From: Kel <ckelll@hotmail.com>
Date: Sat, 02 Oct 1999 22:16:29 -0400
Subject: NEW: Backtracking (1/17)

Title: Backtracking
By:    Kel and Scetti
Rating: R
Keywords: MSR
Category: X
Summary:  What do Charlie Scully, the Alien Bounty Hunter, and 
          Jesse "the Body" Ventura all have in common?  Last April you 
          could have found all three of them in Minnesota.

          Backtracking: sometimes you have to retrace your steps before 
          you can move ahead.

Feedback is welcome. Kel at ckelll@hotmail.com or
                     Scetti at Malgio@Netscape.net

Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder is the private sex-toy of Kel and Scetti.  
             Nya-nya-nya-nya-nya.
             Hey, Scetti, I get him tonight!

             In other words: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Danny, and, I
             suppose, even Charlie Scully belong to TPTB at Fox and
             1013.

Thanks to our beta readers:  Trelawney, who already reads everything
anyway, thanks for the insights and comments.  And Porkchop, thanks for
all of your contributions, but especially for figuring out how to spell
"shoof."



Backtracking
(1/17)
          

"No! Oh no!"

The words came out as a stifled moan and the redhead who spoke them
twisted on the bed without awakening.  The other figure in the bed came
awake at once.  This had been going on for a week now.

"It's okay, love.  Just a dream."  The soothing words had no effect and
the sleeper continued to thrash and groan.

"Scully, wake up!" More forceful this time, and louder, to break through
the barrier of sleep.  And indeed, the sleeper sat bolt upright and
gasped.

"That same dream," he said.  "The bridge, and those men with their eyes
stitched shut.  The flames."

"You need to do something, Charlie," his wife said.  "This is driving
you crazy."

"Dana.  She's on the bridge.  They're going to kill her," Charlie Scully
said.

"Call her, Charlie.  It's seven A.M. in DC.  If she's not in the office
you can use the voice mail."

"You're right, Allison.  I'm going to call her."

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


When she fell asleep at night her last waking thoughts were of Mulder,
and she woke up thinking about Mulder.  She loved him.  She had loved
him for a very long time.

She didn't just love him, she loved him *like that*.  Dana Scully was
through kidding herself.  She loved him as a friend and as a partner,
but she also loved him *like that*.  

And he loved her too.  But not like that.  She would do anything for
him, and he would do anything for her.  Even sleep with her.  Because he
did love her, even if he didn't love her *like that*.

Sleeping with Mulder was the acme of her life, physically and
spiritually.  It was an act filled with passion, desire, and adoration.
For her.

And for him?  Scully could only speculate.  Without a doubt it was an
act of friendship.  And pity?  Maybe.

It was an act that would not have an encore.  Not because of pride--she
had no pride, she told herself.  But she would not use him.  Not again.

And so she awoke as she did every morning, thinking of Mulder.  Maybe if
she hurried she could get into the office before him.  When he arrived
she would already be immersed in work.   It would afford her some
protection.

She did hurry, but when she got to work, there he was.

"Morning, partner," he said.  He wasn't working, or didn't seem to be. 
He was leaning back in his chair, twisting the sections on a Rubik's
cube.  

Partner, she thought.  Good move, Mulder, define the relationship, set
the limits.  That way there are no misunderstandings.

"Good morning," she said.

"Would it be convenient for you to accompany me for some field work?"
Mulder asked.

"Pardon me?" Scully said.  What happened to "Hope you packed your cowboy
boots?"

"I've taken the liberty of booking us on a flight to Minneapolis,"
Mulder said.

"Minneapolis?" 

"I had a phone call this morning.  A man in Minnesota has been troubled
by dreams, strange dreams that he finds very disturbing," Mulder said.

"We're flying to the only state in the union that has a pro wrestler for
a governor because some crackpot there is having nightmares?" Scully
asked.  "Come on, Mulder, what aren't you telling me?"

"You know this crackpot, Scully.  It's your brother Charles."

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

Hell wasn't a place with fires and pitchforks, someone had told Mulder
once.  The torment of hell was simply this:  You knew about the divine
joy of Heaven, but you were forever barred from sharing in it.  

Not much of a punishment, Mulder had thought at the time.

Now he knew better.

Loving Dana Scully and being loved by her was heaven.  Knowing it would
never happen again was hell.   

He'd gone six long years without sleeping with Scully, and he could have
gone on forever.  But now he knew what he was missing and it was
grinding him down.  It was like a chronic toothache, a pain that was
always in the background but occasionally burst into agonizing
consciousness.

If only they could go back to how things were before.  But that seemed
to be impossible.  Sometimes he could hardly talk to her.  And he had no
idea at all what had gone wrong. She had made love to him warmly and
willingly and she'd fallen asleep in his arms.  He'd stayed awake a long
time, getting cramped and stiff but not moving for fear of waking her. 
He'd fallen asleep at last.  And when he woke up, she was gone.

She had given herself to him and then she had changed her mind.  For
Scully, an indiscretion to regret and get over. For Mulder, a night of
rapture followed by a lifetime of sorrow. They never spoke of it.  

Mulder was sitting in the coach section of North American Flight 108,
the perfect place for a six-foot man to ponder the meaning of hell.  And
just in case he wasn't uncomfortable enough, there was a large carton
under his seat extending to take up half of his leg room.  While
shopping the outlet stores, Scully had found some pieces from Allison
Scully's now discontinued china pattern, and she still hadn't gotten
around to sending them.  She was not flying to Minneapolis without them,
she had told Mulder.  She had a similar carton under her seat, but
Scully didn't need any leg room.  Her little feet didn't reach the
floor.  She would suffer too, though.  Mulder elbowed her, pointed to
the boxes on the floor, and spoke again those three magic words.

"Change at O'Hare."

"Yes, Mulder, I know," Scully said impatiently.  He had wanted her to
check the china, but she was absolutely sure the baggage handlers would
smash it to bits.

"I have a few  questions about your mysterious brother," Mulder said. 
Out of Scully's family, Charles was the only one he had never met. 
Charles didn't show up for family parties or holiday celebrations. 
Mulder used to tell Scully that he didn't "believe" in Charles.  Bill,
Melissa, and Dana just invented him to use as a scapegoat.  

"My mysterious brother," Scully repeated.  "He's the most normal of all
of us.  At least he was until he started having these dreams."

"When Matthew was born, your mother said he was the first grandchild. 
What about Charlie's kids?" Mulder asked.

"They're his stepchildren, technically.  He adopted them years ago,"
Scully explained. "He threw a huge party to celebrate."

"Your mom doesn't think of them as her grandchildren?" Mulder was
surprised.  He'd always found Maggie Scully to be generous in her
definition of family.

"Of course she does," said Scully.  "But she wasn't around for their
births.  I think that made Matthew special."

Mulder was skeptical, but he wasn't stupid enough to directly challenge
Scully's notion of her perfect family.

"Did your mom go to the party?  Charlie's big bash when he adopted the
kids?" Mulder asked.

"No," Scully said.  She was using the careful tone of voice that got her
through senate hearings and internal bureau reviews.  "No, she wasn't
able to go.  I believe my father was indisposed that weekend.  His back
was acting up, as I recall."

"But you went," Mulder said.  "I bet Melissa went too."

"Yes, we both went," Scully said, smiling at the memory.  "We had a
ball.  Allison, my sister-in-law, she's this beautiful Midwestern
blonde, a real farmer's daughter type.  We were teasing her about
looking like a cheerleader.  Well, she was a cheerleader!  She was
trying to teach us these corny cheers, oh, it was so funny.  And her
little girl, Chrissy, she could do them all."

"But brother Bill, he couldn't make it either, could he?" Mulder asked.

"No, Bill was having car trouble.  Or maybe he had to work," Scully
said.  "Both, I  think."

"Wonder how Charlie felt about that," Mulder mused.  "His parents and
his big brother couldn't make it to this important celebration."

"You're jumping to conclusions again," Scully said.  "Now you're going
to tell me that that's why Charlie missed our father's funeral."

If Mulder was a practicing psychologist, he would have jotted down this
fact.  Instead he continued the conversation in a neutral tone.

"I'm just trying to get a sense of the man, Scully.  From what both of
you told me, he's a down-to-earth guy.  He's never shown any psychic
ability in the past.  All of a sudden he's dreaming in vivid detail
about an experience you had, an experience you've never told to anyone
in your family and that you barely remember yourself.  Why now?" Mulder
asked.

"He recently moved his family  to Minnesota," Scully said.  "That's
where Allison is from.  Charles gave up a very successful career to take
over her father's business.  I think he feels a lot of pressure to make
good."

"That could be it," Mulder agreed.  "People are more open to this kind
of message during times of stress and change." 

"What's your feeling about this, Mulder?  Is there a psychic link
between Charlie and me?" Scully asked.

"No," said Mulder.

"You sound awfully sure of that," Scully said.

"Scully, if you and Charlie had a psychic link, he would have stopped
you from buying a thousand-piece model for a twelve-year-old boy.  You
know Charlie is going to end up building that himself," Mulder said.

Before stopping at her apartment for Allison's dishes, Scully had
dragged Mulder to the Smithsonian to pick up gifts for the children.

"Oliver is not your average twelve-year-old," Scully said.  "Anyway,
Charles always loved building models."

"That's good, because he'll probably end up working on that other one
too," Mulder said.

"Not on your life," Scully told him.  "Chrissy and I will do that
together."

"You, Chrissy, and a team of paleontologists," Mulder said.  "Oh, sorry,
I'm sure you're right.  Your niece and nephew are brilliant beyond their
years.  Silly me for even considering that you might not be objective."

"You'll see," Scully said. 

Hauling two cartons of china from one end of O'Hare to the other and
then through Minneapolis International turned out to be considerably
easier than carrying Scully up a ladder while being chased by aliens. 
Mulder loaded the cartons and luggage into the rental car, then got
behind the wheel and let Scully navigate them to her brother's house,
about forty-five minutes away.

"The City of Lakes," Mulder said, surveying the landscape.  

"But more importantly, the home of Colombo Yogurt," Scully said.

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

Charlie Scully washed his hands in the bathroom and dried them on his
pants leg.  Allison hadn't actually told him not to use the guest
towels, but he didn't want to wrinkle them or disturb the arrangement. 
Then he went to his rarely used living room and sat down on the sofa. 
There were some pretty little snacks set out on the coffee table, but he
ignored the cheese and crackers and the vegetable pate.  He selected a
bruised grape from a bowl of fruit; his wife probably wouldn't mind if
he took that one.  

Allison came into the room carrying four champagne flutes.  She hadn't
bothered to unpack the crystal, since they didn't use it very often.  So
she'd pulled out these four glasses, in case they were needed.  She put
them down by the liquor cabinet.

When Charlie had tried to call his sister at work, just to hear her
voice and reassure himself that his dream didn't mean anything, he'd
gotten some man on the phone, her office mate, apparently.  He was a
nice enough guy and a good listener, and Charlie had been surprised to
find himself telling this total stranger about his unsettling
nightmare.  The guy had listened intently, then asked a few questions. 
Then he'd said that he and Dana would be making arrangements to
"interview" him in person.  

"Interview," that was really the word he'd used.  

When Charlie told his wife that Dana and her associate would be flying
into town, Allison had started to squeal.

"Dana is coming over with Mulder?" she asked him excitedly.

"Muller, I thought he said," Charlie answered.  "Maybe it's Mulder. 
What's the big deal?"

"Figure it out, Charlie," Allison had told him.  "Dana's coming to
visit, and she's bringing her partner.  I've got to get ready."

Allison had hustled the kids off the school, and she asked Charlie to
stay home from work.  He couldn't, he told her, but he would come home
for lunch.  He'd been better than his work, getting home by eleven.

Now Charlie watched Allison as she rearranged the throw pillows on the
living room furniture and realigned the platters of canaps.

"I don't get it," he said.  "First the FBI makes a federal case out of
my nightmare.  Then you make a state visit out of Tiny Dancer dropping
in."

"Just be nice," Allison said.  "Don't call her that, it really isn't
funny anymore.  And his name is Mulder--just Mulder."

When they heard the rental car pull up in the graveled driveway, Allison
was not able to contain herself, and she raced out the door.  She barely
let Dana get out of the car before she wrapped her arms around her, and
then she dashed around the car to hug Mulder, whom she had never met.  

Scully made the introductions, superfluous as they were, and Charlie
came out and embraced his sister and shook hands with Mulder.  

Allison looked at Mulder and Scully expectantly. 

"Well?" Allison asked.  Scully looked from Allison to Charlie and then
to Mulder but still felt clueless.

"Allison, you look wonderful," Scully said at last.

"That's a nice house," Mulder said.

"Why don't we go inside?" Charlie suggested.

"Yes," said Allison, taking Dana by the arm and hurrying into the house
with her.  "Charlie, help Mulder with the bags."

Charlie and Allison lived in a large new split-level.  With Mulder and
Charlie each carrying a carton of china up the outside stairway to the
entrance, neither of them had a free hand to open the door.  Charlie
called for Allison to get the door, but he had to call twice because she
was that involved in conversation with Dana.  

Allison wanted only to talk to her sister-in-law right now.  It had been
months since they'd had a real conversation and the last time they'd
talked, Allison had gotten the definite impression that something was
finally brewing between Dana and her complicated colleague.  But here
was Dana telling her, once again, that they were just partners, would
never be anything more, well, okay, yes, they were friends... Oh, all
right! Yes, they cared about each other, sure....  

With the luggage in the house, Allison had Charlie and Mulder sit in the
living room while Dana "helped" in the kitchen.  

"I won't ask you for details right now," Allison said in a half whisper,
"but you will have to tell me what's going on."

Sitting in the living room with Charlie, Mulder had to remind himself
that this was not Bill Scully, Jr., despite the resemblance.  This man
might or might not come to believe that he was one sorry son of a bitch,
but so far the slate was clean.  

"Well, how about those Vikings?" Mulder said conversationally.

"What do you mean by that?" Charlie snapped back.

"Nothing," Mulder said.  "Next year for sure.  All the way."  

Charlie plucked off a grape, then put it back in the bowl.  Allison had
instructed him to stay in the living room and talk about "guy" things,
but it wasn't working. His mind was not on football.

"I know you want to ask me about the dream again, and I have some
questions I want to ask you," he said.  "Is there some way we can leave
my sister out of this?  Some of the things I saw, I just don't want her
to have to hear it."

Just as his wife was whispering in the kitchen, Charlie was talking to
Mulder in a muted voice.

"We can start out your way," Mulder said. "but she'll read the
statements and you know she's going to have questions of her own."

Allison had lunch on the table in almost no time.  She'd planned this
meal as a celebration, since she'd convinced herself that Dana would
have something to tell them, maybe even something to announce. Now she
just wanted to get it over with so she could find some excuse to send
the two men out of the house and finally interrogate her sister-in-law
to her satisfaction.

The meal turned out to be a pleasant one nevertheless.  Charlie took the
opportunity to engage in a hobby that had given him hours of amusement
as  a youngster. 

"Dana..." Charlie began in a provocative whine.  "You know he's gay..."  

Allison gulped and forced herself not to look at Mulder.

"He's bi," Scully answered, laughing.  "He's full of love for everyone."

"He's gay, and you can't marry him," Charlie said.  

"He's bi, Charlie, and I can marry him if I want to," Scully answered.   

"He's so poetic.  He seems to know what's in your heart," Charlie said. 
"You want him bad."  

"No, I don't.  I'm through with Elton," Scully said through her
laughter.  "I want to marry Sting."

"Good choice," Mulder said.  "The King of Pain.  Definitely your type."

"My type?  Let's discuss your type," Scully retorted.  "Some siliconed
bimbo with a leather dog collar and a big, wide mouth..."

"This is a rough crowd," Allison interjected.  She wasn't accustomed to
the harsh banter that was common along the northeast corridor.

"Some like it rough.  Don't you agree, Scully?" Mulder said.

"Hey, leave me out of this," Charlie said.

"It's okay, Charlie, he meant me," Dana explained.  "Anyway, you
started..."

"Dessert!" Allison announced.  "Time for dessert!  Charlie, could you
give me a hand in the kitchen?"   She cleared the table hastily, her
husband assisting.

"I'm sorry," Mulder whispered when Charlie and Allison had left.  "I'll
call you Dana, okay?"

"Sure, Fox," Scully answered.

"Don't do that," Mulder said.  "You don't mind when anyone else calls
you Dana."

"I don't mind at all, Fox," she said.

In the kitchen, Allison was doing her best to apprise Charlie about his
sister's unusual relationship.  

"You're crazy," Charlie said.  "They're in love and they don't know it? 
I don't think so, honey, I think you're just trying to read something
into it.  I'll see what I can find out, though.  I want to talk to him
alone anyway."

A short while later Charlie was heading back to work, with Mulder along
for the ride.  

"I really do need to get back," Charlie said. "We have a shipment coming
in and we're reconfiguring one of the lines."

"What kind of business are you in?" Mulder asked.  Scully hadn't
mentioned.

"Air conditioners and refrigeration systems," Charlie said. "Feel free
to comment on the irony of an air-conditioner plant located in
Minnesota, but I doubt if you'll come up with one I haven't heard."

Mulder could have thought up some wisecrack, but he sensed that Charlie
Scully was not in the mood.

"There's not much manufacturing left in this country.  How's business?"
Mulder asked.

"We're doing okay.  I know I could boost the profits if I took the works
south, but I won't do that."

Charlie's reserved space was taken when they got to the parking lot for
Plymouth Refrigeration, and his expression of annoyance made him look
even more like his brother.  They parked several rows from the entrance.

Charlie walked purposefully through the factory, greeting the people he
passed, stopping at times to speak to them or respond to their
questions.  In one part of the plant Charlie put on a respirator and a
set of goggles before entering an isolated area, and Mulder waited
outside and watched through a glass window. Later Charlie was inspecting
a sample of some small motor or pump or something, and Mulder was
impressed to see him take it apart and reassemble it in a matter of
minutes.

In his own element, dealing with the problems and routines of the
factory, Charlie seemed less like his explosive brother and more like
his analytical sister. 

When Charlie had seen to all the urgent matters, he took Mulder into his
office so they could talk about the strange dream.  Charlie's secretary,
who looked too old to be working, brought them coffee.  Like everyone
else in the plant, she called her boss by his first name.  Mulder
noticed that Charlie addressed her as Mrs. Olsen.

"I don't know what else I can tell you about the dream," Charlie said. 
"The people on the bridge, and my sister right in the middle of the
crowd.  Lights overhead, they're looking up at something, something
big.  And then those men, with their eyes sewn shut, and their mouths
like that too.  Flame throwers.  Fire, screaming.  What else do you want
to know?"

"How does the dream end?" Mulder asked.  "Do you see what happens to
Dana?"

Charlie thought for a minute.  Sometimes this dream seemed to drift into
another one, a dream that was even more baffling and senseless.  It was
a weird dream that seemed totally unrelated.  Dana wasn't in that one at
all.  There was a Viking in it, of all things.  What could be more
simplistic, he thought--move to Minnesota and start to dream about
Vikings.  Anyway, there was nothing to tell, he could not remember the
details at all.

"Usually I wake up.  I don't see her get burned.  It's the people at the
edge of the crowd.  The faceless men come at them from all around. 
Dana's in the middle, she's watching," Charlie said.  "You think it's a
message?  Do you think something like this could really happen to her?"

"Charlie, something happened, a couple of years ago, you may have seen
it on the news.   In Pennsylvania, by Ruskin Dam... A mass killing, 
dozens of people burned to death..." Mulder spoke slowly, waiting to 
see understanding click in Charlie's eyes.

"That's what happened there?" Charlie asked in astonishment.  "That's
how it happened?  And Dana was there?" 

"Yes, she was there.  She got hurt, her face and hands, but she was
okay.  You didn't know that, Charlie?" Mulder asked.

"No, I didn't know that," Charlie said angrily.  "Apparently no one
thought I needed to know.  Not my brother or mother, and I guess not my
sister either."

"I don't think she told Maggie or Bill," Mulder said.  "And she really
doesn't remember it, Charlie.  She has no conscious memory of the
events."

"What the hell are you two up to?" Charlie asked.  "What kind of work
are you doing where she has to be put in that kind of danger?  Why
weren't you on that bridge with her?"

My work here is done, Mulder thought.  Now both Scully brothers think
I'm one sorry son of a bitch.

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

Charlie seemed troubled as he drove home from the plant with Mulder but
he showed no further hostility.  

"At least I understand now why you came out to 'investigate' my dream,"
Charlie said.  "I couldn't figure it out."

"I'm going to want you to go over it again," Mulder said. "With Dana and
me, next time."  Dana and me.  Sounds okay, Mulder thought.

"Tonight, after dinner," Charlie said.  "I'm picking up my daughter now,
and I don't want her to hear anything about it."

"Good plan," Mulder agreed.  He could take the Scullys out for dessert
or a drink or something, pay them back for their hospitality.

Charlie pulled up by the Plymouth Middle School, a sprawling
single-story building with playing fields on one side and a parking area
on the other.  A slender blond girl in bell-bottom blue jeans approached
the car, followed by a sullen looking boy with a camouflage-green
bandana tied over his head. Mulder opened his window.

"Hi, Chrissy," Charlie called.  "Get in."

"Daddy!" the girl said.  "That is not my name. And I need you to drive
me and Ryan to the mall.  We have to get stuff for school."

"It's dinnertime, *Christina*," Charlie said, "and we have guests
tonight.  I'd be glad to drop Ryan off at his house."

Ryan and Christina exchanged glances.

"This is for school, Daddy!" Christina said angrily. 

"What do you need?" Charlie asked.  "What do you need that you have to
get tonight that you didn't know about yesterday?"

"Just forget it!" Christina said.  She opened the door and slid into the
back seat, followed by her friend.

"My brother gets everything he asks for," Christina told Ryan in a
whisper that everyone could hear.  "Because he's gifted."

"Sucks," Ryan said.

"Christina, Ryan, this is Mr. Mulder," Charlie said.  

"Hi."  Christina's grudging greeting was less audible than her whispered
conversation with her friend.  Ryan managed to nod.

"Hello," Mulder said over his shoulder.

Wow.  Christina had asked Aunt Dana once if the guy she worked with was
cute, and the answer had been very noncommittal.  

Maybe Aunt Dana should wear her glasses more often.

"He works with my aunt that I told you about," Christina told her
friend.

"Your nerdy aunt from Washington?" Ryan asked.

"I never said she was a nerd, Ryan.  I said she was intelligent.  There
is a difference, you know," Christina said.

"Whatever," he said.  

Charlie pulled into the driveway of a large Tudor house.  Ryan nodded at
Christina before getting out of the car.

"Call me later, okay, babe?" Ryan said.



end of 1/17

Backtracking
(2/17)
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Before dinner, Dana presented her family with their gifts. 

Allison opened the first carton and pulled out a bubble-wrapped tea cup.

"Oh, Dana!  Where did you find this?" she exclaimed happily.  "Look,
Charlie, the missing pieces from our good china!"

"Oh," said Charlie.  "I thought that looked familiar."  He pondered the
mysteries of the International Sisterhood of Women:  Tiny Dancer had
brought them more of those dishes they never used.  His wife was elated.

"Thank you so much!  But why did you bring these on the plane?  What
were you thinking, girl?  You *know* I could have had any of the freight
handlers pick them up.  I've got a dozen accounts!" Allison said.

"Allison is a manager for Mailboxes, Etc.," Dana explained to Mulder. 
"I guess you didn't really have to carry those two crates."

Mulder shot her a tight, sarcastic smile.

"Didn't I tell you?  I left Mailboxes, Etc.  I'm with a new company
now.  They're only a few years old, but they're growing like crazy." 
She grinned.  "Which is nice, because I'm also a shareholder."

"Way to go, Alli," Dana said.    

The detailed model of the brachiosaurus was greeted with considerably
less gratitude by its disappointed recipient.
 
Christina Scully knew that her parents thought she was just a little
kid, but she had expected more from Aunt Dana.

"Thank you very much," she said in a monotone, putting the box down
before she had completely removed the gift wrap. 

"I'm sorry, Chrissy," Dana said.  "I can see you're not really
interested, but I still think we can have fun putting it together."

"Yeah," Christina said.

Oliver accepted his present with real enthusiasm.

"You know what's great, Aunt Dana?" he said.  "On my other model of the
USS Missouri, I closed it up all the way.  I'll leave this one in cross
section so you can see the inside."

Christina looked like her mother, long-legged with straight blond hair
and even features.  Oliver was a round-faced little boy with brown hair
and big ears.  Scully had described him as adorable, but Mulder thought
he looked a little peculiar.

When Allison called everyone in for dinner, Christina addressed her
brother in a snide tone.
 
"We're dining in the dining room tonight, dirtbag.  Do you remember how
to use a napkin?"

"Don't use your fork to pick your teeth," Oliver said.

"Don't blow your nose on the tablecloth," Christina answered.

"Don't vomit in the mashed potatoes."

"That's enough!"  Charlie said.  "Anyone who can't participate in a
pleasant and mature conversation can keep quiet."

Christina opted for the latter choice, and spent most of the meal
looking down at her plate or staring into space.  Charlie was seated at
the head of the table, to Mulder's right, scowling to himself.  Mulder
tried to think of something to say to him--something that didn't involve
the dream, football, or the irony of locating an air-conditioner factory
in Minnesota.  

Charlie was wondering how a bright, talented girl could be failing three
subjects and why she would voluntarily spend her time with a spoiled
brat who didn't have enough sense to hide his arrogance.

I should have made chicken, Allison was thinking.  Everyone likes
chicken.  Charlie was shoveling in the beef stroganoff, but by the look
on his face he wasn't enjoying it much.  Christina was ignoring it
completely--probably she'd snacked on something after school, before
band practice.  Dana was pushing her food around on her plate, and
Allison, who ate like a quarterback but looked like a goddess,
remembered that her sister-in-law tried to avoid saturated fats.

Allison wondered how Dana's mystery man was able to eat at all, with
Christina staring at him.  Only Oliver seemed totally content, eating
with so much gusto and animation that he knocked over his water twice.

Dana was remembering the first time she had taken Chrissy to see the
dinosaurs at the Smithsonian--what a disaster.  The child was
overwhelmed  and frightened by the huge displays.  The next time had
been better, and Chrissy had become quite the authority on Mesozoic
reptiles.  

Dana was smiling to herself over a particularly memorable telephone
conversation:

"Aunt Dana, the Elasmosaurus was not a true dinosaur anyway.  But I'm
sorry about your dog."

Poor Chrissy--no, poor Christina, Dana thought.  Plunged into the world
of misery, rage, doubt, and restlessness known as adolescence. 

At last someone spoke, and the tension began to dissipate.

"This is delicious, Allison," Mulder said.  It was the best meal he'd
had in months.  Real beef stroganoff, with sour cream and lots of beef
and mushrooms.  

"How do you do it?" Scully asked, hoping that Allison wouldn't notice
how little she ate.  "Running a business, managing the household,
cooking gourmet meals..."

"I like to cook," Allison said.  "And most of the time the shop takes
care of itself."

"Everybody pitches in," Charlie said, and Allison gave him a look of
surprise.

Christina, who was sitting next to Scully, leaned over and whispered to
her aunt.

"Mom cooks about once a month.  She stays in the kitchen all day making
big vats of stuff.  Then she puts it all in plastic bags and she freezes
it."  Christina sounded as if she was divulging something scandalous.  

"Now you know my secret," Allison said.  "All I ever feed these poor
kids is frozen food."

"Except when Daddy goes fishing," Christina said.  "Then we have pizza."

"Unless he stops on the way home to buy fish," Oliver added.

"Chip off the old block," Dana said.

"It's the Scully curse," Charlie explained.  "We repel fish."

When Oliver learned that his parents were planning to step out that
evening with Aunt Dana and her friend, he became apprehensive.

"Can I come too?" he asked.  "I'll keep my mouth shut.  I'll wait for
you in the car."

Christina felt some satisfaction that her brother was afraid to be alone
with her, but she also felt a twinge of guilt.  

"If you can keep your mouth shut for real you have nothing to worry
about," she told him.

"Punk," Oliver said.

"Squealer," she answered.

"We never fought like that," Charlie said to Dana.

"Of course not," she said. "We had a common enemy."  

Charlie grinned broadly.  He was thinking about the summer that Bill Jr.
had to pay Dana and him ten dollars each and drive them anywhere they
wanted to go.  That was the summer they found his rolling papers in the
glove compartment.  

"You can think of me as your common enemy," Allison told her children. 
"If you two can't manage to be alone for a few hours without killing
each other or destroying the house, you'll have me to answer to."

"Yes, mother dear," Christina said.

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

The Village Tavern was a popular spot, even in the middle of the week. 
Scully understood why her brother wanted to get out of the house to talk
about his disturbing dream but she was surprised that he'd chosen a
noisy bar.

It turned out to be a good choice after all.  Charlie and Allison led
the way to a table in a quiet section with a working fireplace.  The
real action was by the bar. There was another room off the bar with a
raised stage and a dance floor.  A few people there danced to recorded
music. Later on there would be a live band.

The foursome took their table.  Dana was content to chat with Allison
until the pitcher of beer and plate of chicken wings arrived, and then
she looked at Charlie expectantly.  Sooner or later he would have to
tell her about his dream.  

"Well?" she said.

Charlie looked at his wife and then at Mulder.

"Go on, Charlie," Allison encouraged him.  "It's just a dream, tell
her."

"I have the general idea," Dana reminded him. "I know it's about the
bridge and the fires.  You're not going to hurt me, Charlie.  I was
there and I survived."

Charlie poured out four glasses of beer and passed them around.  Finally
he began.

"It's outdoors somewhere, on a bridge. It's dark.  Lots of people,
standing on the bridge, waiting for something, looking up.  Then
overhead, something big with lights.  Some men with guns, but they're
not guns, they're flame-throwers.  Not normal men.  Their eyes are sewn
shut, with black thread.  And their mouths.  Then screaming and people
getting burned by the faceless men with their flame-throwers. And you're
there, Dana, you're right in the middle.  That's my dream."

"Oh, Charles," Dana said.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry you dreamed about
that."

Her sympathy seemed to annoy him.

"You're sorry I dreamed that?  Well, I'm sorry it happened.  And I'm
sorry you decided it wasn't important enough for you to tell me about
it, or maybe I wasn't important enough," he said.  "Or did Big Brother
make that decision?"

"I think we need to discuss exactly who is important to whom," Dana
said.  "Charlie, sometimes I don't even know if we're in the same
family.  I know you and Billy have issues, but where does that leave Mom
and me?"

Allison cleaned her fingers on a napkin and looked across the table to
Mulder.  Mulder dropped the chicken bone he'd been working on and wiped
his own hands.  

Oh my stars, thought Allison, he really does have the most beautiful
green eyes.  Mulder was looking right at her.

"Dance?" he asked.  Allison followed him past the bar to the dance
floor.

Mulder thought it might feel awkward to dance with Allison, but he had
wanted to give Scully--Dana--and Charles a chance to talk.  It didn't
feel awkward at all, though.  Allison was good at it and she made Mulder
look good too.

Allison wondered if Mulder had ever danced with Dana, or if she should
encourage him to ask her.  She found Mulder as attractive as Dana had
described him but much quieter.  

"How long do we give them?" Mulder asked.

"Ten minutes ought to do it," Allison said.  "Do you dance much?  You're
good."  Unfortunately a new song came on, giving her words unintended
irony.

"Yeah, I try to get out a couple of times a decade," Mulder said.  He
was trying to follow Allison in some unfamiliar Western dance.  She had
jinxed him by saying he was good.

"Want to play pool instead?" Allison asked sympathetically.

"Let's go back to the table," Mulder said.  "If they need more time
we'll shoot some pool."

When they got back, Charles and Dana were talking quietly, and Dana
waved Mulder and Allison back to the table.

"We're going to try something," she said.  "He's going to try to
remember the other dream."

Charlie had opened up enough to tell her about the second dream.  Just
the fact that he could never remember it made him believe that it had to
be important.

"She wants me to use relaxation techniques," Charlie said.  "You know,
meditate."

"You can do that, honey.  Give it a try," Allison said.  She sat down
next to him and squeezed his hand.

Charlie had practiced meditation before, but never in public.  

"I can't do it here," he said, a little exasperated.  "This is a bar."

"This is a safe, comfortable place.  I think you can do it,"  Mulder
said.  He was hoping that Charlie had chosen this location because he
felt secure here.

"Oh, hell," Charlie said.  He closed his eyes and let his breaths grow
deeper and slower.  He reached for Allison and she took his hand.

Charlie surprised himself by achieving a state of alert relaxation.  He
could see the dream before his eyes, but it was hard to describe without
sounding like a lunatic.  Allison had already heard about it, those few
fragments that he could remember.  Dana wouldn't laugh at him, she never
did.  Mulder wouldn't either.  

"I see him.  He's like Odo," Charlie said.

"Deep Space Nine," Allison explained.  "Odo's an alien, a shapeshifter."

"But he's not like Odo," Charlie continued.  "He kills.  He can kill
with a touch. He has a weapon, an ice pick.  A fancy ice pick. Makes a
noise... *Shoof!*  This guy 'morphs,' like those special effects in the
Schwarzenegger movies."

Dana turned from her brother to Mulder, to catch his eye.  She'd been
watching Charlie, but Mulder, she saw, was sitting there with his eyes
closed, as if he was trying to help Charlie meditate.

"He looks like the meter reader," Charlie said.  "You know who I mean,
Alli."

"Stan Jonsen, from the electric company," Allison said.  "The morphing
guy looks like him?"

"No.  Yes, but no," Charlie said.  "The morphing guy looks like anyone. 
It's the other guy."  This was the part of the dream that embarrassed
Charlie, though he couldn't say why.  The other guy was dressed like a
Viking.  

"The other guy," Dana said quietly, trying to direct his description
without disrupting his concentration.

"He's sad but he's not afraid.  He's got his hair brushed back, like
Jonsen.  Same color.  No expression.  I think he's very old," Charlie
said.

"An old man," Dana said.

"No.  No age.  But he seems old.  He seems forever."

"Where is he?" Mulder mumbled.  "Can you tell?"

"Rocks and mist.  Pine trees.  Water, water spraying.  A waterfall. A
cave.  Snow and ice and water.  Pines.  Pine trees, pine scent, a forest
of pines.  The rocks are slippery, moss-covered."  

"Sweetheart, that sounds like Temperance River.  Don't you remember?"
Allison said. They had spent almost a week there, skiing the trails,
tracking through the woods on snowshoes.  There was a cabin with a
fireplace, and even a big bearskin rug.  A bearskin rug in front of the
fire.  And nine months later...

Wait! Allison remembered.  That wasn't Charlie.  That was before
Charlie. 

Charlie gave her a sour look.  His trance was broken. 

"It's real?  That's a real place?" Mulder asked.  

Allison looked at him from across the table.  He sounded as distant as
Charlie had. Dana had her hand on his arm, but she drew it away
sharply.  Maybe because Allison had seen.

"It's just a dream," Charlie said, looking at Mulder.  "Please keep that
in mind."

"A dream is nature's way of saying it's okay to hallucinate," Allison
said.

"Tune in, turn on, drop out," Mulder quoted.  "Only you're all too young
to remember that."

"So are you," Dana said.  Mulder had some fantasy life in which he'd
hitchhiked to Woodstock and dug the vibes at the Fillmore, but he was
really only four years older than she was.

"Here's the point," Mulder said.  "It's a dream, and the feelings and
reactions you had in the dream are really part of the dream content.
I've had some very weird dreams myself--just ask  Dana."

"I think we've all had a few," she said.  "I don't know what it means,
Charlie, that you could dream about Ruskin Dam without knowing about
it.  I don't know what to make of the other dream either, but I really
want to hear everything you can remember about it."

"Yeah, dreams are inherently crazy," Charlie said.  "You're one place,
then suddenly you're someplace else.  You know things you have no way of
knowing."

"Charlie, spit it out," Dana said.  "Don't make me put you in a
hammerlock again."

"Well, you heard most of it.  Two guys.  One guy can morph, he can look
like anyone.  He's the killer.  The other guy, well, he looks like the
meter reader.  Tall, kind of impassive, sort of cold looking.  But he's
not wearing a jumpsuit from the utility company.  He's dressed like a
Viking.  No jersey, no purple helmet, a real Viking."  Charlie looked at
Dana, then at Mulder, waiting for one of them to speak.

"What else?" Mulder asked after a long pause.

"That's it," Charlie said, "that's all there is."

"What about the things you know?  The things you just know, but you have
no way of knowing?" Mulder prodded him.

Charlie squinted at him, wondering if somehow Mulder already had some
idea what he was going to say.  Then he answered.

"The meter reader--the Viking--he's knows how to fight him.  He knows
how to stop him, but it will cost him his life," Charlie said.  

Again there was silence, and Charlie's words hung in the air.

"Come on," he said to Allison at last.  "Let's dance."  He led her from
the table, and she nodded over her shoulder at Mulder and Dana as she
followed him to the dance floor.

Mulder pushed the plate of appetizers over to Scully.  The wings were
gone; only the raw vegetables remained.

"So," Scully said as she picked up a carrot stick.  "The case of the
morphing meter reader."

"You think it's just a dream?" Mulder asked. "Nothing here to interest
us?"  He remembered how nave Scully was when they started working
together, how surprised she was by the things they uncovered.  She
wasn't nave anymore, she was just stubborn.  It was a knee-jerk
response of hers, this skepticism.

"Are you tired?" she asked him unexpectedly.  She knew she was.  Mulder
had been up longer and he was starting to sound grumpy.  

"Yeah, I am," he said.  Scully was staying with her brother's family but
he had a room booked somewhere, hopefully not too far away.  He was
going to need directions.

"To answer your question, yes, I do think this dream of Charlie's
warrants further investigation," Scully said.  "He described that weapon
perfectly, even the sound."

"If the place with the rocks and the mists and the pine trees is around
here, maybe we can go there tomorrow,"  Mulder said.  "Do you want some
coffee?"

Charlie and Allison returned to the table.

"Line dancing," Charlie explained.  "I just don't get it."  

"Me neither," Dana admitted.  "We were going to get coffee."

"Great," said Allison.  "And they have the most wonderful bourbon
chocolate pecan pie.  You have to try it."

The waitress removed the half-full pitcher of beer and brought around
three slices of pie and four coffees.

"We'll need another fork," Mulder said.  

"Still up to your old tricks, I see," Charlie said.  "Tiny Dancer
doesn't want dessert.  She just wants to taste."

"You were pretty quick with the fork yourself," Dana replied.  "I
remember leaning over to give Bootsy my carrots and when I looked up my
Tater Tots were gone."

"Dana, remember the time Bootsy threw up all those lima beans?" Charlie
asked. "We all got in trouble for that."

"Good old Bootsy," Dana said.

"How's your pie?" Allison asked Mulder.

"It's really good," he said.  "Allison, you knew exactly where to find
that place in Charlie's dream.  Is it near here?"

"About four hours by car, on the North Shore of Lake Superior."  Allison
said.  "It's a great spot for cabin camping and skiing, or hiking in the
summer.  

"Could we all go there tomorrow?" Dana asked.  "What do you think?"

"Dana, that would be great.  I'm sure Margaret could handle things at
the shop. What do you say, Charlie, could you get away for a few days?"
Allison asked.

"I could do that," Charlie said.  "I'd love to get in some skiing before
the season's over.  Do you think we could get Mrs. Hansen to babysit?"

"I don't know about that.  But I've been thinking, Charlie, maybe it's
time we gave Christina more responsibility.  She's growing up, you know,
and I think she'd do fine.  Besides, the Andersens are right across the
street if she needs anything."  Allison knew that Christina was going
through a rough patch, but she was still a bright, caring girl and she
needed a chance to show that she could handle herself.

"That's exactly the problem, Alli, she is growing up," Charlie said.

"Scully--uh, Dana," Mulder said.  "Want to shoot some pool?"

"Yes," she said.  She and Mulder did not belong in this discussion, that
was certain.  She'd play pool with Mulder and let him win.  Mulder
really wasn't that good at pool, but he did like to win.

There were two pool tables in the Village Tavern, one of them
unoccupied.  And no wonder.  It was in terrible shape, not even level. 
Scully racked up the balls and broke, then stepped aside to let Mulder
"run" the table.  In no time at all it was her turn again.

Mulder watched as Scully scratched.  He'd never seen her play this
badly, but then again the table sucked and her mind wasn't really on the
game.  And any game of pool that you could walk away from without a
fistfight was a good game, as far as Mulder was concerned.  

Scully was so competitive, Mulder thought.  There were a few areas where
she conceded Mulder's superiority, but in general she hated to lose. 
Pool was a game of skill, not strength, and Scully would make life
miserable for him if she didn't beat him.

Mulder took his turn, not wanting to score, but she'd left him so many
shots that it would be obvious if he didn't get a few.  He knocked in a
couple of balls then went for a third, tapping the cue ball so lightly
that it kissed against its target and came to a stop.

Scully gave him a funny look.  She chalked up her stick, thinking there
was no way she could miss the shot he'd lined up for her.  But it was
okay now, since he had a couple of points himself.

"Let me give you a free lesson."  The offer came from a buck-toothed man
of about thirty.  "Your boyfriend obviously hasn't played much."

Give me a break, Mulder thought.  This guy might as well carry a big
neon sign that said, "Loser."  He was wearing a black pinstriped jacket
over his tan Dockers, plus brown wingtips.  

"We'll manage, thanks," Mulder said, taking a step toward Scully.

"He's not my boyfriend," Scully said.  Mulder's chivalry annoyed her. 
Did he honestly think she needed his help with this clown?

"Oh, even better," said the clown.  "My name is Jeff, Jeff Nelson.  Can
I buy you a drink?"

"Let's go, *Dana*," Mulder said pointedly.  "We have some plans to
discuss." 

"A drink would be very nice, Jeff," Scully said, "but I'll buy my own,
if you don't mind."

Jeff nearly swooned with joy.  He had found the perfect woman.  

"Enjoy yourself, *Dana*," Mulder said.  He knew she would never admit
that she'd set this up only to humiliate him.  She'd say she felt sorry
for the guy, or she'd find some way to put the blame on Mulder.  

Feeling like pond scum, Mulder rejoined Allison and Charlie at their
table. 

Scully and Jeff found seats at the bar.  Allison practically gaped at
them.

All this time I thought Mulder was the problem, Allison thought.  But
no, Dana is a first-class dodo in her own right.

"Looks like your sister made a new friend," she told Charlie.  Charlie
looked over to the bar and started to laugh.

"Oh, this is too good," he said.  "Dana's got herself buttonholed by the
biggest asshole in Minnesota.  And Jeff is trying to sell his pyramid
scheme to an FBI agent.  Let's go home and leave her here."

"Charlie!" Allison said.  "We will do no such thing."  She strutted over
to the bar, reflecting that "biggest asshole in Minnesota" was a hotly
contested title.  

"Dana!  We're leaving!" she announced.  "Now march!"  Allison was not
going to take no for an answer and fortunately Dana was ready to make
her escape.  She gave Jeff an apologetic little shrug as she walked out
with Allison.

Mulder dropped some bills on the table for the tip.  The cash register
was by the bar.

"I'll meet you outside," Charlie said. He could hardly wait to
congratulate his sister on her conquest of the village idiot.

Mulder went over to pay the check, and Jeff sidled in next to him.

"You're well rid of her, you know," Jeff said.

"Excuse me?"  Mulder said.

"Did you see what happened?" Jeff asked.  "She's going home with that
other chick."

"Well, that explains it," Mulder said.

"Lesbians," Jeff whispered knowingly.  "They're everywhere."


end of 2/17

Backtracking
(3/17)
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Allison corralled Dana into the back seat of the car--they had to talk. 
Charlie and Mulder could sit up front and plan the ski trip.  

"You have a problem, girl," Allison said.  "What are you trying to do?"

"You mean Jeff?  I'm not trying to do anything, Allison.  I just had a
drink with him," Dana said.

"You had a drink with him.  Why?  Because you liked him?  Because you
were intrigued by his offer of a ground-floor opportunity in the
wonderful world of wireless communication?  Damn it, Dana, I want you to
think about this."  

Allison was anything but starry-eyed.  Unlike her brother-in-law Bill,
she understood that Dana found fulfillment in the life she was leading. 
But watching Dana and her partner together, she was certain that both of
them were looking for something more.

"Allison, I know you're a born matchmaker, but you have to get this out
of your mind.  Mulder is my partner.  He's not my boyfriend, he's not my
lover.  He's just a guy I work with, okay?  There is no reason it should
matter to him if I have a drink with someone."  

Charlie and Mulder, in the front of the car, had most of the trip
planned.  They would probably be able to get a cabin this time of year.  

"We'll have to take along two sleeping bags and folding cots," Charlie
said.  "The cabin only has beds for two.  It will be a little tight, but
mostly we'll be outdoors anyway."

Oh joy, Mulder thought.  Sharing a one-room cabin with Scully.  Scully
would be thrilled, too.  She'd been so delighted about sharing a house
with him at Arcadia. At least Charlie and Allison would be along this
time.  Bunking with three Scullys would be a little easier.

In the back of the car, Allison was whispering something.  Unlike her
daughter, she was able to whisper quietly.

"Do you really think it doesn't matter to him?" she said.  She had
caught the dismay in Mulder's face as he contemplated the close quarters
with Dana Scully.  "Look at him, Dana.  He looks like a wounded puppy."

"You'll love the skiing," Charlie was telling Mulder.  "Cross country
skiing is easy.  The hardest part is waxing, but I have a book that will
tell you everything you need to know."

"Don't give him that book, Charlie, it makes it way too complicated,"
Allison said, joining their conversation.

"Waxing is very important.  Sure, you can get by with shoddy technique,
but--"  Charlie and Allison had been having this argument as long as
they'd been skiing together, so he wasn't surprised when she interrupted
him.

"Scully!" Allison said sharply, although she wasn't really angry. 
"You're asking for it."

"Nordic skiing really isn't hard to learn," Dana told Mulder. "Allison
taught me a couple of years ago.  And I can wax your skis for you."

Charlie gave Mulder a little nod to assure him that the book would be
forthcoming.

"Okay, Thor-the-Thunder-God, why don't you teach him about snowshoeing?"
Allison said.

"My wife is casting aspersions on my Nordic survival skills," Charlie
commented.  "She's trying to give you the impression that I'm not the
world's greatest snowshoe artist."

"Charlie hates snowshoes," Allison said.  "But unless your skis are made
for bushwhacking, you really need a trail to ski on.  So you use the
snowshoes to pack down the snow and stamp out a trail."

"Or you let your wife do that part," Charlie said.  "Otherwise you can
wait for a snowmobiler to come through and leave you some tracks.  Then
you shake your fist at him for defiling the wilderness, and off you go
on your skis."

"That won't work this time, Charles Scully.  The truck will drop us off
as close as possible, but we'll need to use snowshoes and a toboggan to
drag our stuff from the road to the cabin," Allison explained.

"I think I have to work tomorrow," Charlie said with a big grin.

"No problem, handsome.  I've got plenty of pre-cooked meals in the
freezer, and the Andersens are right across the street if you need
something," Allison said.  

"Oh no!  You can't leave me alone with two adolescents," Charlie
groaned.  "It isn't safe."

They had reached the house, and Charlie was going to signal to turn into
his driveway.  But he didn't, because there were the two adolescents,
playing basketball at the hoop over the garage.  

Christina and Oliver, playing nicely together.  What a wonderful sight. 
Their parents sighed with satisfaction, until they  realized something
that Mulder and Dana had noticed right away.

The Lariat rental car was no longer in the driveway, where Mulder had
left it.  It was parked in the street.  Somebody had moved it.

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

Mulder and Scully sat side by side on the couch in the Scullys' living
room, trying to ignore the shouts wafting up to them from the family
room.

"You say you want me to be responsible, but you don't let me take any
responsibility!" Christina was shrieking.  "I just moved the car so we
could shoot hoops."

"As you are well aware, young lady, you are fourteen years old and you
do not have a driver's license," Allison answered.

"And where did you learn to drive, anyway?" Charlie bellowed.

"I told you we'd get in trouble," Oliver said.  "You wouldn't listen."

"I just wanted to play basketball with my brother!  Is that a crime?"
Christina wailed.  "I hate you all!"

"You come back here!" Charlie shouted again, and then came the sound of
Christina stomping up the stairs from the family room.

Dana grabbed something to read from a pile of magazines on the coffee
table and slapped it into Mulder's hand.  Then she grabbed something for
herself.

Mulder buried his nose in a pamphlet titled "Federal Express Terms and
Conditions" as Scully flipped through an old copy of "Parade."  

Christina could have continued up the stairs to her room, but she
didn't.  She marched up to the couch to confront its cowering occupants.

"I hate you too, Aunt Dana!" she announced.   

"Christina..." Dana began, but the girl ignored her.

"I'm sorry you had to be subjected to this scene," she said to Mulder in
a shaky voice. "I'm used to it, please don't worry about me."

Then she turned her back and stormed away up the half-flight of stairs
that led to the bedrooms.  

The whole house shook when she got to her room and slammed the door.  

"I'm going to make a run for it," Mulder said quietly, and Dana nodded. 
But there was still the matter of retrieving his car keys.  Mulder hoped
that someone had remembered to get them back from Christina, because he
was simply not that brave.

More conversation drifted up from the family room, and then Oliver
himself came up the stairs.

"I'm supposed to entertain you," he said.  "Mom and Dad have things to
discuss."

"We'll be up in a minute," Allison called, as Oliver sat down in the big
lounge chair.

"I was hoping we'd get a chance to talk," Dana told her nephew, then
turned to address Mulder.  "Oliver has some intriguing theories about
UFOs."

"I'd like to hear them," said Mulder.  "Could you give me an overview?"

"I think that UFO sightings and related phenomena are best understood as
a kind of contemporary folklore," Oliver said.  "They are the modern
equivalent of fairytales and religious visions."

"You think that people dream up little green men and the like to explain
things they don't understand?" Mulder asked.  "Like inventing an angry
spirit to explain why a volcano erupted?"

"You have a sanguine understanding of mythology in general," Oliver
said.

"Really?" said Mulder.  "I don't think I've ever been accused of that
before."

"The purpose of myths is to maintain the status quo.  To keep people in
their proper place.  To stop them from asking questions," Oliver said.  

"That's true," Mulder said, "but it doesn't preclude the existence of
extraterrestrials or even extraterrestrial visitations."

Scully was beaming with pride.   Now Mulder would have to admit how
intelligent and articulate Oliver was.

"No, it doesn't," Oliver agreed.  "My aunt, for one, is convinced that
the aliens are already here."

"Your Aunt Dana?" Mulder asked.

Charlie came up into the living room and gave Mulder the car keys.

"I'm sorry about what happened," he said.  "Let me know if you find any
damage to the car."

"Don't worry about it," Mulder said, "and thanks for everything.  Can
you give me directions to my motel?"  He gave Charlie the confirmation
slip from the government travel office.

"I don't know where this is," Charlie said, and he showed it to Allison,
who had entered the room after him.

"Oh my stars," she said.  "This is over an hour away.  You'd have to
drive back to the airport, and then out past St. Paul."

"That's crazy," Charlie said to Mulder.  "You'll stay with us.  You can
use Chrissy's room, and she can share with Oliver for tonight."

"Da-ad!" Oliver groaned, and then he turned to Mulder.  "You stay with
me.  You can pick which bunk.  Please!"

"Go get your suitcase, Mulder," Allison said.  "We can work out the
details later. Now march."

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

"You should have a good time," Allison said wistfully.  "Plenty of snow
left from winter, but the temperatures should be moderate."  She had
piles of ski clothes, both hers and her husband's, stacked on the bed in
the guest room, and she was helping Dana pack for the trip to Temperance
River.  Allison and Charlie would not be going along.  They had a
wayward daughter to attend to.

"It would have been a lot more fun if you were coming," Dana said. 
"Anyway, it's not supposed to be a vacation--we're looking for
something."  

"You're looking for Charlie's dream," Allison said.  "Do you know how
strange that sounds?"  She was placing stacks of long underwear and
socks in the suitcase.

"Yes, I know, Allison.  That's the nature of our work--strange," Dana
said.  "Hey, how much stuff are you lending us?  We're only going for
two days!"

"I know it seems like a lot, but you may need it.  Cross-country skiing
is hard work--you get hot and you sweat.  You're going to want to
change," Allison said.   Allison was covering the long johns with a row
of sweaters, but Dana caught a glimpse of something else among the
woolens.

"Allison!" she exclaimed, pulling something lacy and black from the
suitcase.  "I brought my own pajamas, thank you very much!"  

"It might get warm in the cabin at night," Allison said earnestly. 
"You'll have a fire going, and you'll be more comfortable in something
light."

Scully raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

"Okay, Sister Dana Katherine, let's see what you brought," Allison
challenged her.

"It's new," Dana said, holding up a nightgown for Allison's inspection.

"Dana," she said, "what are you trying to prove?" 

"What do you mean?" Dana asked her.  "It's warm, it's practical..."

"My grandmother wouldn't wear that," Allison answered.  "Little Red
Riding Hood's grandmother wouldn't wear that."

"Quilted flannel," Scully said.  "I like flannel."

"You like ruffles?  You like pink and blue checks?  Dana, this nightie
should come with a tube of denture adhesive."

"Allison, read my lips.  Mulder is my partner and my friend and that is
all he'll ever be," Dana said.

"Is he seeing someone else?"

"No."

"Are you?"

"No."

"Is he gay?"

"He never mentioned it," Dana answered.

"Are you?" Allison asked.  

"Not to my knowledge," Dana said.

"You don't sleep with anyone, he doesn't sleep with anyone, you like
each other, you love each other, but there can never be anything more
between you," Allison summarized.  

"Exactly," Dana said, relieved that her sister-in-law had finally caught
on.

"How do you know?" Allison asked.  "Don't raise your eyebrows at me, I
want you to think about it.  Because I know what I see, Dana, and I see
enough sparks flying to start a fire.  I want to know who keeps pouring
water on the kindling."

"You want to know why I'm not sleeping with Mulder?  You really want to
press the issue?"  She couldn't believe that Allison was being so
pushy.  She couldn't believe that she was tolerating it.

"Talk to me, girl," Allison said.

"We tried.  No good. Okay?"  It cost her plenty to make this admission,
but it still wasn't enough for Allison.

"You slept with him?  You *did it*?"

"Yes, Allison, we did it.  We went all the way.  We made the beast with
two backs. The old in-out.  Hide the salami. We had sex."

"And?"

"And what?  What else do you want to know, Dr. Ruth?"  Dana was angry
and embarrassed.  If anyone else had talked to her the way Allison was
doing...

"What happened?  You didn't come?  He called out the wrong name? 
Somebody farted?" Allison hoped this intrusion wouldn't ruin their
friendship.  Maybe she should mind her own business--Charlie certainly
thought so--but she didn't want to see Dana turn her back on love.

"He didn't respect me in the morning," Dana said.

Allison gave her a look.

"Sit down," Dana said. "You really want to know what happened?"  Allison
nodded and sat on the bed.  Dana started to pace.

"Start at the beginning," Allison said.

"We were on a case in the middle of nowhere. We were staying in a
motel."

"Separate rooms?" Allison asked.

"Of course separate rooms," Scully said.  "Except something happened to
Mulder's room."

"What happened?" Allison looked worried; she was imagining arson or a
drive-by shooting.

"Never mind.  There were no other vacancies."

"In the middle of nowhere?  All the rooms were taken?" Allison asked.

"Yes.  High school reunion," Dana said.

"Okay.  No other room.  So you had to share?"

"Yes.  I should have slept in the car," Dana said.  "Or made him sleep
in the car."

"You could have taken turns," Allison said.  It was a joke, but Dana
nodded seriously.

"They set up a roll-away bed in the room.  I told him I'd use it.  But
no, he wouldn't hear of it.  So I got ready for bed..."

"This was before you bought your beautiful flannel nightie?" Allison
asked.

"I had on my blue silk pajamas.  Is that all right?" Dana asked
pointedly.

"Yes, they're cute," Allison said.

"Thank you, I'm glad you approve.  I was in the bed, and he was lounging
around on the folding bed, trying to look pensive and sexy..."

"Hard work for a man like that," Allison said.

"Are you going to keep interrupting?" Dana asked.  

"Nope, not another word," Allison promised.

"Anyway, he started tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.  And
then he said that there seemed to be plenty of extra room in my bed." 
Dana stopped.  She sounded so anguished that Allison regretted her
attempts at levity.  

"He looked so insolent," Dana continued.  "He looked so... good.  I
said, Okay, why don't you join me."

Allison nodded.

"And... he did.  And... we did.  And... it was wonderful," Dana said in 
a whisper.  "Very wonderful."

"That's good," Allison said.

"No, it was not good.  It was bad and it was wrong," Dana said.  "Don't
you see, Allison, I forced him."

"You forced him?  No, Dana, I don't see.  How did you force him?"

"I called his bluff.  He couldn't have backed down at that point, he
would have been too embarrassed.  I made him do it."

"Is that how Mulder sees it?" Allison asked.

"Yes," Dana said.  "Yes he does.  You should have seen him the next
morning, he wouldn't look at me."

"Did you ask him why?" Allison questioned.

"I knew why.  Because he'd been betrayed.  Because he'd been used by
someone he trusted," Dana said.  She was miserable but dry-eyed.

"Do you want my advice?" Allison asked.

"Absolutely not," Dana said.

"Tomorrow night, you tell him there's room for two in *his* bed.  See
what he says."

"I will not!  Anyway, you said the cabin has twin beds."

"It does, Dana.  But believe me, there's room for two."

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

"Wanna watch a movie?" Oliver was hanging down so far from the top bunk
that Mulder was afraid he was going to fall out of bed.

"Sure," Mulder said.  Oliver's foot bounced onto the mattress of the
lower bunk before he landed lightly on the floor.  Oliver shoved a
cassette into his VCR and bounded back up to his bunk, again using the
lower bed as a step.   Mulder had moved over to allow for this maneuver,
but he grimaced as Oliver hit his mattress, sending it sagging down with
a groan and a creak.

"Sorry."  Again Mulder was greeted by the sight of Oliver's big round
head hanging upside down.

"It's okay," Mulder said as the movie started.  The tape rolled right
into the credits, Mulder noticed, without the usual previews and ads.

"Have you seen this one yet?" Oliver asked.

"Uh, Oliver, where did you get it?" Mulder asked. It was "The Matrix." 
It had opened in theaters a couple of weeks ago.

"D-oh!" Oliver smacked his hand to his forehead Homer Simpson-style,
then did another two-step vault, out of the bed and over to the VCR.  He
slapped the "eject" button and tossed the tape into the open clothes
hamper.   

"Wanna watch..."  Oliver sorted through his tapes nervously, casting
another half dozen into the hamper.

"You seem to have an interesting collection," Mulder said.  Who would
have thought that a little kid in a Minneapolis suburb would have access
to bootleg videos?  

Oliver shoved "The Lion King" into the VCR and started the tape.  He
knew Mulder wouldn't arrest him.  He'd never heard of anyone being
arrested for just owning a bootleg tape, let alone a kid.  His only real
concern was whether Mulder would tell his parents.   

"Good movie, huh?" Oliver said with as much enthusiasm as he could
muster.  "Great music!  Elton John!"  Grown-ups loved Elton John.   

"'Aladdin' is better," Mulder said.  'Dumbo' was better than the two of
them put together, but he didn't know if Oliver had ever seen that one. 

"For sure," Oliver said.  "In 'Aladdin', a street urchin becomes a
prince.  But 'Lion King' is blatantly counterrevolutionary."  

"Yeah!" Mulder agreed.  He'd tried to explain that to Scully, but she
told him it was just a cartoon.  "Nobody tries to overthrow Scar, even
though he's a terrible king.  Only Simba can dethrone him, because he's
the legitimate heir."  

"That's what I say," said Oliver happily.  Everyone else seemed to think
he was taking the movie too seriously, but this Mulder guy got the
point.  "Hey, do you know the story of Heimdall, how he became the
father of mankind?"

"Heimdall," Mulder said. "The Norse god who guarded Bifrost, the rainbow
bridge between heaven and earth."  Mulder had been leafing through one
of Oliver's mythology books.  

"Yeah, that guy.  The story is, one day he came to earth.  He met a
couple who were very poor, but they took him in and shared their meager
supper with him.  They were not able to have children, but nine months
after Heimdall's visit, they had a son. Then Heimdall came to a second
couple, and they couldn't have children either.  They weren't poor like
the first couple," Oliver said.

"But they wouldn't share?" Mulder asked.

"No, they shared with him too.  Only their food was better.  And nine
months later, they had a son," Oliver said.

Mulder had a sudden vision, but he shook it off.  Mulder was thinking of
babies with tails.

"Then Heimdall came to a third couple, and they were really, really
rich, and they couldn't have children either," Oliver said.  "They
entertained him in style."

"And nine months later..." Mulder suggested.

"Yeah, nine months later, they also had a son," Oliver said.

"So the story shows that whether you are rich or poor, as long as you
are generous with what you have, you will be rewarded," Mulder
concluded.

"No!" Oliver said.  "That's not the point at all.  Because the first
couple, their son was named Thrall, which means slave.  And his
descendants became the serfs.   The second couple, their son was named
Karl, which means freeman.  His descendants were the freemen.  The third
son was named Jarl--that means Earl.  He started up the royal line."

"Oh," said Mulder.  Oliver had latched onto this story because it fit in
with his theory, but his interpretation seemed indisputable.  "A caste
system, complete with divine origin."

"Yeah," said Oliver.  "And everyone accepted it.  They even named the
baby Thrall.  Why would you do that, give a kid a name like Slave?"

"Or Fox," Mulder said.

"Fox is kind of cool.  How would you like to be named Oliver?" the boy
asked.  He turned off the VCR and climbed back to this bunk, actually
using the ladder for once.

"You don't like it?" Mulder asked.  At least it was a name, he was
thinking.

"It's totally dorky," Oliver said.  "Anything would be better."

Mulder decided not to ask him about his middle name, in case it turned
out to be Wendell.

"You could change it," Mulder said.  "How about Jarl?"

"Right!  Seriously, I've thought about it.  Did you ever consider
changing your name?" Oliver asked.

"On and off, for years.  I think it's too late now," Mulder said.  Just
as well that he'd never taken any action.  When he was Oliver's age, he
was leaning toward Carl.  Carl Jung Sagan Yastrzemski Mulder.

"I was thinking about Dawson," Oliver said.  "Or Brandon."  

Mulder didn't answer.  The kid's voice sounded muffled, as if he might
fall asleep if Mulder gave him a chance.

"Or maybe not.  Call me Scully," Oliver muttered.  "Just Scully."

"Good night, Scully," Mulder said quietly.  He repositioned himself
diagonally across the bed, trying to find a less uncomfortable position,
but his feet still hung over the wooden bedframe.  Sleep was a long way
off.

He opened the mythology book Oliver had loaned him. Here was an
interesting story:

Loki, the Norse god of mischief, assumed the form of a young mare in
order to seduce a stallion.  Later he gave birth to an eight-legged
colt.

Like to see Odo try that, Mulder thought.

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

Christina heard a soft knock on her door.  She stretched sleepily,
tossing her long, blond hair from her face and adjusting the straps on
her simple yet sophisticated Calvin Klein tank top.

"I know this is wrong," Mulder said, as he entered her darkened chamber,
"but I can't stay away."  He was wearing those stretchy bikini-type
briefs and a Brittney Spears concert shirt.  Mulder loved Brittney
Spears.  

**No.  What am I thinking?  Mulder is totally indifferent to Brittney
Spears.**  

Okay, a Ricky Martin shirt.  Mulder was a big fan.

**Maybe he's met Ricky.  Maybe they're friends.**

Yes, they were friends.  Ricky always sent Mulder backstage passes.

"My darling," Christina said.  "I feel it too."  She noticed that her
breasts were larger than she remembered them.  They were the kind of
breasts that men liked a lot.

Mulder sighed with relief.

"They won't understand, Christina--"

**No, that's all wrong.  When Mulder really cares about someone, he uses
their last name.**

"They'll try to break us up, Scully," he said.

"We won't let them," Christina promised him.  

"We may have to run away," Mulder cautioned her.  "And Scully, you're so
young and I'm so old.  Perhaps one day you'll grow tired of me."

"That will never happen, my love.  Some things are forever."

Reassured by the wisdom and sincerity of the blossoming young woman,
Mulder took her in his arms at last....


end of 3/17

Subject: NEW: Backtracking (4/17)



Mulder and Scully were driving north on I-35 early the next morning in a
rented Taurus jammed full with borrowed clothes and equipment.  Two
pairs of skinny skis were on the roof along with a wooden toboggan. 
Snow shoes and backpacks filled the trunk. An insulated cooler, solidly
packed with Allison Scully's precooked dinners, was in the rear seat.

The Ford, the white lines of the highway, Mulder's nasal monotone... it
was all so familiar.  Allison didn't appreciate what the partnership
meant to her, Scully thought.  It was easy for Alli to say she should
make a move, tell Mulder how she felt, but she could end up losing
everything.

Mulder had been telling her stories from Oliver's book for the last half
hour, and she'd been tuning in and out.  Story after story about Loki,
the god of evil, and how he could appear in any form.  Now he was
telling her about how Loki turned himself into a mare to seduce a
stallion.

"Why did Loki want to seduce a stallion?" Scully asked suddenly, to
Mulder's surprise.  He didn't think she'd been listening.

"It's a long story.  Basically, the gods needed some construction work
done.  The wall that enclosed Asgard, where they lived, had been
destroyed in a war, leaving them with no protection against the giants. 
They hired an itinerant stonemason for the job. He said he'd rebuild the
wall, but in payment, he asked for the hand of Freya, one of the
goddesses.  He also wanted the sun and the moon," Mulder said.

Scully laughed.

"This sounds like Danny's story about how he decided to finish the
basement himself," she said.

"Unlike Danny, the Norse gods agreed to the contractor's terms," Mulder
said.  "But they stipulated that the work had to be done within six
months, or they wouldn't pay."

"Sounds reasonable," Scully said.

"Not really," Mulder replied.  "Asgard was rather large.  Anyway, the
stonemason accepted their terms, but only if he could use his stallion
to help him."

"Aha.  There's the horse," Scully said.

"Yes.  The mason and his horse worked quickly, and the gods became
worried.  Odin, the patriarch, threatened to kill Loki if the work was
done on time," Mulder related.

"Time out!  How was this Loki's fault?" Scully asked.

"The six-month limit was Loki's idea," Mulder explained.  "The plan was
that they'd get part of the wall rebuilt for free.  Loki figured that
the mason could never finish in six months, and they wouldn't have to
meet his outrageous demands."

"So Loki decided to distract the mason's stallion," Scully said.

"Hey, who's telling this story?" Mulder asked her.  "Anyway, as you have
guessed, Loki decided to distract the mason's stallion.  He took the
form of a young mare and lured the stallion away.  The horse did not
return until the next day, but it was too late.  The work could not be
completed on time."

"So the Norse gods got to keep the sun and the moon, and Freya did not
have to marry the mason," Scully concluded.

"The mason turned out to be a rock giant, and Thor killed him with his
mighty hammer.  But months later, when Loki returned, he brought along
an eight-legged colt, which he presented to Odin as a gift," Mulder
said.  "The colt was the offspring of the stallion and Loki, as a mare."

"Mulder," Scully said, suddenly very serious.  "I don't think Loki was
really the mother."

Mulder's crazy story had taken one turn after another, getting sillier
and sillier.  But the ending sounded believable.  An abduction, a hybrid
offspring...

Mulder glanced over at Scully, trying to make eye contact, but she was
looking down.

"It's just a story," he said.

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

Mulder and Scully arrived at Temperance River around noon, but it was a
couple of hours before they were settled into the cabin.  Then Mulder
took Charlie's racing skis outside to utilize his newly acquired waxing
knowledge.

Mulder used the propane torch to soften some green wax, which he rubbed
on the skis in long strokes. He took a rag from the tackle box and used
it to rub the undersurface of the skis.   Next came the cork.  He buffed
the wax flat and smooth. So far so good.  Maybe another wax for the
"kick" zone, the part of the ski that would propel him into a glide as
he stepped forward off the rear ski.  Something a little softer. 
Blue.   

Working in front of the rough cabin, waxing his skis in the brilliant
sunshine, Mulder felt unexpectedly melancholy.  This was a parody of a
winter vacation, he thought.  He was outside getting ready for some
cross-country skiing, the little woman was in the cabin fixing lunch. 
It could have been for real, but that was not what Scully had chosen. 
He had to be content to be her partner; to strive for more would put
everything at risk.

"Scully," he called in to her.  "Do you want me to wax your skis too?"

"Don't even think about it!" she called out to him.  "Come on in and
have lunch."

Mulder pulled off his sweater as he came through the door; even without
a fire going, it was noticeably warmer inside.

"What's for lunch?" he asked.  "Herring and mead?"

"Close," said Scully.  "Allison packed us tuna surprise."  

"After we eat, let's go back out and look for the waterfall," Mulder
said.  "I want to find that place from from Charlie's dream."  

"We'll try out the skis," Scully said.  She didn't think Mulder could
face another outing on snowshoes.  She didn't think she'd be up to it
herself.

"I'll take the heavy camera and the electronics," Mulder said.  "You can
carry the other cameras and the bag with the sweaters and stuff."  He
popped the top on a can of Pepsi and slugged some back.

"I'll take the big pack, at least until you get the hang of it," Sully
said.  "It's gong to throw your balance way off.  Anyway, I've got a
lower center of gravity."  She didn't mention it, but she was not going
to let him touch the big camera until he proved to her he'd be able to
keep it out of the snow. 

"Scully, if you can walk, you can ski.  Right?" That's what they said
about cross-country skiing.

"Not quite," she answered.  "If you can walk, you can learn to ski." 
She folded up the foil wrap from their lunch.  They'd have to carry all
their trash out with them when they left the cabin.  Mulder would
finally have a legitimate reason to crush soda cans.

Mulder got up from the table.  Apparently Scully had appointed herself
the world authority on Nordic skiing. Perhaps if he was lucky the Snow
Czar would permit him to go outside.  

"I'll give it a try while you get your skis waxed," he said as he put on
his ski boots.   

Mulder was using that careful, restrained tone, Scully noticed.  Scully
could hear the disapproval in his voice, and sometimes she just wanted
to shake him and scream it out:

"I'm sorry I made you sleep with me!  I'm sorry I used you!   Now get
over it!"

But she said nothing.  She concentrated on smoothing the wrinkles out of
all the aluminum foil.   

Outside of the cabin, Mulder got his skis off the waxing rack and set
them flat on the snow.  Then he had to fit his boots into the bindings
and lock them down.  The first one snapped in place after a couple of
tries, but the second one was more difficult, in part because he was
forced to put his weight on the foot with the ski.  Finally he released
the first ski and tried to put on the second one.  He discovered that
the binding on that ski really was harder to snap down, but he managed
it at last.  Now for the other one.

Scully was out of the cabin by now.  Mulder, who was crouched over his
skis, looked up to find her standing over him, observing his
predicament.  She used her ski pole to lock his open binding.  He gave
her a withering look as he stood up.

"Get over it," she said.  "And you're holding the poles wrong."  She
wanted to place his hands through the loops correctly, but he wouldn't
let go of the poles.  She stuck her tongue out at him and  pulled his
hat down over his ears.  

"You're such a hump," he said.

"I know.  So are you," she answered.  

Mulder waited for her to get engrossed in the waxing process so he could
take his first steps unobserved.  But she never did.  She took no time
at all to select a wax, and then she used it to scribble on the running
surface of her skis.  Ignoring rags and corks, she wiped her glove
across the wax in a few long strokes.  She was done.

"That's pitiful," Mulder said.

"The snow's cold and dry," Scully said.  "It will be fine."  

Her ski bindings were entirely different from his, with some fat spring
going around the back of her boots, but she hunched down on the skis and
got both boots fastened in without a problem.  She sidestepped until she
was next to him.

"It's really a lot like running," she started to explain.  "You step off
the back ski and onto the forward one.  Try it without the poles
first."  

"Scully, Charlie told me everything I need to know, okay?  You just
toddle along, and I'll try not to knock you over when I pass," Mulder
said.  If she would just leave him alone he'd be fine. He didn't feel
quite as brash as he sounded, but he'd always excelled in athletic
endeavors and it would be pretty pathetic if he couldn't manage to
outrun his diminutive partner, who, apart from everything else, was a
girl. 

Scully could see that she'd have to let him go it alone in his
testosterone haze, but she wanted to make sure he wouldn't actually kill
himself.

"Ever tried downhill skiing?" she asked.

"Of course," he answered.

Good, she thought, he has some clue how to stop.  And they were just
going to do a circuit or two near the cabin; they'd need their packs and
equipment before they went exploring.

"Have fun," she said, stepping past him onto the path of flattened snow
they'd created earlier when they'd snowshoed from the rudimentary access
road to the cabin.  The forestry service truck had brought them as close
as possible before dropping them off, and the driver had placed their
gear in a careful pile.  

Very conscious that Mulder was watching her, she broke into her stride,
using rapid little steps where the path climbed upward and longer ones
where the ground was level.  She was pleased with her performance,
pleased that she hadn't lost the technique.  She warmed up quickly and
within ten minutes she had to stop and remove her zippered windbreaker.  

She and Mulder were both decked out in borrowed equipment.  Allison had
brought out her best for Scully to use, and the fit was adequate though
not perfect.  The pleated tweed pants were too roomy, but the suspenders
held them in place and the gaiters that covered her lower legs contained
the extra length.   

Mulder, on the other hand, was stuck with Charlie's cast-offs.  The
traditional Nordic ski pants were knee britches, knickers that reached
just below the knee and buttoned in place.  Charlie thought they made
him look like a troll.  Mulder, with his lighter build, looked kind of
cute, but he hated them too.  

Scully was wearing Allison's favorite thermals, made of luxurious pink
silk.  Mulder was encased in the union suit that Charlie wouldn't wear
anymore because it was so itchy.  

Mulder had the better skis.  They seemed absurdly long to Mulder, but in
fact they were the right length for him.  Charlie was a strong skier and
he liked his skis stiff, for the added power.  That was going to be a
problem for Mulder, until he got the hang of it, especially where the
trails ran uphill.  

Scully's wooden skis weighed a ton, but they would glide easily on the
fine, dry snow.  They were really too short for Allison, but she'd
bought them for next to nothing at a garage sale.  This kind of
old-fashioned ski was perfect to use in the back country.   

Once Scully was out of sight, Mulder got into motion.  Charlie had told
him about the diagonal stride, the basic step he'd need.  Coordinating
the poles and skis was easy to do.  Forward with the left ski and the
right pole.  Then with the right ski and the left pole.

But it didn't feel right.  It felt like a death march.  

"It's really a lot like running," Scully had said, but this was nothing
like running.  He dropped his stance and tried it with more spring in
his step.  Better, but now the poles weren't cooperating as much.  He
tucked both of them under one arm and, as Scully had suggested, "tried
it without the poles."  It was like running!  It was better than
running, faster and smoother.  Instinctively he used a quicker, shorter
stride to work his way over the first incline and then picked up speed
where the ground became level.  Another little hill, and he crested that
one too.  

He was growing uncomfortably warm, but that wasn't his only problem. 
The trail was sloping downward now, and his skis were picking up speed
and threatening to take off without him.  He was going to fall.  He
thought about throwing himself to the side of the trail, but before he
could plan the move he had fallen backward.  He continued down the trail
on his back, coming to a stop after about a hundred feet, where the
trail turned uphill again.  

He felt only a little shaken, ready to get to his feet, but the skis
kept sliding out from under him.  He tried to use the poles to get some
stability and they helped.  A few more tries and he would have it.

Way up ahead, the Snow Czar was having the time of her life.  Scully had
left the flattened path created  by their treks from the road to the
cabin and stamped out a new trail leading up into the woods.  It was a
steep trail, and she'd had to move sideways for most of it.  But once
she'd finished it, what joy.  The trail was rough, winding through the
trees, and as she rode it down, she found herself leaving the ground at
times, launched into flight by the bigger bumps.

On his feet again, Mulder brushed himself off and considered his
options.  He thought about retracing his steps to try to wipe out the
evidence of his undignified fall.  But it wasn't worth it.  He'd
probably fall again.  And Scully would fall too.  He'd see to it himself
if necessary.  He decided to continue toward the road.  He tried to use
the poles this time, but they seemed to hold him back, if anything.  He
wished he had let Scully correct whatever it was he was doing wrong with
them.

Scully hauled herself back up her roller-coaster trail.  From the top,
she tried to peer through the conifers and maples for a glimpse of
Mulder, but the growth was far too thick.    This was a real forest. 
She could see a trail, though.  The snow wasn't flattened or groomed,
but nature, or hikers, had created a pathway among the trees, and Scully
decided to explore.  

Skiing through the forest filled Scully with a serene pleasure.  It was
cooler here and while she was working harder she was covering less
ground.  The trees kept out some of the sunshine and also, evidently,
some of the snow.  The coverage was meager, and in places where tree
limbs or saplings had fallen, she could see skinny twigs poking through
the surface.

Fallen tree limbs.  She and Mulder would have to gather some of these
later on.  Their cabin had a supply of firewood for their use, but it
would be their responsibility to replace what they used for the next
occupants.

Scully wondered how Mulder was doing.  She didn't doubt that he'd teach
himself the basics.  Fox Mulder was the most self-sufficient person she 
knew. It was a part of his personality that others usually
misunderstood.  
It was one of the things that had drawn her to him from the beginning, 
that quality of not needing anyone.  If only he had a little less of 
that quality...

Well, he was who he was.  Her friend, her partner, the center of her
life, but not her lover.  Time to get back to him so they could look for
that waterfall from Charlie's dream.  And she wouldn't let Mulder carry
the big camera no matter how well he skied.  The better he was the more
likely he was to attempt some flamboyant trick.

Instead of turning around and going down from the hillside by way of her
private trail, she decided to head back through the woods.  She'd miss
out on her bone-shaking thrill ride but it would be better preparation
for the exploring they would have to do.  As Scully followed the trail
around the next big tree, she saw something that made her glad she'd
chosen this route.  An unexpected burst of color against the white snow,
a surprise present from Mother Nature.

A patch of purple flowers, growing right up through the snow. Fragile
and small, but exquisite.  She took her time to look at them, admire
them.  Flowers blooming in the snow.  It made no sense at all, but it
didn't have to.  They were beautiful.

Mulder, meanwhile, was moving way too fast to do more than notice his
surroundings. Charlie had assured him he'd make a great skier, and it
was true. Now that Mulder was using  the loops on the ski poles to let
the forward pole swing ahead of him, he was soaring along on the snow. 
He skied the length of the trail without seeing Scully.  As he
approached the access road, he began to angle his skis into a snowplow
position, to slow down and stop.  He was doing everything right, but one
ski caught on a rough spot and before he could shift his weight to the
other ski he was tossed off his feet again.

But now he knew how to get up.  Organizing his skis and ski poles, he
righted himself smoothly and headed back toward the cabin.  He had both
sweaters off and tied around his waist, and his knit hat was stuffed in
his pocket.  There was snow in his hair and falling down under the
collar of his blue chamois shirt, but it didn't matter.  He was hot, not
cold.

Mulder had noticed Scully's roller-coaster trail going up into the woods
when he'd passed it on his way to the road.  Now, heading in the
opposite direction, he decided to make the climb.  Scully's ski marks
made it obvious that she'd side-stepped her way to the top, so Mulder
chose the same technique.  If he'd tried a herringbone he would have
been on his ass again. 

Reaching the top of the run took fifteen minutes of hard climbing. 
Scully had been able to pace herself on the way up, but Mulder had to
exert himself continuously  because his skis had less grip.  His skis
were lighter than Scully's, more suited for skiing in tracks or
"skating" on groomed trails than for bushwhacking.  At last he reached
a  spot where  the trail flattened out enough for him to pause without
slipping downward.  He planted his poles in the snow and leaned his
weight on them, breathing hard.

Mulder didn't want to look down, so he looked up.  He could see Scully's
tracks continuing up the hillside; impossible to tell how far they
went.  It was funny about Scully.  Her fitness regime was based on
work-outs at a gym.  She did a little running, but it wasn't something
she enjoyed.  He'd invited her to run with him numerous times over the
years--starting with their first case, in fact.  She rarely accepted.
And yet when they were in pursuit of someone, she generally managed to
keep up with him.  In heels yet, as she reminded him continually. 

So little Scully--little jazzercising, step-classing Scully--had climbed
beyond this point. Mulder had to continue up the hillside.  

He arrived at the end of the trail at last.  Scully couldn't have
climbed any higher without cutting through the forest.  Mulder had to
grip a branch from a maple tree to turn himself around.  Now he looked
down. The run was steep, twisting, and rough.  But Scully had skied it,
skied all the way down without wiping out.  Her tracks proved it.

In any case, Mulder did not have much of a choice.  His swift and
well-waxed skis were going down, and one way or the other, Mulder was
going down with them.  He dropped into the stance of a downhill racer,
tucking his poles under his arms, shooting down the trail like a rocket
sled.  He had to lean forward to keep his upper body lined up over his
skis, and that made him go even faster.  Amazing to be going this fast
without the sound of a motor or the rumble of a wheel.  Just the humming
of his skis. A fragment from James Joyce floated through his head: 
"...falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to
fall." 

Back on the snowshoe trail, Scully realized that Mulder had to be up on
the hillside, trying out her roller-coaster ride.  She'd gone to the
cabin and then out to the road again without finding him.  He had his
work cut out for him, if he was climbing up that trail in her brother's
skis--they really weren't suited for that kind of terrain.  Hopefully
he'd figure that out before he got to the top.  

When Mulder and Scully had dragged the toboggan from the road to the
cabin, they'd cut their trail by the edge of the forest.  The other side
of the trail, away from the forest, had only a few trees and bushes. 
The snow-covered ground was flatter than the forested area, more like a
rolling field.  

Scully arrived at the foot of the roller-coaster trail.  If Mulder had
climbed to the top and then headed into the woods, she might be able to
catch up to him.  She could show him the purple flowers; it would be
fascinating to hear his explanation. But if she started up the trail 
and he was on his way down, it would be a disaster.  She'd have no place 
to get out of his way, and Mulder would never be able to stop in time.

Scully took in a huge breath and bellowed with all her might:

"Mulder!"

From far up the slope, deep among the trees, growing louder and nearer,
came his reply:

"Sculleeee!"

She had about ten seconds to get out of his way--if only she knew which
way he was going.  Turning around or stepping backwards would be too
slow, and going forward meant crossing Mulder's trajectory.  She
launched herself off the snowshoe trail into the snowfield, trying to
head away from  Mulder's likeliest path.  The snow here hadn't been
packed down in any way, and Scully's skis broke through the crusty
surface as she cut two tracks with her wooden skis.

The juggernaut formerly known as Mulder passed her within inches. All
along, Mulder's challenge had been to keep his body going as fast as his
flying skis.  But now the skis began to sink into the ungroomed snow. 
The skis dragged to a halt, and Mulder kept flying.  But not for long.

In a  few strides, Scully reached the spot where he had landed, face
down and sprawled out.  Mulder had already pulled himself out of the
snow and aligned himself over his skis. Wet with snow and perspiration,
he was uncomfortably chilled but otherwise unscathed.  

"You okay?" Scully asked.

"Yeah.  Let's go back to the cabin and get our stuff," Mulder said. 
Scully nodded. 

Mulder probably expected her to make some jibe about his spectacular
descent, and she'd considered it for a moment.  Then she'd thought about
telling him what she really thought:  He was magnificent on skis.  He'd
taken that trail at a speed she'd never have dared, and now he was
getting back on his feet with the agility of a cougar.  Of course that
would embarrass them both, so she held her tongue.  Finally, she wanted
to instruct him to use her tracks to get out of the snowfield. His sleek
skis would sink in the virgin snow; he would have to follow along where
her wider skis had packed it down. 

But he knew that.  Or if he didn't, he'd figure it out.  He'd figured
out how to ski all by himself. Trying to give him instructions was a
waste of breath.  Trying to tell Mulder almost anything was a waste of
breath.


end of 4/17

Backtracking
5/17
Disclaimer, etc., with part 1



Before they set off in search of the Viking, Mulder and Scully went back
to the cabin to re-wax and pick up their monitoring equipment. They had
an assortment of electronic devices, films, and treated papers to detect
the physical events that occasionally accompanied "paranormal"
phenomena.  

The X-Files team had come a long way since the days when Mulder had to
rely on two stopwatches and a can of spray paint.   They had a Polaroid
camera that they used extensively, not just for the convenience of
instant photos but also because Polaroids had some uncanny ability to
make a visual record of the invisible. They had three other cameras as
well:  a Minolta, a camcorder, and Mulder's latest toy, a digital
camera.

Mulder worked on getting the equipment distributed into the two
backpacks, and Scully packed some drinks and snacks.

"It's not supposed to be a picnic," Mulder said.  

"We'll need it, believe me," Scully said.  

They had their gear together, but Mulder was still wearing his saturated
chamois shirt.  Scully, who wanted to say, "Put on some dry clothes or
you'll freeze later on," forced herself to use a more objective
approach.

"Your shirt's wet," she said.

"An astute observation," Mulder answered.  

Smart-ass, Scully thought, and took off toward their destination. The
snowshoe trail extended only from the utility road to the cabin, and the
waterfall that Allison had identified from Charlie's dream was in the
other direction. 

They started out with Scully breaking the trail with her backcountry
skis, Mulder following on his graphite skis.  They came to a point where
a snowmobile had cut through the snow, leaving tracks that were well
suited for Mulder's recreational skis.   Mulder took the lead.  He shot
off down the trail, getting so far ahead that Scully had time to compose
an entire lecture on professionalism, safety, and common courtesy. 
Mulder doubled back when he realized he'd left Scully behind, and she
never delivered the lecture.  He loped back to her in smooth, confident
strides, and it was clear that he'd just been caught up in the pleasure
of good skiing.

"You're carrying too much, Scully," Mulder said.  "Let's move the water
and the camcorder into my pack."

"Thanks, Mulder, but once we lose this trail, you're going to be working
twice as hard as me.  Enjoy it while you can," Scully answered.

"You don't mind?" he asked.

He sounded so open and uncomplicated when he was having fun.  Scully
shook her head; she didn't mind a bit, but she didn't trust herself to
speak without choking up.  Mulder did a smooth kick-turn and raced away
from her again.

She caught up to him where she knew she would, where the route they
would have to take to the waterfall split off from the tracks of the
snowmobile.  Mulder was attempting to forge ahead in the deep, soft
snow, but he'd sunken in down to his knees.  

"Oh well," Mulder said when Scully was near enough to hear him.  "It was
fun while it lasted."

"This would be a good place to take a break," Scully said.  The first
leg of their trek had been easy for Mulder, but not particularly so for
Scully.  The big wooden skis were just plain heavy.  She had tried to
set her own pace, but she found herself trying to rush along to catch up
to Mulder.  The next leg would be even harder; she'd be breaking a
winding trail through some rough and overgrown terrain.

"Let's find the waterfall first," Mulder said.  Scully was trying to
make this into an expedition, he thought. The whole trip was only about
three miles, but Scully had to pack food and schedule breaks as if they
were scaling Mount McKinley.

"Fine," Scully said.  "Just give me a minute."  She swung the pack off
her back and retrieved a water bottle.  Mulder watched as she drank and
then closed the top and began to put the bottle away. Scully waited for
him to ask for some and he finally did, in a way.  He reached out his
hand.  She tossed him the bottle and he took a long, noisy drink.  When
he finished he stuck the bottle in his own pack.

"You're welcome," Scully said, skiing past him to forge a path through
the snow-covered forest.  

There was a hiking trail here somewhere, but under the blanket of snow
it was not easy to tell which way it went.  Scully tried to pick her way
through the forest but at times she was well off the trail.  Her biggest
fear concerned going downhill; she was afraid she'd follow a false lead
and ski right into the river, without being able to stop.

Mulder learned not to follow too closely.  When Scully tramped her way
up a particularly tough incline, she would stop at the top to catch her
breath.  This left Mulder stuck on the side of the incline, where he
couldn't possibly stop.  He would slide and slip down the slope, and
then have to make the same climb again.  Or Scully would be standing at
the bottom of a hill, trying to choose her direction, and Mulder would
run right into her.  So he started to give her more distance.

Skiing uphill took a lot of energy.  Mulder's shirt would have been
soaked by now even if it had started out dry.  When Scully took a long
time to move ahead and Mulder could do nothing but stand and wait, he
found himself getting thoroughly chilled.  And hungry.  When he was busy
working his way up the trail or fighting to keep his balance as he skied
down, he didn't feel it as much.  But when he had to stand around and
wait, he was aware of a nagging, uncomfortable empty feeling.

Allison would have agreed about taking a break, Scully was thinking. 
Allison was an experienced skier, and she would have seen the wisdom in
Scully's suggestion.  Mulder should have stayed back at Charlie's house.
He and Charlie could have managed the kids.  Allison should have gone on
this trip with Scully.  Allison would be leading.  They would be at the
waterfall by now.  Or maybe even back in the cabin.  Scully could easily
set up the monitoring equipment without Mulder; she'd devised or chosen
at least half of it herself.  She and Allison could be drinking hot tea
in the cabin.  Mulder could be cooking macaroni and cheese, folding
laundry, and helping Chrissy memorize the names of the geological eras.

Why don't they ever put ice cream on cheesecake, Mulder was wondering. 
They'd be great together.  Soft-serve vanilla ice cream on cheesecake. 
With caramel sauce.  

Up ahead Scully saw a little clearing with a cluster of tree stumps. 
That settled it.  She was taking a break.  A real break.  She detached
her skis from the boots and stuck the skis upright in the snow.  She
cleared the snow from a tree stump and sat down on it.  Removed the back
pack.  

Meat ball Parmesan hero.  With lots of melted mozzarella.  Crusty
Italian bread.  Peppers... Mulder thought about it.  No.  No peppers. 
Maybe pepperoni.  Yes.  Meatballs, then mozzarella, and then pepperoni
on top. He was almost to the top of the incline, and he marshaled his
efforts to sprint to the summit.  Bacon, he thought.  Meatballs
surrounded by mozzarella, all wrapped up in a strip of bacon.  Forget
the bread and the pepperoni.

Mulder looked down the slope and there, in a clearing next to the trail,
was Scully.  The slacker!  And she had food.  With a kick of a ski he
was down the trail, then traced Scully's tracks into the clearing.  He
popped open his bindings and jammed his skis in the snow next to
Scully's.  He sat down next to her on the tree stump.

"Don't think I'm going to feed you," Scully said.  "Not until you admit
that I was right to bring food."

"On one condition," said Mulder, starting to dig through her backpack,
even as she tried to shove him away.  "Only if you rub my feet while I
eat."

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

They heard the crash and rush of water against rock before a bend in the
trail brought them the vision of the waterfall.

"It's like something from a dream," Scully said.  The cataract of foam
and spray sent clouds of mist into the air, and the sun glinted off the
wet rocks.  The air was tangy with the scent of pines. 

"Except for one little detail," Mulder said.  "No Viking."

"No Viking," Scully, agreed, and she thought back to Charlie's choppy
description. "No cave, either, and no moss."

Even without the Viking, it was a compelling sight, and Mulder and
Scully took their time to appreciate it.  Then Mulder took some
preliminary readings on a hand-held meter, and Scully leveled a tripod
and got a camera mounted in place.  Setting up the equipment and
documenting their efforts was something either of them could do
automatically in about ten minutes.  Rain, darkness, heat, cold--none of
those things would slow the task.  Fear, grief, or rage, on the other
hand, added a couple of minutes to the process.

But there was no interference today. 

"Where did you put the second Pendrell monitor?" Scully asked, as she
recorded the settings and positions.

Mulder pointed.

"Good spot?" he asked.

"Should be fine," Scully said.  "I don't think we'll get anything
meaningful from the chem sensor, though.  Too wet here."

"It will take till tonight to collect adequate data," Mulder said. 
"It's going to be a bitch to ski back here in the dark."  He wasn't
looking forward to it.  He wasn't even looking forward to the trip back
to the cabin.

"We've got the miner's lamps and we have our tracks to follow," Scully
said.

"Plus the full moon," Mulder added.  

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

Mulder walked into the cabin exactly three steps behind Scully.

"Hi, honey, I'm home," he shouted, practically in her ear.  "What's for
dinner?"

My, he was witty today, Scully thought. 

"I'd love to cook your supper for you," Scully said, "but little me is
simply to weak and feminine to build a fire.  Do you think you could
help me out?"

"Oh, sure," said Mulder.  He still didn't like walking into burning
buildings, but he had no problem with campfires or fireplaces.  Never
had, really.

"And melt some snow in the kettle, and don't forget to add the
decontamination tablet," Scully said.

"Got it," said Mulder.

"And see if you can find some more firewood, before it gets too dark,"
Scully said. 

"Scully, you're pushing it," Mulder said.  "And you still owe me a foot
massage.  With interest.  So make that a full body massage."  

Mulder had been making these innuendoes since their earliest days
together.  For a long time he used them to test the waters; if she'd
risen to the bait, he would have been ready for her.  If she took it as
a joke, he'd pretend that's all it was. But recently he'd had his
chance. He had failed the entrance exam, screwed up on the interview,
blown the audition.   Now his little remarks were just an attempt to
maintain the relationship at its present level.  Romance was out, but he
could still be the pal, the guy she was comfortable with, the guy who
could kid around with her.

Of course Scully didn't see it that way.  She found some of his come-ons
tempting, or she used to, back when she thought he might be serious. 
Some of them were funny, hilarious even.  But so many of them were tacky
and sophomoric.  And these days she found them simply cruel.  He didn't
want her peaches but he insisted on shaking her tree.  Just to make a
point of leaving the peaches on the ground to rot.

Scully tried to ignore the comment and went to take a shower. 

Allison had warned Scully about the shower in the cabin.  The water had
been off all winter and turned on in March, so they were lucky to have
any indoor plumbing at all.  But the shower was rudimentary, supplying
at best a thin, lukewarm trickle.  It was an unpleasant experience, but
she did leave the shower feeling cleaner.  And it felt good to put on
her regular clothes.

Mulder had a medium-sized fire going and he was adding more snow to the
water in the big pot.  Scully sat down on the big shaggy rug in front of
the fire.  

"The water's boiling again," Mulder said as he turned from the fire.  He
looked at Scully and his face fell.

"Mulder?" she said.  "Mulder, what's the matter?"

She doesn't even know, he thought.   That's the sweater she wore for
him.  When she thought he was me.  Only he was more charming.

"You haven't worn that for a while," he said.

"I wear this all the time," Scully said, "just not when I'm working.  Is
there a problem?"

"No.  You look nice," he said.   "I'm going to change.  Don't take it
personally if I fall asleep in the middle of dinner."

Scully went outside the cabin to get a couple of the packaged meals from
the cooler.  She took some water from the pot to make instant cocoa
before putting the bags in to heat.  One day she would make Mulder real
cocoa, from scratch.  Oh, who was she kidding.  That would never happen.

The small cabin didn't provide for much privacy, but where Scully had
managed to undress and change in the bathroom, Mulder was sitting on one
of the beds and peeling off his clothes.  He wrapped a towel around his
waist and headed to the bathroom.

"You do this all the time, Mulder, and I'm sick of it," Scully
exclaimed.

I am tired, sore, sweaty, and hungry, Mulder thought.  I really don't
want to deal with this.  What the hell have I done now?

"What is it that I do, Scully, that offends you so much?" 

He had the nerve to sound aggrieved.  

"You do this goddamn striptease.  You undress in front of me like I'm
not even there.  You're an exhibitionist, do you know that?"  Scully was
getting more furious by the moment because Mulder was in no way taking
her seriously.  It was the same as all his lewd little comments--shaking
the tree when he didn't want any peaches.

"Scully, I've tried showering in my trench coat, but I never get clean,"
Mulder said.  "How do you manage it?"

"I'm not asking you to shower in a trench coat, but you don't have to
stand around like Michelangelo's David either," Scully said.  

Mulder was trying to keep a straight face.

"Is that how you see me, Scully?  Because the David is more like this." 
He assumed the famous pose, taking the towel from his waist and holding
it over his shoulder, head turned toward the left, right hand at his
side.

Scully looked around for something to throw at him, but unless she was
willing to scald him, there was nothing handy.  

"You make me so mad!" she exclaimed.  "I'm going to--"  She did not
finish the sentence.  I'm going to charge you with sexual harassment,
she was about to tell him, but the words stuck in her throat.  That was
her crime, not his.  She was the one who had forced him to