Feel the new wind of change On the wings of the night..... Scully's right hand flew over to where she had hidden her gun. She drew it from underneath her pillow and unlatched the safety. Clasping it between both hands, she aimed it towards the bedroom door. "You're not going to shoot for what I said earlier, are you?" It was Mulder. He stood in the doorway, hands raised in surrender, the familiar lopsided grin back in place. Scully slowly released her breath and lowered the gun. In a shaky voice she answered, "I thought you were someone else." "The next time you expect unwanted guests you may consider using that dead bolt on your door," he suggested. "I'll try it now," she said rising from the bed. She stood before it and pointed her finger towards the door. His gaze shot past her to the cluttered bed. For a moment he studied the books which were opened, the pages that were tagged with yellow sticky tabs. His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the papers between the books. "You had rubbings made," Mulder noted. She didn't answer. "You know, Scully, bringing work to bed is proof that you've become resigned to sleeping alone." "So sayeth the man who sleeps on a couch," she snapped. "I thought I asked you to leave." "I'm not leaving," he said, turning around and closing her bedroom door. "Don't you ever listen?" She felt her indignation rising. "You know, I could have told the Consortium that they were wasting their time with their implant. The only voice you ever listen to is your own." "No, Scully, it wasn't my own back at the hospital," He responded facing her. "The implant was removed, Mulder." "But a voice was there, Scully." He took a step towards her. "A distant, but familiar one. Encouraging me to turn away from you at the very moment you turned towards me." "I don't think you really need any encouragement," she countered. "When it comes to taking that step forward, one of us always manages to take two steps back." "You're demonstrating that theory now," Mulder observed. It was true. As he approached her, she was inching backwards. "That's because I think the voice you hear is the voice of reason," she concluded. "Maybe you should stop listening. I know I have." "Maybe we should find something different to talk about," she posed as the backs of her leg hit the bed. "Maybe we should stop speaking all together," he said closing the distance between them. He was so near. The air seemed to crackle with sparks from bodies fully charged with tension. He wasn't touching her, but the skin on her arms tingled with the anticipation of his next move. "Then how would we communicate?" Her voice sounded weak, a feeble protest disguising a plea for more. "More effectively than we have in the past," Mulder responded softly. She closed her eyes as he smoothed the hair back from her face. The touch of his fingers brushing the tears from her lashes made her tremble. She heard herself take a slight breath as his mouth lowered to hers. One kiss...with one single kiss, words were no longer necessary. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as the pressure of his lips increased. When his mouth opened hers, her senses reeled, turning dark and then blindingly bright. Science was lost. Faith was forgotten. Heartache faded away. Did he lower her onto the bed or did she simply fall down? It didn't matter. They were on it now, his body covering hers. The rubbings stuck to the back of her arms. She tried to shift away, reluctant to break their connection but concerned that the thin paper might tear. Suddenly, he raised her up. Without looking, he grabbed the rubbings and threw them to the floor. "Mulder..." she admonished softly. The book on native languages was soon to follow. When he reached for the bible, her hand stayed his. "Scully..." He gave her an exasperated look. "Just don't throw it," she pleaded. The bible was carefully placed on the nightstand. "You wanna remove your cross, too?" Scully placed a finger to his lips. "No more words," she whispered, lifting her arms to draw off her shirt. "No more words," he agreed, stripping off his. His body language had varied tones. She was astounded to find how multi-versed his hands and lips could be. But, he was still Mulder, a man well spoken in the language of the tease. He elicited such exquisite tension in her body that her responses were limited to single syllable utterances. Oh...... She always suspected he could find a better use for his sarcastic tongue. The inside of her thighs were sticky with proof. Oh.... He was licking harder now, determined, as always, to lead the conversation. She tugged his head up before it was too late. His protesting eyes met hers. She mimicked his pout and slowly shook her head. No, this was not going to be a soliloquy. Her hands coaxed him onto his back. She, too, had something to say... Her lips pressed warm kisses against his skin as they traveled downwards, opening as they arrived at their destination. He had accused her once of being overly verbal. She was determined to show him the benefits of an articulate mouth. She felt his fingers twine through her hair, clenching and releasing it. Her hand rose to his stomach and patted it reassuringly. "Scully..." That was better. Hearing him moan her name filled her with pleasure. But, he was cheating, having spoken an actual word. "So close..." he murmured. She lifted her head. "That's two words..." she admonished him. Suddenly, he grabbed her and flipped her back over. Shifting her legs apart with his, he said in a husky voice. "If we're going to count, then let's start counting together." "Let's..." "That's one..." He entered her with a single thrust. "That's two...." Her hips rose to greet the second one. "Wanna try three?" He cupped her buttocks tightly. "Four's my lucky number." She urged two more from him. "What's your favorite number?" He panted. "How high can you count?" She gasped back. He was either content to let her have the last word, or was focused on proving that he was an accommodating man. Either way, they had found a new way of communicating. That it was based on teasing and playfulness only renewed that part of her that had grown old this past year. He would keep her young. He would remind her that not all discoveries led to fatigue and hopelessness. She realized then that she had lost count. So, apparently, had he. Wrapping her arms around him tightly, she gave into the feeling of soaring upwards. No longer alone, her navigator steering her above the clouds, she discovered that she had lost her fear of flying. ...... No more turning away >From the weak and the weary No more turning away >From the coldness inside Just a world that we all must share It's not enough just to stand and stare Is it only a dream that there'll be No more turning away? The sound of a phone ringing woke Mulder. For a moment, he forgot where he was. His hand fumbled for the phone, knocking it off the table. He groaned and reached over to pick it up. In a sleepy voice, he answered. "Mulder." There was no response on the other end. At least, not at first. Then he heard a snort, and what his groggy ears perceived to be a curse. He opened his eyes and demanded. "Who is this?" "Well...well..guess one really did fly out of the cuckoo's nest," the voice snarled. "Frohike, is that you?" he asked. "What are you doing calling Scully at this hour?" "What are you doing answering her phone at this hour?" the man shot back. "She's asleep," he responded. He couldn't help smirking and adding, "She's worn out." "And to think, you're such a fucking loser," Frohike sneered. "Depends on who I'm with." He felt Scully roll over and tug at his arm. "That better not be my mother," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "It's your little henchman," he advised, passing her the phone. Scully rose up on her elbow. She was wide awake now, instantly alert by his reference to the caller. "What did you guys find out?" Mulder watch her startled expression materialize. Her blue eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as if she was trying to speak, but couldn't. He waved a hand in front of her and her stupefied gaze lifted to his. Giving a slight shake of her head, she handed the phone back to him. She was speechless and it had nothing to do with lovemaking. "What the hell did you just tell her?" "Mulder, is that you?" It was Byers. "Yeah," he answered. He could hear Frohike in the background ranting about locking him back up and throwing away the key. "We just returned from meeting Al Hosteen," Byers informed him. "He transcribed the symbols on the artifact pieces that Scully found." "What did he find?" "Hope, Mulder. Hope for us all." There was a distinct lift to Byer's voice as he explained further. When Mulder hung up the phone, his eyes met Scully's. "Do you know what this means?" She nodded. "Thank God you made the rubbings," he exclaimed. "Mulder," she caught his arm. "The rubbings!" Both of them sprinted naked from the bed. Scully found the first one crinkled underneath a pile of clothes. Mulder found the other, lifting it with her bra that was hooked onto it. "Got it," he laughed as he held it up for her inspection. She rolled her eyes and leaned over the bed to spread out the fragile paper. He paddled over to her and wriggled himself against the creamy flesh of her backside. "Mulder, we've got work to do." "It's only a little past six in the morning." "You can't expect me just to turn my back on this." "No, you're back is just fine where it is now." "Mulder..." "What if I count backwards? You like counting as I recall." She laughed as she turned and twined her arms around his neck. "Hey, forwards works for me too," he conveyed before lowering his lips to kiss her. "We can always start one way and end another," she enticed him. "Have I told you lately that I love you?" Mulder murmured against her ear. "Only when delusional," she purred back. "Then get ready to start counting," he grinned as he drew her back down to the bed. "I love you." "That's one..." Later that morning, Scully sat at her desk which held her computer. Her left shoulder was raised, balancing the portable phone against her ear. Her fingers were typing quickly on the keyboard. She paused when Mulder brought her a cup of coffee. She gave him a quick, grateful look from behind her wire rimmed glasses. "I got it," she spoke into the phone before taking a sip of the coffee. "Yeah...the program is working fine." The encrypted message from the Gunmen was unveiling itself across her computer screen. Mulder leaned over her shoulder to study it. Without a word, he lifted the glasses from her nose and pressed one lens close to his eye. "Thanks, Langley. I'll get back to you guys later." She clicked off the phone and shifted back in her chair. "What you do you think?" she asked. "That you need stronger lenses." He handed her glasses back. "We're going to need a strong geneticist. My thinking is to fly out to the Genome Center at the University of Washington. They've got one of the best labs around." "Already she seeks to flee me," Mulder spoke glibly. "You're not coming with me?" "I can't, Scully. I have something that needs attending to." "What could be more important than this?" "Keeping an eye on the kennel." He informed her. "I have a feeling that there might be a nasty dog fight over this bone." ...... Invisible transfers, long distance calls Hollow laughter in marble halls Steps have been taken, a silent uproar Has released the Dogs of War You can't stop was has begun Signed, sealed, they deliver oblivion We all have our dark side, to say the least And, dealing in death is the nature of the beast.... His majesty had once again requested an audience. Probably to sit smugly on his throne awaiting adulation from those who would fawn and flatter him. He was presenting a great prize to the Consortium. Redemption was at hand. His reign would continue, undisrupted by subjects who sought to dethrone him and seek a new direction for an ailing kingdom. Or so he thought... Krycek lips pulled back into a perfidious smile as he entered the chamber. The bitch was there. She had most likely just crawled out from underneath the desk. That would account for the gratified expression that the man wore as he casually leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke rings into the stagnant air. As he drew closer, beckoned by the withered hand, Krycek realized that the two of them were engaged in something other than post coitus banter. They were deep in discussion about the message of the artifact. It revealed more than the coordinates for gene clusters, it gave the link to a shared genetic sequence. Proof that in the grand scheme of things, they were all aliens. Not the Creator, but the created. Distanced by time and the vastness of space, they were converging to war over a planet each wanted to call home. Or as CSM gleefully put it, "what we thought was trash was really treasure...". DNA. Dormant or "junk" DNA that they shared with those who sought dominion over them. Once turned on, consciousness and intellect would soar to almost incomprehensible levels. "The human race is now capable of maturing into an impressive adversary," insisted Fowley. "Not just a tier on the intergalactic food chain." Krycek lifted an eyebrow at that remark. Her analogy was impressive. And so was her attempt at trying to persuade CSM to turn over the information to their geneticists for experimentation. But, as usual the master was not to be dissuaded. No, he had an exclusive plan for his discovery. "No," he said curtly. "We offer the artifact to our benefactors. We must assure them of our loyalty. The recent successes of the Resistance has cast a shadow of doubt over us. Our allegiance must be clarified once and for all." "The only thing you'll clarify is that we are and continue to be dog meat," snapped Fowley. "You think too much," admonished the man. "Besides, the decision has already been made. Let us move on. Alex, you're wearing that doleful expression, again. What is it?" "We have a problem...." Krycek began. "Let me guess," CSM held up his hand. For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, as if he were telepathically receiving signals. "Agent Scully had rubbings made of the artifact pieces. They've been translated by that ancient Navaho soothsayer and now she and Mulder are as enlightened as we." Krycek didn't respond. "You see?" CSM grinned. "Who needs telepathy when we have technology." "So you bugged her apartment," he shrugged. "You're unimpressed?" CSM snickered. He turned his head towards Fowley and said, "What about you, my dear? I'm certain you would be impressed if I let you listen to the tape made last night." Krycek saw a quick flicker of anger in Fowley's eyes. She rose from her chair and moved to the window without a word. "What are your instructions?" he asked blandly. "Kill them." Krycek blinked. He wasn't surprised. He shouldn't be surprised. Mulder and Scully's death warrant had been signed and sealed for a long time. That he would be called upon to execute had always been a matter of time. It was inevitable. So, why did he allow a split section of hesitation to enter his mind? Perhaps it really was a matter of time. Time to reveal the true nature of the beast. But, Fowley had found her moment as well. Krycek drew his gun as quickly as Fowley drew hers. Both had responded out of instinct. Hers was to protect the one she loved. His was out of a habit of loyalty to his master. CSM had not ascended the throne for lack of mettle. He stared coolly at his consort, unflinching as her gun pressed against his neck. "What is it, my dear?" he taunted. "Time of the month again?" You either loved him or hated him. That was the truth about the Cigarette Smoking Man. Those who loved him met a treacherous fate. His wife, his son, his best friend and his best friend's wife. Those who hated him were mesmerized by his enduring nature. Either way, he had become a constant in a world that needed to change. "More like the time of the millennium," Fowley remarked. "Out with the old and in with the new." She lowered her mouth to whisper into his ear, "And, I'm not just talking about that withered carrot of yours." CSM snorted smoke out of his mouth. For the first time, Krycek thought he saw anger spark from the man's eyes. Fowley raised her head and shook her long, dark mane over her shoulder. In a crisp voice, she announced, "The days of isolationism are past. It is time for a new leadership. We must embark in a new direction and embrace new relationships." "You may encounter a little resistance with your plans," CSM arched his head to the side as he flicked the ash off his cigarette. Krycek's aim had been directed at Fowley's heart. His finger relaxed on the trigger as he realized who she was. The one finally sent to unleash him. The one sent to lead the others away from a liaison that had crippled them all. "Actually," she smiled suddenly. "I think it is the Resistance you are about to encounter." The old man's cigarette fell from his hand. "You..." he snarled at Krycek. Krycek fought off the urge to gloat, to spit on the master who had abused him for so long. No, that would be vulgar. He might be considered a dog, but he was more pedigreed than the rest. He steered his gun over to CSM's throat. He met the man's horrified expression with calm, steady eyes. His finger pulled the trigger. "Long live the queen," he concluded practically. Feedback is most graciously accepted. Please e-mail me at paigecaldwell@hotmail.com.