"Above Rubies" by Rachel Howard. 
Edited by Jen Arthur, Scott Carr and Dasha K.

CLASSIFICATION: XRA

RATING/CONTENT WARNING: NC-17 for sex, violence, other 
disturbing stuff. Please don't read if you're underage.

SUMMARY: Biological weapons, ghosts, sex, guns, bad guys 
galore, 
Mulder, Scully, Skinner, and a partridge in a pear tree.

KEYWORDS: MSR, mythology

SPOILER WARNING: US Season 5.

DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Ephemeral, others go ahead but let 
me know.

FEEDBACK/EMAIL: Any/all at greatfuldane@yahoo.com
More stories at 
http://members.aol.com/xfileluv/RachelMain.htm

THE DISCLAIMER: Come on, don't sue me.  Yes, I borrowed 
them without permission, but it's a great way to publicize 
your brand and besides, I'm not making any money off of 
this. 


(1/19)

 "I saw a public execution once while I was there."  His 
eyes glitter, and he shifts in his seat. The metal legs of 
the chair scrape against the chipped linoleum floor of the 
interview room in a way that sets my teeth on edge. 

" 'There' meaning Afghanistan?"

Pierce ducks his head coyly, like a beauty pageant runner-
up trying to hide a snarl with alligator tears. "When they 
see Westerners at the edge of the crowd, they move out of 
the way so that you can get a better view.  Kind of like 
parting the Red Sea."  He laughs, a harsh bark that 
communicates no humor whatsoever, and I try to choke back 
the bile collecting around my esophagus. "See, they =want= 
us -- you know, Western infidels -- to see how they 
administer justice.  Swift and bloody. Do it in public for 
the deterrent effect."

"Is that where you and Garjon acquired the VX gas?  Is that 
where he went?  Back to Afghanistan?" Scully's face is so 
calm she could be asking about her dry cleaning.

"It was adultery that they had her on trial for.  The men 
get decapitated; the women get stoned to death."  He laughs 
again and this time the rank smell of his breath reaches me 
and I stop breathing through my nose so that I won't gag 
again.

I hate this bullshit.  Let the fucking NYPD interrogate the 
bastard.  Let Anti-Terrorism do it. We were looking for a 
retrovirus -- is it our fault that we found out these 
freaks were stockpiling VX gas instead?

Wells knocks and motions us into the hallway -- Garjon's 
been seen heading into his basement apartment in Manhattan.

Scully and I duck back into the room, and as she leans over 
to scoop up her leftover coffee Pierce reaches across the 
table with both cuffed hands and grabs her wrist.  I 
flinch; Scully doesn't.

"Can you name the price of a good woman, Agent Scully?" 
Pierce's voice has taken on an evangelical fervor and I 
don't like it at all, in fact I start to lean across the 
table even before I see his fingers tighten on Scully's 
wrist, digging into her flesh.

My fist connects with his jaw about the same time that 
Scully says, "There is no deterrent to adultery, Mr. 
Pierce."

He rocks back from the force of the blow, but I think it 
was Scully who put the dazed look on his face.  I can see 
white marks on her skin where he touched her, but she just 
picks up her coffee cup and leaves.

In the car on the way, my sense memory finally ID's what I 
smelled on Pierce's breath and I snicker.

"Mulder?"

I catch the tail end of Scully's quizzical look and 
explain, "Gyros.  He had a gyro for lunch." I chuckle some 
more while Scully's quizzical look turns into Scully's not-
amused and slightly annoyed look. "I thought all the 
militia freaks lived in Idaho or something but I guess the 
new generation of right-wing weirdos missed eating ethnic 
food.  These guys set up camp in Manhattan."

Scully thinks about it.  "I don't think these two are that 
kind of right-wing weirdo.  Or maybe they thought New York 
was ripe for an Aryan revival."

That takes away my giggles.  "Could be."

She's frowning. "Think he made up all that stuff about 
public executions?"

"No," I reply, honestly.

"I didn't think so, either." 

The Seventh Avenue traffic swirls around us, heat waves 
rippling off the asphalt.

***************

"Where'd he GO, Mulder?" I'm screaming down the echoing 
length of the alley.  It is hot, hot, and it smells bad, 
like ripe garbage and dirty bodies.

"I don't --"

And suddenly Garjon is there, and in the one place I can't 
stand to see him -- right behind Mulder.  

Pointing a Smith and Wesson directly at his head.

I freeze solid a half-second before Garjon tells me to.

"Motherfucker.  Right into my fucking apartment."  He's 
ranting, his gun hand wobbling as he curses at me, at 
Mulder. The detached part of my brain makes note of his 
underbite, wonders how many rounds he has left and if the 
shot I heard a few seconds ago hit another agent.

He has a loud, angry voice with a thick Hell's Kitchen 
accent, which is a good thing because it covers the sound 
of Darren Ledeller leaning over the railing of a fire 
escape overlooking the alley.  He definitely gets the Smart 
Move of the Day award for climbing the fire escape in the 
first place. But Ledeller is only about six months out of 
the Academy and scared out of his mind; two seconds later 
he forgets just how little pressure it takes on the trigger 
of his Bureau-issued weapon -- 

-- and the next sound, stunningly loud in the concrete and 
brick canyon, is the report of his gun, and the wet splat 
and rattle of bits of brain and bone hitting the opposite 
wall of the alley.

Garjon's brains.  Garjon's skull.

Not Mulder's.

But my ganglia are still twitching, hearing the shot. My 
brain has somehow failed to transmit the information that 
Mulder is alive and well and standing, panting and sweaty, 
not fifty feet away, and as a result, although my head is 
clear, my nerves are shot to hell and I'm gasping like I 
just ran a mile in high heels.......

...which I =did=, actually -- 

...and then my head stops being clear because my ears are 
buzzing, and then for the first time in my life since I was 
sixteen and trying to diet my way into a size four while 
studying for a chemistry final and suffering the worst 
cramps I've ever had - I faint.

******************************

 "Scully?"

Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

"Dana?"

I took some diet pills because I have a date next week with 
Joe Neely, and I wanted to fit into this dress I bought 
yesterday.  It's black and short and it's the kind of thing 
Mom would think was "totally inappropriate," but when I 
bought it I could see myself in it, ten pounds would do it, 
and I had such bad cramps I barely got through my chem lab 
today.......

"Earth to Scully."

It's not the matte black screen of the confessional, small 
holes in a lattice pattern, that's swimming into focus in 
front of my eyes, it's Mulder's face, close to mine, his 
hair hanging damply into his eyes.

He smiles with relief and adds, "=There= you are.  You 
scared me for a second there."

He's lying through his teeth -- he's still scared.

I manage to prop myself up on one arm.  Everything swims 
for another second, and then I feel okay.

"I'm fine.  Sorry I scared you."

He sits back on his heels.  "You fainted," he says, 
accusingly.

I sniff.  "You smell bad."

He stands and turns around to show me the back of his suit 
jacket and pants.  It looks like...

"Ledeller puked.  Off the fire escape."  

"He should work on his aim.  A little to the left and he'd 
have gotten the rest of you."

Mulder gives me a shaky grin before he starts taking off 
his jacket, but I'm not fooled.  I really did scare him.

Well, he scared me, too.

I must still be a little woozy because I am clearly 
channeling my sixteen-year-old self when I say to Mulder, 
"I can't take this anymore."

He whips back around, looks like he might say something, 
but doesn't.  That's how we are when the rest of the team 
shows up, out of breath, talking about what happened in 
gulps and bursts, not hearing our silence.

This is the second time in less than two weeks that I've 
scared him.

*************************************

"Are you asking me to pull you off the case?" Skinner asks 
in his best no-nonsense drill sergeant voice.

"No, sir, I'm just asking you to let Anti-Terrorism clean 
up the rest of this one.  At this point there's no 
indication that the two suspects -- one dead, one in 
custody -- were working with anyone else. Anyone else in 
=America=, anyhow. And we found the gas.  There's clearly 
no X-file here and I just don't think our continuing 
presence is required in this matter." There, that sounded 
pretty good. I keep rifling through my files. It may be the 
single thinnest thread I've ever grasped at, but I need an 
X-file somewhere nice.  Scully needs a vacation and I'm 
fully aware of the fact that if I dared suggest such a 
thing to her she would decorate my ears with my nuts. 
"Sir?"

"I'm re-reading your report, Mulder.  Give me a minute 
here."

The other option is that she was serious about what she 
said last night, and I don't want to consider that option.

"If you'll refer to the section that addresses the 
correspondence we found in the Queens location --"

"I've already done so, Agent Mulder." I hear the suggestion 
of a snarl this time, so I shut up.

I've never seen her faint before, not ever. Not even when 
she had cancer.  

The first thing I did when she collapsed in that alley was 
brush the hair out of her face so that I could see her 
upper lip. 

No blood.

We never talk about the fact that she's in remission, that 
the cancer might return.  Never.  But it was the first 
thing I thought of.

We flew out on the redeye and I came straight to the office 
so that I can drop off the report I wrote on the plane.  
After that I began pawing through the files on my desk -- 
I'm all the way down to the "too ludicrous even for Mulder" 
file but I think this one is what I'm after.

I hear Skinner sigh on the other end of the line.  "All 
right.  But I want you to review Pierce's statement when 
the NYPD gets it down here."

I'm prepared when Scully limps into the office at eight-
fifteen -- literally, since it turns out she has huge 
blisters on both feet from chasing that fucker Garjon in 
two-inch heels.  No idea how she does that, and I really 
don't want to know if all our foot chases leave her with 
sore feet because that would mean that her insensitive, 
selfish bastard of a partner has been ignoring her......but 
I digress.

"Scully, we gotta repack.  Big case, bet you can't wait."

She gives me the Look and I wait patiently.

"And the case is......?"

"Urgent, so we'll talk about it on the plane.  Seriously, 
our flight leaves in two and a half hours.  I'll pick you 
up at your place in an hour and fifteen."  I snap the file 
shut like I mean business, and pick up my coat.

She must really be tired -- she doesn't even argue, just 
asks, "Where are we going?"

I reply, casually, "Hilton Head, South Carolina," 
studiously not looking her way.

A minute later we're both out the door and I say a silent 
prayer that Scully doesn't look at the file until after we 
get on the plane. Actually, Scully's perfectly capable of 
walking off a plane if she thinks I'm bullshitting her -- 
which I am. I change my little prayer. Please God, don't 
let Scully see the file until after our plane is off the 
ground.

"Mulder?"

I'm racing for the parking garage, and I forgot about her  
blisters again.  What an asshole.  "Sorry, I'll slow down."

"No, that's......" She sighs.  "I just wanted to tell you 
not to worry about what happened the other day.  When we 
were chasing Garjon?"  She tilts her head, questioning, and 
I get it -- we're not going to say the word 'faint'.  

"I wasn't feeling well and I hadn't had any 
breakfast......I saw the oncologist last week and, well, it 
wasn't -- that."

Suddenly, I feel like cheering.

Her head is down and she's walking as though her feet are 
just fine, no blisters, no sir. 

I catch her wrist and tug her in close to me.  We don't 
stop walking, but she inclines her head slightly and I bend 
down to her ear, burying my nose in her silky hair.  
"Thanks," I say, so quiet it's almost a whisper.

"You're welcome," she murmurs back.

End (1/19)

*************************

Above Rubies, (2/19)


The captain has just turned off the fasten seatbelt sign 
when Scully turns to me.  "That's it?"

I meet her incredulous gaze with a "who, me?  I didn't do 
it" look.  "Whadaya mean, 'that's it?'"

She snaps the file shut, exasperated.  I see her debating 
whether or not to call me on it, but she's already tired 
and cranky and it doesn't take long. "Oh, come on, Mulder.  
This is too ridiculous even for you."

See?  Talk about a great filing system - I =did= pull it 
out of the 'too ludicrous even for Mulder' stack.  "Scully, 
three different people have reported seeing the exact same 
apparition on that golf course."

"But Mulder, these witnesses are, are..." She's actually at 
a loss for words, and I struggle to think one step ahead of 
her so that I can keep rationalizing this absurdity.  

"Mulder." She's opting for calm and rational, and I shudder 
internally - this is far more dangerous than dealing with 
her when she's pissed off.  I actually enjoy those 
discussions - they're few and far between and Scully's 
awfully sexy when she gets worked up over something.

"I just don't see what made you think this warranted our 
attention.  The witnesses' accounts are garbled; they're 
not exactly credible - especially since all of them appear 
to have been intoxicated at the time of the alleged 
sightings.  Please explain to me exactly what made you 
think there was a decent reason for us to investigate this 
case."

I take a deep breath.  "Scully, sometimes you just gotta go 
with your gut. I had a gut feeling about this one and I 
just ran with it."  True, I rationalize silently.  All of 
that was true. 

She regards me coolly for a minute, and then shakes her 
head.  Looking back down at the manila folder, she murmurs, 
"All right, Mulder." She hands it back to me; I can see the 
livid marks on her wrist where Pierce grabbed her.

That's =it=?

Scully really does need a vacation.

********************

The hotel is actually pleasant.  There's a chilled bottle 
of water waiting for me next to a plate of fruit, two kiwis 
and an apple, compliments of the management, who are 
clearly hoping to get more business from the Feds.  After 
eating both kiwis, I begin to forgive Mulder somewhat for 
bringing me on this moronic excuse of an investigation.  
I'll bet the forgiving impulse will fade tomorrow, when 
we're out trying to conduct our investigation.  Hilton Head 
is in the middle of a brutal heat wave, hundred-degree plus 
weather and eighty- percent humidity.  

And golf courses aren't air-conditioned.

Lovely.

I didn't pack a bathing suit, of course, but Mulder must 
have tossed one into my suitcase before I zipped it up - he 
does that sometimes, and it's kind of charming except when 
he does things like throwing a hairbrush on top of an 
easily creased silk shirt.  Lately, when he says he'll pick 
me up on the way to the airport, he shows up before I'm 
done packing and wanders aimlessly around my bedroom, 
getting in my way while I pack.  That's kind of charming, 
too, in an annoying way.

This must have been on top of the pile in my third drawer - 
if he'd done some digging he would have found my lone 
bikini, a purchase I regretted almost immediately and 
something I never wear. And after all, I =don't= want 
Mulder digging in my drawers. This is a respectable blue 
one-piece, and I look okay in it, so my irritation with 
Mulder mellows a little more. 

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and finger the silky 
material.  Actually, Mulder's been lingering at my 
apartment on other occasions lately, too.  

The week before we stumbled onto the Garjon case, we spent 
a Tuesday evening sprawled side by side on my sofa, 
watching a rental and eating too much Thai food.  Mulder 
ordered four entrees without thinking about it.  When I 
asked him why he looked at me like I was a little slow and 
explained patiently that I could freeze the other two if I 
wanted and reheat them whenever I didn't feel like picking 
up the phone to order in.

I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.  Of course, 
this is how Mulder lives - I should have known.  And we 
ended up eating three-quarters of everything, anyway, and 
drinking an awful bottle of wine, and enjoying every minute 
of it.

I woke up to find Mulder covering me with an afghan.  The 
plates and paper cartons were gone and the television 
screen was dark.  The warm hum from the kitchen told me 
he'd started the dishwasher.  When he saw he'd woken me, he 
stopped.  "Sorry.  You looked like you were going to be 
cold later."

That was when I scared him.  I was still half-asleep.  "Not 
with you here."

"What?"

I heard the doubt in his voice, and it stopped me cold.  
"Thanks for getting the blanket, but I'll just go to bed 
now that I'm awake."

He left, and I lay in bed thinking about all the other 
things I could have said.  

Mulder, stay here with me tonight.  

Mulder, you don't have to eat alone any more.

In the end, I went back to sleep, but it took a long time.

The inside of the window is chilled from the air 
conditioning, but it's like a steam bath outside.  I want 
to go for a swim but I don't want to go outside again.

In the end, I just get in bed.

At quarter past eleven Mulder calls with a question about a 
case we solved four years ago.  The so-called poltergeists 
in that case had been random electrical surges that did 
plenty of damage to solid objects without being even 
remotely supernatural. 

"Could you get hit by lightning and not know it?"

I think about it, rolling onto my side underneath the 
covers.  In a serious heat wave, I like to crank up the 
A/C, huddle under blankets and pretend it's winter. Not 
environmentally correct, but enjoyable.  "I don't see how.  
It's a fairly dramatic event.  I could look into it, 
though, see if there are any documented cases......Why?"

"You know, you're always reading about people getting hit 
by lightning on golf courses - they're out there exposed, 
metal clubs in their hands and metal spikes on their shoes, 
that kind of thing. So I thought..." He sighs 
melodramatically, a generic Muldersign indicating that he 
hasn't formulated an exact theory but he's expecting me to 
meander along with him anyhow.  In the background, I can 
hear tinny gunshots and shouting.  

"What are you watching?"

"Uh, I think it's 'Patton.'  Wait......yeah.   It's the 
part where he invades Italy.  Channel six."

I adjust the pillow under my neck, tucking it into a little 
roll.  "No Spice Channel?"

He chuffs softly.  "I do watch other things, you know."

"I know you have 'Patton' on tape."

I can hear him smiling.  "My VCR broke about the middle of 
March, Scully."

"So fix it." How has he been watching his dirty movies?

"Mmm, I always forget. Besides, yours works."

"So that's why you've been hanging around," I tease.

Over the line, I hear him take a short breath - "No. You 
don't think that, do you?"

At this hour of the night, he sounds younger, less sure of 
himself. "No. I was kidding." I really want to know about 
his adult movies, but I can't think of a way to ask - and I 
shouldn't want to know, anyhow. Or did he say that so that 
I would know that he =hasn't= been watching...No, I brought 
up the VCR.  Patton.  

In the comfortable silence I can hear staged cheers from 
the television.  For a long minute or two I listen to 
Mulder's breathing on the other end of the line and the 
creak of his bedsprings.  He doesn't rely on air 
conditioning the way I do - his is probably set only to a 
low setting, so that he can sleep under just a sheet.

"Scully?"

"Mmm?"

"Sleep?"

"Mmm-hmm.  We said eight-o-clock?"

"Downstairs."

I should hang up now, but cradle the phone between my ear 
and the top of my shoulder and roll the edge of the hotel 
sheet between my fingers for another minute, listening to 
his breathing.  Finally, I hang up and wriggle farther 
under the blankets, secure in the comfort of my artificial 
winter.

*****************************

Awareness of Scully is one of my senses, like an animal 
instinct about the weather.  Right now she's bored. Among 
Scully's wonderful qualities is her ability, no matter how 
bored she is, to assimilate information for quick retrieval 
later.  So I never worry that she's missing something.

At the moment she looks like she's entirely absorbed by 
what Luella McCarty is telling us about the Golfin' Ghost - 
note to self: do NOT use that appellation in the report - 
but if I know Scully, her mind is somewhere else 
completely.

Which is fine, because mine is, too.

"......and the last time I played the back nine.  It just 
doesn't feel right.  You know what I mean?"

I look around.  Grandfather clock in the hallway, no-color 
carpeting.  The sofa we're parked on is a perfect fit in 
this suburban nightmare of a house; weird beige flowers on 
slick cloth with woven stripes of some shiny stuff.  Scully 
looks relatively at home, perched gracefully on the edge of 
one slippery cushion, holding her coffee cup carefully.  I 
already had one near spill so now I don't dare move except 
to sip carefully at the too-small cup.  

Scully nods, coolly professional as always.  "Thank you, 
Mrs. McCarty.  You've been a big help."

She cranks the a/c in the car and folds her suit jacket 
neatly over her knees.  I loosen my tie; the short walk 
down the McCarty's drive has left trails of sweat trickling 
down my neck.  Scully's temples are damp, the fine hairs 
just above her ears dark with sweat.

"What do you say we call it a day?"

She looks at me out of the corner of her eye.  "And miss 
out on talking to the groundskeeper?"

I struggle to keep a straight face.  The groundskeeper is 
responsible for maintaining the resort's fleet of 'haunted' 
golf carts, which have been suffering from mysterious 
electrical problems, in which our victim, one Albert 
MacDougal, suffered a fatal heart attack allegedly caused 
by ghosts.  That's the nature of the crime we are supposed 
to be investigating. It would be a bit more believable had 
the victim not been an octogenarian with a history of heart 
trouble.

I'm proud of how steady my tone is when I answer her.  
"We're due to interview Mr. Valentin tomorrow at ten.  
That's what the call I got was about."

"Too bad.  You missed out on hearing about Mrs. McCarty's 
eagle last week on the seventh hole. Also, it seems Mr. 
MacDougal once pinched her rear at the club's annual 
Christmas party." 

She tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear, and adds, 
"Yeah, let's head back.  I was thinking about going for a 
swim."

My room is on the third floor, overlooking the pool. 
Scully's has a parking lot view, but it was the only room 
they had available above the third floor, and the incidence 
of forcible entry into hotel rooms occupied by women is 
much lower above the third floor. This is the main reason 
why I always make our travel arrangements.  In motels I try 
to get adjoining rooms so I'll be able to hear, at least, 
if someone breaks into hers.

Naturally, I don't discuss these issues with Scully - she 
gets testy if she suspects I'm being overprotective. Which 
I am, but it helps me sleep at night, so fuck it.

Normally hotel pools are so small you might as well try to 
do laps in your bathtub, but this one looked okay.  I pull 
on some trunks and look out the window to see if it's 
crowded.

I spot Scully right away.  She's stretched out on a chaise 
by the pool, wearing the one-piece I stuck in her suitcase 
- the bikini was a serious temptation but I'll bet she 
never wears it - and she's on her stomach, reading 
something.

In all the time I've worked with Scully, I think this may 
be the first time I've gotten a bird's-eye view of her 
perfect ass. Thank you, Jesus.  This makes the whole damn 
trip down here worthwhile.

The bathing suit outlines the curves of her hips and her 
waist - oh, and when she moves her arm to flip the page I 
can see that her breasts are spilling slightly over the 
edges of the suit. This is too good. Her hair is clinging 
to her head, copper-dark, wet.

Seems like I'm not the only one who notices - a dark-haired 
guy is busy parking himself into the chaise next to hers.

I watch, half-amused, half-pissed. There must be fifteen 
open lounge chairs by the pool, but he's settling in right 
next to Scully.  Gee, subtle. There he goes - he just said 
something to her.

The guy looks like he's maybe early thirties, slight 
difference in skin coloration from mid to upper arms and 
again at mid-thigh.  So he spends some time outside. Bad 
haircut - not that I'm one to talk - carrying a newspaper 
which he hasn't opened yet.  Probably here on business - 
he's alone. Definitely on the make.

I lean my chin on my hands, resting on the railing, 
watching.  Scully's answering him, tucking her hair behind 
her ear.  She's got little round sunglasses on. Then he 
says something else and she nods.  She hasn't put away 
whatever it is that she's reading - is that the case file?  
Probably researching lightening strikes. By the pool - 
wicked, Scully.  

My spine stiffens a little and I stand up.  He just said 
something to Scully that made her laugh.  I can see her 
shoulders moving a little, and she's covering her mouth 
with one hand.  Did she always do that? No - not before she 
met me. I saw her laugh out loud, once, in the rain in 
Oregon.  Before the X-Files took over her life and killed 
her sister and nearly killed her, too.

Suddenly I really need that swim.

****************************************

Doug is starting to bother me.  We've now officially said 
everything two total strangers in bathing suits can say to 
one another without having an actual conversation and I am 
getting bored with being polite.  I'm also starting to 
think that he may be hitting on me.

Over Doug's shoulder I spot Mulder coming out of the lobby.  
He's wearing weird-looking black trunks, sunglasses and a 
ratty t-shirt but he's heading fairly purposefully toward 
the pool.  If I'm lucky he came down to do laps and I'll 
get to see him wet.

"Ah, Dana?"

I try to refocus my eyes quickly but it doesn't work and I 
end up squinting at Doug in the evening sunlight.  "Sorry?"

"I was just asking what you do for a living."

His whiny tone indicates that I made him ask twice.  God, I 
really don't need this - especially not when Mulder's 
stripping off his shirt not more than fifteen feet away.  I 
love Mulder's back - long and tightly muscled, smooth skin.

Usually I would say 'FBI agent' but something makes me lean 
toward Doug and say, clearly, "I'm a pathologist.  You know 
- a doctor who works on dead people."

He flinches but recovers fast, smiling toothily.  Shit - I 
=knew= he was hitting on me.  "No kidding. Well, I work on 
dead people too - I sell software to accounting 
departments." He laughs heartily at his own joke.  Mulder 
tosses his shirt carelessly at a lounge chair and hops into 
the shallow end, grimacing as he hits the water.  
Immediately, he bends his knees and sinks in, the water 
closing over his head for a second before he comes up, 
slicking his hair back with one hand.  He dives into a slow 
crawl stroke and I watch his shoulders rotate as he pulls 
smoothly through the water.

Mulder swims as though he were born to it - which he was, I 
remind myself, growing up on the Vineyard.  I wonder who 
taught him to swim.  His father, maybe?  And would Mulder 
have taught Samantha?  Somehow, I think so.  Could she do 
the crawl by the time she was taken from him or was she 
still dog-paddling?

Doug has lapsed into silence - I hazard a glance at him and 
from his sullen expression, I'll bet he noticed me ogling 
Mulder.  Well, good.

Mulder does neat flip turns each time he reaches the end of 
the pool.  Now that I'm dry, I'm hot again - I briefly 
consider getting back in myself, but watching him is 
better.

It feels ridiculous, being with Mulder at this hotel in a 
slick resort town.  It feels like a vacation compared to 
our last couple of cases in the field, and I have a feeling 
that may be the reason we're here.

There's no way Mulder would have fallen for this case.  
Maybe four years ago, but not today.  Drunken golfers 
reporting a murder committed by a ghost?  No way.  He 
probably thought we needed a break.

There's also no way he'd ever admit it.

And maybe we did need a break.

Do I want to go on a vacation with Mulder?

After twenty minutes, he gets out, breathing hard.  He 
shakes his head like a dog and drops of water fly 
everywhere. A few wayward drops reach us, spattering my 
toes and making Doug look annoyed.

Good.

I scoop up the file and my towel and stroll over to Mulder, 
who's drying his chest and arms.  "Dinner, eight-o'clock."

His head pops up.  "Okay," he says, consideringly. "Sure. 
Downstairs at the - whatever it is - the Dolphin Lounge?"

"No, I want to go out."

He gives me a sweet, toothy smile. "Whatever you say, 
Scully."

I get into the shower and soap away the chlorine, wondering 
if Mulder heard the question the way I meant it. I allow 
myself to hope that he did.

It looks like the FBI has other plans for us, though. When 
I call my voicemail, Skinner's recorded voice is ordering 
us back to New York.  Late this afternoon, Pierce was found 
dead in his cell.

End 2/19

Chapter 3/19, "Above Rubies"

I hate New York.  I really do.  Not for all the usual 
reasons that most people hate it - I kind of like the noise 
and the dirt and the no-bullshit attitude that New Yorkers 
have - but the place makes me tense and mean.  Mom took 
Samantha and I down here once when she was six and I was 
ten, supposedly to shop for school clothes and see a 
Broadway show, but I suspect Dad's drinking was starting to 
get to Mom and she needed a break.  It was August, which is 
a shitty time to go to New York, all the smart New Yorkers 
are in the Hamptons or the Cape or - surprise - the 
Vineyard, because the city stinks of garbage and it's hot 
and sticky day and night. But we were there, stuck in a 
not-so-elegant hotel in the theatre district.  

Sam got lost in Macy's.  

I was supposed to be keeping an eye on her while my mother 
paid for a winter coat for me, but it was the Boy's 
Department so Sam was bored and she must have wandered off.  

Mom bends down close and I know I'm in trouble.  

Her voice is shrill. "Where's your sister?"

There are scary-looking streaks of makeup along the outside 
edges of her nostrils, like her face is melting off.

"I think she went to look at toys," I lie.

Was she paranoid back then because she knew what Dad was up 
to, working for the "State Department" - or because she 
=didn't= know?

Mom is dragging me along by the wrist, hauling all our 
shopping bags in the other.  The other kids whose mothers 
dragged them here to buy clothes are staring at me.  

When we get out of the boy's department Mom keeps going, 
dragging me toward the escalators.  "You were supposed to 
be keeping an eye on her, Fox.  Where are the toys?"

The toys are on five.  Sam isn't there, and by now my legs 
are hurting from running after my mother.  Two store 
security men are helping us look.  My mother is white-
lipped and she has lost one of the bags she was carrying.

I want to go look for her myself but I know Mom won't let 
me.  Instead, I watch while the security guards make 
announcements on their walkie talkies and try to calm my 
mother down.  

We look for almost two hours before I spot Sam, sacked out 
under a rack of coats.

I wake her up; she's grumbling, still sleepy, when we get 
back to Mom. Mom looks almost as crazy as the street lady 
we saw this morning, hair in her eyes, her jacket knocked 
off her shoulder.  When she sees Sam, she runs to her and 
hugs her.  The security men look relieved.

But when we get outside the store, she grabs my wrist like 
I was the one who got lost.  "You were supposed to be 
watching her, Fox."

I know that.  But I can't say anything.  Sam is watching 
me, and she looks worried, too, because she knows she got 
me into trouble. 

And she looks a little scared, because Mom still looks like 
the crazy street lady.

So I just look at Sam like Mom's crazy, but funny-crazy 
instead of scary. I roll my eyes, and Sam giggles.  Mom 
gets even madder but Sam doesn't look so scared.

I think I went without dinner - was that all?

Some things don't need to be remembered.

"Mulder?" Scully looks concerned.  "You okay?"

"Yeah," I lie.  "Just not thrilled to be back here."

Skinner reamed me on my voicemail.  Clearly the case had 
=not= been closed, if we had stayed to help with the 
investigation and the search of the Queens location it 
would have been apparent that Pierce and Garjon had an 
accomplice, I had been derelict in my duties as an agent of 
the FBI, yadda, yadda, yadda. Get your ass back to New 
York, Mulder. 

Well, we were back in New York. Bet he was a hell of a lot 
nicer to Scully.

"Did Skinner sound pissed when you listened to his message 
last night?"

"He sounded a little tense."

"That's normal," I mutter.

"=Was= he pissed?  Because we left so quickly before?"

"Yeah," I admit.  "My fault."

"Should I get off here?"

"No, one more exit."

We're on the Van Wyck, headed for Queens.  We rented a car, 
which would normally be a stupid move in New York until you 
think about how big a pain in the ass it would be to get a 
cabin the heart of Queens after re-searching the apartment.

The apartment complex is a dump and it stinks like ripe 
garbage. We climb two flights of stairs to get to apartment 
214 - there's a door open down the hall and some soap 
actors are wailing at each other about illegitimate 
children and about how Stone's wife is a tramp. 

The first time I hear of a soap character named "Fox", 
I'm going right to the courthouse and changing my fucking 
name. Fred, maybe.

Scully and I open the door to 214, cracking the fresh 
police tape, and go in. 

"Aren't these guys supposed to be proselytizing some 
philosophy? How do they sign up new converts?" Scully 
wonders out loud. I grin; she's got a point.  The place is 
filthy, poorly lit and there's hardly any furniture.  
Stacks of literature have fallen over and paper coats parts 
of the floor, which is a good thing because the floor is 
disgusting.  There's a stuffed animal tucked into a corner 
of the dumpy sofa, which intrigues me enough that I go and 
poke at it carefully with a gloved finger. 

It's not a stuffed animal - it's a dead dog.

"Jesus," I say, recoiling.  "Can't say much for their taste 
in pets."

Scully has picked up one of the leaflets between thumb and 
forefinger.  "'How to Survive an Urban Strike.'" She 
sniffs.  "Turpentine?"

"The report said they had a lab set up somewhere in here."

Scully's picked up another pamphlet. "'Mothers of the 
Revolution.'" She pages through it briefly, then pauses. 
"'Women nurture life; they do not take it.'" She shrugs and 
lifts an eloquent eyebrow in my direction.  I find myself 
grinning at her across the piles of crap.  She lets the bit 
of printed material drop. "Seriously, Mulder, why here? I 
thought at first that maybe it was a temporary stop, 
something to do with acquiring the gas.  But they were 
obviously here for a while - long enough to make this mess, 
anyway." She frowns.  "Did you hear Garjon's accent?"

"New Yawk all the way," I remember.  "I know - I keep 
trying to put these guys in Idaho or Mississippi or 
something but I think we're just going to have to go on the 
assumption that they're on their home turf here.  And I 
still don't think Garjon's visit to Afghanistan was a 
vacation.  So how the fuck did a couple of small-time 
right-wing freaks get hooked up with exotic shit like VX 
gas?" Scully shakes her head.

Two hours later, we've found nothing that the New York 
agents and cops haven't listed on the report.  There are at 
least three or four different things in the lab that could 
blow up a city block, not to mention various accellerants, 
ignition devices, and assorted artillery.  Again, though - 
nothing exotic.

And that's what's eating at me.  Fertilizer for bombs, 
sure.  But =VX= gas?

I hear Scully come up behind me.  She puts a hand on my 
elbow and holds out two photographs.  

"Look at these."

In the foreground, the late Messrs. Pierce and Garjon.  
Slightly behind them and off to the side, another men, a 
black guy in a turban handing a cigarette to someone beyond 
the lens. The second picture shows the same three men doing 
what looks like a Hitler salute while hovering over some 
piece of mechanical equipment 

"Friend of yours, Scully?" 

"They're the only pictures I've found so far. They were in 
that pile of bills over there. Maybe we should try to find 
this third man."

"We can ask some neighbors, I guess."  Hanging out in this 
building much longer sounds like a really unpleasant option 
but what the hell, we've spent time in less attractive 
places before.

We split up, one photo for each of us, and canvass the 
building.  I talk to three other residents of this dismal 
place and have two doors slammed in my face.  Everyone 
looks sad, hungry or scared.  No one knows anything, no one 
saw anything.  I go back to apartment 214 and the stench 
hits me all over again.

This sucks.  I wanted to be in Hilton Head with Scully.

I want to kick the leg of the table but there are 
explosives on top of it so I settle for throwing the 
crumpled leaflet I picked up on the way in.  "The Evil of 
Zion" flutters unsatisfyingly to the floor, drifting 
downward in a zigzag.

Scully walks back in at that moment but tactfully ignores 
my obvious frustration.  "Mr. Samuel Hightower lives right 
above these guys in 314 and he remembers the guy in the 
photo." She waves it at me triumphantly.  "Says he used to 
park illegally in his - Mr. Hightower's - space and they 
had a few words over it.  He doesn't know his name but he 
gave a license plate number - the guy's car is a 1977 Ford 
Crown Victoria, brown."

"I knew I should have taken that picture.  I got nothing, 
Scully." I sigh out loud.  "Okay, let's go run the plate. 
Fuck. All I wanted was a nice solid ghost hunting case."

Scully actually grins at me.  "Well, it's not like we were 
going to get that in Hilton Head."

I peer at her in the fetid semidarkness. "You don't think?"

She's still smiling at me, and I feel a prickle of heat in 
my groin.  Yeah, Hilton Head.  Where I think we were about 
to go on our first date, Scully and I, before Skinner 
called with his merry tidings.

She plucks the second photo out of my hand and pockets 
both.  "Let's get out of here and see if we can figure out 
who this guy in the turban is."




The NYPD comes up with a name for the guy in the turban off 
the plate number - Mohammed al Ajiib, convicted in 1994 on 
a concealed weapons charge in Queens, did some community 
service.  Native of Sudan, found dead one week ago.  Cause 
of death appeared to be blood loss, courtesy of the four 
bullet wounds in his chest and stomach.

I put down the report and reach for the little pancakes.

"Autopsy the body," Mulder says, through a mouthful of moo 
shoo.

"Why?"

"Just a hunch."

"I was hoping for something a little more constructive, 
especially since the cause of death seems to be fairly easy 
to identify."

He stretches, his jacket riding up to his ears, and reaches 
for his coffee cup again.  "I don't know." He drinks his 
coffee, his hair slipping over his eyes.  He needs a 
haircut.  Since it's Mulder, naturally, the shaggy look is 
charming, especially combined with a $1500 suit and a smear 
of duck sauce on his chin. He stands up to reach across the 
table for Pierce's file and I enjoy the way his trousers 
pull tight across his ass.

It took two years before I realized that part of the reason 
everyone assumed I was Mulder's secretary had to do with 
clothing.  My practical outfits were no match for Mulder's 
Armani; of course, my budget is also no match for Mulder's 
and still isn't.  I was seriously pissed about that until I 
realized that it wasn't due to a big pay discrepancy. 
Mulder is sitting on a nice portfolio which is hopefully 
being managed by professionals since I know he rarely even 
opens his bank statements, let alone balances his 
checkbook.

"Scully? You still in there?"

I refocus.  "Did you come up with a reasonable reason why I 
should autopsy Ajiid?"

"Would you have heard it if I had?"

"Yes," I lie, balancing another bite of the sesame chicken 
on my chopsticks.  Yes, Mulder, I was sitting right here 
listening to you, not admiring your ass at all. 

He looks skeptical.  "How the hell are we going to find out 
where these guys got the gas?"

"Shouldn't you be working up a profile on someone?"

"It's no fun profiling dead guys. If they're already dead, 
I don't get the chance to prove that my profile was 
strikingly accurate." 

I grin at him and he grins back.  Mulder has a geeky smile, 
but I love it because I hardly ever see it. Something has 
changed between us in the last few days - it's not that we 
aren't taking this case seriously, it's only that there's 
something else going on here, too. 

Something between us.

I can't stand it any longer; I reach over with a napkin and 
wipe the duck sauce off his chin.  If I had kept looking at 
it any longer I'd have ended up licking it off.

He smirks. "Scully, I didn't know you cared."

"I don't, I just can't have a messy partner compromising my 
credibility."

"Been doing that for years, G-woman." Mulder's voice still 
has the teasing note, but a certain seriousness is there, 
too. I look up, distracted from rolling another little 
pancake.  But he's already moving on.  "Tell you what - if 
you do an autopsy, I'll do some checking on Mr. Ajiib. 
Deal?"

"Do you want to go to Finnegan's at six?"

He makes a face.  Our colleagues in the New York field 
office were trying to be nice by inviting us out for 
drinks, but Mulder's not good at making nice.  Usually 
things go badly when we try to be friendly with the locals.  

"Can't we just work late instead?"

"I was hoping you'd say that.  I'll see if I can get 
Ajiib's body on a table this afternoon."

I look at my watch while I chew - three o'clock already.  

By nine PM I am slightly hungry again and wondering if I 
ought to be concerned about Mulder yet.  He called around 
seven and told me he was off to interview Ajiib's former 
roommate.

"You think I'm paranoid, Scully, you ought to see this guy.  
Didn't want to meet during the day, didn't want to meet at 
all in fact, but I kind of implied that Ajiib might have 
left him something in his will -"

"Mulder."

"-relax, no promises, nothing that could get me in trouble, 
but I really needed to see this guy, Ajiib's ex-wife 
wouldn't talk at all.  Sounds like he owed a few people 
money.  Anyhow, I'll call you when I'm done with the 
interview."

"Where are you meeting him?"

"Place in Chelsea called the Little Lion. With my luck it's 
a gay bar."

"With my luck it isn't."  I pause; it's a second before 
Mulder gets it. He lets out a startled bark of laughter and 
I smile into the phone, knowing that he can't see me.

"Good one, Scully. Find anything yet?"

"Nothing interesting. I'll tell you later."

He hangs up and I pick up my swab again.  Ajiib wore a 
heavy ring on his right hand, and there's a little blood 
dried on it, which might be his, and then again, it might 
not.

The cool of the morgue, the routine and precision of the 
work take over again.  I love doing autopsies.  Pathology 
strips medicine down to its simplest form - no worries 
about bedside manner or speed or all of the other things 
you have to take into account with a live patient.  It's 
all technique, precision and deduction here. Every one of 
my patients has a story to tell, even if they can't speak 
to me in words.  I reach for my scalpel and begin the Y 
incision, wanting to get to Mohammed al Ajiib's last 
message.

Two hours later I'm done.  This man drank heavily, which 
more or less rules out a strong personal connection to 
Islam. But not all terrorists are motivated by religious 
conviction. I think of Alex Krycek. He ought to have "Gun 
for Hire" business cards made up.  And there are other 
crazy causes out there that have nothing to do with 
religion.

There's no evidence of exposure to VX gas, but of course 
there =shouldn't= be since it wasn't the cause of death.  
VX gas is one of the most horrible chemical agents ever 
invented. Generally, if you're exposed to the stuff, you 
die immediately, end of story.  

It only takes a milligram to cause death - and that's with 
simple skin contact. The pathologist who taught the FBI 
courses on toxics loved to expound on the stuff, on the 
fasciculations rising on the skin of victims. When there's 
direct contact between skin and significant amounts of 
liquid or aerosolised V-series nerve agents, the affected 
skin, and subcutaneous musculature, will actually start to 
squirm and ripple as the agent starts destroying the local 
nervous system. No, if Ajiib was around long enough to get 
shot, the gas itself didn't have anything to do with his 
death - at least not directly.

Where the hell is Mulder? 

I call, but he isn't answering his cell.

By ten o'clock, I'm really worried.

By eleven, I'm frantic.


END 3/19  "Above Rubies"




"Above Rubies", (4/19)

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information. 


I get the call from the hospital just after 11. Mulder was 
unconscious when the paramedics got to him. He appears to 
have a concussion, and right now they're getting ready to 
do a CAT scan to rule out a skull fracture, et cetera, et 
cetera. I'm out of the lobby of the hotel hailing a cab by 
the end of the conversation. 

On the way down Lexington Avenue, I briefly consider why 
they took his watch and his wallet. Maybe to make it look 
like a mugging? I charge through the ER, waving my badge, 
which doesn't work as quickly as it usually does because I 
arrive in a wave of broken bodies, EMT's wheeling bloody 
patients by me as I try to get the nurses behind the desk 
to tell me where to find Mulder. I smell blood and baby 
formula in equal parts and I do not turn around when I hear 
someone yell for a pediatric kit for room three, stat. 

It takes equal parts badge and bluster before I finally get 
the attention of an intern who seems to know where Mulder 
is. "Your partner appears to have been mugged, Ms. Scully," 
the intern tells me in a tone of voice that lets me know 
she thinks it's kind of funny that an FBI agent got mugged. 

"=Dr.= Scully," I correct her, not amused. "Where is he?" 
"Down the hall, go left, third door on the left. He's still 
getting his CAT scan." 

Mulder is still and bloody in the long tube, and I have to 
take a long breath before flipping open my badge and 
tapping the technician on the shoulder. "Special Agent Dana 
Scully, FBI. Agent Mulder is my partner, and I need some 
information on his condition." 

"I'm a doctor," I add. The technician gives me a bored 
look, but a doctor walks in and I repeat my request to him 
with slightly better results. "Your partner was 
brought in presenting traumatic head injury. Bleeding from 
one ear, disorientation, dizziness, short-term memory loss. 
I examined him myself -- I think this is a concussion, not 
a skull fracture, but the CAT scan is done. You 
can see for yourself." They slide Mulder out of the tube. 

He sits up very slowly, looking mildly embarrassed to see 
me. "Hey, Scully." 

I feel an instant, unreasonable rush of anger. "What 
happened?" 

"My head hurts like hell and they won't give me any 
painkillers." 

"You know you can't have any with a concussion. 
How did you =get= the concussion?" 

He winces and immediately I realize that he's 
in worse shape that I thought. "Uh...I think I went to 
interview someone tonight." 

I lean over, put a hand under his chin, tilt his head up 
gently and check his pupils. Different sizes. "Oh, Mulder. 
Lie back down. You really don't remember?" 

His expression is a mixture of embarrassment and chagrin, 
as though he's committed a weird social faux pas and 
doesn't know what to do about it. "I remember being in a 
bar. I remember eating lunch with you at the 57th. After we 
checked out the apartment." He straightens his back as if 
Miss Manners is correcting his posture at the dinner table. 

"What did you have to eat?" 

"The doc already played the `remember these three things' 
game with me, Scully." 

"What did you have for lunch, Mulder?" 

"Moo shoo?" 

"Are you remembering or just guessing based on what you 
usually order?" 

He rubs his hand over his face. "No, I remember. I went to 
a bar later, but I don't remember why you didn't go with 
me." Wincing, he reaches down and pats his hip. "Where's my 
weapon? Scully, we really need to get out of here." 

"We will," I reassure him. It rattles me to see 
Mulder this out of it. I put a hand on his shoulder, ready 
to ease him back down, but he brushes my hand away. "Do you 
remember calling me this evening?" He frowns, thinks about 
it for a second, and looks relieved. "You were doing the 
autopsy." 

"That's right," I tell him, somewhat reassured. Mulder 
looks up at the doctor with sudden concern. The doctor is 
watching us with bloodshot eyes. I turn to him. "Did you do 
any blood work?" 

He gives Mulder a long look, then turns back to me. "Why 
would we do that? Your partner is suffering from a --" 

"I think he may have been drugged." I stare at him; his 
lips compress. "How long has he been here?" I ask. 

"I first saw him about forty-five minutes ago, I 
think." The muscles in his jaw flex; I can see him debating 
whether or not to begin asking me questions, and I cut him 
off. 

"I need you to check for evidence of hallucinogens or 
narcotics in his bloodstream." 

In half a second, the doctor's face closes up. "If you're 
concerned that he may have a substance abuse problem --" 

"No. Not that. Someone may have deliberately drugged him 
and I need ou to draw some blood =now= and send it to the 
FBI lab." The technician comes back with the images. No 
skull fracture. 

He was gone for hours. Not as long as they had him at 
Ellens Air Force Base, but... I lean in close and examine 
the area at the base of Mulder's neck, and not until I feel 
my breath catch in my throat do I realize that I was 
looking for a chip. No implant is visible on the image. 

Mulder has been rummaging through his pockets, emptying 
them onto the table, showing absolutely no interest in the 
pictures of his cranium. Before I can stop him, he lurches 
to his feet, wincing, and hands me a piece of paper -- no, 
a bar napkin -- with something scribbled on it. "Does this 
look familiar to you?" 

114 East 11th Street. 

He shakes out his jacket pockets. The bar napkin, his 
cellphone and his badge are the only things on him. In the 
hallway a woman is crying, and I can smell blood, thick and 
acrid, all the way in here. What were they after? Why take 
his wallet and his gun but not the badge or his cellphone? 

"Scully, let's get the fuck out of here," Mulder says, 
suddenly. He's wearing the look he got right before he told 
me we were going to Hilton Head. Big case, Scully, gotta 
go. I need to talk to him about what happened in the bar. 
He stands steadily before me, looking confused but annoyed. 
There's not a hell of a lot they can do for a concussion, 
anyway. The doctor is still watching me. 
"Can you release him?" 

"It would be an AMA release, Dr. Scully. I realize that 
you're capable, but he should be under observation. He 
should be awakened hourly to check for signs that --" 

"I am a medical doctor," I repeat, slowly. "I know what 
to look for. I'll bring him back if he shows signs of 
deteriorating. Draw some blood." I finally read his name 
tag while he's calling for a nurse to do a stat draw and 
screen. Dr. George Salinas. "Thank you, Dr. Salinas," I 
add. He nods at me and steps back to let the nurse get at 
Mulder with the syringe. It's a good thing they overwork 
their doctors here; I have a strong feeling that if this 
guy weren't obviously exhausted, I would have been ducking 
questions like crazy. 

In the taxi, Mulder rests his head against the window and 
closes his eyes. "We should check out that address." 

"Tomorrow," I say, mentally adding -- if you're feeling up 
to it. He hears me anyway and says, "I'm going with you, 
Scully." 

"=Tomorrow=, Mulder." 

His eyes are still shut and he murmurs, "Not so close next 
time." 

"What?" 

He turns his head towards me carefully. "Did you say 
something, Scully?" His eyes are still unfocused. 

"Never mind, Mulder." Concussion, I remind myself. No skull 
fracture, just a concussion. We're lucky the amnesia was 
localized. =Is= it simple amnesia? Or did they wipe his 
memory again? I'm not even sure that the blood screen will 
tell me anything more. These people have discovered drugs 
that don't leave any traces. I don't know how much of this 
Mulder has thought of yet, and I'm not going to get into it 
with him now. Tomorrow morning, at the earliest. 

The cab slips past all-night groceries, strip joints. The 
neon lights play over his face, his closed eyes, 
illuminating nothing but the planes and curves, no lines. I 
watch him in silence until we reach our hotel. I make him 
give me his room key so that I can come back and check on 
him during the night. Concussions have a way of going bad 
suddenly -- Dr. Salinas was perfectly right about waking up 
the patient at intervals. 

Mulder's too tired for the obvious jokes about the key, but 
he smiles vaguely before the door clicks shut behind him. 

The first time my bedside alarm goes off, it's two in the 
morning. We're a couple of floors apart, but I'm not awake 
enough to face getting fully dressed for the short elevator 
ride. I put a robe over my nightshirt and go down to his 
room. 

Mulder has left his bedside light on, which keeps me from 
falling over his open suitcase. I don't think he ever 
unpacks completely when we're in the field. He's sprawled 
facedown on the far bed, stretched across the bedspread 
with a towel around his waist, breathing deeply. He doesn't 
stir when I sit on the edge of the mattress. His arms are 
stretched out above his head, one hand dangling off the 
edge of the bed next to me. His hair is mussed and still 
damp. 

"Mulder?" 

He begins waking up after I put my hand on his shoulder. 
Fascinated, I watch his eyes slip open and slowly focus on 
me. His pupils are the same size; good. 

"Your eyes are focusing, that's good. I have to make sure 
your amnesia isn't getting worse. Okay, I want you to 
remember these three things: a pencil, a lemon and a 1957 
Chevy. What did we have for lunch?" 

He smiles sleepily and I try to ignore the pleasant tingle 
of awareness as he shifts under my palm. "Moo shoo." 

I take my hand away and he follows it with his eyes. "What 
was I doing this afternoon? When you called me?" 

"Autopsy." He rolls onto his side, scootches towards me 
slightly and props himself up on one elbow, looking amused. 
I try not to look at the towel, which may have moved a 
little bit. 

"Where did we eat lunch?" 

"You already asked about lunch," he points out, 
smugly. "At the 57th." 

"Who's the president of the United States?" 

"William Jefferson Clinton." 

"What three things did I ask you to remember?" 

He frowns for a second. "A pencil, a lemon and a '57 Chevy. 
Did I pass?" 

"Okay. I'll be back in an hour and a half." 

I begin to get up, but he catches my wrist. "Stay." 

"What?" 

"Come on, just stay. You don't need to be running around 
the hotel in the middle of the night." He licks his lower 
lip and his gaze drifts to my robe. "Especially not dressed 
like that." 

I feel myself blushing to the roots of my hair. It's not a 
sexy robe, damn it -- just cream-colored silk, long. 
Terrycloth is too bulky to take on the road. "Mulder?" 

"Stay," he repeats softly, insistently. "I really don't 
think they go to the trouble of bugging our hotel 
rooms." He pulls gently until I'm sitting again. 

Head injury, I remind myself. Dana, he has a =concussion=. 
He only wants me to sleep in the room with him, right? On 
the other bed? "You won't sleep well if I stay," I protest. 
Weak, but I can't seem to think of a better argument. 

"I'm counting on it," he murmurs, and I feel my face get 
hot again. What the fuck am I =doing= here? Mulder has 
slipped his free arm around my waist and is slowly pulling 
me down to lie next to him. No, he meant =this= bed. My 
head is buzzing. I can't think clearly through the white 
noise in my mind and the dull heat circling under my skin 
where Mulder is touching me. He smells good, like soap and 
warm skin. "Relax," he admonishes, before leaning in to 
brush his lips across mine.
 

End chapter 4/16




"Above Rubies", (5/19)


Mulder's lips nudge mine apart and his tongue slides 
insistently into my mouth. I barely suppress a moan; 
it feels incredible. One of his hands has settled at 
the small of my back, not holding me to him tightly, 
only stroking gently, rubbing the silky fabric of 
the robe against the inch of skin between my t-shirt 
and panties. I want more.  I want him to keep going 
until we finally answer this last question between 
us.

But even through the dense heat of the kiss, a 
querulous voice in my head can't stop reminding me 
that he has a head injury and we shouldn't be doing 
this.

We really shouldn't be doing this.

I put a hand against his chest and pull away gently. 
His eyes are shut; they open slowly.

"Dana?" He looks confused.

"Mulder, I can't stay here tonight.  You're not in 
any shape to be doing.........this."

He rubs a hand over his face and licks his lips, 
bringing another rush of heat to my center.

"Scully."  The vagueness leaves his voice, and when 
he meets my eyes, he looks embarrassed.  "I'm 
sorry."

He's sorry?  Sorry for what?  For kissing me?

And as suddenly as it came, the heat flushing my 
skin is gone.  

I sit up. "You should get some rest. I'm going to 
have to check on you again." It takes a conscious 
effort to keep my voice steady. 

I don't know what happened between us here, but I 
know something went wrong.

Mulder is still looking at me, but the languid 
arousal is gone.  He has the same expression on his 
face that he got when I showed up at the hospital.

I go back to my room and try to sleep, but all I 
manage is a shallow doze that is interrupted by the 
four o'clock alarm.  This time I pull on a pair of 
jeans and a t-shirt before going to Mulder's room.

He wakes up easily this time and his eyes 
immediately flick up and down, taking in my clothes. 
Yes, Mulder, I decided against the robe this time. 
He answers my questions stiffly and I leave as 
quickly as I can.

The six-o'clock check goes the same way, except that 
Mulder says, "I'm fine, Scully.  Really.  We need to 
go check out that address." 

"You're not fit for duty."

He growls with irritation.  "I have a headache, but 
I'm not dizzy or nauseated.  I'm not having any 
trouble remembering the pencil, the lemon or the 
goddamn '57 Chevy, and by the way, you could come up 
with a different list once in a while for variety.  
And we =need= to check out the address on that 
napkin.  It was in my handwriting."

"I noticed." I think about it for a minute.  He's 
totally lucid, and I'm not going to get any peace 
from him until we go look at this place.

Knowing Mulder, it could easily be the address of a 
strip bar recommended by the bartender, but maybe it 
isn't.

"Could it wait until nine or so?"

He nods reluctantly and winces, the movement 
obviously hurting him.

"And I want backup from the field office when we 
go."

His head snaps up, and I watch him grimace and 
swallow as the sharp movement takes its toll. "Why?" 
he asks finally, when he's regained his equilibrium.

"Do =you= think you're up to anything serious?"

He thinks about it for a second.  "Okay, but call 
Hicks."

I nod. Greg Hicks seemed okay. "Deal. I'm going to 
try to get a little more sleep, and I want you to 
do the same.  Any signs of trouble, we're taking 
you right to the hospital."

I go back to my room, and this time I dream that 
Mulder and I are kissing in a park, lying on the 
grass together. His hands are under my clothes, and 
even the simple touch of his palm against the small 
of my back has brought me close to orgasm. I try to 
tell him that I want him to keep going, but when our 
lips part he melts away into smoke, wisps of his 
image dissipating with the first breeze.





When I get my eight-thirty wake-up call, the pain in 
my head has receded to a dull ache, something I can 
manage with Excedrin.

I fucked up big time last night, and I have no idea 
what to do about it.

I woke up to Scully leaning over me, touching me, 
and I lost track of time.  I forgot that she was 
there to make sure I wasn't hemorraging or dying.  
Part of me has been thinking of her as my lover for 
years. The fact that we haven't had sex yet makes no 
difference to me. 

And I'm tired of waiting. I think that's what the 
Golfin' Ghost case in Hilton Head was about -- not 
just a vacation for Scully, but a beginning for us.

Maybe it was the concussion.  Quite possibly it was 
something they did to me =after= I got hit on the 
head.  Scully hasn't said it yet, but we're both 
wondering if this is just a head injury or not.  I 
know damn well that's why she asked for the blood 
screen.

Or maybe I just wanted her and now I'm looking for 
excuses.  

Explain it any way you want to -- I still fucked up.  
Scully deserves more than a sloppy late-night pass 
and she was right to stop me.

Now I just have to figure out how to fix it.

She knocks on my door at ten before nine, although I 
know she still has the duplicate key.  I grit my 
teeth and don't say anything about it.  

"Hicks and his partner are picking us up in ten 
minutes downstairs."

"What partner?"

"Santanda," she says, straightening her cuffs.

"Male or female?"

"Does it matter?"

I roll my eyes at her.  "Gimme a break. Did we meet 
him or her?"

She relents. "I don't think so."

I finish tying my tie.  "Great. Think he called in 
the rest of the cavalry?"

"Given the fact that I had no reasonable description 
of what we were looking for at this address you 
wrote down on a bar napkin, no. And it would be the 
infantry."

I sneak a peek at her, but she's got her poker face 
on, as usual.

"How do you feel, Mulder?"

"Aren't you going to ask me about the pencil and the 
lemon and the Chevy?"

"You can have some Tylenol."

"I already took some." I'm still searching for a way 
to bring up last night, but Scully's way ahead of 
me, disappearing through the door in a rustle of 
linen suit and clicking heels.




Santanda is a man.  The four of us pack into their 
car and I explain as much as I know on the drive 
down to 11th street.

Hicks rolls down the window and spits.  "Did you get 
a warrant?"

After a short, uncomfortable silence, Scully says, 
"We may not need to go inside."  I hear the unspoken 
explanation: this could easily turn out to be a huge 
waste of time. No one says anything after that.

The block is a row of storefronts with apartments 
stacked on the upper stories, brick and brownstone.  
There's a fire hydrant gushing into the street, and 
a couple of kids are taking turns sticking their 
hands and feet under the stream. We double-park. By 
the time the water reaches the storm drains it's 
swept a small avalanche of debris in its path -- 
candy wrappers, bits of plastic, a handle broken off 
of something small.

114 East 11th Street is a small market, the kind that 
carries a few things you'd find in the supermarket, 
only twice as expensive, plus fruit and vegetables.

It's quarter of ten in the morning, and the sign in 
the window says "All Day All Nite." But the market 
is closed.

Also, the fruit stacked against the inside of the 
front window is rotting.  The tomatoes are leaning 
drunkenly against the glass, brown sunken spots 
edged with fluffy white mold tracing a delicate 
pattern against the window. The flowers, wrapped in 
paper and resting in a white plastic bucket, are dry 
husks.

The four of us stand outside the store in silence 
for a minute.  Hicks says, "Now do you think we need 
a warrant?"

Something is wrong here, and every one of us knows 
it. 

Scully says, carefully, "If that produce is old 
enough, it could constitute a public health threat."

She looks embarrassed. God, how I love her. 

Santanda snorts loudly and says, "Good enough for 
me."  

Hicks picks the lock efficiently, and pushes the 
door open.  The smell that pushes back is a mixture 
of rotten fruit and dead flowers and something 
worse. 

Hicks clears his throat, we all draw our weapons and 
we go in. The dull ache in my head is pressing out 
from inside, and the smell is pushing its way in.  
Scully is pale and watchful next to me; the stench 
gets worse as we get closer to the back of the 
store.  There's spoiled milk and meat around here 
somewhere. The lights are out and I pull out a 
flashlight.

A fly is buzzing angrily somewhere close to the 
ceiling, and that sound gets caught in my head, too.  
At the back of the store, a long piece of plastic 
cut into vertical strips hangs over a doorway marked 
EMPLOYEES ONLY, and the smell is worse.

I push through the strips gun and flashlight first. 
The back room is as still as the rest of the store 
but the stench makes my eyes water.  The room is 
dark, but the beam of my flashlight picks out a 
still form sprawled across a table.

There's a small click and suddenly the fluorescent 
lights are winking on overhead, blue and cold. They 
wash the body on the table in flat light.  My 
flashlight is still on, spotlighting the hole in the 
corpse's chest.  It used to be a woman.  Now it's a 
blackening thing with its lips peeled back in an 
obscene parody of a smile.  There's a shriveled lump 
perched on the edge of the gaping crater in its -- 
her -- chest that looks like some internal organ.

Scully brushes by me, and her lips are pressed into 
a tight line. She gets close enough to the corpse to 
look down into the hole. "The heart has been 
removed."

She was a blonde. No one shut her eyes after she 
died and they have sunk back into the sockets, 
leaving her lashes poking straight up, a honey-
blonde fringe decorating nothing. Her arms and feet 
are splayed off the edges of the table and I have to 
resist the urge to straighten them on the tabletop 
until I see that she was tied to the legs of the 
table.  There are dark welts on her wrists and 
ankles, crusted with dried blood, indicating that 
she wasn't crazy about getting tied up in the first 
place.

I make myself move in and take a closer look.  A 
crust of dried blood decorates what's left of her 
blouse.  She bled a lot before her heart stopped 
beating.

Scully has her cellphone out and she's dialing, but 
it isn't loud enough to cover the sound of someone 
vomiting onto the linoleum in the front room.  I look 
up; Santanda hasn't come any farther than the doorway, 
but he's there, so that's Hicks losing his 
breakfast. Santanda draws his hand across his mouth, 
and I know he wants to leave, but he's going to stay 
there until the rest of the infantry arrives.

Which they do, in short order.

We stay until the evidence team is done and the 
coroner's truck arrives.  Scully stares down the 
jerk who's in charge of the dead woman's body until 
he backs down and agrees to let her do the autopsy.

Hicks comes over to stand next to me in the midday 
sun.  Even the heat is better than the smell inside 
the store. "And you don't remember who told you to 
look at this place?" His breath is sour with the 
smell of puke.

"No.  It might have been the guy I was supposed to 
interview in the bar." I feel like a fucking idiot 
trying to explain this.  

Hicks spits into the water running in the gutter. 
"Who was he?"

I'm liking Hicks less and less.  "A former roommate 
of Ajiib's." It's not like we actually needed these 
guys today.  If they latch onto our case, I'm going 
to end up shooting somebody.

"The dead guy?"

"The dead guy," I confirm.

Hicks nods thoughtfully. "Nothing but a concealed 
weapons conviction on him, right?"

"Yeah, that's been bothering me," I admit.

Scully rejoins us.  The heat is making her blouse 
stick to her chest and her cheeks are flushed. I 
have a sudden jolt of sense memory; her lips under 
mine, the feel of hot skin under her robe.  "I'm 
going to do the autopsy. Meet you back at the 
hotel?" She gives me a pointed stare which 
ordinarily would piss me off, but the dull ache in 
my head has spread into a pounding wave and I'm not 
in the mood for an argument.

I let Hicks and Santanda drive me back to the hotel.  
The cool darkness of my room is like a salve on a 
burn.  I lie down and try not to remember the puffy 
dark meat of the dead woman's tongue poking out of 
her mouth.



When the phone rings, I wake up and try to measure 
the headache.  Between the third and fourth rings I 
decide it's definitely better.

"Mulder, it's me.  The dead woman is Ajiib's wife.  
Her maiden name was Sarah Pitts.  She identified his 
body when he was brought in last week. Her parents 
are on their way here right now. Does that seem like 
a strange coincidence to you, or is it just me?"

"Wow." I sit up, headache forgotten.  "So she's been 
dead less than a week?"

"It's consistent with the autopsy findings. She died 
of shock caused by blood loss."  Scully pauses, and 
I take a slow breath before she adds, "The chest 
wound was not post-mortem."

I release the breath slowly.  "The only thing that comes
to mind right away is Satanism."

"I don't think so.  No trophies were taken from the 
body -- that turned out to be her heart that was 
sitting on her sternum."

"How poetic. Find any prints?"

"That's the most interesting detail.  I found quite 
a few, all from the same man."

"Who?"

"Mohammed al Ajiib."


End (5/19) of Above Rubies.




"Above Rubies", (6/19)

"So you're certain that Agent Mulder wasn't drugged?"

"As certain as I can be, sir." Skinner is using that tone 
of voice that he only gets when Mulder's investigative 
tactics have recently cost him a decent night's sleep.

"Would LSD have shown up?"

He's thinking about the time that they drugged Mulder's 
entire apartment complex by putting LSD in the water.  I 
tuck the phone tighter against my ear to block out the 
sounds of people passing by on the chipped linoleum floor 
in the hallway. "Yes. But there could be drugs out there 
that I'm not aware of that =wouldn't= show up, even after 
only a few hours." 

When Mulder's memory got wiped after his impromptu visit to 
Ellens Air Force Base, I made him submit to a whole battery 
of tests.  Nothing turned up. Even LSD takes a few days to 
clear out of the system.  Whatever these people have, it's 
not available commercially.

"Sir, it's possible that Mulder was actually mugged and 
that this is simply amnesia resulting from his concussion."  
Thank God Mulder isn't here to listen to my end of this 
conversation; he'd have a fit.  

Skinner grunts.  "Mulder isn't there, is he?"

It takes an effort not to laugh.  "No, sir."

He sighs.  "Scully, there's some real concern about his 
involvement with this case.  Hicks' ASAC has read too many 
news stories with Mulder's name in them."

I don't say anything.

"They still want =you= on the case, though."  He pauses, 
then adds "=I= want you on the case. Just let me know if 
you have any reason to suspect Agent Mulder's symptoms are 
the result of something other than a concussion.  I'm 
concerned about his judgement."

And if you'd seen him lock lips with me last night, you'd 
be a hell of a lot more concerned.  "I will, sir."

"I doubt that."  

Shit. "Sir?"

"Scully, my intention here is not just to keep Agent Mulder 
from getting involved in another situation like.....like 
the Roche case.  I'd like to keep him out of the hospital."

I hear his unspoken thought: or the morgue.  I half-believe 
him.  Skinner is thoroughly used to having the two of us 
embarrass him by now, and his hide is pretty thick.

He sighs.  "Just watch him, Scully. Anti-terrorism is not a 
good place to have Mulder freelancing."

"I know, sir.  We'll be careful."

I hang up. Shit, shit, shit. This is not a good time for 
Skinner to get cold feet, no matter what his reasons may 
be. As much as I need Mulder's instincts here, I think he 
needs me to need him even more.

By the time I softly turn the knob of the interview room 
door,  Margaret Pitts' sobs have faded into sniffles. John 
Pitts is one of those men who doesn't cry, no matter what, 
not even when his once-beautiful daughter is now a decaying 
mass of evidence of a brutal murder.

My father wouldn't have cried either. Ahab would have sat 
straight and stiff in his chair, like John Pitts is doing 
right now, answering questions with a measured cadence and 
angry precision.  But my father would not have held a copy 
of the Book of Mormon between his hands like it was a 
beacon to light his path through the last circle of hell.

"At Brigham Young University," he is saying when I shut the 
door quietly behind me.  "They have programs for graduates 
who want to go overseas to spread the Gospel - the EMTC."  

Mulder nods, leaning slightly across the table.  "So, she 
met him in Afghanistan? She was a missionary?"

"We wouldn't have let her go if things were the way they 
are now," Margaret Pitts interjects.  "Sarah graduated 
before the Taliban took over." She lapses into silence, 
staring at the floor with red eyes.

"And what year was that?" Mulder prompts gently.

"1994.  She finished her post-graduate work over the summer 
in Provo and left in the fall with the rest of her group."

"And they were married when?"

"September 23, 1997."  John Pitts' voice falters slightly 
for the first time.  After a second he reaches into his 
back pocket and pulls a photograph of his wallet. "They 
became friends while she was still doing her mission work, 
but she went back again after she was finished, then he 
came over here as a tourist."

Sarah Pitts, standing next to Mohammed al Ajiib in her 
wedding gown.

"Did anything about Mr. Ajiib's conversion to your faith 
strike you as unusual?"

Mulder asks the question very carefully, but there's a 
guarded note in John Pitts' voice when he replies. "The 
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is open to all 
who seek the word of the Lord, Agent Mulder.  His previous 
religious affiliation was not a barrier to acceptance in 
our community."

Personally, I really doubt that; there are about seven 
people of color in the entire state of Utah as far as I can 
remember. We did a case in Utah once and I got a look at 
the Salt Lake field office.  Nice enough people but I felt 
like I had the word `gentile' painted on my back the entire 
time I was there. I wonder if Sarah told them about his 
conviction on weapons charges, or about his previous 
marriage.  But John Pitts seems completely sincere.

"Were you aware of any ties he might have maintained to old 
friends or business contacts in Afghanistan?"

It goes on like this for half an hour; Mulder picking his 
way through the conversation, avoiding the twin land mines 
of loss and faith as skillfully as he ever has.  Mulder can 
piss off a county sheriff faster than you can say breach of 
conduct, but in an interview with parents who have lost a 
child, he's all grace and gentleness.

John and Margaret Pitts don't tell us anything we couldn't 
have guessed for ourselves.  It seems that Mohammed al 
Ajiib met a nice young American woman who tried to make him 
a Mormon.  He married her, got his green card and some 
American money to spend on guns and chemical weapons.  Then 
somehow he got her to go the police station and identify 
someone else's body as his.

And then he killed her.

Was she naive enough to believe in his "conversion"?  Or 
did he convert her instead, to whatever cause he's sold his 
soul to?

Or did she think it was true love, enough to look past his 
blatantly criminal behavior, enough to lie for him about a 
body in a morgue?

Or was it fear?  Did he threaten her, threaten her family?

Before John Pitts leaves us, he says, stiffly, "Do you know 
where he is?"

Mulder shakes his head.

"Find him," Pitts says, dully.  "Please find him."

I offered to provide them with a copy of the autopsy 
report, but they declined, which gave me a rush of pure 
relief.  Along with the other facts I recorded, I included 
the information that Sarah Pitts was approximately two 
months pregnant at the time of her death. 

I walk them down the hall, and watch them go out the front 
door, blinking in the harsh wash of sunlight.

Mulder stays in the interview room for a long time after 
the Pitts' leave.  Finally, I go in and find him staring 
blankly down into his cold cup of coffee.

"Mulder?"

"Do you think he killed her to stop her from telling anyone 
that he wasn't really dead?"

"Do you?"

He grimaces.  "I'm not sure it's any better that way."

I understand him immediately.  Would it make it any better 
if Sarah had lost her faith in Ajiib, was maybe thinking 
about turning him in?

Not really.  She's still dead.

"I knew there wasn't much of a case in Hilton Head," he 
says, suddenly.

I sit down in the hard plastic chair next to him.

He turns his head enough to look at me, and whatever he 
reads in my face makes him push his chair away from the 
table and start stuffing pages back into his file.

I put my hand on his arm gently.  "Mulder?"

"I'm fine, Scully.  I don't even have a headache today.  My 
memory's fine. See?  Pencil, lemon, 1957 Chevy."

This is hard, so much harder than I thought it would be. I 
take a deep breath. "I was thinking that maybe we could go 
out somewhere to dinner tonight.  You know...not Chinese 
food or pizza.  A restaurant."

There.

He stops rustling papers and looks at me warily. Finally, 
he says casually, "You should have told me if you were 
getting sick of our usual."

Okay, that's it. I tried.  I stand up and turn around, take 
two steps toward the door before Mulder's hand on my arm 
stops me.  "Scully, wait."

I stop and shut my eyes, but I don't turn around.  I feel 
him take the two steps to close the distance between us, 
and then he's standing behind me, close enough that I can 
feel the warmth of his body. He says, quietly, "Someplace 
really nice. I'll make us a reservation, okay?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. 

We are so bad at this. I skate out onto thin ice, and 
Mulder bumps into me.  He loses his balance, I knock him 
over while I'm trying to stay upright.

Santanda comes in without knocking and luckily doesn't look 
up at us, because he's talking to Hicks over his shoulder.  
It gives me the time I need to move away from Mulder and 
compose myself.

"The stiff was his roommate.  Ajiib's.  Name was Mejha, 
taxi driver.  We found dental records.  Ajiib must have 
planted his own driver's license in the guy's wallet, and 
with the positive ID from the wife......." He shrugs.  "No 
one checked."

Hicks asks Mulder, "It was his roommate that you were going 
to interview when you got," he pauses, "knocked out, 
right?"

"Doesn't look that way, does it?  He'd been dead at least a 
week at that point."  We all stand there for a few seconds, 
absorbing the details. 

Hicks breaks into the silence. "Did you get anything from 
her parents?  They knew the guy, right?"

"Not really." Mulder doesn't elaborate, and Hicks looks at 
him balefully.

I tell Hicks and Santanda what I found out after finishing 
the autopsy.  The way he killed her had nothing to do with 
Islam or shari'a.  I mortally offended two different 
university professors and a bureaucrat at the Afghani 
embassy making sure, but apparently that was Ajiib's own 
lovely idea.  However, I did find out that a rougher kind 
of justice gets meted out in the rural parts of the 
country, where stoning and beheading aren't grisly enough 
to meet the local taste for blood.  The cheerful TA I got 
on the line at NYU told me that stoning is the usual 
treatment for women convicted of adultery.

Pierce wasn't making up the horrible things he told us 
before he died in his cell.

Sue Kimball at NYU was the only person I didn't offend.  
The field office and the NYPD managed to keep the exact 
cause of Sarah Ajiib's death out of the press. When I told 
Kimball I was doing research to help clear up an active 
case, she got less cheerful.

"Is this about the murder on East 11th Street that I read 
about in the Post?  Jesus Christ."

I only repeated that it was an active case.

"Cutting out the victim's heart has nothing to do with 
Islam or the Koran or any extremist version of the religion 
that I've heard of." After a moment, she added, "But it 
could easily be a local specialty in whatever part of the 
country Ajiib came from.  Or it could be something he came 
up with himself."

"He spent some time in the Sudan.  Could it have been 
something he learned there?"

I hear her sigh.  "Again, could be some local tradition 
there.  But trust me -- Islam does not prescribe anything 
like what you've described to me, regardless of what you've 
seen in the movies."

I hung up and thought about Ajiib, and his Mormon wife.  We 
keep assuming that we're dealing with religious extremism 
in some form, and maybe we are.  But we could be 
overlooking the possibility that Ajiib is simply insane. He 
could be running guns and chemical weapons for profit.

"What I really want to know," Hicks says edgily, "is who 
the fuck gave you that address."

I tense, waiting for Mulder to rise to the bait, and he 
doesn't disappoint me.

"Take a number, Hicks.  I'm going back to the bar with 
Scully to try and find out.  Instead of adding me to your 
goddamn suspect list, why don't you do something useful 
like put an APB out on Ajiib?"

"If she's been dead over a week, why would he still be 
here?" Santanda asks, mildly enough.  But Mulder's already 
halfway out the door, and I end up following him with an 
idiotic look on my face, a combination of apology for his 
attitude and irritation at getting stuck trailing in his 
wake like a tugboat.

I catch up with him outside the building.  "The Lion's 
Lair?"

"The Little Lion."

I give him the car keys and he gets us headed downtown, 
toward Chelsea. I let him cool off for a little while 
before I suggest that Ajiib might be nothing more than a 
small-time arms dealer.

"And he killed his wife by cutting her heart out because he 
read about it in Soldier of Fortune?"

"Why do you think he did it that way?"

Mulder shoots an exasperated look in my direction.  "This 
far-right wing bullshit."

"I don't know, Mulder.  First of all, the ritualized nature 
of the murder had nothing to do with any religious 
tradition.  We still don't know that he had bought into 
whatever it was that Pierce and Garjon were selling.  He 
could have been a business contact. Someone they bought 
guns and gas from, not a disciple."

He thinks about it while swerving slightly to avoid hitting 
a yellow cab that just stopped sharply to pick up a fare.  
"I wish you'd been with me when I was in the VCU, Scully.  
You would have made a hell of a good profiler."

I feel myself flush.  Mulder doesn't hand out compliments 
often.  

"But maybe it wouldn't have worked.  I went through a lot 
of partners back then." He pauses. "Does it ever occur to 
you that you treat these religion cases a little 
differently than you treat other cases?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have an affinity with people who are deeply 
faithful and you give them credit for it."

"Are you saying I'm sympathetic to Ajiib because he's 
religious?"

"No.  I was thinking more about Pitts and his wife.  Look, 
forget it.  It was just an observation." He shrugs.

"No, Mulder, I'd like to hear what you meant by that."

He shakes his head and says, "I didn't mean it as 
criticism, Scully."

The air conditioning in our economy rental car is no match 
for a New York heat wave, which doesn't improve my mood.  
I'm just not inclined to let Mulder get away with this.  
"Are you suggesting that my judgement is suspect in cases 
where religion is an issue because I follow a religious 
tradition myself?"

"Dammit, Scully, don't interrogate me!" Mulder's hands have 
tightened on the steering wheel.  "No.  I think your faith 
=affects= your perspective on cases where religion is an 
issue, but I don't think your judgement is necessarily 
=suspect.= Are you following me?"

"What about you? You're so critical of faith! Don't you 
think that affects =your= perspective?"

It does Mulder credit that even when he's angry, he listens 
to me.  After a long pause, he replies, "Okay, you may have 
a point there.  But it's frustrating sometimes -- you may 
not see it yourself, but you give credence to believers in 
religion that you would never give to.......to the MUFON 
women, for example.  There are all kinds of faith, Scully."

"I have more faith in the MUFON women than you'll ever 
fully understand, Mulder."

"You're mixing apples and oranges on me."

"Okay, so we both have blind spots."

"Not blind."  He runs his hand over his forehead.  "We have 
complementary perspectives."

"Remind me to tell that to Skinner."

He looks over at me, suddenly alert.  "Yeah. Was that him 
on the phone?"

"He just wanted an update," I reply, uneasily. Mulder 
narrows his eyes at my tone of voice, but he's parallel 
parking, so he lets it go.

The Little Lion is a trendy-looking bar, completely at home 
in the middle of Chelsea's collection of ultra-hip 
restaurants and coffeehouses.  The man wiping down the 
marble countertop looks incuriously in our direction when 
we walk in.

We're in luck; the shift calendar behind the bar shows that 
Jeff was tending bar the night Mulder came in, and he's 
here today, too.  I watch carefully as he comes out from 
the back.  Mulder looks frustrated; clearly, he doesn't 
recognize the guy.  Jeff looks Mulder over carefully, and I 
think with a touch of interest, before he tells us that he 
definitely remembers seeing Mulder before.

"You had a draft beer," he tells Mulder.  "Just one.  And 
you were sitting with another guy.  Sort of medium height, 
you know?  Black leather jacket.  Really short hair.  One 
black glove."  He shakes his head in exaggerated disgust.  
"=So= eighties.  Other than that, he looked really good.  I 
remember because it looked like things were a little tense, 
you know?"  Jeff gives me a sidelong glance.  "You guys 
weren't here that long but you left together."

"A black glove?" 

"You said his name a couple of times. I think it was 
something like "Kojak."

It takes me a second, but Mulder and I make the connection
at the same time. Krycek.

Jeff shakes his head. "You don't remember, huh?  I'll 
tell you, sweetie, I don't think it was roofies `cause you 
looked just fine when you walked out of here."

I drag Mulder out of there before he has a chance to punch 
Jeff in his nicely capped teeth.  He's no homophobe but 
frankly, this is Krycek we're talking about here and he's 
always brought out the worst in Mulder.

Making an obvious effort to stay under control, Mulder 
grinds out, "Well, does that answer your question about 
whether it was a simple concussion or not?"

"Are you sure it wasn't Krycek who you spoke to on the 
phone?"

"Yes. Totally. Completely."

"I guess he could have had someone else make the call."

"No.  Remember?  I called Ajiib's old number in New York, 
that was how I got in touch with the guy who said he was 
his roommate."

"So either Krycek followed you to the bar."

"...and got rid of whoever I was actually supposed to meet 
with."

"...or he was there or found out shortly after you talked 
to the roommate." 

Mulder sighs, and I know how he feels.  This is just 
turning into a bigger and bigger mess.

"You don't think it was maybe someone else?" He sounds 
hopeful.

"A character from a bad sixties drama, maybe?"

"Scully, what in the hell made me stupid enough to sit down 
and have a drink with that fucker?"  Mulder rubs his hand 
over his face, drawing a thumb across his frenum.  It comes 
away sweaty.  "Let's get out of here.  It's too hot to talk 
about this shit in the street."

"According to Jeff it was just =one= drink." 

He looks at me sourly. "I'll call Skinner and brief him."

The car is an oven. Mulder switches the a/c on full blast. 
While he backs out I surreptitiously loosen my silk blouse, 
which is sticking to my chest, and let the blast of the air 
conditioner chill the sweat on my skin.  

Mulder has found Skinner, and judging by the tone of his 
voice, he's getting annoyed but trying not to show it.  I 
watch him tug at his tie off one-handed. The hollow at the 
base of his neck is glistening in a really inviting way.

I flap my blouse again, and this time Mulder catches me 
doing it.  He looks away quickly, and I can hear him 
stammer a response to something Skinner asked him.

Finally he hands me the phone without comment.

"Sir?"

"Is he all right?"

I keep my voice even.  "As far as I can tell, yes."

"If you take Krycek into custody, call me immediately."  
His voice has a steely edge to it, and I remember that 
Krycek brings out the worst in Skinner, too.  

"Sir, we don't know where he is at this point, but if we do 
find him -- you'll be the first to know."

Skinner grunts something noncommittal and hangs up.

Mulder's dress shirt is sticking to him, too.  "Somewhere 
around here I have the phone number and address of the last 
place Ajiib lived in New York.  Where I talked to the 
roommate."

"He lived in New York before he was married to Sarah?"

"Looks that way." He rummages through the file one-handed, 
paying dangerously little attention to the traffic around 
us.  Finally, he finds what he's looking for.  "Shit."

"What?"

"I'm just getting so sick of Queens."

Although it's getting late in the day, the heat isn't going 
away.  If anything, it's getting worse, the funky sewer 
smell of the city stronger than it was in the morning.  We 
drive through the Midtown Tunnel with the windows up and 
the a/c struggling to keep the heat at bay.

Ajiib's former roommate lived in a small, tidy frame house 
only six or seven blocks off the Van Wyck, not far from 
JFK.  No one answers the door, and Mulder doesn't even look 
at me for permission or comment before trying the knob.  
It's not locked.

In the living room, we find a man sprawled face down in the 
Berber carpet, a cordless phone only a few inches from his 
limp, outstretched hand.  There are several bullet holes in 
his back, and a vast brown stain decorating the carpet. 
Natural fibers absorb blood very well.

Mulder pulls on a latex glove and picks a wallet out of the 
dead man's back pocket.  "Unless this ID-switching thing is 
catching on, this is Chidi Nwuke."  He looks up at me.  "Do 
you want to do an autopsy?"

"For what?" The dead man has no answer to that. "He died 
because someone shot him in the back.  I'd be somewhat 
interested to hear what ballistics has to say, since we 
know Krycek prefers a Glock, but that's about it."

He smiles up at me, a predatory gleam in his eyes.  "Mmm.  
I was hoping you'd say that.  I got us a table at Balthazar 
at eight, and you tend to get a little wrapped up when you 
start slicing and dicing."

I can't think of an adequate response.  Mulder calls for 
the infantry.

Thankfully, Santanda comes without Hicks this time.  I try 
not to read anything into that; Mulder doesn't even seem to 
notice.  Santanda goes out onto the porch and stares 
thoughtfully up at the exterior of the pleasant little 
house. Mulder and I go out to join him.

"Something interesting up on the roof?"

Santanda says, "Wife and I are looking for a bigger place.  
The schools here are pretty good, you know?  I wonder if 
the DOA owned this house." He lifts his hat, smooths his 
hair, replaces the hat.

Mulder's grin shows most of his teeth.

I go back to the hotel with Mulder and begin rummaging 
through my suitcase.  Maybe I packed something that I could 
wear to dinner.  Maybe Mulder did that thing again where he 
tosses something into my suitcase.  

No such luck.

I grab my cellphone and run out of the hotel and hail a 
cab.


End "Above Rubies," (6/19)



"Above Rubies,"  (7/19)  by Rachel Howard

Warning: Some plot ahead, but not much.  You ARE all 
seventeen or older, correct? I promise this is the last 
time I'm gonna ask...


The fall collection has taken over the racks at Macy's, but 
I manage to find a saleswoman who's not completely thrown 
by the idea of finding me something appropriate for ninety-
degree weather, ninety-percent humidity.  I start yanking 
things off the Petites rack and she frowns at me, then 
reaches in and pulls out a tailored sheath dress.  Black, 
fairly short, but not too short.

Perfect.  It even fits, although if I had a couple of days, 
I'd take it in at the waist a tiny bit. The pearl earrings 
I'm wearing will work fine with it, too. The fluorescent 
lights in the dressing room aren't flattering, but I think 
this outfit might even pass for slightly sexy.

The shoe department is less helpful.  I find a pair of 
strappy black sandals with heels which would kill me if I 
wore them to work, but I'm not wearing them to work.

I'm wearing them for Mulder.

That stops me cold.  I sit on the uncomfortable synthetic 
fabric-covered bench in the shoe department, one of the 
sandals dangling from my hand, and think about it.

If I get horizontal with my partner, am I going to turn 
into an idiot on a regular basis?  I mean, it's not like I 
generally go on last-minute shopping extravaganzas before 
having dinner with him. 

Before going on a date.

When was the last time I went on a date?

How do I =know= this is a date?

I know Mulder.  I know all the different variations of the 
way he can say my name, and what each of them means. He 
took me out to dinner at a hip Hungarian restaurant, two or 
three birthdays ago, and we drank a lot of brandy and had a 
fun argument about crop circles, but it wasn't a date.

This is a date.

I look more carefully at the sandals, at the severe slope 
of the instep and the narrowness of the straps. Mulder has 
taken over so much of my life.  I didn't notice until it 
was too late; then I got angry and resented the fact that 
it had already happened. Finally, I think I came to terms 
with the fact that I had gone =willingly= into his world, 
his search for his sister and everything the X-Files meant. 
Mulder opened the door to a palace of riddles, but the 
decision to move in, set up housekeeping -- that was mine. 

I gave up dating a long time ago; other men fade into 
shades of gray next to Mulder. Is it only because we've 
been together so long?  

I think that must be part of it. I don't have the words to 
explain what it's like being trapped in the Arctic with 
several innocent people and one psychotic killer, or how it 
feels to shoot someone for their own good, someone you 
love. Mulder doesn't need the words; he already knows. 

That's part of it -- but I don't care any more. Whatever 
the reasons, Mulder is the only one who I could love this 
way.

I shake myself out of my funk and pay for the shoes and the 
dress.

My cellphone rings on the way back to the hotel.

"It's me.  Where are you?"

"Had to run an errand.  What's up?"

"The evidence team found drag marks on the basement floor.  
Somebody was storing things down there that are gone now."

"Let me guess, boxes of old books?"

He chuffs softly.  "How about canisters?"

"More gas?"

"Hard to tell. But it could be, yeah.  And they found some 
hair and fibers that I'm guessing will tell us more about 
who was there. We still don't know for sure that it was 
Krycek in the bar." He sounds like a chronic drunk who 
can't remember if he slept with the girl but hopes that he 
used a condom if he did. I remain tactfully silent. After a 
pause, he asks, "Still up for dinner?"

Translation: do you want me to let you off the hook?

I still don't know what he was apologizing for last night, 
but I feel a lot better now.  This is more what I expected 
from Mulder -- a tentative pass, a way out if I wanted one.

"Yes.  How long will it take to get there?"

"We can take a cab.  I'll meet you in the lobby at seven-
thirty."

I hang up and close my eyes for a minute, remembering the 
faint sheen of sweat at the base of his throat.  God, 
please let this go well.  Please.



Balthazar is nice, trendy but not too flashy, and I make a 
mental note to tip the concierge who suggested it. The dim 
light turns Scully's hair into dark gold and brings a 
luminous sheen to the fair skin of her bare arms. She did 
something different with her hair - it curls a little and 
brushes the edge of her face.

She's wearing a dress that isn't fancy or skintight but 
makes her look beautiful just the same.  Her arms are bare 
and I keep looking at the curve of her shoulder and biceps; 
she must have been working out lately. I'm not a foot man 
but the shoes she's wearing - they're like something out of 
an old movie, real knock-me-down-and-fuck-me-shoes.  I look 
across the table at her and can't help smiling again.  She 
looks relaxed and happy, sipping Irish coffee, and if this 
is all it takes to smooth the lines from around her eyes, 
I'm taking her out to dinner every night.

Neither one of us has said a word about the case tonight.  
We drank a bottle of wine and I'm feeling a warm buzz in my 
extremities that might be alcohol, might be lust.

This is what life would be like if we had met one day at 
the water cooler and started dating like normal people. 
Five years of terror and weirdness gone, nothing but me and 
Scully and the way she's looking at me now over the rim of 
her cup. Her lips are curling slightly at the corners, legs 
shifting once in a while under the table which I can hear 
over the noise of the restaurant because all my senses are 
focused on her. Her precious ova intact, Melissa and her 
mother coming over for dinner, holidays together, sleeping 
in on Sundays.  Normal.

Or maybe not.  Maybe without the scars we carry, Scully and 
I would be different people. The threads that bind us to 
each other are priceless; we earned them with our blood.

"I said, do you want to head back?"

She's still smiling, fully aware that I didn't catch a 
single word of whatever she was saying.  

I haven't touched her all night.  Instead of answering, I 
reach for her hand and pull it against my cheek, her palm 
against my skin, letting her fingertips trail against my 
eyelids.

When I look at her, her eyes are glimmering suspiciously.

In the cab, she leans against me, and I put an arm around 
her. She murmurs something and I bend my head to hers. 
"What?"

Instead of answering, she lifts her lips to mine.  

This kiss is nothing like last night's; it feels like a 
promise.  Scully's mouth is soft and she tastes faintly of 
coffee and whiskey. And this time she doesn't push me away.  
Her lips part and our tongues brush carefully together, 
then not so carefully.

By the time I let her come up for air, she's flushed, 
licking her lips, her hair is mussed, and we're only a few 
blocks from the hotel.

Over time I have catalogued every known Scully-smile, from 
cynical to relieved to amused-but-trying-not-to-show-it to 
bitter, but this is a new one for my collection.

I pay for the taxi and follow her into the hotel, watching 
the way her hips sway as walks in those shoes.  I kiss her 
again in the elevator, and again along the back of her neck 
while she tries to get my keycard into the electronic slot 
in the door. That one gets me a soft whimper, and I open my 
mouth to taste the warm skin and fine down just below where 
her hair curls away.

Scully tugs me inside with both hands wrapped in mine.  We 
stumble toward the bed in the near-darkness, but I take the 
time to click the bedside lamp on.

One eyebrow asks, and I answer, "I want to see you."

Why was it so hard, all that time?  Why haven't I ever seen 
this look on her face before now?

"Mulder?"

She must have seen the regret passing over me, and I hasten 
to explain, "I was thinking about all the time we've lost."

She shakes her head. "Don't think that." She pulls on the 
hand that she still holds and I sit next to her on the edge 
of the bed.

Scully smiles at me again, and reaches for my tie.  She 
loosens the knot slowly and carefully, and when it's off, 
she folds it twice and lays it on the bedside table. Then 
she looks at me expectantly.

I examine her carefully before I tilt her head gently to 
the side.  Her pearl earrings fasten with a weird little 
hook that takes me a while to figure out, but she waits 
patiently until I get them both off.

Then she reaches for my belt.  I feel my penis twitch when 
her fingers brush against the cloth of my trousers, but I 
let her unbuckle it, pull it through the loops.

I leave her shoes untouched and unzip her dress.  The black 
cloth peels away from her body, leaving ivory curves and 
planes.  Underneath she's wearing a plain black bra and 
panties, which on Scully are the sexiest things I've ever 
seen. Her answering smile looks a little nervous, so I toss 
the dress toward the bed and draw her close to me for a 
long kiss.  She rubs her hands up and down my back and I 
decide that the slow approach may not last much longer.

"Scully?"

"Mmm?" Her eyes are half-lidded, and she's begun to work on 
the buttons of my shirt, cuffs first.

"I have to ask.  Am I supposed to open the buckles on those 
shoes or just pull them off?  'Cause I don't think I can 
get them undone without breaking them."

Her mouth is twitching the way it does when she's trying 
really hard not to smile.  "You could just slip them off.  
Or I could do it for you. Or," she pauses to give me a 
significant look, "we could just leave them on."

Oh, man.  That did it. I make a sound that I don't 
recognize and cover her mouth with mine, kissing her hard.  
She sucks my lower lip into her mouth and gives up on the 
buttons, tugging my shirttails out of my pants.  My cock 
grates against her pelvis and we groan simultaneously. I 
barely have enough motor function left to get her bra off, 
but I manage, hands behind her back, clawing at the little 
hooks.

Scully's breasts are exquisite, pink-tipped treasures and I 
can't wait any longer to taste them. I close my lips around 
a nipple and suck hard, feel it contract immediately under 
my tongue. Somehow, she got my pants undone and now she's 
got her hands buried in my hair, tugging my mouth closer to 
her breast while I have to get my shoes and socks off in 
spite of the pants tangling around my ankles.

I kick a couple of times, but I only make things worse -- 
now my pants are wrapped around my shoes. 

Goddamn it.

Finally, I stop what I'm doing.  Scully looks aroused as 
hell and indignant as hell, in that order. "What?"

I point at my feet, trying to look sarcastic and probably 
looking pathetic instead.  She smirks openly and shoves the 
center of my chest so that I fall backwards onto the bed.

Okay, this could work out after all.

Scully dispatches of my shoes, socks, pants and boxers in 
about two seconds, flicking bits of clothing heedlessly 
around the room, nothing like an autopsy. Her breasts 
wobble, her cheeks are pink and she's absolutely gorgeous.  
When she's done with my clothing she plants both knees on 
either side of me on the bedspread and carefully rests her 
weight on my legs.

Then she licks her lips and runs both hands down my body 
from shoulder to hips.  I feel like she's a lioness and I'm 
prime rib.  I don't do a thing, I just lie there and watch 
her.

She leans over and wraps her lips around the head of my 
cock, sliding one hand under my balls and the other under 
my ass.  I squeeze my eyes shut and everything goes away, 
everything but the feeling of her beautiful full lips 
circling me, beginning to slide down my shaft as she rolls 
my balls in her hand.  God damn, where did she learn how to 
do this?  I try to push the thought away.  She sucks me 
into her mouth until I feel the back of her throat press 
against the head of my cock, and I see stars.  This is too 
much, too fast.  I was planning on making Scully come at 
least once before we got to this and I'm not usually a 
planner.

I reach down, grab her hand and squeeze it before I tug her 
up towards my head.  She comes reluctantly, and I kiss her 
for a while, loving the taste of my skin on her mouth.  

It doesn't happen like this.  You aren't supposed to meet 
someone and love her and know her like this, so well and so 
long that there's nothing left unsaid when you finally come 
together. It doesn't really happen like this, especially 
not to Spooky Fox Mulder, the laughingstock of the Bureau, 
the one whose sister disappeared one night and never came 
back until he was grown and lost. Scully, you shouldn't let 
me have something so good; I'll break it, lose it, take it 
apart and not know how to put it together again.

I don't realize that I'm crying until she kisses my tears 
away and murmurs something to me. This is how it is with 
Scully and me, sweet and bitter, quick and slow, and the 
real miracle is that we're here at all.

She holds me for a long time, until I feel goosebumps rise 
on her skin and I pull the stiff hotel comforter over us.  
She settles into my arms again and I feel the heat from our 
twined bodies begin to creep over us.  

I'm not going anywhere.

That was what she said to me; sweeter than promises of 
love.



I don't know how I fell asleep, but I am awake now, 
Mulder's incredible mouth trailing cool kisses down my 
belly, under the comforter.  His tongue flicks into my 
navel and I hear myself whimper in response; that sliding 
pressure against my skin is him smiling.

He moves lower and I throw the covers back, braced for the 
chill of the air in the room, because I want to see him so 
badly right now.

His hair is mussed and I can see the five-o-clock shadow 
darkening his jaw.  He scrapes his chin against my pubic 
bone, where the thick curls begin, and deliberately 
exhales, warm air washing over me.

oh god mulder's going down on me and his mouth is the most 
perfect thing I know

As delicately as if he were flipping a sunflower seed open 
in his mouth, he uses his tongue to part my folds and zeros 
in on my clitoris. I feel a warm wave of sensation, 
deceptively mild at first, then a backlash of pleasure that 
makes me cry out sharply for the first time, the loudest 
sound we've heard since the door shut behind us.

Oh, God.  This is the opposite of sin; Mulder's mouth is 
telling me more about his love for me now than a thousand 
words could say.

His hand smooths up over my belly, and his eyes are 
blissfully shut, lips and tongue working me together.  He 
shifts his weight and the hand on my belly moves down, 
spreads my legs wider so that he can slide one finger 
smoothly into me.  Wet, I am so =wet=

Yes

God

Not just an orgasm, more like a nuclear meltdown. I feel 
him staying with me, holding on tightly although I am 
bucking crazily, out of control, and when I subside, 
shuddering, he releases me gently.

I feel the urgency of his erection pressing into my side 
when he slides back up my body to wrap his arms around me, 
but that's all he does. Finally, I reach up and pull his 
face down to mine so that I can kiss him again, savoring my 
taste on his lips, in his mouth. 

He doesn't resist when I roll him over onto his back, 
struggling a little with his weight.  Mulder looks up at 
me, those incredible eyes wide open and full of love, and 
he reaches up to steady my shoulders as I position myself 
over his body.

Slide and tumble and he catches me, we are burning together 
sharp and hot.

His eyes squeeze shut again and I am afraid of his tears 
but he smiles when they open, and he says my name.

"Scully."

"Mulder."

It's been years and it hurts a little but I want this too 
Much to slow down, want him hard and hot inside of me.  I 
lean forward and brace myself against the mattress with my 
hands, rising and falling faster, closer to his face.  He 
reaches up and pulls me down for a savage kiss, balancing 
me effortlessly on his palms so that I don't have to stop 
moving.

yes god this is so good

did I say that out loud 

"So good Scully"

=he= said it

"God, yes, Scully"

I grind down hard against him one last time and hear his 
shout as he erupts, hot semen rushing up inside of me. His 
hips jerk reflexively once, twice, three times, and I 
settle down over him, finally taste that sweat-sheen at the 
base of his throat.

This time when sleep comes for us, it's for good.  I sleep 
and sleep and don't remember any dreams.


End (7/19)

"Above Rubies" (8/19) by Rachel Howard

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


The late Chidi Nwuke turns out to have been a Sudanese 
immigrant who ostensibly made his living selling Rolexes 
and Tag Hauers on street corners off of cardboard boxes.  
The problem with this story is that the watches in 
question were cheap knock-offs, and since he did indeed 
turn up on the deed to the house, they couldn't have been 
his sole source of income.  Santanda was pleased as 
punch; he called his wife right away and told her to go 
take a look at the real estate.

Ballistics informed us that the bullet in his back could 
not have come from a Glock.  I felt good about that until 
they identified some of the prints in the house as 
belonging to one Alex Krycek. All the prints were from 
the right hand, for some reason.

"Skinner said to call when we had him in custody," Scully 
comments from behind her cappuccino. "I don't see the 
point in reporting back to him just because we found 
prints." She sets the paper cup down carefully outside 
the circle of reports we've spread across the table in 
the corner of the district office. She licks her upper 
lip delicately, chasing down an errant trace of foam, and 
I have to work hard at not smiling like an idiot. 

What a cool customer. I've been putting real effort into 
not pawing her every time we're alone in the car, not 
drooling every time she stretches, but Scully is behaving 
like this is just another working day.

"How do you suppose Krycek got hooked up with these 
people?"

Exercising serious willpower, I stop staring at her 
mouth.  "At the clubhouse of the International 
Association of Really Bad People?  I don't know.  But I 
would bet good money on Krycek being involved somehow in 
getting the gas.  Look at these guys, Scully. Fucking 
amateurs.  Nwuke had a Saturday night special in a drawer 
in his bedside table. They're dropping like flies.  Hey," 
I sit up straighter, "did even one of them have a gun on 
him or show evidence of having fired a weapon in self-
defense?"

She thinks about it for a second. "No. You forgot about 
Ajiib, though. He doesn't look like an amateur."

"No," I concede. "So either Krycek or Ajiib was running 
this show.  But that still doesn't explain how two 
American-born Aryan brotherhood types got involved with a 
bunch of Sudanese and Afghani Islamic extremists. It 
doesn't make sense, Scully. It's not as if they'd meet at 
a backyard barbecue."

"We haven't established conclusively that their brand of 
extremism is related to Islam in any way. Also, we now know 
there's more gas out there somewhere."

She's right about the religion thing, and I don't want to 
rehash the discussion about our different attitudes toward
faith. "Do we know that for sure about the gas?" I'd really 
like to hear her say no.

"If that was what was in the canisters, yes. The marks 
created when they were dragged out of the basement of the 
house were fresh."

"How fresh?"

"Last twelve hours fresh.  And judging by the corpse's 
lividity, Nwuke was fairly recently deceased when we 
found him."

"I thought you didn't autopsy him."

"I didn't."  She looks faintly embarrassed.  "I had the 
medical examiner record observations from a surface exam 
only."

"Anything else worth noting?"

"Not that he found."

I hear an undercurrent in her words. "Scully, if it'll 
make you feel better, do an autopsy yourself."

"No."  She stands up, reaches for one of the reports on 
the table.  "It really isn't necessary.  I still think 
Krycek could have killed Nwuke. No prints belonging to 
Ajiib in the house, several of Krycek's."  She's quiet 
for a minute, reading the report.  "No traces of 
gunpowder on Nwuke's hands, so he hadn't recently fired a 
gun." She reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear.  
I wish I could do that for her right now. 

"Or he could have died at the hands of someone who paid 
$50 for a fake Rolex and then discovered it didn't keep 
time."

She smiles at me.  "Mulder, I'm surprised at you. A 
suggestion that doesn't even hint at conspiracy."  She 
tosses the report down.  "I'm afraid I would have to 
disagree.  I think we have every reason to suspect that 
these deaths are related."

I snicker. "Tease."

Her stern look does nothing to wipe the smile off my 
face.  I doubt a bomb could wipe the smile off my face.  
I have a little bruise on my shoulder from where Scully 
bit me this morning while we were making love.  How could 
life be less than perfect?

Hicks marches in, announcing, "Some kid found a Colt in 
the gutter a couple of blocks from the DOA's house, and 
his mother called it in.  The prints on it are Alex 
Krycek's."

Why did I agree to let this guy back us up just because I 
had a headache?  Now we can't get rid of him. Scully 
doesn't look perturbed.

"I think Krycek =is= the connection.  He's the only 
reasonable link between Ajiib and Garjon," she says.

"We really, really need to find that gas," Hicks adds.

No shit.

Santanda comes in and we all have a big clusterfuck 
discussion that ends in me agreeing that it wouldn't be a 
bad idea to go check out every known address that these 
guys have listed in their credit reports.  Of course, it 
took twenty minutes for us all to agree that was the 
smart thing to do; if it were just Scully and me, we 
would already be on the way to the first site.

This is why I hate working with other agents.   That, and 
the fact that I really want to be alone with Scully.  Not 
to flirt with her or touch her -- well, okay, maybe a 
little bit of flirting -- but just to be with her.

The records search turns up a bunch of addresses in 
residential neighborhoods and a box number in Elizabeth, 
New Jersey.

Scully looks over my shoulder. "Rural?"

"Where?" Santanda asks.

"Elizabeth."

"Not rural."  He looks at the list.  "Maybe industrial. 
What's the connection?"

I read the report. "Pierce is listed as a part owner of 
some land in New Jersey for which the taxes are seriously 
in arrears. This is the property."

Scully looks at Hicks. "What's in Elizabeth?"

Hicks and Santanda get superior looks on their faces; bet 
they're both native New Yorker.  "Not much," Hicks says.  
"Some factories."

It turns out to be an old textile mill.  New Jersey 
hasn't exactly been known for its fine fabrics for a 
while, and this place looks like it hasn't seen action in 
years.

It's enormous, and the gate is padlocked.  We park the 
car and pile out, then stand silently outside the gate.  
Finally, Hicks says,  "Looks like some vandals tore open 
the fence here.  Maybe we oughta go see if the building's 
been damaged, you know?"

Scully says, "Just for kicks, the next time we go poking 
around somewhere new, could we get a search warrant 
first?"

Santanda doesn't bother answering; he just holds back the 
drooping length of chain-link and gestures for Scully to 
go ahead.

She frowns up at the silent walls of the building and one 
hand brushes her holster, then she ducks through the 
fence.

The loading dock door caved in at some point, leaving a 
large hole.  The inside is dark and chilly, echoing 
concrete and empty slabs that once housed frames and 
machinery. The room is gigantic; it smells like dust and 
grease and birdshit.

Scully and I have better flashlights than Hicks and 
Santanda do.  In a low voice, Santanda makes a dumb 
remark about Washington budgets, and Hicks starts to 
laugh until Santanda shushes him.  Scully points her 
flashlight upward and pigeons fly off the rafters, 
stirring dust that drifts through the beam of light. I 
point mine at the opposite wall, but the light doesn't 
reach that far.

We start walking around the perimeter of the room.  We 
should have split up, two and two, to canvass the area 
more efficiently, but no one suggests it. Santanda looks 
wary; Scully just looks alert.

There are no doors off the north wall. Our footsteps echo 
slightly, and I can hear the pigeons overhead, cooing at 
each other. The west end of the room is full of long, 
empty jutting tables bolted to the floor, and we skirt 
them, our flashlights reflecting off the dull metal.  I 
have my weapon in my hand; why the fuck did I draw it, 
anyhow?  I don't like this.  Then I hear a rustle as 
Scully draws her Sig, and Hicks' gun comes out, too.  

But there's nothing here, just rusting metal and dirty 
concrete. Eventually, a faint light cuts through the 
darkness beyond our flashlights and we find a door on the 
west wall with a window, too grimy to reveal anything but 
light and faint shapes beyond.

Hicks shoves his weapon back into its holster and reaches 
for the doorknob with his free hand, but the door doesn't 
budge.  

"Locked?"  Scully bends slightly and peers at it.  The 
doorknob is shiny new.  She looks up at me, and through 
the beam of light pointed at the door I see a question on 
her face.

"There's a lockpick in our trunk. Hang on a sec."  Hicks 
turns around, shining his flashlight directly across the 
cavern of the mill, toward the door we came through.  We 
hear his footsteps cutting across the space, and Scully 
goes up on tiptoes to try and peer through the window.  I 
lean over her shoulder, trying to make it look like I'm 
just helpfully sacrificing a cuff to clean off the window 
while I surreptitiously breathe in her shampoo and the 
hint of perfume that lingers on her skin.

The first shot comes from the darkness behind us and to 
our left. In the echoing room, the report is deafening; 
far above us the pigeons break into a flurry of flight.  
Scully drops to the ground and my heart stops until I see 
that she's just finding cover.  I dive left and my 
shoulder cracks into the base of another one of the long 
tables; it hurts, but it's not me moaning.  I think 
that's Hicks, somewhere behind me, but it's hard to tell; 
there are at least a couple of guns out there in the 
dark, and the noise level is ratcheting up.  

I can hear Scully on her cell from the next row of 
tables, trying to call for backup through the noise; 
Santanda rises up next to her and gets off a round into 
the darkness, then drops back down, yelling "Greg? Talk 
to me!"  A second later, I hear the clank-whizz of a 
bullet hitting metal and rebounding as the shooters 
target the place where Santanda was.  Then Scully gets 
off a round from down low and I hear someone across the 
room cry out and fall. I hope to hell she has an extra 
clip. I want to shout and ask her but if she answered 
they'd fire at her.

If I could get around behind them, we'd be a lot better 
off.  I start moving sideways through the darkness, using 
the tables for cover until I get to the end of a row; 
then I combat-crawl my way up the next one.  It's Hicks 
moaning back there; there's a bubbling sound behind the 
words and he's not making sense. 

Santanda shouts Hicks' name again, and from his voice I 
know he heard the bubbling sound, too.  The shooters in 
the dark let off another volley, and Santanda curses 
fluently off to my right until the sound of gunfire cuts 
him off again.  Please, God, let Scully stay down.  
Please.

I can hear breathing and scuffling up ahead of me, closer 
than I thought, and I nearly crawl across a warm body. 
My hand slips through a pool of blood cooling on the 
concrete.  I can't see him in the darkness on the floor, 
but he mutters something in a language that I don't know.  
It's impossible to tell if this is the man Scully shot. I 
keep crawling.

One more row and I hear other bodies moving around.  I 
reach for my weapon. Something hits the back of my head 
and I feel the floor rush up to meet my face.



I have no idea where Mulder is.  Santanda calls for Greg 
Hicks, his voice breaking, but this time no one answers.

Another shot from across the room, but this one sounds 
like it's farther away. I fire off the last round in my 
clip and duck back down behind the table.  Where the hell 
is Mulder?  Screw it; they know where we're shooting from 
by now.

"Mulder?"

Nothing.  No shots.

"Mulder?"

I hear footsteps from the far side of the room; then a 
square of light opens up far away, on the opposite wall, 
and I hear an engine outside.

"Mulder!"

Nothing, but I see figures silhouetted against the square 
of light; it's a door. I raise my weapon, but what if one 
of them is Mulder? I freeze.

Santanda pops up next to me, his arms coming up with a 
rustle of fabric.

"Hold your fire!" I snap.

He does, then he turns and begins feeling his way back 
toward Hicks.

"MULDER!"

Nothing.  I forget to turn on my flashlight before I 
start to run towards the open door, and I bang my shin 
painfully into the metal edge of one of the tables, but I 
can't stop.  Finally, my flashlight clicks on and I dodge 
past tables and slabs down the length of the room, 
through the open door.  

Two trucks are speeding away from us. Older, one pickup 
with a topper, one red flatbed with a covered load in the 
back. I turn and run back into the building.

Down each aisle, my heels clacking on the concrete.  
Nothing but shell casings here, then the rows of tables 
give way to rows of dark, shallow holes where equipment 
once stood.  He's here, he's here, he just hit his head 
or something, that's why he isn't answering me.

Then another row of tables; I stop dead when I see the 
body.  

It isn't Mulder; my flashlight shows me that much.  But 
five feet away there's another small smear of blood.

"Mulder!"

Another ten rows; he couldn't be back this far, I know 
what he must have tried to do -- circle around, get 
behind them.  My lover, my fool. So where - 

"Mulder, where the =fuck= are you?"

Nothing but silence and a hitching weeping.

When the infantry arrives this time, I am standing with 
blood running down my leg from the cut on my shin, 
Santanda is crying over Hicks' still body and Mulder is 
gone, gone.


End "Above Rubies, (8/19)




"Above Rubies," (9/19) by Rachel Howard

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


Hicks died before the ambulance arrived. 

Santanda's suit jacket is stiff with blood up to the 
elbows. When I got to where he was kneeling on the concrete 
floor, holding his partner's head in his lap, he was 
shaking with silent tears, his hand clamped to the sticky 
mess on Hicks' chest. Hicks' breathing had stopped, and he 
had no pulse. I glanced at Santanda's hand, still covering 
the wound, then gently rolled Hicks onto his side.  There 
was a saucer-sized hole in his back. 

The evidence team is busy cataloguing the stash they found 
when they got through that locked door. Guns, ammo, some of 
the same stuff we found in Queens, nothing too exotic.  

More skid marks on the ground.

No gas.

We've put out an APB on the two trucks, but the shooters 
must have gone to ground.  

No Mulder.  

I finally pull out my phone and make the call.

"Do you have Krycek in custody yet, Agent Scully?"

"Sir, we found a site where it appears the VX gas may have 
recently been stored."

"How?"

"It belonged to Pierce -- the suspect who was found dead in 
his cell."  Skinner grunts, a noncommittal sound. 

"Did you take backup with you?" I can tell from his voice 
that he suspects something went wrong and he's getting 
ready to chew me out.

"Yes, sir.  Santanda and Hicks." The rest of the story 
comes out in a rush. "We found other contraband at the 
site.  In the course of our investigation, we were attacked 
by unidentified gunmen and we responded with deadly force.  
One of the gunmen is dead. Agent Hicks was fatally wounded.  
Agent Mulder is missing, and we believe that the remaining 
gunmen have kidnapped him."

A long silence.

Skinner says, "I'm on my way." 

He pauses.  

"Hang on, Scully."

A click, and the line goes dead.

A reporter with a notepad tries to corner me just outside 
the fence, and I brush by the man without even looking at 
his face. 

I sit in the car that Greg Hicks drove us here in and 
review the facts I gave Skinner. Mulder missing, no gas, 
Hicks dead.  I left out the blood on Santanda's suit jacket 
and buttondown shirt, and the way he cried over his 
partner's body.  I left out the blood on the floor where 
Mulder must have been.

I should get that tested to make sure.

All I can think of is Mulder's expression this morning when 
he woke up next to me; mixed disbelief and joy. We made 
love again before sunlight started showing through the 
crack in the heavy hotel room drapes. I bit down on his 
shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.  I've never done 
anything like that before in my life. But he liked it; he 
nipped at my throat in return, smiling into my neck and 
covering my mouth with his own when I tried to apologize.  
"Love bites are good.  Just promise not to shoot me again, 
okay?"

How far could they have gotten from here?

"Agent Scully?" One of the agents from the field office is 
knocking on the window. His voice is dull through the layer 
of glass.

"Agent Scully?"

I unlock the car door and step out.  "That second 
bloodstain on the floor near the dead perp -- I want that 
typed.  I think it's Agent Mulder's.  If he's injured, I 
need to know."

Whatever he was going to say, I stole his thunder. "All 
right, I'll take care of it.  ASAC Lofton wanted to see 
you."

Lofton wants to ask stupid questions about why we went in 
without a warrant or backup.  I tell him about the fence 
and the theoretical vandals in as few breaths as I can. 
When Santanda comes out of the building, he heads straight 
for me.  I turn on my heel, leaving Lofton finishing his 
sentence, and meet Santanda halfway.

"I need to get Greg's car back to his wife," he says. His 
face is blank, shocked.

"I'll go with you."

When his eyes focus on me, he seems surprised to see me 
there.  "No.  I'll take you back to your hotel. Thank you, 
anyway," he offers belatedly.  "Mulder --"

He stops, and neither one of us says anything.  Santanda's 
Fingers clutch the keyring in his hand.  He still has blood 
under his fingernails. Bending stiffly, he opens the door 
on my side and waits while I get in, then shuts it 
carefully, automatic courtly gestures that betray nothing.

Skinner will come with backup, and the dogs will pick up a 
scent trail from the trucks.  I read somewhere that they 
can track a person's scent from a trail left by a car going 
sixty miles an hour on the highway with the windows up. 
They will want money, or safe passage to Afghanistan, and 
they will give Mulder back. A FBI agent is too valuable a 
hostage to waste. 

Then I remember the hole in Sarah Pitts Ajiib's chest where 
her heart had been, and I have to press my fingers into the 
cut on my leg to keep from crying.

"Agent Scully?" Santanda's eyes are red but he seems calm.  
"Are you all right?" he asks.  How old is he, anyway?  
Thirty-five, forty? I want to know how long he and Hicks 
were partners, but I can't find the words.

I look at the unnatural stillness of his face. "Are you?"

Neither of us answers.

By the time we reach Manhattan, dusk is closing in. I make 
my way up to my room, aware of the pain in my leg, grateful 
for the distraction.  

I still have Mulder's keycard and his looks just like mine.  
On the second try the card opens my door.  When I hear it 
snick shut behind me I sag against it and let the tears 
come.

Please, God, I need him back. We waited so long; don't let 
it be too late for us.  I love him but I never told him 
that. 

We are supposed to pray for strength but all I want is 
Mulder, back where he belongs, by my side.

"Tissue?"

The voice comes from the darkness just in front of me and 
it's familiar in a bad way.  I don't reply, I just lash 
out, sending a sharp kick in the direction of the voice.  I 
feel my foot brush something and the rush of air where a 
body was breathing, and then the muzzle of a gun making 
contact with my neck.  Not centered, actually close to my 
shoulder, but a bullet would go through my carotid artery 
anyway.

"Be nice."  The voice is amused.  "There really is a box of 
tissues over by the bed.  Shall we take a walk?"

"Turn on the light," I rasp around the drying tears and the 
pressure from his gun.

I hear something hard clatter against the wall and the 
lights go on.

Alex Krycek.  Why am I even surprised?

"What do you want with me?"

He shakes his head condescendingly and I grit my teeth, 
wanting to put a bullet into his forehead. He pulls back a 
couple of inches. "Put your hands on your head."

I do it, smelling sweat and cordite when I raise my arms.

"March.  Stand next to the edge of the bed farthest from me 
and keep your hands on top of your head.  Don't give me a 
reason to shoot you." Now he sounds bored, like a cop 
reciting the Miranda rights.

He doesn't frisk me, for some reason, just says, "Unbuckle 
your holster and drop it."

I do that, too.  Krycek says, "Sit."

I sit. 

He settles on the edge of the bed across from me. His left 
arm hangs stiffly at his side, and finally I realize that 
it's not real. What happened to him?  I hope it hurt.  
Other than the arm, he looks healthy, alert.  There's a 
certain economy to his movements that I don't remember.  
He's wearing a leather jacket and jeans, casual wear for 
the enterprising killer. He lets me look him over for a 
minute, then says, "Relax a little, Scully.  I'm not here 
to kill you."

"That's comforting."

"Sorry."  He doesn't sound sorry. "The gun is just a 
precaution. I only want to talk."

"I've heard that line before."

He snorts.  "No, really, I mean it.  And I'll even respect 
you in the morning." He cocks his head towards me and seems 
disappointed when I don't laugh. "Seriously, I have a 
proposition for you. If you'd unbuckle your ankle holster 
and kick it away, we'd be one step closer." 

Krycek watches me carefully as I release the straps on the 
ankle holster.  Did he know that I wear one from working 
with Mulder all those years ago, or did he learn that from 
surveillance?  

"Stand up," he says, sounding bored again.  "Got some 
cuffs?"

"What?"

"Lie face up on the bed. Cuff yourself to the bedframe, 
hands above your head."

"What?  Fuck you, Krycek!"

He sighs resignedly.  "Maybe later, sugar." Watching my 
face, he adds, "Jesus, Scully, still haven't learned to 
take a joke, have you?  It's the only way I can frisk you 
with one arm." 

"Must be rough being a one-armed bandit." I don't move.  

"Now come on.  There are plenty of ways I can hurt you 
without killing you, you know."

The flat quality of his voice makes me obey.  With my arms 
above my head, my shirt rides up enough to pull out of my 
waistband. Krycek puts the gun down on the bed near my feet 
and slides his remaining hand up my side professionally. He 
tugs my shirt down before continuing up my torso, and I 
catch myself nearly thanking him.

Krycek displays only clinical detachment while he finishes 
frisking me; it would be like a visit to the doctor if it 
weren't for the gun and the leather. When he finishes, he 
unlocks the cuffs and says, "Sit," again as he scoops up 
the gun.

"Okay. Ready to listen to me or are you going to do 
something stupid and force me to get nasty in return?"

"Why would I want to listen to anything you have to say?"

"Want Mulder back?"

A gasp gets past my lips before I can do anything about it.  
"How did you know he--"

"Do you?"

"Yes."  God, yes.  

I would do anything.

I don't say that out loud but Krycek hears it anyway in the 
silence that falls between us. "Okay, then. Now that I have 
your attention..." He pops the clip out of his gun and 
tosses it over his shoulder, then lets the gun fall to the 
mattress next to him.  It hits the bedspread with a soft 
thump.  He studies my face for a minute.  The leather 
jacket creaks softly as his muscles relax.

I take a deep breath. "Where did you take him and what do I 
need to do to get him back?"

"I didn't take him, Scully. And I don't give a shit what 
=they= want with him.  But I know where he is."

"What do =you= want?"

"Damn, the subtle art of negotiation.  I was thinking we 
could chat first, catch up on old times.  Sort of like 
foreplay, you know?"

"Fuck you. Why did you come here?"

He gives a resigned sigh.  "Fine. You want Mulder.  I want 
something else that they have.  You help me get in there 
and get it, you can have your partner back.  I get to keep 
what they stole from me, no questions asked, no FBI 
assholes on my tail."

Oh, no. "The gas, right? You want the gas?"

"It's mine," he explains.  "Besides, you don't want these 
guys to have it, do you?"

"Ajiib?"

"Of course Ajiib. Who the fuck else?" He looks irritated.

"It was you in the bar in Chelsea, wasn't it?  Did you 
knock Mulder out?"

"This isn't Twenty Questions, Scully. Do we have a deal?"

I want to hurt him so badly I can taste the hot adrenaline 
in my throat. Just one hard blow to the right place on his 
neck; I learned how to do it at the Academy. "You think you 
can just walk away with a truckload of VX gas?  You're out 
of your mind.  You know damn well --"

"I asked you if you wanted Mulder back," he reminds me in a 
low voice.  "This is how you get him back.  You accompany 
me to a certain location and back me up. I know you're a 
good shot. We find Mulder. You help me move the gas. If 
Mulder's in any shape to help, he does." 

I try not to think about what that means, and Krycek 
continues in the same conversational tone. "If I think 
you're not being helpful enough, I shoot you dead and don't 
look back. If I find any of your FBI friends on my ass, I 
shoot them, then I find you and Mulder and shoot Mulder's 
nuts off while you get to watch. That's the deal.  Are you 
interested?"

I breathe deeply through my nose. "How am I supposed to 
make sure the FBI doesn't go after you? There are other 
people involved in this investigation. Skinner is on his 
way down here from Washington right now."

He stands up.  "Then we'd better get moving." He picks up 
both of my holsters and hands them to me, murmuring, "Sig. 
Well, whatever."

"Even if I believed this story, why should I believe that 
you're going to really help get Mulder out of there? You're 
just as likely to shoot us both!"

He looks at me, the lamplight picking out the planes of his 
face, as cold and handsome as if he were marble. "If I had 
wanted to shoot you, I would have done it a long time ago."

"Like you shot my sister?"

Krycek stops dead. With something that could pass for 
regret, he answers, "I didn't shoot your sister. Luis 
Cardinale did."

"Then what were you doing there?  The evidence they turned 
up--"

"You know the answer to that.  Do you want me to say it? I 
was there to kill you."

"And I'm supposed to trust you now?"

"It was business, Scully." There is no apology in his eyes 
now.  "Business. You should understand that.  If it makes a 
difference, I'm glad it wasn't you."

"It was my =sister=, damn it! And what were you -- you were 
just following orders, right?"

He shakes his head.  "You're supposed to be a pragmatist.  
Get a hold of yourself." He reaches over and gets the clip 
for his Glock off the bed. 

I want to kill him, but I want Mulder back more.  After a 
minute, I restrap my holster to my waist.  My hands are 
shaking slightly and I breathe deeply to steady them.

When both guns are secured to my body again, I feel a 
little bit better.  "Why me? Don't you have friends who 
would help you?"

Without a trace of irony, he says, "You don't make many 
friends in my line of work." He taps at an imaginary 
wristwatch. "No time like the present."

"Where are we going?"

His eyes flick towards me without his head moving at all. 
"You'll find out when we get there.  Does it matter? I'm 
assuming you have another clip for that Sig."

"Two.  It matters."

"Not too far," he tells me. "You need to change your 
clothes.  Put on something black."

I had blood on my suit anyway.  

Krycek doesn't exactly leer while I strip off my dirty, 
stained clothes, but he doesn't turn his back either. I 
nearly say something about it, but then I remember that I 
have both my guns back. I wouldn't turn my back on him if 
our positions were reversed. I end up in a black t-shirt 
and dark jeans and semi-comfortable boots.  I don't 
remember packing the jeans.  Mulder must have tossed them 
into my luggage.

It's hard to dress and watch him simultaneously, and the 
situation practically prohibits small talk. Krycek's hair 
is cut short and sleek, showing traces of the white scalp 
beneath, and there are no lines around his eyes. It's a 
nice jacket, too.  Being a hired gun seems to agree with 
him. He rolls his neck and flexes his working arm like a 
boxer warming up for a bout, all without ever taking his 
eyes off me.

Last night there was a different man in my room, watching 
me undress. Please hang on, Mulder -- I'm coming for you.

"How many people have you killed, Scully?"

"Why?"

"You have killed before, I know that.  Ever shoot someone 
in the back? Shoot an unarmed man?"

"No."

He stares at me while I tie my boots.  "If it helps, all of 
these men are bloodthirsty fanatics who would kill you as 
soon as look at you."

I leave without looking back, trailing Alex Krycek to an 
unknown destination.


End "Above Rubies", (9/19)
Snowrider5@aol.com




"Above Rubies," by Rachel Howard (10/19)

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


I caught her checking the plate on the Ram before we got 
in, not that it'll do her any good. Finding one of these 
things is a cast iron bitch in New York -- the Wall Street 
crowd leans more towards leather-interior sport-utility 
vehicles than real pickup trucks -- but we're going to need 
the cargo space. 

Scully climbs into the passenger seat without comment.  She 
buckles her seatbelt, which makes me snort out loud.  One 
razor-edged look in my direction lets me know what she 
thinks of my opinion, my attitude, and my choice of vehicle 
all at once.  

She looks good.  I mostly remember her being fatter and 
wearing ugly pantsuits.  Of course, I did see some 
surveillance tapes when she still had cancer. She was in 
her underwear in those. A newly paroled convict wouldn't 
have fucked her; skin stretched tight over her bones, hair 
falling out.  This is a nice, happy medium -- she fills out 
those jeans well but there's no extra padding.

"Where are we going, Krycek?"

"You really do have a one-track mind, don't you?"

"Where?"

"Didn't you say something about Skinner being on his way 
here?"

She flinches, and I mentally high-five myself. Scully does 
everything by the book -- just sitting in the cab of this 
truck with me is probably giving her hives.  "I'm assuming 
he's going to call you when he gets here.  What are you 
going to tell him?"

"That I'm following up a lead on Mulder's whereabouts and 
that I'll contact him if it pans out."

"You're a shitty liar, Scully."

Another look.  Mulder's blood must be made of antifreeze; I 
would have booted her out of the basement the first time 
she tried that crap on me.  Personally, I prefer women who 
scream and yell; it saves a lot of time.

I blast across town towards the Holland Tunnel, scaring 
droves of cabbies along the way.  I love trucks, real 
trucks. I forgot what fun it is driving something with 
decent clearance and a piece of shit muffler that lets you 
hear the engine rumbling.

Scully doesn't say anything, she just tugs her shoulder 
strap tighter across her chest, which squeezes her breasts 
in a really intriguing way.  "Where did you get the gas?"

"Shell. No, wait -- maybe it was a Texaco."

"You know what I mean. The VX gas.  Ajiib and the others -- 
they got it from you, didn't they?"

"I already said that I'm not playing that game with you."

Scully lips press into a thin line. "All right." She drums 
the fingers of her right hand against her thigh. "Seen any 
good movies lately?"

I grin at her, taking my eyes off the road long enough to 
make her nervous.  "Is that your best shot?  You must be a 
riot at cocktail parties. Let's just say I imported the gas 
from a country that you wouldn't want to visit."

"I doubt it came from Afghanistan.  Where?  Iraq? 
Pakistan?"

"Why does it matter?"

"It matters because you sold it to terrorists who are 
likely to use it to hurt Americans."

"Really?  I'm shocked. They told me they just wanted it for 
Show and Tell." The deal has gone to shit, but she doesn't 
need to know that.  Actually, she doesn't need to know any 
of this, but it's kind of nice talking to someone who sends 
Christmas cards, does brunch, waters her plants.  "My turn.  
How did you and Mulder figure out that Garjon was holding 
the gas in the first place? And what are you doing chasing 
after terrorists? Aren't you two still on alien-and-spook 
detail?"

Her mouth twitches again.  After a pause, she replies, "It 
was an accident, actually.  We were looking for something 
else."

"No way."  That honestly never occurred to me.  I wonder if 
my sometime employers are still trying to figure out how 
Mr. and Mrs. Spooky got interested in Ajiib and Garjon. 
I'll bet they're shitting themselves. I laugh, thumping the 
steering wheel with the unfeeling plastic of my left hand. 
"Fuck.  That's really funny.  Small world, huh, Scully?"  

Nothing, not even a smile. Damn -- it can't be healthy for 
her, never laughing.  Or maybe Mulder makes her laugh -- 
who knows? 

I'm warming up to this game.  "So, have you and Mulder done 
the deed yet?"

A steely look, flushed cheeks, hands clenching in her lap.  
I get the feeling she would really like to break my jaw but 
she's controlling herself.  Interesting.  "Come on, tell 
me. I promise not to rat on you if you're fucking him. I'm 
just curious, that's all."

"Were you on their side before you joined the FBI, or did 
someone recruit you, pay you off after you got assigned to 
Mulder?" she lashes back.

"Not bad.  If I were that kind of guy, I'd be hurt." 
Strangely enough, it did hurt a little, like catching a 
baseball without a mitt.  "Let's just say I found the 
opportunity for professional advancement at the FBI to be 
somewhat limited."

"You didn't answer my question."  We slip past the New 
York/New Jersey line in the tunnel. "Did he offer you 
money?  The Smoking Man?  Or was it something else?"

A direct hit that time -- no chink in the armor, Scully 
found a big hole.  "We're going to need to surprise them, 
obviously.  They have the gas in a shed behind the house.  
We only need to recover one canister, serial number 
010871."

"Why?"

"Because the other canisters don't contain VX gas." 

That gets me the first real reaction from Scully since we 
left the hotel.  She's gaping. "What? Where's the rest of 
it?"

"You =got= the rest of it, Scully.  These guys have twenty 
canisters.  You found thirty-nine in Manhattan, right?"

She bites her lip trying to decide whether or not to reveal 
the results of their accidental bust, but finally she nods, 
wanting to hear the rest of the story.

"Okay.  Those are real, as your lab rats undoubtedly found 
out.  So's 010871.  The rest are full of nitrous oxide."

"=Laughing= gas?"

"The old bait and switch."  I feel a sudden surge of pride.  
Pulling this job was truly enjoyable.  There's nothing like 
ripping off a bunch of self-righteous, sanctimonious 
assholes to make your day.  Week, month, whatever.

Most of these idiots, Garjon and Pierce included, are sold 
on some bizarre value system that blends religion and 
isolationism in equal parts.  Ajiib is different.  I'm not 
sure exactly what his story is, but I get the same feeling 
from him that I get from big-haired televangelists.  Like a 
Middle-Eastern Jimmy Swaggart, he's got his followers 
frothing at the mouth and giving him their cash while he 
follows an entirely different agenda.  I thought at first 
that he was only after the money, but now I'm not sure any 
more. 

If I have one regret left from my days at the Hoover 
Building, it's that I didn't spend enough time watching the 
profilers do their work.  Being able to get inside the mind 
of a criminal would be helpful on some of these situations.

"So 010871 will be outside, in a shed behind the house."

"House?"

I look over at her and breathe an exaggerated sigh of 
disgust.  "Good one, Scully -- you caught me.  We're going 
to a house in New Jersey. That's where they have both 
Mulder and the gas. Happy now?"  She doesn't answer. 
"Sounds like you've stumbled onto a few of their storage 
places lately so I guess the pickings were getting slim." 
We come out the far side of the tunnel, into Jersey 
traffic. I roll down the window.  Mmm, fresh New Jersey 
air.

"A house where?"

Her cellphone rings. She reaches for her inside pocket 
automatically and I warn, "Watch it."

"Be quiet," she hisses, punching the button on her phone. 
"Scully."

I cut off a grandmother driving a Cadillac. 

"Yes, sir."

Out of the corner of my eye I see Scully sit up a little 
straighter.  Must be Skinner. That's right, her father was 
a Navy captain. Definitely a learned response to authority 
figures -- or maybe it's because she's so fucking short. 
Interesting, either way.

I hear her take a deep breath and begin stammering, 
"Sir.......I am in pursuit -- rather, I'm pursuing......."

Fuck it. I reach over and grab the phone over Scully's 
snarl.  "Hi there, =sir=, long time no chitchat.  Scully's 
on a date with me.  I promise not to bring her home too 
late."  I don't bother hitting the off button before I toss 
the phone out the window.  

"Are you crazy? That was =Skinner!=" That's better; she's 
cute when she's mad -- her face gets all flushed.

"What? It was a shitty phone.  When you requisition a new 
one, ask for a Nokia."

"What were you thinking?"

"Easy, princess.  Just tell him I kidnapped you.  Motorola 
has a couple of nice ones, too. Weigh about as much as a 
candy bar, but the battery life is about twice as long as 
what your piece of shit phone could do."

She leans her head back against the seat and covers her 
eyes with one hand.  "I should have just shot you."

A lesser man would point out that she never had a chance, 
but I decide to let that one go. After a pause, she asks 
hesitantly, "Have you.......spoken to these people today?"

"What.......oh.  You're thinking about Mulder."  She looks 
out the window.  "Look, I =know= he's there."

"How?"

"Damn it, Scully, let it go!  You know, you're just like 
him.  You don't even ask the right damn questions."

"What do you mean?" She sounds really pissed.  I take my 
eyes off the road long enough to take a good look at her.  
Eyes narrowed, lips parted.  There's a little tiger hidden 
under her tidy hairdo and elegant manicure. I wonder what 
she's like in bed.

"I mean, what does it matter =how= I know?  If you're going 
to ask questions, ask about what really matters.  Like, how 
are we going to get Mulder and a tank of toxic gas out of a 
house full of heavily armed fanatics."

That's really what it comes down to, isn't it?  Three hours 
ago I was just looking for another gun.  Now, I'd really 
like to fuck her.  I could chalk this up to just not having 
gotten laid in a while -- and Marita doesn't count -- but 
an strong man admits his weaknesses.  She's much sexier 
than I remember, plus this tidy Girl Scout demeanor is so 
tempting. It would be like walking across a snowfield just 
to see how your tracks disturbed the surface.

"Well, how are we going to do that, then?  And while you're 
at it, what's your connection to these people?"

"Jesus, you're hopeless.  They're =customers.= Or at least 
they were." I grin, thinking about how Ajiib will react 
when he figures out that the rest of the gas won't cause 
anything worse than a mild buzz.  With any luck they won't 
know until =after= they've uncorked the canisters in some 
subway station and made some ludicrous statement to the 
press about the wrath of Allah striking down Western 
infidels. 

"How are we going to get Mulder out of the house alive? And 
how many men do you think Ajiib has in there?"

"Maybe five or ten? More if Ajiib is there himself.  
They're under the impression that the Aryan Revival Army 
sicced you and your friends on them, so they're a little 
antsy right now. Did you manage to off any of them today 
when you ran into them at the factory?"

"How do you know.......One of them, yes. The Aryan Revival 
Army -- is that the name of Garjon and Pierce's group?"

"I think we check the shed first, take out whoever's on 
sentry duty, get 010871 into the truck, then go in after 
Mulder."

"We're getting Mulder first."

"Wrong.  We're going to have to shoot =someone= in that 
house to get him out.  You didn't bring a silencer, did 
you?"

Scully looks at me like I've just asked if she's 
moonlighting for the Crips.  Actually, I sort of did.  "All 
right, never mind.  Reach behind me and grab that black 
backpack.  No, the space behind my seat."

She stretches across the space between the seats, 
stretching an arm into the tiny space behind the driver's 
seatback of the cab.  The pack must have gotten wedged back 
there when I adjusted the seat, because she has to tug to 
get it loose. Her hair brushes my leg; I smell gunpowder 
and female skin, two great tastes that taste great 
together. "There's a Glock in there and a couple of clips.  
The silencer is in the outside pocket." I have an actual 
hard-on just from the touch of her hair, how about that? 

I'm still not entirely sure she won't flake on me when it 
comes to shooting these motherfuckers. As useless as Marita 
is, she never has any qualms about killing someone who's in 
her way.  Oh well -- Scully's a better shot and she's 
better company, and Marita has a bad habit of telling tales 
to the wrong people.  Not to mention that she'd want to 
take a cut off the top.

She's rummaging for the silencer.  I hear her check the 
clip and snap it back in, then fitting the silencer to the 
muzzle of the pistol.

"I'm going to want that back, by the way.  I like that 
gun."

She doesn't answer, and when I glance at her, she's looking 
out the window at the smokestacks passing by outside of 
Newark. At the top of the stacks, the flames topping the 
gas vents waver and twist against the black heat of the 
sky. The gun lies in her lap, her slim fingers flexing 
around the grip. Scully, the sane one, the one who can't 
think outside of the box.

I run the speedometer up to ninety and begin looking for 
the exits to the Garden State Parkway.




The pain in my head wakes me up.

If it weren't so dark in here, I'd press the call button 
and ask the nurse for Demerol.

Scully says I can't have painkillers with a head injury.

A small piece of reality returns.  The scratchy fabric 
beneath my face isn't a hospital pillow.  The confusing 
darkness is due to some kind of blindfold that pulls at the 
skin around my eyes and itches.

I try to roll over, but my arms are behind my back, and 
when I move, it twists my arm painfully, so I stop moving.

I hear a voice say something in a foreign language, and 
footsteps. Someone pokes my leg, hard, and I pretend to 
still be unconscious.

Another poke, and then the footsteps go away.

I should stay awake and try to remember how I got into this 
mess, but when reality begins to get fuzzy again it seems 
like a bad idea to fight it. 

Pretty soon I don't need to pretend any longer.


End "Above Rubies" (10/19)




"Above Rubies," (11/19)
 See chapter 1 for disclaimers, other info. 


The sign says "Welcome to Red Bank." Krycek blows by it so 
fast the letters blur together in the glare of the truck's 
headlights. Our lights illuminate a gas station, a 
supermarket, a liquor store. We bounce over a set of 
railroad tracks, and Krycek chooses this moment to stop 
watching the road completely and peer back over his 
shoulder at the Mercedes dealership we just passed. 

By now, they must know that Mulder is a federal agent, much 
more valuable to them alive than dead. But that's assuming 
these men think rationally. "Did you ever meet him in 
person? Ajiib?" 

"Yeah," Krycek says, distracted. "That was Elm Street we 
just passed, wasn't it?" 

"What's he like?" 

"He's a weird motherfucker on a crusade, Scully. I'll be 
sure to introduce you if I get the chance." He looks over 
at me and his expression changes. "Look, I don't think he's 
done anything to Mulder. Really. He just wants the FBI off 
his case and he probably wants to gas the shit out of the 
Aryan Revival Army. He's broke, too, so he's probably 
trying to decide how big a ransom he can squeeze out of the 
FBI for returning Mulder." 

"How do you know he's broke?" I try to keep the hope and 
resentment out of my voice. Alex Krycek trying to soothe me 
is more than I can take right now. 

"I knew about how much he had to spend before I sold him 
the gas. He's spent it all. So he's broke." He grins 
wolfishly. "Just consider it a public service on my part." 

He pulls the truck over to the side of the street and 
parks. I check the clip of the gun I'm holding again, to 
have something to do. "Some public service. He's still 
holding a canister of VX gas." 

"Yeah, well, we're about to fix that." He climbs out of the 
cab and shuts the door softly. 

"What type of crusade is he on?"

"The wacko Islamic religious kind, Scully. For Chrissakes. 
You really didn't know that?" He stops and glares at me. 
"Don't let the political correctness bullshit get in the 
way of drawing reasonable investigative conclusions." Alex 
Krycek is now lecturing me on protocol. I am sure my head 
is going to split wide open. He seems to catch himself 
doing it and points down the street, like he's changing the 
subject. "The house is down there. We'll take the alley."

It's a little cooler here than it was in the city, a slight 
breeze moving the air, barely catching someone's wind 
chimes down the street. A sign tells me that we're on 
Branch Avenue. The street is quiet, but there are faint 
sounds from some of the white and gray frame houses around 
us. A typical suburban town, with a gang of armed maniacs 
holed up in one of these Cape Cod- style two-stories. The 
one we're parked in front of has a sign on the mailbox that 
reads, "The Hendersons." 

They didn't think it could happen in Oklahoma City, 
either. Serial killers in Milwaukee, militia in the 
Midwest. Ajiib, Garjon and Pierce, all establishing a 
foothold here in the New York Metro area. Maybe extremism 
and madness have finally come into their own, at the tail 
end of the twentieth century, spreading into mainstream 
America like a virus instead of hiding out in rural Idaho. 
I shiver, thinking of the Hendersons, living alongside 
these men. 

No flashlights; we stumble every now and then, and I keep 
expecting to wake up someone's dog. Something crunches 
slightly under my foot and I flinch. Krycek moves smoothly, 
hardly making a sound. How the hell does he do that? When 
he puts his arm out to stop me, all I can hear is a faint 
rustle from his jacket and canned voices from a television 
in a house farther down. 

We're standing behind a tidy two-story, just like all the 
others. It's got an honest-to-God white picket fence. And 
in the dim light coming from the ground floor windows in 
the back of the house, I can see a small garden shed not 
more than thirty paces away, presumably the one that's 
holding the canister of VX gas. The back door creaks and a 
figure comes out in a rush of light; he's talking, which is 
a good thing because it covers the sound of Krycek and me 
dropping into the tall weeds growing alongside the fence. 

The man says something in a foreign language and another 
voice answers from the far side of the shed. Neither of us 
have a clear shot, and we both know it. Krycek's warm 
breath tickles the side of my neck. "Wait," he whispers 
into my ear. The men in front of the shed are talking in 
low voices. A light flicks off inside the house. Crickets 
and the occasional car on Branch Avenue provide a 
background. We wait. 




This time when I wake up, I'm thirsty as hell, and I 
remember right away that the pain in my head is due to 
getting ambushed in the factory. I don't have any idea how 
long ago that was, though. My face hurts. I listen; there 
are voices somewhere below me. I try to open my mouth, but 
I can't. A gag? I try it again. No, I think they put tape 
over my mouth. I'm lying face down on a mattress that 
smells like piss and dust. My head feels a little clearer 
and I take inventory. Hands tied behind back -- no, I think 
they're taped -- feet taped, and I have a bad feeling that 
the reason I can't see is that they put tape over my eyes, 
too. 

I really, really need a drink of water. 

I roll a little, experimentally, and the mattress creaks 
but I can't feel anything else hurting aside from my head. 
I roll over onto my back and that changes right away; my 
bound hands are taking all the weight of my body. I'm also 
dangerously close to rolling off the mattress so I sit up 
and get my legs over the edge, bedsprings creaking, my head 
swimming again. I try to breathe deeply and fight it, but 
colored dots are still swirling against the blackness 
behind my eyelids when I hear footsteps outside the door. 

Immediately, I regret making the effort to sit up in the 
first place. I hear the click of a light switch and voices. 
It sounds like Arabic. What the fuck am I thinking? I 
have no idea what Arabic sounds like. I sit up a little 
straighter and concentrate on the feeling of the floor 
under my feet. I feel hands on either side of my head, and 
a man's voice says, clearly, "Agent Mulder?" 

It's like the world's biggest Band-Aid coming off. My face 
hurts, but at least I can move my jaw. I try to answer, but 
I cough instead, hurting my head all over again. The man in 
front of me says something, and everything is quiet for a 
minute. His hands tilt my head to the side briefly, and 
everything swims again. I think I've got a new concussion, 
or else I woke up the old one. Scully is going to be 
really, really pissed. 

I feel the cool lip of a plastic cup at my mouth and I'm so 
grateful I could cry. The water isn't very cold, and it 
tastes faintly metallic, but I drink it fast, gulping, feel 
it spilling down my chin. 

"Better? All right. Who gave you the address of the 
location you were investigating, Mr. Mulder?" The accent is 
very faint, and the English is precise, careful. The 
question is almost polite, but I know the beginning of an 
interrogation when I hear one. I breathe in before I 
answer, "No one. We were doing a routine investigation --" 
The slap isn't hard, isn't even a surprise, but it ruins my 
delicate equilibrium and my stomach rebels. I let gravity 
find me and I get my head between my knees before I vomit. 

The water I drank comes up, and bile, but not much else -- 
I don't know when I last ate. I really hope I puked on his 
shoes, whoever he is. Fuck, now I'm thirsty again. "We know 
Garjon is dead. So who was it? Maxwell or Pierce?" 

Who the hell is Maxwell? And how does this guy know about 
Garjon and Pierce? I take a chance, and answer, "Pierce is 
dead." 

"How?" He asks sharply, but he sounds interested. 
Downstairs, someone switches on a stereo, and I hear tinny-
sounding music. What do these guys have down there, an 
eight-track? 

"Dead in his cell." 

"Which means your government killed him." 

"That would be my guess," I agree. Well, someone connected 
with the government, anyhow. With good enough connections 
to get in and out of a New York City jail and make Pierce's 
death look like a suicide. After the other things we found 
out, I would give the nod to Alex Krycek, but this guy 
doesn't need to know that. "Really. An interesting 
conclusion for an FBI agent to draw, given the situation." 
His voice is faintly amused, faintly derogatory. I sniff 
hard, try to clear the burning taste in my throat. The 
woman on the recording is singing in French, something 
café-mournful. The scratchy sound isn't an eight-track, 
it's a turntable, and an old needle. I can smell my own 
puke, and the dry, old sweat smell of the room. "Are 
you Mohammad al Ajiib?" 

A pause, then he asks, "Was it Maxwell, then?" He sounds 
faintly pleased. I would bet a kidney this is Ajiib.. "We 
got the address of that factory off a property records 
search," I reply, stressing each word. "Believe whatever 
you want. I want to know where Maxwell is just as badly as 
you do. How did you people end up working with those guys, 
anyway?" 

"They are infidels. They serve only as mules to carry a 
burden for Allah's soldiers." The change is so quick it's 
eerie. He sounds like he's reciting from a script. His 
answer has a rote, rhythmic quality. Who else has he had to 
justify the relationship with Pierce and Garjon to? 

"You are Ajiib, aren't you?" 

"Was it Pierce who told you of us, then? How long has the 
FBI been investigating me?" 

"I don't know. I was pulled into this investigation last 
week, when the FBI found Garjon." 

That's a lie, but Ajiib seems to believe it -- at least, he 
doesn't hit me again. Or maybe he just doesn't want me 
puking on his feet this time. I wish I could get this taste 
out of my mouth. I want another drink of water but I know 
asking him would only give him more power over me. Not all 
of my field training was wasted time. I wish I could see 
his face, his expressions. "Why did you kill your wife?" 

"I have no wife." The answer is too quick. It's Ajiib, all 
right. 

"What did she do?" He doesn't answer. "Her name was Sarah 
Pitts and you killed her." I know it's a mistake even 
before he hits me. This time it isn't a slap, it's a closed 
fist, and the pain registers in my jaw and I begin dry-
heaving. 

Through my retching, I hear him answer, "I have no wife." 
His voice has that rhythmic, toneless quality again. "You 
work alongside a woman, don't you?" Instantly, I'm on the 
alert. But he doesn't let me answer. "A woman who fires a 
weapon and pretends to be a soldier." The sneer in his 
voice is palpable, but I don't say anything. "I saw her 
today, searching for you when we took you with us. A woman 
who would be a soldier is no woman at all, Mr. Mulder. No 
woman. Nor is a woman who would be a diplomat, a 
politician." 

He's quiet for a minute, and I try to think of something 
that isn't an answer, something to keep him talking. 
Nothing comes to me. After a long pause, he says, "I have 
read your Bible. It says that the price of a virtuous woman 
is far above rubies. This is true. But I do not understand 
what one is meant to do in order to seek restitution should 
her virtue turn to deception, should she become a whore." 

He sounds calm, almost thoughtful, but I wish I could see 
his face because he's finally managed to scare me. The part 
about the price of a good woman rings some bell. Finally, I 
hazard, "I never spent much time reading the Bible." 

"Proverbs 31, verse 10." I hear footsteps, 
then a door closing. And then I'm alone in the dark with 
the pain in my head and the smell of vomit. 




My neck is getting stiff by the time we get a break. From 
inside the house, strains of Edith Piaf waft through the 
darkness. A minute later, someone turns it up. Krycek 
rustles next to me and starlight reflects off his teeth. 
The next time one of the men begins to cross from the shed 
to the front of the house, Krycek rises swiftly to his 
knees and I see the red pinpoint of the Glock's sighting 
laser on the back of his target a second before I hear the 
shot. The man falls to the grass and I hear him thrashing. 

His companion inside the shed hears it too and Krycek 
catches him in the head before he reaches his downed 
friend. For the second time in as many weeks, I hear the 
sound of a piece of a man's brain rapidly exiting his body 
and the dull thumps the chunks of his skull make when they 
hit the grass, followed shortly by his body. The first man 
is still dying. After a long minute, he stops moving. Edith 
is still singing. 

I look over at Krycek, but his expression hasn't changed. I 
think about it for a few seconds, then I move slightly 
closer to him and lean towards his ear. "Let's go in. Now." 

He turns his head and his nose nearly brushes my chin 
before I pull back a little. "Not yet. I saw two different 
men go by that window. And the upstairs light went on while 
they were down here. So it's at least three more." He 
pauses, then adds, "Don't you want to do your `it's the FBI 
so drop your weapons' speech?" 

I don't bother answering. After a moment he grunts his 
approval and goes back to watching the house. 

If Mulder weren't in there, I would. 

A figure moves past the upstairs window, and Krycek shifts 
slightly next to me. "All right," he says into my ear. 
"We get Mulder first, then move the gas when they're all 
dead." I nearly ask him why he's changing the plan, but I 
stop the question before it comes out of my mouth. It 
doesn't matter why. I want Mulder out of there. 

After a while the back door creaks again and both Krycek 
and I are up on our knees before it's all the way open. 
There are two of them, and the light from the open doorway 
falls across the bodies of the two men that Krycek has 
already killed. I would have let the door close before I 
fired, but I knew one of them would shout something when 
they saw the bodies. The stealthy approach is played out. 

I pick out the first man and it's a good choice because 
Krycek has his sight set on the one behind him. Our shots 
are nearly simultaneous and the bodies fall down the back 
steps together, tumbling over each other into the grass. We 
are up and off our knees together, and neither of us says a 
word as we run across the yard to flank the door. It slams 
open and Krycek fires. 

We dive through the open door at the same time and I roll 
right when I hit the floor, straight into a small table 
that isn't heavy enough to hurt me when it falls onto my 
back. I get off another shot at the man Krycek missed, and 
I think I catch him in the stomach, but Krycek's second 
shot takes off a piece of his head. 

Someone is shouting upstairs. We're on an enclosed back 
porch filled with a dirty papasan chair, an old couch and 
stacks of boxes. There are stairs leading down to a dark 
basement and a door opening onto a kitchen with cheerful, 
yellow daisy-speckled wallpaper. Krycek kicks the basement 
door shut and throws the deadbolt, then says, "In." 
Everything is quiet now except for Edith, who is still 
singing. 




I hear the shots downstairs and it clears my head 
wonderfully, better than Excedrin. Time to wake up. I still 
can't see anything, and the tape over my eyes is itching 
like hell. Someone runs down the hallway outside the 
room I'm in, and I hear footsteps on the stairs, then more 
shots, and a thud. 

I know the sound of a body hitting the floor, and it cheers 
me up considerably. With any luck at all, that was either 
Ajiib or one of his buddies getting killed. Things are 
looking up. 

I hear a low voice in the hallway outside the 
room, and then everything gets quiet exceppt for the 
scratchy recordingdownstairs, which is still playing, 
accordions and violins and French lyrics. Please God, let 
that be Scully downstairs with a SWAT team. Well, one way 
to find out. I take a deep breath and do my very best 
Stanley Kowalski impression. 

"SCULLY! I'M UP HERE!" 





It takes everything I've got to keep quiet when I hear 
Mulder, but I do, and a second later I'm glad I did: 
Krycek fires a shot through the kitchen doorway and someone 
answers with a shot right back, which blows out the window 
overlooking the yard. So much for a quiet neighborhood. I 
get low and get off a shot through the doorway, enough to 
see down the hall -- it looks like whoever is shooting at 
us is using a door for cover, which is incredibly stupid 
unless the door is solid metal. 

Krycek must see it too, because I see the Glock's red laser 
sight on the door, and hear a shot over my head. A hole 
appears in the door and I hear a man's voice cry out 
from behind it. Krycek snaps, "Fall back!" 

I'm still watching the door. A limp hand wraps around the 
doorframe down the hall but before I can see anything 
else, an arm wraps around my waist and Krycek jerks me back 
away from the kitchen doorway. 

A second later I hear a shot. There's another man somewhere 
down that hallway. "Sorry," I say, idiotically, to Krycek, 
who is unwrapping his gun arm -- his =only= arm -- from 
around my waist. We both press up against the side of the 
refrigerator, out of the line of fire. "Give me your gun," 
he hisses. "Mine needs a new clip and you can reload 
faster." He hands me his weapon and reaches into his 
jacket, pulls out a new clip. I trade him my gun for 
the clip. I'm starting to like this gun he lent me. 

I change the clip, then we trade back, as smoothly as if 
we'd practiced a thousand times. He grins down at me and 
whispers, "I wish they'd given me you instead of Mulder." 

He was partnered with Mulder while I was stuck at Quantico. 
I remember; I was jealous, thinking about Mulder in the 
field with another partner, one who seemed to think the way 
he did. And how did I figure out what Krycek was talking 
about that quickly? 

He ducks out long enough to get off another shot. I can 
hear someone moaning, but I think it's the man he shot 
earlier -- where's the other shooter? My next shot gets 
lucky -- Krycek is firing over my head, I'm low, and the 
other shooter is wide open, coming down the hallway at us. 
I catch him in the chest, and he falls face-first, skids a 
little, comes to a stop nearly at our feet. 

I wait until the body stops moving, then step over him into 
the hallway, with Krycek on my heels. We move silently, cut 
left through an open doorway, and we're in the living room. 
More boxes, piles of literature, a record player on a card 
table, and a couple of empty pizza boxes. We hug opposite 
walls in the living room, and Krycek pauses long enough to 
lift the needle from the turntable. Edith stops singing. 

I come through a pair of French doors into the front 
hallway, where the nice white banister and the cream 
colored carpeting on the stair treads are now splashed with 
blood. 

I look up and there is Mulder, standing in front of the 
other man on the landing, half-way up the stairs. His 
eyes are covered with shiny silver duct tape, his hands are 
behind his back, and there is a gun pointed at his temple. 
The man peering out from behind him tells me, "Please hold 
very still, and let your gun fall to the floor." 


End "Above Rubies," 11/19 
Snowrider5@aol.com 



Above Rubies, by Rachel Howard (12/19)
See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


I hate New York.  Sharon and I came up for a long weekend 
once, not long before the end, and I think that was the 
last time I was here. The weekend was supposed to help us 
"re-connect," find the romance again.  Her idea.

All we found were things to argue about; half-assed 
paintings in SoHo galleries, overpriced restaurants with 
stoned waiters, our marriage.

The New York field office has terrible coffee, and the ADIC 
isn't doing a good job hiding his irritation at the mess 
that Mulder and Scully have created. To be fair, he lost an 
agent this morning.

"I think you'll find that Agent Santanda is eager to work 
with you.  He has requested that he not be assigned another 
partner until this case is closed." He picks up the phone 
and makes a brief call, then hangs up and tells us, "He's 
on his way up here. Are you going to need anything else to 
proceed with your investigation at this time, AD Skinner?" 

He looks relieved when I tell him, "Not at this time."

I brought Darren Ledeller along for backup. He's clearly 
excited to be here, working on a big case, but he hasn't 
said anything since we got into the office. I wonder if 
Mulder took the time to thank him for saving his ass in 
that alley.

Santanda walks in, we do a round of handshakes, and he 
leads us down a hallway to the break room, out of his 
chief's hair.  Santanda has circles under his eyes, and a 
set jaw.  I ask him to brief us on the case, and he gives a 
calm, detailed description until he gets to the part about 
Hicks going down under fire, when he stops and clears his 
throat a couple of times.

Ledeller and I politely look around the room while Santanda 
gets himself together. When he can look us in the eyes 
again, he finishes by telling us about the APB he put out 
on the vehicle, and the forensics team's findings.

"So it was definitely Agent Mulder's blood on the scene. 
Not much of it, though -- could have been a small cut. They 
found hair stuck in it so it looks like it was a minor head 
wound. No ID yet on the dead perp."

"When did you last hear from Agent Scully?"

"I dropped her off at her hotel late this afternoon. I 
don't know when exactly. Six, maybe."

"Did you see her greet anyone in the lobby?"

He looks at me carefully before he answers. "No, sir."

"And you haven't spoken to her since?"

His voice gets sharper. "She's in trouble?"

"Yeah, she's in trouble," I confirm.

A lot of trouble. 

She's in the company of a known murderer and a traitor to 
the United States of America, and although I haven't said 
this to anyone, I'm damn sure he didn't kidnap her. I know 
what Scully sounds like when she's lying, and that's what 
she was doing when Krycek got on the phone. And the next 
time I lay eyes on that bastard, I am going to kill him 
myself.

I take a breath before I tell Santanda, "She appears to 
have been kidnapped by Alex Krycek.  Although I doubt that 
he intends to harm her personally, he may be planning to 
trade her for the VX gas."

I hear Ledeller shift beside me and I wonder exactly what 
he's making of all this. He was walking next to me at 
LaGuardia when I got Scully on the phone.

I turn to Santanda and begin to explain Alex Krycek's 
history, planning to leave out the personal embarrassment 
he caused Mulder and me.  No man likes to admit he was 
taken in by a double agent.  But Santanda cuts me off, 
saying simply, "I know who he is."

His eyes glitter when he adds, "I want to help you find 
Agent Scully."

"This isn't a crusade," I tell him sharply. "If you're in 
it to get some kind of revenge for Hicks, then I don't need 
you. These men have two of my agents, and =no= one is going 
to shoot without checking his target first."

"Yes, sir." Santanda's eyes meet mine and he holds my 
stare. 

I don't like what my instincts are telling me. Scully 
wouldn't hare off with Krycek unless he offered her a deal 
that she absolutely couldn't refuse.

Mulder.

I think Scully went after Mulder. Krycek is in this up to 
his eyeballs. Somehow, he got her to go with him by 
promising to get Mulder back from wherever his kidnappers 
took him. But how could she be stupid enough to believe 
him?  

I know the answer, even if I don't like it. In general, 
Scully has plenty of common sense. If Alex Krycek walked up 
to her on the street and offered to sell her a Rolex, she'd 
tell him to go pound sand. And then she'd arrest him.

But Scully's common sense goes AWOL when it comes to 
Mulder.

"Sir?"

I snap out of it. "Anything come back from the APB?"

"No, sir."

"Where's the records search that gave you the location of 
that factory?"

We move a box of brittle, day-old doughnuts out of the way 
and spread the paperwork out on the table. 

"New Jersey. Pierce was in trouble with the IRS, big 
surprise," Ledeller mutters. 

Two agents walk into the room behind us, complaining loudly 
about something or other.  The list of addresses I'm 
staring at isn't particularly enlightening; even assuming 
the kidnappers stayed close to home, they could be anywhere 
in the metro area. I look at Santanda; he's reading the 
list, too, his lips moving slightly as his eyes flicker 
back and forth across the page.

The noisy agents are pouring cups of the lousy coffee, 
still arguing.

I try to ignore them. Jamaica, New York. Queens, New York. 
West 37th, in Manhattan. Elizabeth, New Jersey -- that's 
where the factory was, where they were investigating. 

"I know the guy is a little whacked, Sammy, but he's had 
good information before."

"Yeah, but =where?= Red Bank, New Jersey?"

"Not a lot of reports of windows getting shot out in Red 
Bank lately, right? So the informant says."

I turn around. "Where's Red Bank?"

The two agents stop talking and look at me. Santanda gets 
it right away, and says, "Not that far from Elizabeth."

"A window was shot out? When?"

One of the two agents finds his voice. "Uh, about twenty 
minutes ago."

His friend adds, "We had gotten some information about 
suspicious activity at that address before. Our informant 
thought maybe drug dealers."

"Why?"

They trade glances. One of them says, "People driving up 
all the time unloading boxes, you know, weird-looking 
stuff. Equipment. And they, uh, don't fit the profile for 
the area."

"So they're not white and they're living in a white area, 
pissing off the neighbors. I get it. Are they by any chance 
Middle Eastern types?"

The guy looks startled. "Uh, I dunno. The informant thought 
they were Arabs."

Santanda's already halfway to the door, but Ledeller 
remembers to get the address.





I freeze when I hear Ajiib's voice, as does Scully. I can 
see his arm and shoulders through the crack between the 
living room door and the doorframe, which could turn out to 
be a huge piece of luck if he doesn't know I'm here. I'm 
guessing the hostage in front of him is Mulder. That sorry 
bastard has the worst luck I've ever seen.  

I hear Scully tell Ajiib, "I'm laying my weapon down on the 
floor." The joints in her knees creak audibly as she bends. 
I hear her put the Glock on the hardwood. Her voice is calm 
but I'll bet she's wondering if he's seen me or not.

There's fear in Ajiib's voice when he tells her, "Tell the 
others with you to stay outside of the house.  If anyone 
comes in, I will kill your partner."

Gotcha, you asshole.  I'm right here.

Scully doesn't miss a beat. She shouts, "Santanda! Keep the 
team out there!" Her voice breaks slightly when she adds,  
"He's got a hostage!"

I use the sound of her voice to cover the rustling of my 
clothing as I take careful aim at the door.  It's cheap 
looking, but Mulder's too close to Ajiib to allow any 
margin of error.  I aim left, at Ajiib's chest.

"Why did you take him? Are you expecting to trade him for 
safe passage?"

Ajiib laughs.  "I have no need to answer your questions, 
woman.  I am not the prisoner h--"

The impact of my bullet cuts him off.  I was right about 
the door; the thin wood does little to dissipate the force 
of the round. When it meets Ajiib's body it knocks him 
backwards, into the wall. I open the ruined door in time to 
see Ajiib and Mulder tumble down the flight of stairs 
together, a football tackle gone bad.

For once, Mulder's luck is in; he lands on top of Ajiib 
instead of hitting the hardwood floor. I step around 
Scully, who's on her knees easing Mulder off of Ajiib, and 
check out my handiwork, prepared to put more lead into him.

It'd be a waste of a round; he's dying. Ajiib looks 
startled but not agonized, as if his nervous system hasn't 
caught up with the reality of the gaping hole in his chest. 
The wound is more to the right side than then left. Well, I 
had to shoot through a damn door to hit him.  I look at 
Scully, all ready to lay some line on her about my smooth 
marksmanship, and I stop dead.

She's on her knees next to Mulder, who looks like shit -- 
there's duct tape over his eyes and dried blood matting his 
hair.  He's making pathetic little sounds as she runs her 
fingers lightly over the oozing cut on his hairline, and 
she's murmuring something to him.

Well, fuck.  My last dwindling fantasy about getting head 
from Dana Scully dies out like a blown bulb.  An idiot 
could guess it's Mulder who's going to get the girl at the 
end of this job.

Already =got= the girl, I think to myself.  Her small, 
dirty hands are stroking his hair, fiddling with the edge 
of the tape indecisively.

"What's wrong, Scully, didn't they teach you how to get 
duct tape off a hostage's face in med school?" I ask her.  
She jumps, and I get the irritating feeling that she forgot 
I was here. 

"I'll need some mild solvent," she says, getting herself 
together.

"Well, unless you have it in your back pocket, we're going 
to have to do this the hard way.  We don't have a hell of a 
lot of time."  To illustrate my point, the first whine of 
approaching sirens becomes faintly audible in the distance.

Scully looks over at Ajiib's body, her eyes widening.  I 
take advantage of her momentary distraction to reach over 
and rip the tape off Mulder's face.

Yeah, it hurts.  I've had to do it to myself before, and 
it's like taking off a Band-Aid times twenty.  Mulder howls 
briefly. Scully looks wildly at his face, then up at me 
with a homicidal gleam in her eyes. 

"He'll be okay," I tell her. "Think of it as smelling salts 
-- it just woke him up.  Can you get his ass into the 
backyard? I'll get the truck and meet you in the alley 
behind the shed."

"The gas," she remembers, right when Mulder husks,"Krycek." 
He glares at me with the same look Scully just had in her 
eyes, wanting to kill but too well-bred to do it without 
asking some questions first. 

"I'd be more impressed if your eyes could focus," I tell 
him. "C'mon.  You want Scully to get kicked out of the FBI 
for being here? No?  Well, let's get the fuck out of here, 
then."

"Get the truck," Scully orders, back in control.

"I =said= that already," I remind her. 

My guess is that I'm not more than forty seconds ahead of 
the sirens by the time I get back wiith the truck.  At this 
point the neighbors are already awake, so I don't think 
twice before driving straight through the white picket 
fence, into the yard, and right up to the back of the shed.

Scully's gotten Mulder outside; he stands unsteadily next 
to the shed, blinking in the truck's headlights.  Scully 
whips the passenger door open before the truck is 
completely stopped. "Get in," she orders Mulder, and he 
does, with a half-focused glare at me on the way. 

"This one," she snaps at me, pointing into the shed.  

I'll be damned. She found the right canister, and she did 
it fast. 01081971 stands like a dark soldier among its 
harmless comrades, loaded with death.

I start to sweat in spite of myself as Scully and I 
struggle the gas into the truck's bed.  The racket from the 
front of the house is probably the local cops kicking in 
the front door. The canister settles into the padded brace 
I put in the truck bed before we left New York, and Scully 
is moving before I tell her to get in.

Scully jumps in next to Mulder.  I blast the second hole in 
the white picket fence just for the sheer fun of it.

We lurch out of the alley onto Branch Avenue, and the sharp 
corner I take makes me wish for a Porsche for the first 
time this evening. The wheels on the left side may have 
come off the road, but my mind is on the braced canister in 
the back. Unnecessarily, Scully snaps, "We have deadly 
nerve gas in this truck, in case you forgot." 

"I =know=," I snarl back, like a suburban husband getting 
browbeaten about driving the carpool too fast.  =This= is 
why I hate working with women. "Where's my Glock? I =like= 
that gun." She reaches for the holster, and hands it back 
to me without comment, although her partner grunts in 
surprise.

Mulder rasps, "Why did he come with you, Scully?"

"I thought you two kids might have had a little talk while 
I was gone," I drawl.
 
"Krycek knew where you were," Scully tells Mulder, with an 
imploring note in her voice that I haven't heard before.  I 
take my eyes off the road long enough to glance at them.  
She's bound the cut on his head with a black strip of 
cloth, making him look a refugee from a commando movie. His 
eyes still aren't quite tracking but he manages to growl 
back at her, "He could have killed you, Scully."

"But he didn't," she answers quietly, and I feel an 
irrational surge of pride at Scully sticking up for me. It 
dies when I look over at her.

The love shining from her eyes when she looks at Mulder is 
like a beacon over a dark sea.  I think the little worm 
twisting in my gut is envy.  She smoothes his hair, stiff 
with blood, out of his eyes again, and it's only to have a 
reason to touch him.

Mulder says, "What about the gas?"

Her voice is cautious when she replies. "That was his 
price."

He pushes her hands away and struggles to sit up 
straighter, wincing.  "Too high, Scully. How can we let him 
walk away with VX gas?"

"How could I let Ajiib walk away with =you=?" she fires 
back.

"All right, save the domestic squabble for later, please," 
I interject. "This is the plan from here on out, unless you 
have better suggestions: I dump you both somewhere along 
the Garden State Parkway. You tell your fibbie friends that 
I kidnapped you both, planning to trade you to Ajiib, but 
the deal went bad. When I couldn't find another buyer for 
you two, I cut you loose. Comprende?"

"And you drive away with a canister of lethal nerve gas? No 
deal." 

"You sound pretty confident for a drugged guy with a busted 
head and no gun, Mulder."

"Screw you, Krycek.  You're the one who sold the gas to 
Ajiib and Pierce in the first place, aren't you?"

"The Syndicate doesn't know yet that you're fucking your 
partner, but I could change that, too."

I was prepared for it, but Mulder's lurching lunge at me 
makes me jump a little anyway.  I hope I get to interrogate 
him someday; the flash of guilt that illuminated his face 
right before anger caught up with him was priceless. Scully 
catches him before he gets his hands around my neck and she 
pulls him back into the sheltering cocoon of her embrace. 
He =must= be drugged; he hardly fights her at all. She 
looks up and catches my eye. "Who are you going to sell the 
gas to this time, Alex?"

The sound of my first name on her lips gives me an odd 
thrill, in spite of the sight of Mulder slumped against her 
small frame, the tenderness of her hands clasping his.  
Accusatory, certainly, but with another note below the 
anger.

Hurt.

I'm at the tollbooth.  The machine spits out the little 
yellow ticket and hums at me insistently, but I stare at 
Scully for a long minute, trying to see into her mind, 
through the blue eyes locked on my own. 

Mulder must feel me looking at her; he lifts his head and 
snarls like a wounded animal.  But Scully just stares back 
at me until I look away, take the ticket and pull out onto 
the Parkway. 

I run it up into the red just to hear the engine roar. 
Trucks. Guns.  Money.  The rest of this, I don't need.


End chapter 12 of Above Rubies.




"Above Rubies" by Rachel Howard, (13/19) 
See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information. 


"God DAMN it!" Santanda barks at the house, full of dead 
men. Mohammad al Ajiib's body is still lying in the front 
hallway, detectives swarming around it like flies. 
"Knock it off," I tell him, sharply.

The local police are here, the goddamn metro-region media 
arrived before we did, and between the flashbulbs and the 
crowd, I'm having a hard time not feeling like the entire 
situation has already gone to shit. The front door is open, 
but there's no breeze, only the damp, hot night air around 
us. 

No Scully. No Mulder. And no Alex Krycek. 

Ledeller is on the phone with Counter-Terrorism back in DC. 
The agent on the phone apparently had forgotten that Mulder 
and Scully were working this case, due to the fact that the 
last time Mulder checked with him was weeks ago. Who did 
those two call for intelligence, the local library? 

I shake my head to try and lose the crippling anger that's 
making it difficult to focus on the job. Where did they go 
when they left this house and left Ajiib dead on the floor? 
And why? I know they were here. I personally interviewed a 
hysterical neighbor, Louise Henderson, who described Krycek 
right down to the bad haircut. At least five people saw a 
pickup truck leave here and head down Branch Avenue, with 
several people in the cab. The one consolation is that they 
found the missing canisters of VX gas out behind the house. 

Nice trade, Special Agents. I get the gas, but you go 
missing. This just isn't going to cut it. I tell Santanda 
and Ledeller that we're leaving, let the evidence squad do 
their work. Ledeller nods, his ear still glued to the 
phone. We pile into the car. 

Santanda is tight-lipped, and Ledeller presses the end 
button on his cell as I pull away from the curb. "Sir, it 
seems that Mulder did contact Agent Chiavelli early in the 
investigation, but he hasn't spoken to him recently. Agent 
Mulder had asked him for information about Garjon, but it 
appears that his inquiry was made prior to Garjon's, uh, 
death." 

"Does it also appear that Agent Chiavelli might have any 
useful information about Ajiib and his group that could 
help us determine where the hell Krycek is taking Mulder 
and Scully?" 

"Yes, sir," Ledeller says, surprising me. "Chiavelli says 
that Garjon and Pierce have a known associate who is a 
likely accomplice." 

"Who, and where is he?" 

"His name is John Maxwell. His whereabouts are unknown at 
this time, but Agent Chiavelli has an informant who he 
thinks might be able to locate him." 

"Well, get back on the phone and find him." 

Santanda looks across the front seat at me, but he doesn't 
say anything. The lights of the crime scene and the media 
explosion get dimmer. I reach over and crank up the a/c, 
and the car is quiet except for the sound of Ledeller 
dialing. 

The gas is here. So why the hell did they leave with 
Krycek? Depending on the severity of the injury he 
sustained when Ajiib's group kidnapped him, Mulder might 
not have been conscious. But Scully was there, too. 

If I had to choose, I would say Scully is the better agent 
of the two; disciplined where Mulder is reckless, precise 
when he sometimes shoots from the hip. But if his obsessive 
behavior and tendency to listen to the wrong people are his 
weaknesses, then Mulder is Scully's Achilles heel. When 
push comes to shove, he matters more to her than protocol, 
than her safety, than logic. 

Ironic, if you know her. But I don't think she sees her 
devotion to Mulder in that light, if she admits it to 
herself at all. 




We all jump at the sound of the cellphone. It's Mulder's; I 
found it tucked into Ajiib's waistband, and I took it back. 
He must have been planning to call the FBI and ask for 
ransom. Krycek glances at me. "Skinner?" 

Mulder lifts his head but I don't trust him to do the 
talking if it is Skinner, so I answer myself. "Scully." 

"The resourceful Agent Scully," an unfamiliar voice drawls. 

"Who is this?" 

"Tell Alex Krycek that if he wants to see his sister alive 
again, he will deliver what he owes me." 

"Who is this?" 

"Tell Krycek that he has until noon the day after tomorrow, 
or Katya dies. He knows where to find me." 

The metallic click on the line tells me he's hung up. 

"Not Skinner?" Mulder looks a little more alert now. 

"No," I tell him, keeping him braced against me. Krycek 
drives like a maniac. Mulder has spent most of the ride so 
far swaying with every lane change and acceleration, but 
he's starting to sit up a little straighter. I need to get 
him to a hospital. I want to know what they injected him 
with -- his pupils are huge. 

I look over at Krycek. "It was for you." I repeat the 
message word for word and watch as all the color drains 
slowly from his face. Mulder sits up the rest of the way. 

"You have a sister?" he asks, as if this is the strangest 
thing he's ever heard. Krycek doesn't answer, but he's 
gripping the plastic cover on the steering wheel hard 
enough to make the tendons in his right hand bulge. 

"Who was that who just called? And how did he know to call 
Mulder's cellphone?" I ask him, watching a muscle in his 
temple twitch. 

"Shut the fuck up and let me think," he says, without 
taking his eyes off the road. 

"You have a =sister=?" Mulder repeats, untangling my arms 
from around his torso. This is how he sounds when someone 
sends him a particularly gruesome photo of a cattle 
mutilation -- fascinated and slightly disgusted. An exit 
looms up ahead; the sign reads "NO SERVICES" but Krycek 
takes it anyway, flying down the offramp with a blithe 
disregard for the 40 mile an hour speed limit. 

The truck grinds to a stop in the middle of the empty 
parking lot. A concrete and tile restroom, not much else 
here. "Get out," Krycek says. The color hasn't returned to 
his face, and his eyes stand out, black against the marble 
planes of his face. His upper lip is gleaming faintly with 
sweat. 

Neither of us moves. "You have a sister," Mulder repeats 
for the third time. "And someone kidnapped her. And you 
know who it is, don't you?" 

"Get out," Krycek repeats in an icy monotone, whipping out 
his gun and swinging his Glock around to point directly at 
Mulder's chest. I curse silently at myself for giving the 
second Glock back to him. For a long second, no one moves. 

Then Mulder says, gently, "He wants the gas, doesn't he? 
That's what you're supposed to deliver to him. But we can't 
let you have it." 

I have no idea what's going through Mulder's head right 
now, and it worries me. He's sitting up straight and his 
eyes are locked on Krycek's, as if the gun isn't there 
between them. 

Krycek's eyes narrow, and he grates out, "Anyone ever 
tell you that you suck at math, Mulder? Me, two guns. You 
and little Annie Oakley, no guns. Get the fuck out of my 
truck. Now. As if you couldn't tell -- I have someplace to 
be." 

Another long pause, and no one does anything other than 
breathe and think. Then Mulder says, "I'll make you a deal. 
We help you get your sister, and you give us the gas." 

Krycek doesn't move, doesn't answer, and his gun doesn't 
waver. I can't believe I heard Mulder say those words. 
"Mulder, no. We can't do that. =You= can't do that. We need 
to get you to a hospital." 

Ignoring the gun and the felon holding it, he turns slowly 
towards me. I still don't know what he's thinking, but his 
eyes are swamp-black in the sodium glare of the rest stop 
lights. "I feel all right, Scully. And this is the only 
way. As long as he has even one tank of this stuff, it's 
going to get to someone like Ajiib. Or Garjon." 

"They're both dead," I point out. "There is--" 

"They're dead, but John Maxwell isn't," Mulder interrupts. 
Krycek is still silent, still holding his weapon, but his 
gun hand has drifted down to rest loosely in his lap.

"Who's John Maxwell?" 

He swivels around and glances at Krycek, who just lifts one 
eyebrow sarcastically. "I'm not sure. Ajiib mentioned him 
when he was questioning me," Mulder tells me. 

I swallow, knowing that `questioning' is a polite way of 
describing the interrogation that put those bruises on his 
face, and the lines around his mouth soften as he looks 
back at me. "I think Maxwell was working with Pierce and 
Garjon. And I'll bet that he's the one who's got Krycek's 
sister." 

Krycek doesn't say anything, but I watch as his shoulders 
settle, and I know that a different question is hanging in 
the air now. I feel a brief flare of irritation, as if it's 
Bill and Charlie and me arguing over where we're going to 
build the the snow fort, and they've already taken sides 
against me. "There is another way, Mulder. The same way we 
got the rest of the canisters. Let him leave us here. We'll 
look for the last canister until we find it and get it 
back." 

"Or until they let it loose on a subway car full of 
innocent people. No dice, Scully. We go with him." 

Krycek sneers, "Are you two done yet? Jesus, I know married 
people who get along better than you do." He reaches over 
and opens the glove box, and shoves the second Glock into 
it. Shifting the truck out of park, he says, "You didn't 
happen to take Ajiib's gun, did you?" 

For a second, I think Krycek is talking to me, but Mulder 
answers stiffly, "No."

"Shit. Well, it was a piece-of-shit Saturday night special, 
anyway. So we have to get you a weapon. All right, fine." 
He pulls back out onto the Parkway, accelerating off the 
ramp so fast that I reach for the back of the seat to 
ground myself. Mulder turns to face me again, squaring his 
shoulders so that he can look down into my face, blocking 
my view of Krycek. Whatever he sees in my expression makes 
him frown. He says, softly, "You did it for me, Scully. 
This isn't any different." 

"It =is,=" I tell him. "That was =you=." 

"One canister of gas, Scully. On a bus. On the subway. In a 
school gymnasium." 

I hold his gaze for a long minute, thinking about the way 
Garjon looked when we cornered him in that alley. About the 
lilting tone of Pierce's voice when he described watching a 
woman being stoned to death in Afghanistan. "What are we 
going to tell Skinner?" 

"That I kidnapped you," Krycek interjects. "Tried to trade 
you for more gas, but that Maxwell didn't have any more." 

Mulder looks at him. "Why not say you tried to trade us for 
Katya?" 

"No. You don't talk about her to him, or anyone else. Ever. 
If you do, I'll kill you. Do you understand?" He punctuates 
that comment with a glare, then adds, in a different tone 
of voice, "She likes to be called Kate. He only said that, 
Katya, to make sure I knew that he really had her." 

Mulder nods understandingly. "Is that her nickname?" He's 
using the same tone of voice with Krycek that he used with 
Sarah Pitts' parents, when we were trying to figure out her 
connection with Ajiib. 

Oddly enough, Krycek doesn't snap at him. "We called her 
that when she was a little girl. She hates it. Too ethnic." 
I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, but when I open them the 
world is still insane -- Mulder, Alex Krycek and me, in a 
speeding pickup, breaking about eighteen different laws. 

"Would you mind telling me where we're going?" I sound 
faintly shrewish and it makes me even angrier, but Krycek 
answers confidingly, "We need to get Mulder a weapon, 
right? I know a guy." 

The next time Krycek fails to give me an actual location of 
a place that he's taking me to, I am going to kill him with 
my bare hands. "WHERE?" 

He gives me his most annoying, indulgent grin. "Relax, 
=Dana.= I know a nice gentleman who sells firearms to 
honkies like your boyfriend without asking inconvenient 
questions. I think we'll find him in the Bronx. Mulder, 
gimme your phone." 

Mulder hands it over, scowling like an eight-year-old 
giving up the controls to his Sega. 

One of the scarier things I've seen in my lifetime: 
watching a one-armed man dial a cellphone while driving 
eighty miles an hour while "steering" with his prosthesis. 
I collide with Mulder, who reaches to snatch the phone back 
at the same time I do. "Just tell me the number." 

Krycek feigns injury, but he recites the number and Mulder 
dials, then hands the phone back. Krycek props it against 
his shoulder. "Raoul? Where are you? I need a piece." 

Hearing this, Mulder looks slightly ill, which gives me 
some satisfaction. 





"Terence Resnick, Junior. Employed by a chemical 
manufacturer who regularly sold Pierce small quantities of 
some fertilizer that Anti-Terrorism has been keeping an eye 
on," Ledeller reports, after hitting the `end' button on 
his phone. "I guess they were investigating another buyer 
and Resnick tipped them off that the company hadn't been 
too curious about why Pierce was buying this stuff, even 
though he doesn't have a farm." 

Agent Ledeller looks wide awake, which is somewhat 
reassuring, since I'm beat. He's spent most of the drive 
back to the city on the phone with Chiavelli and someone at 
the lab. "What's the connection to Maxwell?" 

"Maxwell paid for a couple of the shipments. In cash. 
Resnick started paying attention because these guys would 
show up, pay cash, then have the fertilizer mailed to New 
Jersey so they wouldn't have to pay New York sales tax on 
it. But Resnick's got a record -- Agent Chiavelli thinks he 
might be making some of this stuff up to score points 
before they bust the company." 

"What's the record for?" 

"Mail fraud." 

I need a cup of coffee. "All right, where do we find him?"
 
"The local PD is going to have him come in -- they told him 
it's to look at some photos having to do with the case. 
Eight AM. I have the address of the station house." 

"Tell them to get him in =now.="

"Sir? It's after midnight. They want his ongoing 
cooperation for the case against his employer." 

I want to yell at someone, but I can't think of a good 
reason to do it. "All right. Eight AM." 

Santanda drops us off, and Ledeller and I check into the 
Bureau-assigned hotel where Mulder and Scully were staying. 

On a hunch, I flash my badge and get the staff to let me 
into Mulder's room. I let the door slip shut behind me, the 
assistant concierge hovering uncertainly in the hallway, 
clearly worried that two guests who are FBI agents are 
missing. 

The cleaning staff has been here. The bed is turned down, 
Mulder's shoes are tidily lined up side by side, but his 
suitcase, hanging open on a low rack along the wall, hasn't 
been unpacked. 

Trailing my hand along the top of the bureau, I examine the 
complimentary hotel pad. Santanda's number is there, along 
with the phone number for Balthazar, which is a restaurant, 
I thik. A tie curls carelessly across the bureau. No handy 
clues like John Maxwell's address, though. 

The bed is like any other hotel bed, completely anonymous. 
But on the bedside table rest a pair of pearl earrings. 
Simple, but pretty. The kind of thing that a woman might 
wear with a business suit. 

I think they're Agent Scully's. 

I could pick them up, see if they smell of her perfume. She 
wears something called Paris -- I heard Kimberly ask her 
about it once. It suits her, fresh and not very flowery. 
She doesn't wear much of it, but I've caught the scent 
riding next to her on the elevator, sitting beside her in 
meetings. I would know it anywhere. 

She has a black suit that she wears the earrings with -- 
there's a cream colored blouse that goes underneath the 
jacket. 

If they're really Scully's. 

I think about the tightness that settled into Sharon's face 
when we argued about my work, how it kept me from vacations 
and dinner engagements, how the politics and frustration 
made me short with her when I should have been kind. I 
remember the failed trip to New York when we tried to 
put our marriage back together again. 

And I remember watching Scully and Mulder embrace in front 
of a scowling Senate subcommittee whose threats and 
accusations had not been enough to convince her to reveal 
his whereabouts. When he walked into the hearing, I saw 
their eyes meet, like a circuit connecting. The rest of us 
became as insubstantial as shadows after that blaze. 

I don't pick up the earrings. 

I switch off the bedside lamp before I leave the room. 


End 13/19, "Above Rubies"

"Above Rubies," by Rachel Howard (14/19)



"You've got to be kidding me."

Scully's voice, pitched sharp with disbelief, wakes me out 
of a doze. We're still in the truck, my head was tipped 
back and I think I was drooling a little. It takes my eyes 
about twice as long as usual to focus, but when they do, I 
see her point.

We're at a motel, and it looks.......

"Krycek, you can't be serious."

"Listen, princess, you were the one who insisted on a rest 
stop so that your boyfriend could get his shit together. If 
you can find a better place to crash around here, feel free 
to take the wheel."

Actually, I feel better. After we finished gun-shopping, we 
picked up some sticky, hot drive-thru barbecue and while I 
Hoovered my portion, Scully announced that she wasn't 
letting me handle a firearm until the rest of the drugs 
cleared out of my system. Krycek bitched, but Scully 
handled him with the same dismissive certainty that she 
dishes out when some small-town yokel questions her autopsy 
findings on account of the fact that she has breasts. 

We're in the South Bronx, and the Cool Vue Motel is what 
put the incredulity in Scully's voice.  From the cab of the 
truck, I can see into the motel office, where it looks like 
two prostitutes are in the early stages of a nasty brawl.  
The man behind the desk is reading a newspaper. Somewhere 
down the two-story row of rooms, I can hear a boom box 
blasting some rap music where the dominant lyrics appear to 
be 'niggahs', 'ho's' and 'bitches.'

In all our trips into the field, I've never chosen any 
place quite this bad. I snicker out loud, thinking that I'm 
going to look like a hero the next time I book us into 
an AmericInn. Scully leans over and checks my pupils, 
frowns, then says, "Let me see if they have a couple of 
connecting rooms," making an about-face as smoothly as if 
she had suggested the dump in the first place.

"Connecting rooms. Kinky," Krycek murmurs as she climbs out 
of the cab, and I rouse myself enough to send a threatening 
look his way. He rolls his eyes at me, then leans forward 
so he can peer into the motel office.

An hour ago, Krycek and I bought two more Glocks and some 
ammunition from an individual who I am quite certain was 
not a licensed firearms dealer. It might just be the drugs 
-- Scully thinks they gave me ketamine -- but the whole 
situation worried me.

I'd bet my next paycheck that Krycek's 'business contact,' 
Raoul, does most of his deals with South Bronx gangbangers, 
but he spoke respectfully, almost obsequiously to Krycek, 
with only one or two glances out of the corner of his 
eye in Scully's direction. Krycek handled the entire 
transaction with the breezy aplomb of a very rich man 
buying a new watch.

Scully stood quietly next to me while Krycek brokered the 
deal, which worries me too, come to think of it. The 
hardest line for her to cross was teaming up with Krycek in 
the first place, to find me.  After that, the illegal gun 
purchase must have seemed like small potatoes, a hit off a 
joint after you've already done your first line of coke.

I know before I open my mouth that I'm going to regret the 
question, but I can't seem to stop myself. "How did you 
know where Scully was?"

"Christ. We could just talk about the weather. And aren't 
you two on a first name basis yet?"

Stung, I ask, "Why =wouldn't= I want to know that?"

Like a teacher explaining the fundamentals of geometry, he 
says, "You're watched. They always know where you are. 
Always." With a flicker of interest, he says, "You knew 
that, right?"

Yeah, I guess I did. Through the buzzing in my head, I try 
to come up with better questions. I promised myself a long 
time ago that if I ever got my hands on this bastard again, 
I'd get answers out of him. Somehow, though, I never 
imagined this particular scenario. 

I think about the trail of dead people this man has left in 
his wake. I close my eyes for a second and colored dots 
dance alarmingly under my lids until I open them again.

I wish to God that I could convince myself I'm only doing 
this to retrieve the VX gas, but I can only think of names: 
John Maxwell, Kate Krycek. Am I sitting in the cab of this 
truck because I want Maxwell dead or because I want Kate 
alive?

"Krycek, how did Maxwell get my cellphone number?"

He gives me what looks like a genuine smile. "I gotta hand 
it to you, Spooky, you're making progress. Good question. I 
don't know."

Scully climbs back into the cab, and says, "Units Nine and 
Ten."

Scully and I walk into Nine and she unlocks the connecting 
door. The rooms smell like mold and semen. It's nearly 
dawn; I want to get to sleep before daybreak so I don't 
have to look at the bed in better light. Krycek waltzes in 
and says, "No fucking in here.  Poor Fox needs his sleep."

"I have a gun now," I warn him. 

"We need to get that canister inside," Scully points out. 
"And it's not going in your room."

"Well, it sure as shit isn't going in yours," Krycek 
retorts.

"That's why I opened the door. We put it in the doorway, 
between the two rooms."

"Oh, and here I thought you had just gotten to like my 
company."

In the three seconds of silence that follow, I realize that 
what I just heard bothers me more than anything else about 
this whole deal: a hint of sincerity in Krycek's voice. 

I heave myself up out of the trench in the middle of the 
mattress, and tell him, "Let's get the canister out of the 
truck."

"Mulder, you shouldn't--"

"I'm fine," I tell her, sharply, and walk out of the room.

Krycek and I unload the canister of VX gas and carry it 
into the room, lowering it to the worn carpet as if it were 
full of eggs. Krycek asks Scully, "Six hours?"

She looks at me and says, "That should be enough. I'll set 
my watch alarm."

He disappears through the connecting door and finally I'm 
alone with Scully in this dingy room, and the wave of 
relief that washes over me is so strong I feel lightheaded 
again. We're here, we're alive. And then she's in my arms, 
and nothing exists but the feel of her body and the sweet 
scent of hotel shampoo blended with hints of sweat and 
cordite.

"Ah, Scully, shh," I murmur into her neck, feeling her take 
a hitching breath that resonates throughout her small 
frame.

She relaxes against me and begins whatever internal ritual 
she uses to calm herself. When she finally speaks, her 
voice is relatively steady. "I need to check that cut on 
your head."

"It'll keep for another minute," I tell her, rubbing slow 
circles on her back with my palms, reveling in the warm, 
solid feel of her through the t-shirt.

"I almost lost you," she says into my neck.

"I'm right here."

"It was too close."

She's right. If it had been her, I would be saying the same 
things. I stroke her back and brush my lips against her 
forehead and wait until I feel her begin to relax, loosen 
her grip on me.

When I let her slip out of my arms, she gives me a gentle 
push towards the bed. I sit down on the edge and let her 
tilt my head up toward her, watching as she examines the 
cut at my hairline. 

"We need to wash it. It could have used a couple of 
stitches but it's too late to get them now.  Let's get it 
cleaned out."

Scully and me showering together is something I've 
fantasized about many times, but I never pictured the dirty 
shower stall and thin drizzle of water in the bathroom of 
the Cool Vue Motel.  Scully strips down with businesslike 
efficiency, while I peel off my t-shirt slowly, not wanting 
to lose the opportunity to watch her undress even for the 
second it takes to pull my shirt over my head. She notices 
me dawdling and points sternly at my blood-stained pants, 
then slips out of her plain cotton panties, sets them on 
the toilet seat and steps into the shower.

When I climb in after her, she is working up a lather 
between her hands with the little bar of hotel soap. I 
watch a stream of water run between her breasts and 
down her belly to the thicket of dark curls there and I 
want to follow it with my tongue. When I look up at her 
face, she's trying to hide a smile. 

I close my eyes and let the thin drizzle wash away the 
worst of the leftover blood and dirt. I have to keep my 
eyes shut to keep the soap out of my eyes while Scully 
gently smooths lather over the cut. 

"Hurt?"

"Not too bad. Can I wash your back now?"

"We got in here to clean out your cut," she says, without 
much conviction. I take the warm, slippery bar of soap out 
of her hand and run it over the curve of her shoulder up to 
her neck until I can cup the back of her head in my palm 
and draw her in for a slow kiss, water running down our 
faces, tickling at our lips as they brush against each 
other.

There is no question of making love in this filthy shower 
stall, but I take a minute to explore her curves under the 
guise of washing her. The smooth planes of her back give 
way to the exquisite swell of her ass, and she gasps when I 
trace its roundness with soapy fingers. 

I pull her back against my chest, and she comes easily, a 
boneless weight. I wrap her arms loosely around my neck so 
that I can sleek my lathered hands down her arms and sides, 
circling back up to trace each breast with its stiffened 
nipple before I dip down her belly to the soft, liquid 
folds between her legs. She makes a low, hungry sound in 
her throat and I press my stiff cock harder into her back, 
letting her know what she's doing to me.

"Good?"

"Mmm." She's let her eyes slip shut, but she opens them and 
immediately wrinkles her nose. I follow her gaze -- there's 
black mold crusted around the showerhead and someone's 
initials are carved into the plastic wall.

"Let's get out," I murmur into her neck.

The bed is softer, and though worn, the sheets smell 
reassuringly of detergent. It dips under Scully's weight 
when she joins me, her hair wavy and damp from the shower. 
I roll towards her and pull her back gently into my chest. 
When I bend my head and apply my lips to the juncture of 
her shoulder and her neck, she wriggles in protest. 

"Mulder, we're not exactly alone here," she says in a low 
voice that does nothing to lessen my interest.

"I can be quiet."

"The door between our rooms is open."

"I can be =very= quiet," I tell her, circling one nipple 
lightly with the tip of one finger, clockwise, then 
counter-clockwise, until it stiffens, betraying her 
interest. 

"Mulder, you aren't up to this, even if you think you are. 
It'll keep."

"I'm up to this," I repeat, pushing my rigid cock into her 
back to make my point, grazing the rigid nipple with my 
palm before seeking the other breast, reveling in the 
simple pleasure of this moment. 

When she finally gives in with a low moan, I smile into her 
neck. Her hand reaches around and closes on my cock, 
caressing, and I grunt softly. She chuckles, the vibrations 
of her laughter traveling through her back, thrilling my 
skin.

We move against each other, trying to be quiet, to control 
our breathing, but my control is slipping rapidly. Scully 
turns over, her deft hands grip my cock, slide under my 
balls and stroke me. I shut my eyes and let her do it, heat 
rushing under my skin. I nudge her legs apart with my knee 
and begin sliding down her body, eager to taste her, but 
she puts her hands on my hips and pulls me back up, 
whispering, "Now."

When I sink into her, her eyes open wide and find mine. We 
make love that way too, familiar as conversation, while our 
bodies interlock and slide. I try to keep my eyes open, 
wait for her to be ready, but when I finally come I have to 
close them, sheer pleasure taking over, leaving me helpless 
in its wake.

My eyes open again and I find her watching me, smiling 
tenderly.  "I'm sorry, I couldn't wait."

"Shh, that's okay."

"Not for me." I slide off her carefully, and she stifles a 
giggle at my spent penis dragging a damp trail across her 
thigh. I fake a frown at her, and follow the liquid with my 
fingers, back to her heat, pulling her close with my free 
arm. She murmurs a brief protest, then sighs softly as my 
fingers find her clitoris.

Watching her face as I bring her to a silent, shuddering 
orgasm is like watching the sky while the weather changes. 
She turns and shifts infinitesimally, seeking the friction 
my fingers provide, her parted lips damp against mine. I 
watch her face and kiss her when she comes, eyes shut tight 
as the waves catch her. I hold her while her breathing 
slows back down, stroking the small hollow at the base 
of her spine.

"Fox," she whispers experimentally into the space under my 
chin, and I feel a clandestine thrill at hearing my given 
name on her lips. It's the first time since that stakeout 
where I lied to her and told her that no one called me 
that, not even my parents. 

I thought I was protecting her, keeping her at arm's 
length, but maybe I knew even then that I was really trying 
to protect myself. Not that fighting her off did me any 
good - Scully came into me like the tide, irresistible, 
exquisite in its measured progress. She stole my heart, but 
she kept it safe all this time.

"Do you want to call me Fox?"

She purses her lips as though she's tasting my name, and 
then whispers back, "Did you want me to? I guess I could 
try."

"No," I reply, rolling onto my side. "Not really."

She relaxes against my side for another minute, then 
suddenly props herself up onto one elbow and peers into my 
eyes.

"Your pupils are the same size." 

Ah, Doctor Scully's back on call. I can't stifle the grin. 
"I assume that's a good thing?"

She smiles back indulgently. "Yes, that's a good thing. I 
wasn't going to let you carry that Glock if you turned out 
to have another concussion on top of the drugs."

The Glock, the gun I bought with Krycek, while Scully 
watched. An illegal firearm purchase -- a felony, and she 
knows it.

"I understand why you agreed to work with him, Scully, but 
I don't want you in on this any more. I'll go with him 
tomorrow."

"If you start patronizing me, this isn't going to work," 
she says, gently, reaching over to squeeze my hand.

"What?"

"This." She waves her hand between the two of us. "Us."

I close my eyes. She's right, and I know it. I open them 
again, look into hers, and she accepts my unspoken apology 
by squeezing my hand again.

She glances into the darkness of the open doorway. "Is it 
bothering you at all that Alex Krycek knows 
we're.......together?"

"In what sense? I think he thought we were involved with 
each other a long time ago."

"You do? How long ago?"

"Even when I was partnered with him. He just assumed, 
Scully. Like Colton and those other assholes. Well, not 
quite like that," I amend. 

"But this is proof, not rumors from other people, not even 
his assumptions based on watching us work together."

"Okay, you're right, it is.  But what are the consequences 
of his knowing?  None, as far as I can tell. Who's going to 
care? They've known for a long time that all they need to 
do to hurt me is hurt you." A wave of bitterness sweeps 
through me. "And vice versa.  We prove it to them over and 
over again."

"We have to talk about how we're going to handle this after 
we're done with this case. Not tonight," she adds, when I 
open my mouth. "But soon."

"I know."

She snaps off the light next to the bed. I smile into the 
darkness and roll onto my side, seeking the silk of her 
skin. She edges back toward me, and we meet in the 
middle, her back to my front. 

When I wake up, it's hours later, and the room is hot and 
airless. The ratty drapes are doing a bad job of blocking 
out the mid-morning sun. I would be bothered by some of 
these facts but Scully's mouth is closing around my cock.

Hot, hot and slick and her hands are rubbing slow patterns 
on my thighs. I feel the sweat collecting on my chest and 
face, and try to push away the tangle of yellowed sheets.  
I lift my head and peer at my beautiful lover through the 
dusty air. She lets my cock slip out of her mouth long 
enough to press two fingers to her lips, glistening with 
her saliva, and she smiles wickedly at me. I get it -- keep 
quiet, Mulder, or I'll stop. I can see the sweat-sheen on 
her chest, too, between her exquisite little breasts. I 
want to touch her, run my hands over her, but she's taking 
me in her mouth again and it feels too good to stop her.

I flop back on the bed, close my eyes, let myself imagine 
her between my legs, red-gold hair brushing my thighs, 
strong hands stroking me. She lets me slip out of her mouth 
again and I almost protest -- no, Scully, I haven't made a 
sound, I swear -- until I feel her nuzzle my balls and 
gently take first one, then the other, in her mouth, her 
tongue swirling around them delicately. 

I reach for her, run a shaky hand through her hair. One-
handed, I bunch the pillow up beneath my head, and tilt my 
neck to see her. 

Her eyes are closed, but I know she knows I'm watching her 
by the slight tilt of her perfect lips. She wraps a hand 
firmly around the base of my cock and slips the shaft 
between her lips again, sucking harder, letting it slide 
deeper, setting up a hot, slow rhythm.

I only grunt softly when I come and she doesn't say a word, 
only lets me slide limp and glistening from her mouth so 
that she can clean me off with delicate swipes of her 
tongue.

She crawls back up the bed to lie next to me. I reach a 
hand down and stroke her thigh, but she pushes it away 
gently, whispering, "Later."

I put my mouth next to her ear, inhaling the sweet scent of 
her. "Why not now?"

"We need to get up in an hour. Go back to sleep. I'll take 
a rain check." 

I laugh softly, then louder when she pinches my ass 
disapprovingly. Finally, I settle down and draw her sweat-
damp body closer to mine, disregarding the heat. 

Scully falls asleep rapidly, a legacy of years of bedding 
down in motels across the country, the unsurprising feel of 
unfamiliar sheets nearly as expected as the smell of your 
own bed after a while. If she was next door, it was home to 
me.

I wait until her breathing is steady before I whisper, "I 
love you, Scully. More than anything." And then I let 
myself slip back into sleep.





I could have just given Maxwell the gas, I guess.

But fuck him.  There's a good market out there for this 
stuff, it's harder to steal than plutonium and I'll be 
goddamned if I'm going to hand it over to an asshole 
like Maxwell. I had earmarked it for one of my more....... 
influential customers. I went through the whole switch and 
bait with Maxwell and Ajiib strictly for the money.

How did he find Kate? 

It's been eating at me since I got the call.

John Maxwell's hatred of the Federal government is epic. 
He'd never go through official channels to get Mulder's 
number. 

Which means he got it from someone else.

My personal guess would be Spender the Human Chimney but it 
really doesn't matter. All that I need to know is that 
they're reminding me that I owe them. 

That they own me.

In case I had forgotten while I was out freelancing.

Sometime in the morning I wake up, the piss-sweat-dust 
smell stronger now that the day's heat is setting in. I 
hear a sigh, then the sound of sheets sliding against 
each other from the next room.

Goddamn it, it makes me sick that Spooky is getting some 
while I'm lying here alone with my morning hard-on. That 
sorry motherfucker just isn't worth her time. She should 
have figured that out years ago. He's such an unbelievable 
pussy, always feeling sorry for whatever scumbag he happens 
to take down in the course of doing his job. 

Of course, women like that. I kind of want to march in 
there and tell her that so-called sensitive men don't 
necessarily give the best head.

Instead, I jerk off quietly into the dirty sheets, shutting 
my eyes and inventing a dream-Dana who doesn't argue, just 
sucks me off with perfect blowjob lips. 

Not a great substitute for the real live woman. 

I liked her company. I liked having her tight little ass 
and shiny hair sitting next to me in the truck. Even having 
someone bitching at me was better than having nothing but 
the radio to make noise. 

I wanted to explore her, find out what's put that hard edge 
into her questions since the last time I met her face to 
face. I wanted to tell her that if I had had to kill her 
that day that it would have left a mark on me. 

And that almost nothing leaves marks on me anymore. 

I wanted someone to talk to.

The last time I had an argument with Kate, I was still at 
the Academy. It was Thanksgiving, and we were having dinner 
together at a nice Washington hotel, a mournful reminder 
that we no longer had anywhere else to be. 

She laid some Ivy League bullshit on me about civil 
liberties, protecting the integrity of the system. I told 
her that law was not a synonym for justice. 

That's about all I remember, that and drinking a lot of 
Stolichnaya with the turkey dinner. Maybe I was just as 
sentimental as she was.

She graduated with honors, and me, I graduated from the 
academy, began working at the FBI. Then my real education 
began. It got to the point where I couldn't field her 
questions any longer.

That Thanksgiving was the almost the last time we talked. 
When we spoke again, my end came from a cold phone booth on 
the way out of Washington.

"My assignment is top secret. I won't be able to give you a 
forwarding address or phone number. But I'll get in touch 
with you, I swear. When I can."

She was crying and trying not to let me hear it. The cold 
plastic of the payphone receiver bit into my hands; I 
didn't have any gloves, the call was almost an 
afterthought.

"Alex, what if something happened to you? You're 
all......." I heard her bite off a sob, and the rest of the 
words. We were alone now, and I was leaving her more alone.

I called her twice in the next three years. I didn't have 
answers to any of her questions. Last fall, I only left a 
message on an answering machine in Los Angeles.

Kate was the last person I could talk to; it was just 
everyday irony that we argued constantly.

I hear the thin hiss of whispering from the other room, 
then silence. 

I learned long ago not to whisper -- the sibilants carry 
too easily. The trick is to speak in a very low voice. 





"A sport ute would be better at this point. I didn't plan 
on hanging onto the pickup this long. I really don't like 
storing the damn thing under just a tarp," Krycek whines. 
"Give me half and hour and I can--"

"No." Mulder growls.

Krycek sighs, but he puts the truck in gear and peels out 
of the motel parking lot.

None of us could stand the fetid heat of the motel when we 
got up, so we agreed to get some food and talk through our 
plan. Mulder bristled the minute Krycek walked into our 
room, stepping lightly over the canister of gas; with the 
softening effect of the drugs out of his system, the 
atmosphere between them has changed, grown heavier.  

Or maybe it's just the heat. The radio said it's ninety-two 
today, with eighty-nine percent humidity, which means that 
Manhattan is enduring the same weather as the Amazon Basin. 
I'll bet the jungle smells better, too. West 131st Street 
quivers through the waves of heat coming up off the 
asphalt. The trashcan under the lamp-post with the "PICK UP 
AFTER YOUR DOG: $50 FINE FOR LITTERING!" sign is 
overflowing.

We drive downtown. When Krycek turns east onto 125th Street 
I ask him where we're going and he pauses, then says, "I 
know a place where they serve breakfast twenty-four hours a 
day."

"Why is it that you =never= tell me where we're going?" I 
snap at him. "A street address would be nice. Or even, 
'Dana, we're going to Denny's.' =Anything.="

Mulder looks oddly concerned after my outburst. Krycek 
glances at me, then says distantly, "East Ninety-Ninth, 
between First and Second.  I think the place is called 
Mamacita's but I'm not sure. They make decent huevos 
rancheros and nobody speaks English."

I sit on the front seat between the love of my life and our 
temporary ally the international terrorist, sweating and 
sticking to the upholstery. Everything is out of focus and 
I desperately need something ordinary to concentrate on -- 
picking out wallpaper, or cleaning a gun. But all I can 
think about is the careful sound of Alex Krycek's voice 
telling me where he's taking us; it blurs together with the 
memory of his black eyes staring back at me last night at 
the tollbooth, vulnerable and dangerous as a jaguar with a 
broken leg.

This is the man who killed Mulder's father. Who watched 
Luis Cardinale shoot Missy. Who would have shot me, if I'd 
been there, called it business and cleaned his Glock when 
he was through. 

Mulder's hand, hot and slightly damp, brushes over mine and 
suddenly everything comes back into focus, like surfacing 
from deep under the surface when you're at the end of your 
breath. 
 
Meeting his worried gaze, I murmur, "I'm fine," and even 
mean it.

End Chapter 14/19 of 'Above Rubies'




"Above Rubies," (15/19) by Rachel Howard    
    
See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information. 

   
    
Resnick shifts on the plastic chair, the soles of his shoes 
squeaking against the linoleum. "He isn't stupid."    
    
The silver-gray sheen of the one-way mirror washes out the 
lines in Santanda's face, disguises the bags under his 
eyes. From here, he looks relaxed and alert. He's handling 
the interview well, better than I expected. Resnick taps 
his empty coffee cup on the interview room table in an 
irregular rhythm. Santanda asks genially, "Want some more 
java? I know it ain't Starbucks, but......."    
    
Resnick smiles uneasily. "Ah, sure."    
    
Santanda stands up and reaches for the coffeepot.  "So you 
worked with this guy for a while."    
    
"I have an accounting degree, but they offered me a 
transfer to customer relations. Maxwell was one of the 
first clients I got to manage."     
    
"He paid cash, right? Did you have a lot of clients who did 
that?" Resnick eyes the fresh cup of steaming coffee that 
Santanda sets down in front of him and blows on it before 
taking a sip.    
    
Of course not -- no one pays cash for a two thousand dollar 
order for fertilizer, and Santanda knows it, but Resnick's 
shoulders are beginning to relax, and he's not twitching 
like a lab rabbit any more.    
    
"No, see, that was what bothered me. He did that right from 
the beginning -- I never even checked his bank references, 
you know, because he always showed up with the money. 
Always.  And weird things would get him upset. Like when 
we installed security cameras in the front lobby, and he 
would always walk sideways through the door after that, so 
the camera couldn't get his face clearly. He said the 
average American is captured on film at least twelve times 
a day and he wasn't going to be a statistic. Things like 
that." He pauses. "Are you guys after him for taxes?"    
    
Santanda shrugs. "We're concerned that he hasn't been 
completely. forthcoming about some of his purchases."    
    
Resnick seems satisfied. "I thought so. He had a big thing 
about taxes.  We were supposed to stay friendly with all 
the major customers, you know? Take them out for steak once 
in a while. He wasn't easy to make conversation with, if 
you know what I mean. He wouldn't sit down at a table 
without checking out the waiter first. A couple of times we 
left places without even ordering because he didn't like 
the looks of the staff. I only took him out a few times."    
    
Santanda asks, "Did he choose the restaurants? Maybe he 
wanted to be close to home?"    
    
Resnick shakes his head. "I don't think so. I got the 
impression that he doesn't live in New York full time. He 
said something once about just having gotten back from 
Texas."    
    
"Do you know where he lives, Mr. Resnick? It's important 
that we contact Mr. Maxwell."    
    
Resnick hesitates, then reaches for the briefcase at his 
feet.  He sets it on the table, snaps it open, then flips 
through a couple of manila folders before he pulls out a 
piece of paper.    
    
"This is the only address I have for him.  We had to 
deliver for him once. Usually, he picked up his orders, but 
I guess he was in a hurry that time."     
    
Santanda flatters Resnick out the door, shaking his hand.     
    
The address is on Crescent Avenue, in Astoria, Queens.    
    
Ledeller says, "Chiavelli wanted to talk to us. Says he has 
some background on Maxwell that might help." He leans 
overmy shoulder and reads the address Resnick gave us. 
"Astoria? Isn't that more of a, uh--"    
    
"Lotsa immigrants," Santanda breaks in. "Greeks, some of 
them. Pakistanis. Little bit of everything."    
    
"What's the Aryan Revival Army doing there?" Ledeller wants 
to know.    
    
Chiavelli, when we get him on speakerphone, doesn't have an 
answer for us. "Maxwell's not stupid -- he's held a 
professional job, college educated--"    
    
"Where?" I interrupt him.    
    
"Texas A&M. Dropped out or, more likely, got kicked out 
during his junior year. He got busted for illegal weapons 
possession and for carrying a concealed weapon without a 
permit while he was there -- got probation." Chiavelli 
grunts in disgust. "Jesus. He did quality assurance for a 
big agrochemical outfit for a while. The big event for him, 
it looks like, was Waco. He spent some time hanging out 
around David Koresh, and after Waco he went down, tried to 
convince the remaining Branch Davidians to go start a 
'model community' in Idaho with him in charge. Apparently 
he didn't get any takers. Then about six months went by 
where no one knew where he was, and he eventually turned up 
in Jersey."    
    
Santanda whistles softly. "Big change of scenery. Why?"    
    
"Don't know," Chiavelli admits.     
    
I read the address to him. "Got this location anywhere in 
his file?"    
    
After a minute, Chiavelli replies, "Nope. Nothing."    
    
"Got anything else on him?"    
    
"Got kicked out of ROTC for insubordination."    
    
For the ninetieth time, I curse Mulder for not being where 
he ought to be -- sitting at this table, profiling Maxwell, 
taking his mind apart like a broken watch. Instead, he's 
hared off again, and this time he took his lover with him.    
    
Not fair, Walter. The man was almost certainly kidnapped. 
You're holding him responsible because of circumstantial 
evidence you found in his hotel room. Because of her 
earrings on his bedside table. The cold whisper of the 
trained investigator's voice dissects my anger, brings me 
back into the present.    
    
"Okay. Thank you."    
    
I disconnect, and the three of us stare at the phone for a 
minute, processing what we heard.  Finally, I say, "Let's 
go to Astoria."    
    
Santanda drives like he works -- accurate, careful, 
signaling when appropriate, making the occasional quick 
lane change. He's a good agent, experienced. But Ledeller, 
sitting next to me, reviewing his notes ffrom his initial 
conversationwith Chiavelli, will be even better. From time 
to time I see flashes in Ledeller of what Mulder has hidden 
away under his bad attitude and talent for pissing off his 
peers -- pure, animal instinct, knife-sharp.    
    
And most of the time, Scully keeps Mulder in line. But not 
this time.     
    
I sigh in irritation, cracking the knuckles of my left hand 
sequentially. Ledeller glances over at me, instantly 
curious, but too smart to pry.    
    
Sharon once told me that real pearls are gritty against 
your teeth, not smooth. We were in bed, and she took the 
slim strand that she had not bothered to remove from her 
lovely throat when we tumbled there together, brushed the 
creamy pearls over my lips with a sly smile. I refused the 
bait and went after the silk of her mouth instead.    
    
I have no doubt that Scully's pearls would have rasped 
gritty against my teeth.    
    
She's far too beautiful for it never to have crossed my 
mind. But I have never let myself lapse into fantasies 
about her -- my best agent, my subordinate. She's so 
obviously unavailable.    
    
I think I can absolve myself of jealousy. I am not jealous 
of Mulder. But envy of what they share, of the searing 
connection between them -- of that, I am guilty, and have 
been for a long time.     
    
"Sir?"    
    
Ledeller has a peculiar look on his face; abstracted and 
intense at the same time. "Sir, why do you think Maxwell 
came out here? To the east coast?"    
    
"I don't know," I admit. "Do you have a theory?"    
    
He shakes his head, turning to peer out the window again. I 
follow his gaze. White row houses interspersed with small 
businesses bearing names like "Meccariello's Pizzeria," 
"Farooqi Funeral Home", "Ghouri and Son Hardware."     
    
Santanda turns onto Crescent Avenue, maneuvering us around 
a double-parked truck.     
    

  
    
The salty ocean smell here is mixed with the usual stink of 
dead fish, but with a weird twist -- roasting peanuts and 
beer.    
    
"Are you sure that this is the place he meant?" Scully has 
the same look on her face that she got when we drove up to 
the motel.    
    
"I told you he was a weird motherfucker." I'm on autopilot, 
scanning the boardwalk for Kate, knowing I won't see her, 
but unable to stop myself. He'll have her inside the bar.
        
Mulder looks up and down the boardwalk. "This is where 
Maxwell was planning to use the gas, wasn't it? Coney 
Island." A faint rattle and thin screams come from the 
direction of the roller coaster, farther into the amusement 
park. "Not many white faces here, are there? Lots of 
families with little kids. Easy enough to get out of here, 
on a powerboat maybe. Lots of places to dock nearby, and 
then he could get in a car, get out of the borough quickly. 
Or switch to the subway, even. There's a stop just a few 
blocks away." His eyes are distant, mapping Maxwell's 
moves. "Close to the airport."    
    
He tugs his shirt up to wipe sweat off his face, shifting 
the backpack with our spare ammo to his left shoulder, 
leaving a dark streak where the strap pressed into him. 
There's a hot breeze and the afternoon sun is pounding 
down.    
    
Scully checks her watch. "Two o' clock."    
    
Mulder looks at me, squinting against the afternoon 
sunshine. "How did he hook up with Ajiib?"    
    
"You tell me, profiler boy." I feel a thin pang of envy.    
    
His eyes get distant again. "The enemy of my enemy."    
    
Scully looks up at him. "Do you think it's that simple?"    
    
"It's the only explanation. The only common thread is their 
hatred for the government. Somehow, they agreed to 
cooperate to pull off a terrorist attack. And they had 
enough manpower individually, I think, so it must have been 
to raise cash." His eyes lose their glaze and he looks at 
me. "To buy the gas. How much did you get out of them?"    
    
I grin crookedly at him. "Just call me Alex Krycek, public 
servant."    
    
Scully turns away from me, blank-faced.    
    
"They don't have it, do they? And I have the cash. It's a 
win-win situation." I look across the street. "That's where 
he is."    
    
The sign over the door reads 'Carnival Bar'. The windows 
are filmed with grime. The heat rising off the pavement 
makes the storefront waver and twist. A funhouse illusion, 
like the rest of this place.     
    
I shut my eyes and remember Kate's face, the way she waves 
her hands around when she argues, the sound of her voice. 
If he hurt my sister, I'm going to make sure he dies 
slowly.     
    
I repeat what I told them this morning, for my sake as well 
as theirs. "He'll be in the back. There's an office behind 
the bar. Door straight back at the end of the room leads to 
the office, sign says 'Employees Only'."     
    
They nod in unison.    
    
I saw Mulder examine the canister of gas when we got out of 
the truck, a long, thoughtful look back that told me about 
his doubts, as if I hadn't guessed already.    
    
Scully asks, "What does Kate look like?"    
    
"Five-six, brown hair, brown eyes. Slight build. Hair's 
probably shoulder-length, unless she's changed it lately. 
She looks a lot like me. Same nose."     
    
Mulder breaks in. "When was the last time you saw her?"    
    
Fuck you. "Three years ago." His upper lip twitches; 
Scully's expression doesn't change. "She thinks I work for 
the CIA. I'd like to keep it that way." I loathe the 
pleading undertone in my voice. To regain my equilibrium, I 
ask Scully, "You ready?"    
    
Scully tugs uneasily at her t-shirt. I smother a grin as I 
look her over, remembering which one of us is currently 
armed. In the name of protective coloring, we picked up a 
few things on our way out here.     
    
Scully's now wearing a pink midriff top that exposes her 
lovely, flat belly all the way to her delicately cupped 
navel. She's wearing dark circles of eyeliner and sticky 
pink lipstick that makes me want to run my thumb over her 
mouth, find out if it tastes like cotton candy. Her jeans 
are incongruous in the heat, but they cover her ankle 
holster.     
    
I try to focus on Scully's skin, forget the twisting fear 
for Kate. I feel naked without my weapon, but I know quite 
well that Maxwell will have me frisked. Scully fingers the 
shirt again and says, "Okay."    
    
I work up a smirk for Mulder; this is the part of the plan 
that I really like. I reach over and take Scully's hand, 
and say, "Come on, sweetheart." For the fun of it, I slip 
my arm around her slim waist and add, loud enough for him 
to hear, "I've got plans for the two of us." She doesn't 
answer, just flicks one glance back over her shoulder as we 
walk toward the dingy bar.    
    

  
    
    
10524 Crescent Avenue is a brick rowhouse like all the 
rest, American flag hanging limp in the hot air, planted 
solidly in the front yard.    
    
A woman answers the door. She's young, blonde, and her eyes 
flicker nervously between the badges hanging from our 
raised hands. "FBI?" she says under her breath. Without 
waiting for us to ask, she blurts out, "He's not here. John 
left early this morning. I'm the only one here right now, 
so I can't help you."    
    
"How did you know we were looking for John? You're 
referring to John Maxwell, right?" I ask her.    
    
She reddens immediately.    
    
"May we come in, miss.......?"    
    
"I don't have to let you in," she replies, staring at my 
collar, ignoring the implicit question.    
    
"No, of course you don't," I reassure her. "We just want to 
ask you a couple of questions."     
    
The rote words seem to frighten her instead of putting her 
at ease. "I don't own this place, you know. He does."    
    
Her accent is mild and I can't place it. "Have you lived 
here long?"    
    
Her blue eyes shift up to mine and I add, "I'm sorry, I'm 
Walter Skinner." I hear Ledeller shift next to me when I 
say my first name. "You are?"    
    
"Leah Webb," she says, almost inaudibly. "I guess you can 
come in."    
    
The front room is small and nearly bare, with only a coffee 
table and a few dented folding chairs; Ledeller, Santanda 
and I stand in an uncomfortable semi-circle in front of 
Leah. Her feet are bare, and I watch her stubby toes twitch 
against the faded weave of the carpet. "Miss Webb, it's 
very important that we speak with Mr. Maxwell. Do you know 
where we might be able to find him?"    
    
It's a long time before she answers. I watch her cornflower 
blue eyes inventory the few furnishings in the room. When 
she raises her eyes to mine, there is some weighty decision 
behind them, in which we have unwittingly altered the 
balance. "I don't want to be here any more. If I tell you 
where to find him, will you help me get out of here? Get 
back home?"     
    
"Where's home?" Ledeller interjects.    
    
She flinches, and I wish he hadn't said anything. She 
doesn't take her eyes off me while she replies. "Idaho. I 
looked at a Greyhound map. I can take a bus there. To 
Boise, anyway. If I tell you, will you give me the money 
for a bus ticket? I could get there through Chicago."    
    
"Yes," I tell her. "As long as you give us some way to 
contact you at your final destination. We'll see that you 
get home." LaGuardia Airport is not far from here. Leah 
Webb looks lost in this urban living room, an Indian 
paintbrush struggling to grow in a terrarium.     
    
She takes a deep breath and says in a rush, "He left about 
six. I knew there was somethin' goin' on, he said they were 
going to that bar, the one they bought from the niggers, 
but who goes to a bar at six in the morning?  And they took 
that woman with them. She didn't say anything but I took 
her up some dinner last night, and after they left, I 
checked, and she didn't eat none of it."    
    
"What woman?" My voice is sharper than I meant it to be, 
and she shrinks a little under my gaze.    
    
"I don't know her name. She got here yesterday, and he 
carried her upstairs, said she was sick. But she didn't 
look sick when they left today. Just scared."    
    
Maxwell has a hostage. Suddenly, this whole mess looks that 
much worse.    
    
Leah Webb brushes her hair from her face. Her nails are 
short, neat, and the backs of her hands are freckled. For 
the first time I notice how young she looks. Nineteen, 
maybe.    
    
"It's called Carnival Bar. The place where he's at. I drove 
there once or twice -- I can tell you how to get there. But 
I want my bus ticket first."    
    
I stare at her until she gets uncomfortable. "Leah, why 
here? Why New York?"    
    
Without pausing she answers, "Because this is where the 
problem is." She drops into a near monotone, and I think 
she's mocking Maxwell until I realize that she's simply 
reciting a lesson. "This is where it started. The problem. 
White people here need to wake up. New York is ours but 
right now it's all Jews and niggers. It needs cleaning up." 
Her eyes clear a little when she adds, "Only I don't want 
to live here no more. I want to go home."    
    
It's the answer Ledeller was reaching for in the car on the 
way over, but it's unfamiliar. Maxwell has somehow 
reinvented the white power message, put it to a new tune. 
Urban uprising. But Leah Webb looks so lost here.     
    
I reach into my pockets and come out with my cellphone and 
a reporter's pad. "Write it down, Leah. The address of the 
bar, and the address and phone number where we can reach 
you in Idaho. Are you afraid of flying?"    
    
She shakes her head no. I look at Santanda, who is eyeing 
her with the same kind of wary disgust he would give a 
rattlesnake half-crushed under the wheels of a car. "Get on 
the phone, get her a ticket to Boise. Charge it to the 
Bureau. And have them send someone over to drive her to 
LaGuardia."    
    
I look at what Leah is writing on the pad.    
    
Carnival Bar is on Coney Island.     
    
I struggle to remember what I know about Coney Island. 
Amusement park, aquarium. A place lots of families visit, 
for fun.    
    
When Ledeller and I step back into the baking sunshine, I 
call for a SWAT team.    
    
End 15/19 of "Above Rubies"    




"Above Rubies," (16/19)

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


Krycek's hand settles into the curve of my waist. The 
sensation unsettles me more than when he cuffed me to the 
bed and frisked me with the same hand; the difference is 
familiarity. I turn and look over my shoulder at Mulder. 
He's running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. In 
spite of the sun's glare, his pupils are dilated. 

I know I've seen him look this way before, but now intimate 
knowledge lets me recognize it: Mulder is aroused. Maybe 
it's a holdover from his years as a porn voyeur, maybe not, 
but I'm instinctively sure that seeing Krycek's hand on my 
bare skin is what has given Mulder the instant erection 
pushing at his jeans. And with that one glance at his 
hardness, I feel an answering surge of desire, warm 
heat rising within me. Our eyes meet, and I want nothing 
more than to walk back to him, slip my arms around his 
waist, feel him answer me with his embrace. I pause for a 
half-step, try to tell him so with my eyes. Whatever he 
sees in my face makes him smile. He gives my torso a 
lingering look, then inclines his chin. 

Go on.

We'll have time later.

Knowing what he's thinking isn't new, but now there's an 
intimate undercurrent that circles my awareness of him, 
warm and reassuring.
 
Krycek's arm tightens around me for a half-second, and then 
his hand drops to the small of my back as he nudges me into 
step beside him. The gesture is so much like Mulder's it 
startles me back to reality.

I wish I weren't wearing jeans. I needed to wear pants to 
cover the ankle holster I'm wearing, but I'm hot and 
they're making me sweat. The perspiration inching down the 
inside of my hipbone itches, but I am too conscious of 
Krycek's hand on my back to scratch. Another trail of 
perspiration is starting between my breasts, in spite of 
the fact that the idiotic top I'm wearing leaves my entire 
belly naked. We had to stop and buy a few things to replace 
our bloodstained clothes. 

Mulder pulled this top off the rack in the dimestore, 
arguing that it was good camouflage. I let him get away 
with it, enjoying the way he eyeballed me after I put it 
on. I must have forgotten I'd have to wear the thing in 
public.

Krycek surveys the street as we walk, his eyes flickering 
from side to side without any movement of his head, a 
mechanical gesture that must be habit for him. He drops his 
head to glance down at me, and I see perspiration beaded 
lightly along his upper lip. His hand moves up, hovers 
around my shoulderblades, and finally he seems to come to 
some decision, settling his hand lightly on my shoulder, 
his arm encircling me.

"You okay?"

I think he's asking for permission to touch me, an 
unexpected courtesy from him, particularly since it's just 
to keep us in character -- I am posing as his girlfriend to 
get into Maxwell's lair. I nod yes, and he settles into a 
relaxed, loose half-embrace.

We cross the next street, go around the corner. Carnival 
Bar squats in the middle of a string of little bodegas and 
head shops. The signs above the shops only reflect a dim 
gleam from the sun overhead, their paint and glass dulled 
by years of dust.

Krycek shifts his hand down to the small of my back, and 
pushes the door open with his opposite shoulder.

The bar is no better inside. There's sawdust on the floor, 
but it doesn't soak up the smell of cheap beer and 
cigarettes. There's a ceiling fan turning lazily somewhere 
above us that does nothing to circulate the hot, still air.

I look around and mark the locations of several male 
patrons who are staring at us. This makes me nervous until 
I realize that their attention seems to be uniformly fixed 
on my exposed navel. Well, it's a good thing that they're 
here, anyhow: Mulder's part of the plan depends on having 
other people in the bar. They're all white, which is 
clearly not the norm for Coney Island.

The skinny bartender is making a small tower of glass 
ashtrays. He reaches out and fingers a free ashtray sitting 
on the countertop, then cautiously adds it to the stack. It 
doesn't topple. He watches it for a few seconds, then 
reaches for another ashtray without looking, eyeing the 
stack. His shaved head glistens with sweat in the bad 
light. Krycek saunters over to him and says without 
preamble, "Tell him I'm here."

The ashtray in the bartender's hand gets a long, regretful 
look. Finally, he examines Krycek, spares a glance at me, 
then a second glance, lower, and nods. "Siddown."


We don't sit. Krycek leans back against the bar, his 
posture indolent, but his dark eyes are tracking the 
bartender's retreating back. Across the room, a bearded 
man wearing a baseball cap that reads "Schlitz - They'll Do 
It Every Time" is checking us out. It's unclear whether 
it's my ridiculous shirt or Krycek's plastic arm that's 
gotten his attention. I rest against the bar, copying 
Krycek, and feel his breath sigh against the side of my 
face. I turn my head and he's right there, inside my space, 
his green-black eyes daring me to do something about it. 

I flex my foot lightly, feeling the warm pressure of the 
ankle holster against moving bones and ligaments. The buzz 
of arousal from Mulder's heated gaze is still tracing 
through me like an echo. Instead of moving away, I play my 
part, leaning closer to Alex and blowing lightly across the 
soft spot on his neck, where the shadow of his jugular lies 
under the skin.

Instantly, Alex lowers his chin and looks directly into my 
eyes, and I watch his pupils flare, a jaguar sighting its 
intended mate, dilating as quickly as Mulder's did. His 
lips part and I get a shadowed glimpse of his tongue, feel 
his breath wash over my exposed throat. I imagine him 
baring his teeth, preparing to taste the back of my neck. 
Then a door slams at the far end of the bar and there's a 
nearly audible click as Krycek changes gears, from sex to 
contained violence so quickly I almost don't believe I saw 
that flare of animal lust. 

The man approaching us is not the bartender. This guy is 
much bigger, and equally bald, with eyes so bloodshot he's 
either seriously stoned or suffering from an ocular 
disease. He gives Krycek the same visual once-over, but his 
glance at me is longer, more appraising. When he addresses 
us, his eyes don't reach north of my breasts. "If y'all 
could come with me?"

The accent is pure Texas twang, seriously displaced. Krycek 
says, "Let's go, babe," and follows him, his eyes moving 
again, across the man's broad back, calculating. 

Right before we go through the door at the back of the bar, 
I hear the front door jingle and Mulder's voice carrying 
across the room, "Hey, I don't think so, buddy. Not a 
chance, not for you...Hey, wanna beer!"

The bartender pushes past us as we walk through the door 
and I slow down for a second, to be sure Mulder can see 
where we're going. I hope his drunken act looks more 
convincing than it sounded. Mulder's not much of an actor.

I follow Krycek into a narrow hallway. 

"So, who the fuck are you?" Krycek's tone is 
conversational, relaxed. 

Our guide replies, "I'm Brady. Mr. Maxwell is expecting 
you." He pauses dramatically like he's expecting someone to 
yell, "Cut!" -- clearly, Brady has seen one too many Mafia 
movies.

For effect, I whine, "Hey, I thought we were getting a 
beer."

"Shut up," Krycek answers, indulgently.

Brady nods sagely as though this is simply part of his 
script and announces, "Mr. Maxwell is very particular about 
his company. He has asked me to be certain that y'all 
aren't carrying." He lifts an expectant eyebrow at Krycek, 
who growls, "Get on with it, Monkeyboy."

Apparently this is also in Brady's script, because he 
ignores the insult and gets to work patting Krycek down. I 
manufacture a vapid giggle when he runs his hands up 
Krycek's legs, noting that he's too inexperienced to get a 
good grip on the ankles. Damn; if we'd known in advance, we 
could both be carrying. Krycek looks bored. 

Brady spends quite a bit more time frisking me than he did 
on Krycek. His hands linger on the exposed flesh of my back 
before he goes in for the kill, stroking my ass through the 
tight jeans as if there's a chance I've concealed a deadly 
weapon in my panties. Krycek bares his teeth again and this 
time it looks deadly. Brady's hands are gone, ripped away 
as Krycek slams him up against the wall hard enough that 
the floor trembles.

Brady's eyes are wide, and he's gasping like a fish as 
Krycek's shoulder digs the air out of his lungs. Seems that 
getting buffaloed by a guy half his size wasn't in his 
script. "The next time you put even one hand on her ass, 
you lose them both," Krycek grinds out, shoving his 
prosthesis in the big man's face for emphasis. Now Brady's 
eyes are bulging, and a mottled flush is spreading over his 
face. 

A door further down the hallway opens and someone says 
calmly, "Let go of him." 

This man's head is not shaved, but the military cut doesn't 
do much for his thin, angular face, either. I hear Brady 
take a rattling gasp of air as Krycek releases him. 
Crewcut's eyes flicker over me once, dismissively. "What's 
the problem?"

"The problem is that dickless here doesn't know the 
difference between checking a lady for weapons and copping 
a feel." 

He glances at me again, then says to Krycek, "I apologize. 
Perhaps your lady friend would be more comfortable waiting 
for you at the bar."

"With the rest of the assholes who hang out here? Fuck, no. 
She stays with me. Get her a beer," he tells Brady, who is 
breathing more or less normally by now. Brady looks at 
Crewcut for affirmation, then disappears.

"Fine. Come in and have a seat." The thin man holds the 
door open and waves me in. This must be John Maxwell, and 
he's not reading from Brady's script; he doesn't even 
glance at me again as I brush past him. Krycek doesn't 
introduce me -- in this world, women aren't players and 
manners don't count.

The office isn't big. There's a long desk, with a couple of 
framed photos on top and a few binders. An enormous Nazi 
flag dominates the wall behind the desk, one corner 
drooping where the duct tape holding it up has peeled off. 
The decorating effort seems to have stopped there; the few 
orange plastic chairs lined up in front of the desk don't 
add much to the atmosphere. There's another thin man with a 
shaved head sitting against the wall, who stops picking at 
his cuticles when we come in. He's got a Saturday night 
special lying casually in his lap like a party favor.

No sign of Krycek's sister. 

Krycek deadpans, "Nice place you've got here. How do you 
keep the niggers and spics out of the bar?"

Maxwell answers serenely, "We piss in their beer."

Krycek barks out an abbreviated laugh, and I add an 
uncertain giggle. Maxwell moves around to sit behind the 
desk. He brushes imaginary dust from the blotter in front 
of him, never taking his gaze from Krycek. His eyes are 
blue and clear; his lean frame looks strong and healthy. 
When his foot soldiers pass the bong around, I doubt he 
indulges.  

No one asks my name. 

Krycek settles himself into the hard plastic like it's a 
leather wing chair in a gentlemen's club, and reaches over 
to rest his hand on my leg with a proprietary air. "Sure is 
hot here. Bet you'd get more customers if you put in 
central A/C."

"I believe you're in possession of some of my property," 
Maxwell says in the same measured tone.

"I could say the same."

"I need that property back," Maxwell continues, as if 
Krycek hasn't spoken. "I have an immediate need for it, in 
fact."

"You know, I owe you an apology." Krycek waits until 
Maxwell begins to relax into his chair, then continues, "I 
killed a buddy of yours this morning. Mohammad al Ajiib. 
Didn't know you enjoyed hanging out with sand niggers, 
John."

Maxwell's expression doesn't change at all, but he no 
longer looks relaxed. I watch a muscle in his forearm 
twitch, jumping under the skin. 

Krycek is playing to Maxwell deliberately. What has he told 
these men about himself, his connections? Or was his 
ability to get his hands on chemical weapons the only thing 
that mattered to them?

Brady comes in with a dripping beer bottle, and twists the 
cap off before he sets it down in front of me. I smile at 
Maxwell, who ignores me, and I take a medium-sized sip. 
Brady hovers uncertainly, but Maxwell is still studying 
Krycek. After an awkward minute, Brady leaves. After the 
door shuts behind us, I hear him clear his throat 
officiously from the hallway just outside the room.

Krycek looks over at the thin man with the Sig, and 
inquires, "Who's the new guy?" 

Maxwell licks his lips and dusts the blotter again. His 
hands are small but heavily callused. "Steve's from around 
here." He raises his head and looks in the direction of the 
man sitting against the wall. Steve looks up and nods. 
"Steve got tired of seeing his sister date niggers on 
Saturday nights. Now he's ready to do something about it." 
Steve nods again, his head bobbing like a puppet's. There's 
a tattoo under the line of his jaw, and when his head comes 
up, I can see it clearly -- it's a strand of barbed wire 
that climbs up behind his ear.

Like a preacher, Maxwell intones, "People are the same 
everywhere. White people need to wake up. Period. Doesn't 
matter if they live in Idaho. Doesn't matter if they live 
in Texas. Doesn't matter if they live in Jew York." Steve 
is still nodding, rhythmically, keeping time with Maxwell. 
"White people need to wake up, take back their own. You let 
a nigger put their hands on a clean Aryan woman, you're 
part of the problem." His eyes flicker in my direction 
again, then away. "Stop him, and you're part of the 
solution. I need that gas," he finishes abruptly. "We have 
plans, and I need it. Now."

I reach over and pick up the beer, feeling the cool, narrow 
bottleneck in my hand.

"Where's my sister?" Krycek asks, suddenly. 

"Where's my merchandise?" Maxwell growls back.

Steve sits up and looks alert for the first time since we 
walked in. 

Krycek's eyes burn holes into Maxwell. "You don't have her, 
do you? This was a bluff. That was a mistake, buddy. A big 
one."

Maxwell smirks at him, regains his balance. "Nice looking 
woman. 'Bout five-four, brown hair, brown eyes, got a mole 
on her earlobe right where the earring goes in. Wouldn't 
have noticed it except she had pretty little diamonds in 
her ears and I took 'em out to give 'em to my lady." 

"You could have gotten that off a picture. Or Spender could 
have told you what she looked like." 

What does this have to do with Jeffery Spender? And how 
does he know Krycek's sister? I can feel his tension level 
rising, as tangible as the bottle in my hand. 

Maxwell ignores the bait. "She's safe. And she'll stay 
safe, just so long's I get my merchandise."

"Did he bother telling you his name?" Maxwell looks back 
impassively, and after a pause, Krycek keeps talking, an 
undercurrent of real anger in his voice. "Or did he just 
light a fresh cigarette and say he was a friend of the 
Aryan Nation? You stupid redneck, you actually think that 
sonofabitch is on =your= side?"

That one went home; Maxwell twitches again, the muscle in 
his forearm jumping wildly. But he leans towards Krycek and 
repeats, "Where's my merchandise?"

"You know what, Maxwell? You're a dumb sonofabitch. Those 
guys have weapons that make VX gas look like air freshener, 
and they could care less about you. They're using you to 
get to me, and when they're done, you'll be a dead man."

And then we hear a crash from the bar, and a shout. 

Mulder's timing isn't usually this good.


End "Above Rubies", (16/19)





Above Rubies, chapter 17 of 19

See chapter 1 for disclaimers and other information.


I stifle a wild urge to laugh. The skinny bartender 
is staring with numb horror at the pile of broken 
ashtrays I just sent crashing to the floor, as though 
I'd just pushed his car off a cliff. 

I expected it to be easy to pick a fight in here, but 
all the patrons were too drunk to get angry when I 
started getting into their faces. Or maybe I'm not 
good at starting bar fights. Finally, I just got sick 
of watching the tower of ashtrays grow and started 
hassling this guy. He ignored me, too. 

Not any more. He roars with indignation and reaches 
for me from across the bar, which is exactly the 
excuse I need to toss my beer bottle at the 
mirrored wall behind him and duck down behind a table. 
The mirror cracks with a satisfying snap and I pop up 
in time to see the skinny bald guy rounding the corner 
of the bar. 

He's faster than I expect for a half-wit, Nazi 
stoner. Around behind one of the tables, and even the 
guy with the Schlitz cap is looking up from his beer 
by now. I plant my feet, ready for the bartender, and 
see a couple of men who were sitting close to the 
door are making their way out onto the street, no 
doubt in search of cold beer, hold the excitement. 
Then the bartender's swinging at me, missing, and I 
land one half-assed punch in the vicinity of his ribs, 
not hard enough to knock him down. He does stagger 
back a half step, enough for me to see another bald 
guy emerge from the door at the far end of the bar. 
He's big, really big, and he's carrying a baseball 
bat.

Time to up the ante. I pull my gun and shout, "FBI! 
Drop your weapon!"

Mr. Schlitz goggles at me. The skinny bartender 
goggles at me, then raises his hands into the air, 
his hands making a shaky path upwards. Bald Guy with 
Bat shouts back, "You got no right!"

"=Drop= it!" 

Bat man doesn't move. Someone else charges through 
the door, and I see the dull gleam of metal in his 
hand. "Both of you, drop your weapons NOW!"

The hand with the bat begins to descend towards the 
floor; I only see it with my peripheral vision, 
because my eyes are watching the hand with the gun 
waver, then begin to track up, not down.

My shot goes high and wide; his shatters glass 
somewhere behind me. The bat clatters to the floor 
and its owner is combat-crawling his way to cover 
behind the bar. 

I get off my next shot. CRACK and the gunman goes down. 

My back presses into the wall next to the door, 
watching for signs that the bald guy might be 
interested. The downed man is still moving slowly. 
Fake wood paneling behind me, and I don't know where 
the bartender is. Fuck.

I nudge the door further open with my foot and 
accidentally trip the man charging through the 
doorway as I do. A perfect Marx brothers gag, he 
bellows and goes flying facedown towards the floor. 

Mr. Schlitz is still sitting at a table, holding onto 
his beer bottle for dear life, eyes like saucers. 





"Krycek!"

He's already half-way into the cellar, not listening 
to me.

"=Krycek!= Damn it!"

He's disappearing down the darkness of the cellar 
stairs. I hear Maxwell stumble and curse. Krycek 
stops and quite deliberately plows Maxwell's face 
into the concrete wall, once, twice. The single bulb 
dangling over the stairwell picks out the bloody mark 
on the wall. Then Krycek pushes Maxwell ahead and 
they go down into darkness. 

Go after him, or go back for Mulder? 

Steve's Sig is warm and heavy in my hand. Steve 
is dead now. Krycek shot him neatly in the center 
of his forehead with the gun hidden in my ankle 
holster while I drove my bottle of beer squarely into 
John Maxwell's jaw. 

There was a crash and shouts from the bar. I had just 
enough time to wonder what Mulder had done to get 
things going before Maxwell stood up, and Krycek's 
hand, resting casually on my leg, closed around my 
ankle holster. 

One tug, the gun is free and I'm up, using my momentum to 
hit Maxwell hard with the bottle, smoothly as if we'd 
rehearsed it.

Gunshots from the bar, and a blast of gunfire too 
close to my ears

he fired over my head

Maxwell's face, reeling back, furious.

Then Krycek had him against the wall, forearm across 
Maxwell's throat, and it had been about four breaths 
since I heard the commotion begin.

In the same conversational tone he used to discuss 
the air conditioning, Krycek asked Maxwell, "Where's 
my sister?"

The eyes above Maxwell's bloodied chin blazed rage at 
Krycek. "In about fifteen seconds one of my soldiers 
will be in here with a weapon. You might live if you 
let go of me."

The gun dangling from Krycek's hand twitched, then 
stilled. Maxwell's eyes widened as Krycek's face got 
closer, closer, then lunged forward as he sank his 
teeth into the slick white skin between the man's 
eyes.

Maxwell's head slammed into the wall behind him and I 
heard him trying for a breath. I looked over at 
Steve for help, but he was dead, half his brains spread 
over the wall.

The scream that finally escaped Maxwell's compressed 
windpipe didn't cover the sound of Krycek spitting a 
hunk of meat and blood at the wall. He hawked and 
spat again, on the floor. "You taste like raw shit. 
Where is she?"

Maxwell groaned, tears of blood running down the sides 
of his nose. "Downstairs."

I followed them as far as the top of the stairs; for a 
long moment, I stared at the bloodstain that Maxwell's 
face left on the wall. 

Now I am running for the door that leads to the front 
of the bar, towards Mulder, away from the blood around 
Krycek's mouth, the incipient homicide in his eyes.




There are four men on the floor, and two of them 
won't be getting up again. Over the sound of my own 
breathing, I hear chair legs scrape against the wooden 
floor. Mr. Schlitz is on his feet. He looks confused. 
I watch him track between the dead skinheads and the 
gun in my hand. "Sir, this is not a safe place for 
you to be right now. Please exit as quickly as you 
can, through the front door."

"You a cop?" he asks, concentrating on the words.

"Mulder!" Scully shouts from the other side of the 
door. "Where are you?" 

"Here! All clear!" I reach for the door just as she 
charges through it and narrowly miss getting whacked 
in the face. 

She's here, sweaty and delicious in that little tank 
top, and I can hear sirens somewhere in the 
neighborhood. Then I see her face. 

"You all right?"

She nods, out of breath.

"You sure?" She doesn't look all right. 

"Need to get downstairs, now," she gets out between 
breaths. "One man down in the office; Krycek's got 
Maxwell."

She follows me into the hall and we both break into a 
run when we hear a scream from somewhere below us. 

The light in the stairwell picks out a bloodstain 
on the wall. Scully calls, "Alex?"

"Come down and join the party," a nearly unrecognizable 
voice answers. It's him, and something is wrong. I see 
Scully's throat work as she swallows, but she heads down 
the stairs, and I follow her.

Before my eyes have adjusted to the half-light, I 
smell blood. Krycek is crouching over a still figure 
on a mattress on the floor with a bloody knife in his 
hand. Someone else is lying on the dirty concrete. The 
low light gleams off of metal tables and boxes, and I 
pick up other scents: metal and gunpowder. 

"Katya, Katya, it's me. Can you hear me?" His voice 
softens into a low rumble and he says something in 
Russian, and I understand that this is his sister. 
The reflection off the knife blade makes everything 
else look dim. She has dark hair and she's not much 
bigger than Scully. Then I finally see where all the 
blood is coming from -- the man on the floor, who seems 
to be unconscious. There's fresh blood staining the 
cuffs of his pants and his face is a mess. 

This must be John Maxwell, and I think we've found 
his arsenal. Long racks line the walls, and a 
cornucopia of deadly weapons fill those racks: 
semiautomatics, revolvers, long-bladed hunting 
knives. Maxwell's right foot twitches, jumping in an 
uneven jitterbug. Krycek did something to him. 

I look at Maxwell's body, halfway to the stairs, and 
I make an educated guess. His Achilles tendons, I think, 
with dull revulsion. Krycek hobbled him so that Maxwell 
couldn't get away while he tended to his sister. A hot, 
sick feeling gathers inside my chest.

Krycek rubs Katya's wrist with his thumb, the handle 
of the bloody knife curled loosely into his palm. "I 
think she's just sedated, but could you take a look?" 
Scully doesn't answer him, but she goes over to Katya 
and gets down on her knees on the filthy floor. 

I hear the sirens again, and if I can hear them down 
here, they're close. Krycek head comes up, alert, and I 
ask him, "This is Maxwell, isn't it?"

He looks up the stairs, gauging the time he needs. "I 
have to get out of here." He looks at Scully and she 
tells him, "I think she'll be all right. Her breathing 
is normal."

Krycek smooths his sister's hair off her face and 
says something else in Russian, and then he's 
clattering up the stairs, taking them three at a 
time. He bumps into the light bulb and it dances on 
its long cord, sending wild shadows around the room. 
The knife lies beside the mattress, where he dropped 
it. 

Scully takes a deep breath and says, "That's John 
Maxwell. The face wound should be superficial, but I 
don't know where the rest of this blood is coming 
from." I hear noise and footsteps above us, and shout 
up the stairs that we're in the basement, all clear 
downstairs.

By the time Skinner makes it down here, weapon in 
hand, Scully is giving first aid to Maxwell, and I 
have figured out our story, more or less.





This is a stinking crock of shit.

Mulder looks as innocent as a twelve-year old caught 
jacking off to Hustler. Gee, Dad, I thought I had locked 
the door. There are three dead men still inside the 
building. The gory mess who was introduced to me as John 
Maxwell was conscious but incoherent when I found them, 
and is currently being strapped onto a stretcher. The two 
remaining living suspects are both unconscious. Katya aka 
Kate Krycek is also unconscious, and Alex Krycek is gone. 

I lean in toward them, and have the satisfaction of 
seeing his eyes widen slightly, although Scully 
doesn't even blink. "Agent Mulder, you will give me 
a thorough account of exactly how the =fuck= you two 
trained FBI agents allegedly managed to be kidnapped by a 
one-armed man when you write your report. And regardless 
of what brand of bullshit you attempt to package into that 
report, I want a full and complete account of the events 
that transpired starting with your illegal search of the 
Elizabeth facility, on Monday morning, at eight AM, in my 
office." I glare at Scully to make this point, but she 
still isn't blinking. For a moment, I consider asking her 
if she makes a habit of leaving her pearl earrings on Mulder's 
bedside table, but that's gratuitous cruelty and this isn't 
the time or place.

Screw this. I'd feel better if there was someone I 
could shoot.

Ledeller materializes and hovers uncertainly. I'm 
getting tired of his Radar O'Riley act. "What?"

"Sir, they've found the truck with the missing 
canister."

Mulder and Scully's heads swivel around in unison, 
and finally Scully's poker face is gone; they're 
wearing identical looks of surprise, like they didn't 
expect it to be at the location they gave us. 

"The remaining suspect was not on the scene."

No surprise this time; they obviously expected Krycek 
to get away. Mulder looks a little relieved, and it 
makes me want to find a excuse to break his nose. 

On a metal table down in the basement, we found a 
car-sized bomb, only a few wires away from 
completion. Put it in a vehicle, maybe a maintenance 
truck - it couldn't be too difficult to infiltrate 
Coney Island, not unless the Mafia had a problem with 
you. Park your maintenance truck near the Cyclone 
roller coaster and most of Brooklyn dies in agony 
from the VX gas you've spread throughout the air when
the bomb goes off. 

Ledeller is trying not to stare at Mulder and Scully. 
The cops milling around the bar are just trying not 
to stare at Scully, who is now wearing a regulation 
jacket over her tank top.

"Get out of here, both of you. Go do your debriefing 
and get the hell back to Washington."

They glance at me, then at each other. Something 
travels between them at lightspeed -- his nose 
wrinkles, she shrugs slightly -- and then they turn 
and begin to walk away.

God damn it.

"Monday, eight AM," I repeat, then grind my teeth for 
repeating myself.

The earrings, the earrings. Real pearls, gritty 
against my teeth while Sharon laughed.

I have until Monday, at least, and it's a good thing, 
because I am not ready for their answers. I'm not 
sure I even have the right questions.


End Ch. 17/19




Above Rubies, by Rachel Howard (18/19) 



"Well, I think we might be fucked this time," Mulder 
announces. He shoves the hotel room door viciously but the 
hydraulic stop keeps it from slamming shut. 

A grateful NYPD detective had given us a ride back to our 
hotel. Every time I moved, my sweaty exposed lower back 
stuck to the vinyl seat, leaving me uncomfortably aware of 
the fact that I was still wearing the ridiculous tank top. 
I had a nasty case of adrenaline-and-coffee jitters and all 
I wanted was an hour alone with Mulder.

Oblivious, he's kicking off his shoes, tossing his keycard 
in the direction of the oak bureau, still grumbling about 
Skinner and the report and how the fuck Krycek managed to 
get off Coney Island without getting caught. 

I sigh and grab his shirtfront to get his attention. 

"What?" He looks distracted and annoyed.

I show him what by going up on tip-toes and fastening my 
lips to his. 

"Oh," he mumbles into my mouth. He slides his arms around 
my waist and plunges one hand down the seat of my jeans, 
the other up under the tank top. 

That's better. For the first time since I watched Krycek 
sink his teeth into Maxwell's face, the buzzing in my head 
begins to subside, replaced by a rush of desire. I back up, 
pulling him with me. "I want it here, against the wall." 

He draws back for a moment and eyes my front. "I really 
like that top," he says smugly, reaching out and rubbing 
his thumb against one of my nipples, which are stiff with a 
combination of air conditioning and lust. Then he yanks the 
tank top over my head. The shock of refrigerated air on my 
sweat-damp breasts makes me gasp. Mulder is watching me 
carefully.

I reach out for his shirt, but he pushes my hands away. 
Looking up at him, I see an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes. 
He shakes his head slightly and says, "Take your jeans 
off."

I hesitate, trying to read his expression. 

"Take them off, Scully."

Fumbling a little with the zipper, I get them down to my 
ankles before I remember the holster under the cuff on my 
left ankle. I feel myself blush when I have to sit down on 
the floor to kick off my shoes and struggle out of the 
holster and the jeans. Mulder makes no move to take off any 
of his clothes, just watches me with a slight smirk. 

"Nice underwear. Take 'em off." 

I stand up and push the elastic off my hips. The bulge of 
Mulder's erection is visible through his jeans, but he is 
still fully dressed. I shiver.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Cold?"

"No," I lie, suddenly irritable. "What are you doing, 
Mulder? Get undressed."

"Does this make you uncomfortable?"

"No," I lie again. I hadn't been aware that I was until he 
said it. Now I can feel the dampness at the nape of my neck 
and the warm slick of arousal between my legs. He just 
stares, and I feel real anger welling inside me. "Stop 
trying to get into my head, Mulder. I don't know why you're 
doing it, but I don't like it."

"You want me to quit talking and just fuck you, is that 
it?" His eyes are dangerous. 

"I want--" I stop, suddenly unsure of what to say, of what 
I am doing. Mulder's leaning in, closer, unsettling me.

"Lie down on the bed, Scully."

I back up. The edge of the box spring presses into my knees 
and I ease myself onto the mattress slowly, one leg at a 
time, watching Mulder. He lets his eyes travel up and down 
my body as I settle back on the bed, and the way he looks 
at me brings back, with stunning clarity, his expression 
when I walked towards the bar with Krycek's arm around my 
waist.

Hunger. And something more complicated. 

Then he walks away, toward the door. 

"Mulder, where are you going?"

He reaches out for the thermostat on the wall, looks over 
his shoulder at me and says, in a flat tone, "It's too cold 
in here."

The air conditioner clicks off, leaving noticeable silence. 
Mulder walks back toward me and rests a knee on the edge of 
the bed, only inches away. He reaches out and runs a finger 
down the center of my chest, not touching my breasts, 
pressing hard enough to leave a white streak behind. His 
finger travels deliberately down my sternum, inches down my 
belly, stabs into my navel, stops there. "I want you do 
something for me, Scully."

I look up at him through a fog of arousal. 

Without waiting for an answer, he picks up my hand and 
places it on my right breast. 

"You want to watch me touch myself? That's what the head 
game's about?" False bravado, and he knows it. My voice is 
steady, but I feel shaky inside. His eyes drill into me. 
Mulder likes to watch. Of course he does, the profiler 
inside me whispers. You knew that already, Dana, didn't 
you? All those videos? And some of them are nasty. 

I circle my nipple with one finger, slowly, watching his 
face. His expression doesn't change when I pinch the nipple 
and tug at it. Sharp pleasure settles into my belly, and 
lower. Finally, I get a little bolder, stroking both 
nipples, reaching up to lick my thumb and forefinger, then 
touching my nipples again. He swallows when I do that. 

Pleased, I slide one hand down my belly and watch his face 
for changes. His breathing quickens slightly when I run my 
fingers through my pubic hair. I feel an answering rush of 
heat between my legs. 

"Keep going," he husks.

I reach down with the other hand and slide two fingers 
through slippery folds, to the right spot. He shifts on the 
bed, and his eyes flicker down to my moving hands. 

"Good?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. 

"More," he says, and I let my fingers speed up. I can hear 
myself panting a little. The pleasure ratchets up a notch, 
like a roller coaster cranking towards the first big drop. 

"Is this how you do it?"

I nod again, knowing what he means. This is how I touch 
myself when I'm alone. 

"What do you think about when you're alone, touching 
yourself?"

I falter, my fingers slowing down, slipping damply. You, I 
think about you. I used to imagine you, doing this for me, 
touching me with your hands and your mouth. Used to picture 
you looking down at me hungrily, wanting me, getting ready 
to make love to me. 

"Tell me."

I close my eyes, turn my head to the side, let my hands 
speed up again. "You. Touching me."

"Keep them open." His hand, on my face, pulling it back to 
center. "I want to  see you. Know what you're thinking. 
Tell me how I touch you. When you think about it."

I lick my lips, find a breath. "You, ah, you want to fuck 
me. From behind. So you reach around, and touch me."

He grabs my busy hand, stilling it. I moan with 
disappointment. "Not like that. Tell me everything. Where 
are we?"

"In a hotel room."

"This one?"

"No. It's dirty. Ugly. Like the motels we always stay at 
when we're on the road."

He chuffs softly. "Are we on the bed in the motel room? 
We're not, are we Scully?" 

I squirm, wanting to touch myself again, and he grabs both 
of my wrists so suddenly I gasp. His eyes are dark, the 
dangerous look is etched into the lines of his face so 
deeply he almost looks like another man. He looms over me, 
reaching up to pin both of my hands above my head. "Shut 
your eyes, Scully, and keep fucking talking. Where are we 
in the motel room?"

With my eyes closed, I can see it more clearly -- the dingy 
drapes, the polyester bedspread. "How did you know we 
weren't on the bed?"

This time it's only a growl. "Tell me."

"In front of the window," I whisper. "It looks out onto the 
parking lot. It's dark outside. The curtains are mostly 
closed but I can see through the crack between them. 
I...ahh--"

Mulder has changed his grip so he is holding me down with 
just his left hand, his knees between my spread thighs. 
With his right hand, he reaches down and his hand sinks 
between my legs, picking up where I left off. He mimics my 
technique exactly, finding the rhythm I like, not pressing 
too hard, circling the delicate knot of tissue and nerves 
with two slick fingers.

"I, I'm holding onto the windowsill. I have a suit jacket 
and skirt on--"

"Which suit?"

"The black suit, with the wide lapels. But no pantyhose. I 
took them off, and my shoes, when I got back to my room."

"Because you wanted me to come to your room and fuck you, 
from behind?" His fingers speed up, flickering over my clit 
with smooth accuracy, wildfires starting where he touches 
me.

"Yeah," I gasp. 

His fingers dip inside me, gathering more wetness, then 
resume circling. "You know someone could see into your 
room, don't you? Through the crack in the curtains?"

I don't answer him. I can feel myself getting close, my 
hips bucking towards his fingers, needing this.

"You know what I think, Scully? I think you screwed up. I'm 
not the only one who watched you today. Saw you and wanted 
your pretty little ass naked against his thighs. For all 
you know I could be out the in parking lot watching you get 
fucked by some other man." I gasp again, his words 
crackling across my skin. So close I am so close

"It might be me, Scully. Taking you, thrusting into you. Or 
it could be someone else. Someone else who got hard 
watching your nipples through that tank top. All you know 
is that you needed it. Needed it bad enough to take off a 
few pieces of clothing and just bend over for it."

Stars flickering across the insides of my eyelids, I am 
coming, thrusting uncontrollably into his hand, crying out 
something incoherent. Mulder's voice, but I can't 
understand the words, everything cartwheeling into the hot 
blur of orgasm.

I open my eyes, find Mulder tearing at his pants. "Turn 
over," he orders. 

He pushes into me hard and hot, filling me to the edge of 
discomfort, and I shudder against him, backing into his 
thrusts. His pants chafe against the delicate skin on the 
back of my thighs. "Like this, Scully? You like it this 
way?"

"Ahh-Mulder. Yeah." He is doing it just the way I described 
it in the motel room, fucking me hard from behind. I can't 
see him through the curtain of hair hanging into my face, 
warm damp air scented with our sweat filling my lungs in 
gasps. I only feel his hot hardness taking me, possessing 
me.

His breath is coming in gulps now, his hands clamped tight 
around my hips, pulling me back into him. "Yeah, I thought 
so. You thought about fucking him, didn't you Scully? 
Fucking Krycek?"

His hand on the back of my neck, pressing my shoulders down 
towards the mattress. My head buried in my arms. 
blur everything is a blur, hot 
hot friction as his cock pumps into me

"You thought about it. What it would feel like having him 
fuck you. Answer me, Scully."

"Ye-yes-" The hot embarrassment can't overtake the new rush 
of dark excitement I feel, admitting it. Mulder's hands 
squeeze my hips hard enough to hurt, and he growls again. I 
can't tell whether the growl means anger or approval. 

Mulder thought about it. Like a lightning flash against the 
insides of my eyelids, I see Mulder, watching Krycek take 
me into the bar, wishing daggers into his throat, imagining 
him touching me, fucking me. Mulder, watching. He likes to 
watch, Dana. Remember? He hates Krycek. He likes to watch.

"He wanted to fuck you, Scully. Like this. Like I'm fucking 
you now."

He hammers into me, quick thrusts filling me, and I feel 
him shake, groan once as he comes into me, flooding me with 
his heat. 

"God," he gasps. He shudders against me once more, then 
pulls back, slipping out of me. He tugs gently on my hip 
and I lever myself up on shaky arms to press back against 
him, feeling his arms circle my body, his breath hot on my 
neck. "God, Scully." I reach back and pull his head towards 
me. He buries his face against my shoulder, his hot breath 
washing across my neck. "God."

Eventually I get enough breath back to mumble, "Gotta lie 
down."

He grunts in the affirmative and we both collapse onto the 
mattress, Mulder's pants tangling between us. He swears 
under his breath and struggles to kick them off. I draw my 
still-shaking arms into my body, feel him pull me more 
tightly against his torso. This close, I can feel his pulse 
drumming steadily against my back. The room is hot again, 
so hot. Our sweat mingling, gilding us. Mulder's hand 
creeping up to my belly, sketching light circles on my 
skin. 

When we are both breathing easily he murmurs, "Turn over." I 
wriggle in his arms until I'm facing him. His eyes are dark 
and full of doubts. I can almost feel Mulder's inner demons 
starting to get a toehold, and it washes a rush of love for 
him through my body.

"Don't, Mulder. Please? I loved it, I would have said 
something if I hadn't." 

Cautious relief in his eyes, but he says, "It's hard to be 
sure with you, Scully."

I kiss his chest, then lay my cheek against it, listen to 
his heartbeat for a while. Finally, I prop myself up on one 
elbow. "That facial wound on Maxwell," I tell Mulder's 
sternum, "that was from Krycek. He =bit= him. Bit a chunk 
of his face off."

Mulder doesn't say anything, just slowly runs his hand up 
and down my back. When I look up he is wearing a serious 
smile. "Is that all I needed to do to get you to open up to 
me? Go to bed with you?" Without waiting for an answer, he 
adds, "That wasn't something you would have expected from 
him?"

"I guess not. He -- Maxwell said something about his 
sister, about Katya, and he -- I don't know. Maybe that 
wasn't it, maybe he's really...that far gone."

I can feel Mulder thinking, his pulse thrumming steadily 
under my fingertips as I stroke his chest. "Someone told 
Maxwell about her. Judging from what we saw, I'm pretty 
damn sure it wasn't Krycek. So someone else told Maxwell, 
told him where to find her, and told him that was how to 
get to Krycek."

His expression doesn't change but I can almost hear the 
wheels spinning in his head. He adds, "It has to be a 
pretty short list, don't you think? We could check FBI 
records but I doubt we'll find her name under his old 
personnel record."

"Where would...Oh, right. Next of kin, or beneficiary of 
his pension, something like that."

"Assuming that his records haven't been conveniently wiped 
out of the FBI's database," he adds, bitterly. "But I think 
we wouldn't find her name there. Or anywhere connected to 
him. Which means someone who knew him very well, from a 
long time ago, told Maxwell about Kate."

"How much do you think she knows, Mulder?"

"About Krycek?" He thinks it over. "Not much, I'll bet."

I think about the dark-haired woman I saw on the bridge, 
with the bounty hunter's weapon held at her throat. About 
the blank despair on Mulder's face as he stared down into 
the dark water, searching for a woman he believed was his 
sister. 

What do you do when love takes all your reason away? 

Krycek's sister, Mulder's sister. I wonder if either of 
them thought of it.

"I want us to talk to her first," I tell him.

He reaches for my lips again, slower this time, brushing 
them with his own, then slipping the tip of his tongue into 
his mouth, flicking it against my teeth. When he'd done, he 
says, "Okay. But have we had that talk about ratios yet?"

"Ratios?" 

Mulder is wearing his I'm-pulling-your-leg-and-here-comes-
the-punch-line grin. He begins to lecture, "As you know, 
women are capable of multiple orgasms where men are 
well..." he pauses for dramatic effect, "less capable. But 
what you may not know, Scully, is that studies have shown 
that the reason most women don't fall asleep after sex the 
way men do is..." he pauses again and nibbles the side of 
my breast, and I stifle a laugh, "that one orgasm doesn't 
fully satisfy most women."

"Mulder, you made that part up. I read all the Kinsey 
reports-"

"I'll bet you do."

"-and I've never seen any study that even came close to 
explaining why men pass out after sex and women don't, let 
alone the orgasm thing." My concentration slips, probably 
due to the fact that Mulder is worrying my nipple with his 
tongue.

When he stops, I get a falsely innocent look. "Agent 
Scully, I'm not convinced that you've done enough research 
in this area." I have to bite my lip this time to keep from 
laughing.

"Very important to keep the proper ratios. Very," he 
punctuates the word with a kiss to my throat, "very 
important. What we're looking for is a good, solid two-to-
one." I give in and chuckle; he kisses my breast and gives 
me a stern look. "Very important." He plants another, 
lingering kiss on my breast and then another, lower. "Let 
me show you what I'm talking about." 

Two to one it is.





Scully had the foresight to check and make sure it was her 
cellphone that was ringing before she answered, something I 
doubt I would have remembered to do after waking up from a 
sound sleep. While she talked, I padded over and pulled the 
curtain back an inch. Night-time. The windowpane feels warm 
against my palm.

"That was St. Mary's. Kate Krycek is awake and she wants to 
talk to someone."

"Us?"

"After you passed out," she gives me a meaningful, playful 
glare, "I called and asked them to make sure that we got 
the call when she came to. " 

Kate is sitting up in bed when we get there, channel-
surfing restlessly. Other than a slight bruise on her left 
cheek, she looks okay. Her eyes are wide and slightly 
almond-shaped, but the nose is exactly like Krycek's, and 
something about her reminds me of her brother - the way she 
scrutinizes us, the set of her mouth. "You're the FBI 
agents?"

Scully pulls out her ID, and I do the same. Kate reads each 
one closely while Scully introduces us. 

"The nurse said you'd be coming. Where's my brother?" 
There's no rudeness to her tone, only urgency.

"Honestly, we don't know, and neither does anyone else 
involved in this operation."

"What =operation?= Those men," and I hear her slight intake 
of breath, "who took me, they knew him. They knew--" and 
she stops. With a visible effort at remaining calm, she 
asks, "Is he safe?"

"To the best of our knowledge, he is," Scully tells her. "I 
saw him leave the bar where you were being held hostage and 
all the...remaining members of the terrorist group holding 
you were taken into custody."

"Remaining?" Kate's eyes narrow slightly. "Do you mean 
'remaining' as in 'not dead'?"

"Right," Scully affirms, but doesn't offer anything else. 

Calmly, but with quiet force, Kate says, "I would really, 
really like to know exactly what the hell happened. My 
guess is that those guys kidnapped me to get my brother to 
do something for them, but I want to know why he was 
involved with them in the first place. They were Americans, 
weren't they? I heard them talking about their Aryan 
brotherhood, all that bullshit. Why would a CIA operative 
get involved in a domestic terrorism case? And if my 
brother is okay, why haven't you heard from him? Is he 
still undercover?"

Undercover?

The silence is a half-second too long. I'm glad Kate is 
looking at Scully, not me, because Scully's poker face is a 
lot better than mine. 

Clearly, Krycek told his sister that he works for the CIA. 
As cover stories go, I guess it's the best he could do. 
Probably easier than telling your sister you're an 
assassin-for-hire.  

"Ms. Krycek, there's a lot about your brother and what he 
does that I can't tell you," Scully begins carefully. "If 
could tell you his whereabouts, I wouldn't, because it 
could jeopardize his safety and possibly yours." You go, 
girl, I think. Scully would have made a fantastic diplomat. 
Kate still looks wary, but she's listening. "What I can 
tell you is that he risked a great deal in order to make 
sure that you were safe."

"I know about the VX gas," Kate offers. 

Scully's eyes narrow and she asks, "What did you hear about 
the gas?"

Kate's mouth turns down at the corners, and suddenly she 
looks a lot more like her brother. "I know they thought my 
brother had it, and that it belonged to them. It's a 
chemical weapon, isn't it?" She looks at me. "I thought so. 
But these guys were all Americans. Neo-Nazis, right? So how 
did the CIA get involved?"

I tell her, "I'm sorry, but we can't tell you anything 
about the CIA." There - an answer any spin doctor would be 
proud of. "Did Maxwell or any of his colleagues tell you 
why they had kidnapped you?" 

Kate throws the remote down on the bed; it lands with a 
soft thump. "Dammit, all I want is to know is what Alex has 
been doing for the last four years! I've called the CIA and 
all they tell me is that they can't confirm that he's on 
their payroll - which is exactly what he told me they would 
say - but whatever he =is= doing, I think I at least 
deserve an explanation since I nearly got killed because of 
it!" One of her hands balls into a fist, and the other 
clutches at the sheets. Suddenly, I feel a lot more 
sympathy for her. 

Scully must, too, because she sits on the edge of the bed. 
"Ms. Krycek-"

"Kate."

"Your brother calls you Katya when he talks about you, did 
you know that?"

The change that comes over Kate's face is remarkable, like 
snow melting. I can see she wants to ask what else he said, 
but she finally replies, "I hate that name, did he tell 
you?"

"Sort of. He said you changed it," Scully tells her. 
"Look...a lot of what your brother is involved with 
is...classified. But what I just told you is true. The only 
reason he went into that bar today was to get you out of 
there. He risked his life to do it. And I was with him when 
Maxwell called him and told him that they had you. He was 
enraged, I think he would have done literally anything to 
make sure you were safe. And I think," Scully takes a deep 
breath, "I think that's why he took off the way he did. I 
think he's going to make sure nothing like this happens to 
you again."

Scully is taking a long leap of faith here, but my gut 
tells me she's right. I don't think Krycek is going to let 
this one go. 

Kate says wistfully, "I haven't seen him in years. Since he 
went underground. We weren't really close -- but he's the 
only family I have left, and I just...I hate this cloak and 
dagger bullshit. All I wanted was to do, you know, 
Thanksgiving dinner with him every year." She sniffs. "A 
phone call on our birthdays. Something."

Neither Scully nor I can think of any response to that. 
Finally, Scully says, "Kate, you're going to have to answer 
a lot of questions about what happened to you. You should 
know that not everyone knows what...what your brother 
really does. Just answer their questions and remember, 
whatever they tell you, I was there, and so was Agent 
Mulder. Your brother only wanted one thing, and that was to 
make sure you were safe."

Kate says, "Thank you for telling me that." She smooths the 
pastel blanket. "I'd really like to get out of here as soon 
as possible. The nurse told me that some television 
reporters have been trying to find out which room I'm 
in...and I don't want to deal with that."

"That's smart," I tell her. "Somebody from the DA's office 
is going to interview you before you go, ask you a bunch of 
questions to begin making the case against Maxwell, and 
we'll talk to them about making sure you can leave here 
through a side exit."

She gives me another searching look and said, "You were 
Alex's partner at the FBI, weren't you?"

"Uh, yeah. For a little while."

Kate knows. On some level she knows that there are truths 
about her brother that she doesn't want to hear, and that's 
why she isn't asking us any more questions.

She nodded. "I remembered. From your ID. He said you were a 
great profiler." She doesn't look at me when she tells me 
that. 

Surprised, I answer, "Ah, thanks, I guess." I should say 
something about how I enjoyed working with her brother but 
it would be a complete pile of shit so I don't say 
anything. Before the silence gets really uncomfortable, 
Scully tells Kate we're going to get out of her room so she 
can rest, and we're turning to go.

"Agents? Thank you for -- for telling me what you did. 
About Alex." 

Scully smiles at her. "You're welcome."

I hail a taxi for us outside the hospital, let Scully climb 
in first. After ten blocks of silence, she says, "I don't 
think Kate will be spending Thanksgiving with him this 
year."

End 18/19




Above Rubies, (19/19) by Rachel Howard

Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price 
is far above rubies.
Proverbs 31:10-12


"This might be the shoddiest work you've ever done, 
Agents." I toss the file folder containing their report 
down on my desk. Neither of them flinches, which pisses me 
off. "And that's no small achievement considering the 
outright bullshit that you've managed to pass off as 
reports in the past. Let me make something perfectly clear: 
This time, I =care.= I WANT to know what really happened. 
Because there's an enormous hole in this report. It fails 
to answer the central question, as far as I'm concerned."

Mulder shifts in his chair. "Sir, I described the number of 
canisters of VX gas retrieved, on page 11, towards the 
bottom of the page. First Lt. Dickson confirmed..."

"I read it," I tell him, my voice rising above his. "I know 
the Army is satisfied. They're very pleased that you got 
all the gas back. What I want to know is, where the =hell= 
is Alex Krycek?"

This time Scully flinches.

Neither of them answers.

"Agent Scully?"

She takes a breath. "Sir, two of the SWAT team members 
reported intercepting Krycek a few blocks from the bar 
where the terrorists had been found, as he was attempting 
to start the engine of a truck which had the remaining..."

"That part was =in= the report, Agent Scully! As is the 
information that one SWAT team member was wounded, possibly 
fatally considering the man is still in the ICU at Beth 
Israel Hospital. It took them seven hours to patch him up." 
She flinches again. "What I want to know is what happened 
and why the hell Krycek isn't in Federal custody right 
now?"

Neither one of them answers.

"Would you prefer to begin by explaining who Kate Krycek 
is?"

This time Mulder shifts slightly in his chair. "She's Alex 
Krycek's sister, sir." 

"His =sister?="

"That was more or less my reaction. She doesn't show up on 
any of his personnel records."

"How do you know she's his sister?"

Mulder hesitates just long enough to let me envision him 
delivering the words, 'because he told me so,' then says, 
"Strong family resemblance, plus he seemed to be genuinely 
interested in her welfare."

"Well, that's definitive," I tell him, letting the sarcasm 
drip. "You spent enough time with Krycek to determine the 
strength of his familial relationships? At any point did it 
occur to either one of you to handcuff the bastard while 
you chatted?"

A look flickers between them, the kind that annoys the hell 
out of me because I can't figure out what it means. Scully 
offers, "Sir, Krycek had previously dealt with the Aryan 
Resistance and we felt that appearing to cooperate with him 
would gain us access to the group's facilities."

"In order to retrieve the VX gas?"

Scully directs her gaze just underneath my eyes. "We knew 
the Aryan Resistance was interested in using the gas to 
promote terror."

I lean forward, slapping both palms against the polished 
wood of my desktop loud enough to make both of them twitch 
this time. "Scully, don't lay that crap on me. Why did the 
Aryan Resistance take Kate Krycek hostage in the first 
place? Did you think to ask her brother that question? No, 
don't bother," I tell her, finally getting to the topic 
that has slowly been driving me crazy since I got their 
report in the first place. "Just tell me how, after 
everything Krycek has done to you and your =family=" -- I 
stress the last word and her lips tighten - "how you could 
pass up the opportunity to arrest him. Or shoot the 
bastard."

This time her clear blue gaze locks onto mine. "He knew 
where Mulder was, sir."

"When Ajiib had taken Mulder hostage?"

"Yes, sir."

Mulder interjects, "It was an exchange. His help getting me 
out of the house in New Jersey in return for our assistance 
getting his sister back from the Aryan Resistance." 

I don't take my eyes off Scully. "You felt that teaming up 
with a known traitor was the best way to rescue your 
partner, is that it?"

"No, sir, I felt it was the =only= way to retrieve my 
partner." There's no hint of apology in her voice.

This is more or less what I expected from Scully, but it 
doesn't make it any easier. "What bothers me most about the 
incident, Scully, isn't the obvious breach of protocol. 
It's the fact that neither one of you stops to think twice 
about taking illogical and unnecessary risks on behalf of 
the other. That's a habit that will eventually get one of 
you killed." I stop and look down at my hands. 

"In this instance, you should have called for backup before 
you entered the house where Agent Mulder was being held. 
The delay would have been an incidental risk compared to 
the benefit of having adequate manpower to stage the 
assault that you made with one other individual. Someone 
who could easily have decided to simply leave you to your 
fate if the infiltration of the house had gone badly." 
Neither of them makes a sound but I feel Mulder visualizing 
it, Scully bleeding into the grass in Ajiib's backyard 
while Krycek runs. He probably handed Scully her head the 
first chance he got. "You need to think about that more 
often. What you're willing to risk." 

Scully's voice, telling me her partner was gone, hostage of 
a man who had excavated his own wife's heart from her 
chest. The hollow sound of Mulder asking for a 302 to 
investigate Skyland Mountain for the fourth time in two 
months. Has she ever read that file, the whole numbing list 
of dead ends that Mulder ran down while she was missing?

Something gleams behind my eyelids. Warm lamplight on 
pearls.

I sit back down. A memory floats at me from nowhere; Sharon 
curled under a sheet, butterscotch-colored lamplight 
painting her sleeping face.

"There's.....another matter that I need to discuss with 
you."

Mulder shifts in his chair again. Without looking up, I can 
picture his expression, resigned and slightly bored, as he 
waits to get harangued about their expense reports again. 

I take a deep breath. "The Bureau neither forbids nor 
encourages personal relationships between partners." 

When I raise my eyes, I find that I have their full 
attention. Both of them. 

"But there is an obvious risk involved in such 
relationships -- the risk that the professional judgement 
exhibited by one or both of the partners could be 
compromised, under the circumstances." I take a deep 
breath, and let it out slowly. Neither of them moves, but a 
rosy flush is spreading across Scully's face. 

"In your case, you've been exhibiting what most 
supervisors, myself included, would characterize as an 
extreme willingness to risk yourselves on behalf of the 
other for years..."

"Sir..."

"Let me finish, Agent Mulder. You've got one thing going 
for you. In your case, there's no evidence that a personal 
relationship," I choose my tense carefully, "would change 
anything. Would alter your behavior. But if I were you I 
would think about what you'll do the first time one of you 
forgets to duck."

They are both utterly still. Mulder's pallor complements 
Scully's flush. Her eyes glitter with some suppressed 
emotion. 

"What I want from you right now is the assurance that the 
next time you see Alex Krycek, you will do everything 
possible to place him in Federal custody."

Scully stares into the distance beyond the walls of the 
Hoover building. Mulder raises stunned eyes to mine and 
says, "You have my word on that, sir."

"Dismissed, Agents."





Two weeks to the day after Mulder and I filed our report on 
the Aryan Resistance case, I come home carrying a bag of 
angel hair pasta and overpriced hydroponically grown 
tomatoes to find a manila envelope on my doorstep. There's 
no name on the outside.

I put away the groceries before opening the envelope. 
Inside, I find a folded piece of paper and what looks like 
a microfiche document. I unfold the paper and smooth it out 
on the table. The page is ragged along one edge - it's 
clearly been torn from a book. 

From a Bible. 

It's a page from Proverbs, one verse circled in heavy black 
pencil:

"Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above 
rubies."

I stare at the words on the page for a long time before I 
call Mulder.

"That's it? There's nothing written on the other side of 
the page?" I can hear him rattling around in his bathroom, 
closing the creaky door on his medicine cabinet.

I turn over the page. "Nothing. It looks like it might have 
been torn from a hotel Bible. I want to go back in to the 
office and look at this microfiche now and see what's on 
it." I hold it up to the light, but the print is too tiny 
to read.

"Usually I'm the one getting unmarked packages from 
mysterious admirers." There's a hint of seriousness 
underlying the teasing note in his voice. "Did you see 
anyone leaving your building?"

"No. If I'd seen any of the minions of darkness lurking in 
the bushes outside I would have called you." I feel a 
twinge of irritation at his protectiveness, try to shake it 
off. "Mulder, I'm going to the office to read this."

"I'll meet you there." The irritation evaporates as I 
hurriedly put away the groceries. I am supposed to be 
cooking dinner for him tonight, the antidote to last 
night's meal, an experiment Mulder conducted with a recipe 
for some Brazilian dish he had clipped out of the Sunday 
food section. I hope the microfiche turns out to be a short 
distraction, not the beginnings of a long night.

It turns out to be a copy of a smll-town Ohio newspaper 
clipping dated June 17, 1983. I pull it up on the Bureau's 
machine and the somber headline pops up immediately.


REMAINS OF UNIDENTIFED TEEN LAID TO REST

"Hey," Mulder's voice greets me, from the doorway to the 
library workroom. I tilt my head toward him in greeting 
while I keep reading.

Goshen, Oh. -- In a brief ceremony, the Rev. Cal Marks 
asked God's blessing for an unknown teenaged girl who was 
buried in Crown Haven cemetary after a police investigation 
failed to produce any leads regarding the child's identity.

On May 28, local workmen discovered the remains of a girl 
on the edge of a field while surveying for a proposed 
residential development near CR417. 

Forensics determined the girl had been about fourteen at 
the time of her death, and that her remains had laid 
undisturbed for years. Searches of dental records failed to 
find any matches. The Center for Missing and Exploited 
Children assisted with the investigation.

"May God provide a home in Heaven for this child who found 
no rest on Earth," Reverend Marks prayed. "For the angels 
know her name."

I turn and look over my shoulder, watch Mulder finish 
reading the story. His eyes are troubled, and he doesn't 
say anything when he finishes, although his eyes stop 
moving across the page. Instead, his pupils contract.

"I think we should go home and try that pasta thing you 
were going to make, and let this wait until morning," he 
says, finally. 

I must look surprised, because he adds, "It smells bad, 
Scully. I just want to deal with it on a decent night's 
sleep."

We carpool back to my place, and I make the angel hair 
dish. While I slice the garlic, I hear him on the phone, 
booking flights to Cleveland for the following morning. 

That night I dream something dark and scattered, about 
crumbling leaves and shovels full of damp earth. Krycek is 
at the edge of the woods, head hung low, with sadness or 
remorse I cannot tell, a lion driven from the pride. I wake 
and realize I was in Pennsylvania, helping Mulder dig for 
John Lee Roche's last small victim. I turn on my side and 
find Mulder awake, staring at the ceiling.

When he realizes I'm awake, too, he reaches to pull me into 
a loose embrace. I can't sleep if I'm too close to another 
person. Mulder knows just how to hold me, far enough away 
that I can feel the cool air moving between us, but still 
touching. When I go back to sleep it is like submerging, 
sliding under the surface of a dark, quiet sea.





I knew all along.

All right, that's not true, but I should have known.

I should have felt it the minute she died.

The truth is a cruel joke at my expense: Samantha was dead 
before I ever started looking for her. 

When I joined VICAP, she was already dead. When I opened 
the X-Files, I remember thinking that finally there was 
nothing keeping me from finding her. I had the resources I 
needed, the ability to conduct accurate research, a badge 
to clear the path -- there were no more obstacles. 

What a joke.

The door to the coroner's office opens with a soft click 
and Scully comes in. She winds her way around haphazard 
towers of filing cabinets until she makes her way to where 
I'm sitting on the floor, wedged with my back against one 
set of cabinets and the soles of my shoes against another. 
She drags a chair closer and sits down. 

"The DNA tests won't be back for another two days, Mulder. 
It could--"

"It's her, Scully."

She doesn't argue with me. On some level I think she knows 
it's Samantha's body, too. Even though there was hardly 
anything left but ragged flesh clinging to smooth white 
bone, brushed clean of the dirt and clinging leaves they 
found her under when they put her into a plain pine coffin 
and buried her under the name Jane Doe. 

There was a poorly healed break in her collarbone. A 
damning bit of metal lodged between two vertebrae in her 
neck. C1 and C2, Scully explained, smoothing the skin on 
the back of my hand with her thumb. She dropped the chip 
into a test tube for the trip home. This is one implant 
that won't disappear, won't be ruined by sloppy lab work. 
It's going straight to the Lone Gunmen who will by God find 
out what secret messages the MIB's plugged into the hole in 
the back of my sister's neck.

"Mulder?"

I look up through the haze of regret and anger and find 
Scully watching me with patience and love. 

"There was nothing you could have done, Mulder. Nothing."

"She didn't die until she was about fourteen. Where was she 
all that time?"

"There's no way-"

"Do you think they just popped the implant in there and 
sent her on her way? Because I don't. She was probably a 
test subject. Like you. Like the others."

"You don't know that, Mulder." The pain written in Scully's 
expression reminds me of her cancer face. "She was your 
father's daughter. That must have counted for something."

"She was his sacrifice to the Project."

"There was nothing you could have done." She rocks forward 
on her chair, pinning me with her eyes like a butterfly on 
a card. "Nothing."

I open my mouth to reply but only a sob comes out. It 
sounds foreign, like it came from someone else. Then a 
second follows it. Scully slides off the chair, down to her 
knees on the dusty floor, hot little hands on my shoulders. 
I begin to cry in earnest, and the pressed shoulder of her 
black gabardine suit slowly softens, releasing the scent of 
dry cleaning fluid and wool. I rock forward and wrap my 
arms around her, as incapable of stopping as I am of 
letting go of her. 

She doesn't say anything, just clutches my back in a fierce 
hold until I am done, until my stomach muscles ache from 
crying and my eyes burn.

"Let's go home."

I avoid the pitying gaze of the coroner and the prying pen 
of the Goshen Gazetteer reporter by simply going down to 
our rental car and sitting there with the windows up. I 
picture my partner upstairs, doing the diplomacy thing as I 
make my getaway. Scully handles situations like these with 
the deft skill of a fine pianist playing a tricky passage. 

We make the trip back to D.C. in blessed silence. Scully 
knows better than to ask me if I'm okay. Of course I'm not. 
She waves away the airplane food and gets us club soda. I 
spend most of the flight watching little bubbles rise to 
the top of the plastic cup.  

I drive her home through the late afternoon traffic, dimly 
aware of mild relief at being back in our own city. When we 
pull up at her building, she tells me, "Mulder, you have to 
try not to blame yourself for this. You did everything for 
her that could possibly have been done. Everything."

"Scully, all I want to do right now is crash out on my 
couch and be alone for awhile."

She doesn't look surprised. "I want you to call me before 
you go to sleep tonight, okay? I know you need some time, 
but I just want to know that you're all right." 

I tell her I will, and head back to my apartment.

I lie on the couch for an undetermined amount of missing 
time, spinning a basketball until the tip of my index 
finger is sore. When I put the ball down and my hands 
finally fall loose into my lap, I drift into sleep. My last 
conscious thought is that my lumpy, sticky couch, where I 
spent most of my nights for the last five years until 
getting acquainted with Scully's soft bed, is not really a 
good place to sleep. 

The sound of a key in my lock wakes me up. 

Shit, I didn't call Scully last night. 

I hear her pause in the hall when she sees me on the couch, 
then her footsteps coming into the living room. 

"I'm sorry, I just passed out cold last night," I tell her, 
rolling over and blinking at her in the dawn light.

She looks mildly annoyed but relieved. She sits on the edge 
of the coffee table and looks down at me expectantly.

I turn on my side and poke at the lump under my right 
shoulder. "I should have gotten this thing reupholstered 
years ago," I mutter.

"Or you could just sleep on your bed," she points out.

"Plus, this blanket is itchy as hell," I continue. "And my 
face sticks to the leather when I fall asleep on my side. 
Which is the most comfortable position on a couch. If you 
sleep on your back you get a stiff neck."

Scully's expression doesn't change.

"Why am I thinking about the couch at a time like this?" I 
sit up and kick back the scratchy blanket with disgust. 

Scully doesn't answer at first. Finally she says, "You know 
the old medical school joke, right? That doctors go in for 
specialities that complement their needs? Jocks become knee 
surgeons, womanizers become gynecologists, and so on?"

I have heard that joke, but it was actually funny before. 
Scully could massacre a knock-knock joke if she tried. "You 
left out the part about weirdos becoming psychologists."

She purses her lips and I can tell she left that part out 
on purpose. "I'll cut to the chase. Dr. Mulder, why are you 
thinking about your couch?"

"Self analysis is a really boring habit, Scully."

"Mulder, please just think about this for a second." The 
sincerity in her voice rattles me. I stand up and go into 
the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker while I compose my 
answer. "A couch. Well, the couch is where a visitor, a 
transient, might sleep. Choosing to sleep on it instead of 
a bed might represent a choice not to settle in, not to 
commit."

She drifts into the kitchen after me, leans against the  
doorframe. "Pretty good, Doctor. What else?"

I measure out the grounds, pour in the water, then lean 
over the sink to drink a mouthful of water out of my cupped 
hands while the machine begins to gurgle. "Exile, banished 
from the comforts of home," I tell her, dripping water from 
my chin.

"So you banished yourself to the couch," she says, softly. 
"Why would you do that?"

I know the textbook answer but I don't feel like playing 
Dr. Mulder any more. I busy myself getting a couple of mugs 
out of the cupboard. "I would offer you tea but I don't 
have any. There's some milk in the fridge for the coffee, 
though."

"I think maybe you did it because you were punishing 
yourself for losing Samantha. You blamed yourself, you 
didn't want to let yourself be comfortable while she was 
gone, probably suffering."

I force a smile. "Didn't I tell you that you should have 
gone to work for VICAP?"

"I just want you to consider that maybe you're thinking 
about your couch because it's related." She reaches for one 
of the mugs and turns to get the milk out of the fridge, 
tacitly letting me off the hook.

Surprising myself, I don't let her. "The weight of not 
knowing what happened to her was heavier than the proof of 
her death," I admit, slowly. "It feels wrong, but it's 
true."

"And now you feel guilty about that, too." 

"I do, but not the way I would have four or five years 
ago." I shrug, not sure how to continue. The discovery is 
still too raw. I change the subject. "Scully, who do you 
think left you that package?"

She answers with no surprise at all, as if she had been 
waiting for me to get around to this. "Krycek," she says, 
calmly.

"Why would he bother?"

"I think it was his way of paying us back. For helping him 
help his sister. We gave him his sister back, he gave us 
yours." She reaches for the coffee, fills our mugs, and 
hands me mine.

I set it down and wrap my thumb and index finger around her 
china-pale wrist instead. My fingers effortlessly swallow 
her bones, blue-veined flesh and all. She flexes her 
fingers softly, not trying to get away, just acknowledging 
the contact. 

I thought the torn page with the Bible verse was a clue of 
some kind, meant to help explain the newspaper article. 

I was wrong. The newspaper article stood alone. The verse 
was an homage to Scully. And maybe a reminder for me, to 
count my blessings while I catalogue my losses.

Not that it matters.

I draw her into my arms and feel her sigh relief as she 
presses into my chest. I lean into the silky sweep of her 
hair, breathing her in, and feel her forehead brush against 
my lips. Her wrist slips out from the circle of my fingers 
as she turns her palm to lay against mine. "He gave the 
copy of the story to you, you know," I murmur against her 
skin. 

I feel her forehead quirk slightly. "It doesn't matter."

"No," I agree. 

She lifts her head and brushes her lips against mine, just 
once, then lowers it again. 

"'I am my beloved's; my beloved is mine,'" I say quietly.

Her startled eyes rise to my face.

"I read that somewhere once," I explain.

"You probably saw it on a ketubah, a Jewish marriage 
contract," she tells me, going into a mild version of her 
usual I-know-this-because-I-know-damn-near-everything 
lecture. "It's a traditional inclusion; the words are from 
the 'Song of Songs.'"

"Shh," I tell her, as I let my lips find hers. 

The Bible verse is a substitute for the words I can't find 
for myself yet. Eventually, I will find a way to tell her 
what Sam's death would have meant to me if I hadn't had 
someone else in my life who cared for me the way Scully 
does. For now, a Bible verse will have to do. 

I kiss her, dreaming of the months and years to come.




The man on the dark pavement is trying to say something, 
but the thin breath bubbling through his lips carries no 
sound, only the shapes of words. 

"I don't care, Erik," I tell him. "I'm not going to listen 
to any deathbed confessions. You helped that bastard sell 
my sister's name to the devil. And that's where you're 
going."

I walk away, into the steaming filth of the Cairo slum I 
tracked him into. I toss the blade carelessly into a heap 
of garbage. Whichever ragpicker finds it will think it's 
sheep's blood, most likely. There is a feast going on this 
weekend and the throats of many animals are being cut to 
begin preparations for lamb stews and roasts. 

Erik was an animal, too, and I feel no more for him than I 
would feel for a sheep.

He didn't sell her name and location to John Maxwell by 
himself. He was too far down in the ranks to have access to 
that kind of information. But his death will warn the rest 
of them of what's coming. 

I walk past mausoleums of creamy stone, relics of far older 
crimes, towards better neighborhoods, someplace I can call 
a taxi. Cairo is like that, one street separating a 
wretched slum from dusty middle-class apartment buildings. 
I turn the corner, stripping bloody gloves from my hands, 
and let them fall to the gutter. The taxi stand is just 
ahead, in front of an older hotel. 

A woman is climbing into a luxury car in front of the 
hotel. She wears a headscarf, in the manner of Muslim 
women, and it is only an accident when our eyes meet. But 
for one long second my breath stops in my throat.

Her eyes are blue, blue.

Then she steps into the car.

Shaking my head, I try to clear the vision. She was tall, 
ungainly. But the eyes were close, so close.

I will not do this. I will not spend the coming months and 
years stumbling over glimpses of blue eyes, of redgold hair 
and small hands.

I have places to go. Erik had accomplices.

And I have nothing but time.



End Above Rubies, 19/19



Many thanks are due to everyone who helped with this story. 
I have patient and wonderful readers, some of whom made 
real contributions to the story. Thanks to RhymePhile for 
championing Darren Ledeller, everyone who asked for more 
Skinner, and all the people from Utah and Jersey et al who 
chimed in with the details that I needed.

Then there are the usual suspects. Jintian, for moral 
support; Dawson, for knowing how much VX gas it takes to 
kill a bunny rabbit and Khyber, for talking me out of the 
Sudan and into Afghanistan, plus gory details about the gas 
(my spellchecker REALLY didn't like "fascisculations.")

Most of all, my editors, for taking a good story and 
turning it into.....well, a better story. Thank you Jen, 
for faithfully archiving, editing and stalking; Dasha, for 
editing and general cheerleading, and Scott, who Dawson 
once called 'our secret weapon'. For all the times I 
shuddered when presented with a set of Scott's comments 
that meant I was going to have to eviscerate a drafted 
chapter, the payoff was worth it. You're a great secret 
weapon, and a whole lot more. Thanks for your tireless 
editing, digging me out of plot holes, and all the rest.