Reimagined: IWTB
by ML

-x-

Chapter Two - Go Be a Doctor

Skinner had actually been in touch with his former agents for some
time now.  Never directly; it had always been through intermediaries,
but as soon as he was able, he'd gotten word to them that Scully, at
least, was safe.

It took some time to make the necessary arrangements, but eventually
Scully took the coursework required to re-qualify for medical
practice, specializing in pediatrics.  She found employment in a
Catholic hospital, and set about trying to fit in to a world miles
off course from her former career.

As for Mulder, Skinner told him to lay low.  And that's what he did.

x-x-x

Richmond, Virginia

Our Lady of Sorrows was an older hospital, far from the city center.
They had been in desperate need of a pediatric specialist, and felt
very lucky to get Dana Scully.  The work was difficult and demanding,
and the children tugged at her heart.  But she was doing good work,
she felt.

In fact, she had thrown herself into her work headlong.  She brought
the same attention to detail to her new career that she'd done at the
FBI; perhaps even more so, spending her spare time learning
everything she could.  In medical school, she'd been known as a
grind; here at the hospital some of her colleagues called her "Super
Scully," though not always in an entirely complimentary way.

It beat being called "Mrs. Spooky", she supposed.  On her long
drives home, she sometimes reflected upon what had changed and what
had stayed the same in her life.  She had friends: people to have a
cup of coffee with, or talk over the latest hospital gossip, but few
really close friends.  There were too many questions she couldn't
truthfully answer, and that kept her somewhat apart.  But if she
didn't have close friends, she did have the respect of her peers. 
And most days there were at least small victories to be celebrated.

This morning, however, she was running into a brick wall in the form
of a television monitor, delivering news that she didn't want to
hear.  

"...There is no course of treatment for Sandhoff disease," the
consultant asserted from the videoconference screen.  Then she added,
sotto voce, "...but if there was, I'm sure you'd tell me."

"Thank you," Scully replied in a clipped tone to the monitor, and
turned her back.  The conference room, full of her colleagues as well
as the hospital's administrator, was silent.  She wasn't sure what
she had expected from them; some kind of support on behalf of her
patient, perhaps?  No one would even meet her eyes. 

The news was a blow, but not entirely unexpected.  She had done her
research.  She'd hoped she was wrong.  Nonetheless, Scully would not
show defeat.  This was only a temporary setback; she'd find a way. 
In the meantime, she squared her shoulders and left the conference
room.  The chief administrator, Father Ybarra, watched her go, but
said nothing.  She knew she'd have to deal with him later.

Although Dr. Scully cared deeply for all her patients, the one she'd
requested a consult on, Christian Fearon, was special.  From the
moment she laid eyes on him, she'd felt a bond with him.  He was a
sweet-natured boy, bright eyed with an impish grin.  It broke her
heart that she couldn't do more for him.  That she couldn't save him.

As she approached her office, Margaret and Blair Fearon came out of
the solarium, wheeling Christian ahead of them.  Scully changed her
expression to one of delight, her smile solely for the little boy in
front of her.  "Hi Christian, how are you feeling?"

"I'm okay Dr. Scully.  How are you?"

"Me?  I'm doing just fine."  She raised her eyes to the hopeful
expressions of Christian's parents, keeping her smile in place with
an effort she hoped she was concealing.

"You got some outside opinions?"  Blair Fearon asked anxiously.

She couldn't tell them there was no hope.  She could not let them
think she'd given up.  Not yet.  "I did."

"And?"  Margaret Fearon prompted softly, her tired eyes still
reflecting a ray of hope.

Scully faltered inside, just for a nanosecond.  "I'm ordering some
new tests."

But before the Fearons could ask another question, a new voice broke
into the conversation.

"Dana Scully?"  The deep voice inquired, sounding too loud in the
echoing corridor.  "Doctor Dana Scully?"

Excusing herself from the Fearons, Scully turned.  "Yes?"  

She saw before her a very serious young man, dressed in a dark suit
and exuding authority.  She knew instinctively where he came from.

His next words confirmed it.  "I'm looking for Fox Mulder."  

Her heart started beating faster.  Was Skinner wrong?  Was she not
safe to be out in the world after all?  "I don't work with Fox Mulder
any more," she replied icily. 

"I'm Special Agent Mosley Drummy of the FBI," the stern young man
continued.

"I can tell who you're with," she interrupted.  I don't work with
the FBI any longer."

A lesser man would have backed down.  But Mosley Drummy, while
disapproving of his partner's decision to call the former Agent
Mulder in, would pursue this avenue as far as he needed to.  In a
slightly more conciliatory tone, he said, "The FBI needs urgently to
speak with Fox Mulder.  It could save an agent's life.  Is there some
place we can speak privately?"

Scully hesitated.  What if it was a trap?  So far, she hadn't
admitted to knowing the whereabouts of Mulder.  Where had he gotten
his information?  As far as anyone at Our Lady of Sorrows knew, she
was single, and had always been a doctor.  If she'd ever had a
partner, she didn't now, and she did not share any details about her
past with anyone.  She slept at the hospital on those occasions when
an extra long shift made it impractical to leave.  As far as anyone
at the hospital knew, she lived alone.   She took precautions to
ensure that no one knew of her former life.

With some misgivings, she chose to hear him out.  "Come to my
office," she offered, leading him there.

Once inside, he withdrew a sealed envelope from his jacket.  "I've
been asked to give you this," he said.

Scully remained standing as she carefully opened the envelope
addressed to her.  Inside was a single sheet of paper, on FBI
letterhead, addressed to Deputy Director Alvin Kersh, and copied to
Assistant Director Walter Skinner.

"Re: Fox Mulder

"In light of the new evidence presented regarding former Special
Agent Mulder's activities, any derogatory information leading to his
termination as an Agent will be expunged.  To our certain knowledge,
there are no outstanding complaints or judgments against him, and he
is exonerated from any and all charges that may have been brought
against him.

Robert Mueller, Director
Federal Bureau of Investigation"

Scully read it again, and then once more.  It certainly looked real.
It read like the real thing, with just enough vagueness and double-
speak to sound governmental.

"Do you know what this is?"  Scully asked Agent Drummy.

He shrugged slightly.  "Deputy Director Kersh asked me to give it to
you, to give to Mr. Mulder.  He said that it was his part of the
bargain."

Scully remained silent, mulling this over.  Agent Drummy waited,
saying nothing more.  Finally, though, he cleared his throat and
moved toward the door.  

"I appreciate your time, Dr. Scully."  He handed her a card. 
"Should you be able to contact Mr. Mulder, call this number.  Thank
you."  He let himself out the door, shutting it gently.

A short time later, Scully emerged from her office, dressed in
outdoor wear.  She had a long way to drive home, and a lot to think
about.

-x-

Chapter Three: Cave of the Man-Bear

Rural Virginia

The small farmhouse lay silent in the gathering dusk.  The
surrounding grounds had an air of neglect, and the house itself had
seen better days, though to a more than casual observer, the porch
was swept and there was a good, sturdy door with a serious lock 
on it.

Inside, the house was snug and cozy.  The front door opened onto a
small living room.  There was a bookcase crammed with an eclectic
selection of books, and several more scattered on tables throughout
the room.  An aquarium stood on a low stand at the end of the room
farthest away from the fireplace, its watery glow casting the only
light in the room.

At the back of the house, in a small room with well-covered windows,
a man sat at his desk, reading articles and marking the important
ones, sometimes making notes on a legal pad.  Now and then he paused
to fish a couple of sunflower seeds out of a bowl nearby.

Lay low, the message had always been.  I'll let you know when it's
safe.

So here he was, feathering his nest much as he did once upon a time
at the FBI.  

It suited Mulder, at least for the time being.  And, it pleased him
that Scully was able to leave.  It was something that they'd
discussed more than once.  

It pleased him more that she refused to leave him entirely and go
back to a "normal life."  Together, they figured out a life that
worked for them.

Once they'd known Scully was safe from prosecution, they'd slowly
made their way back east.  Mulder concentrated on keeping them safe,
not so much from the FBI, but from other, more insidious threats.  
Armed with the knowledge of what could destroy or at least keep the
super soldiers at bay, Mulder researched locations with naturally-
occurring magnetite.  He finally found an old farm about an hour away
from Richmond, Virginia, where Scully found employment.

He could say that he'd been fairly happy since they'd been together.
If he didn't count the loss of their son, the fact that he was a
fugitive from justice, and the low-level anxiety about the
approaching end of the world that always hummed in the
background...sure, he was happy.

He'd never tell her how much it meant to him that she had stayed
with him, even though she had the chance to leave.  He was afraid
that knowledge would be too much of a burden, should she decide one
day that she'd had enough of this kind of life.  He lived for the end
of the day, though he tried not to count the minutes until he could
expect Scully to walk through the front door.

By mutual agreement, he didn't have a cell phone of his own, and in
fact there was no land line in the house.  He relied more on print
media than Internet these days, exercising caution when he was on
line to never use any former alias or user ID that could connect him
to anyone or anything.

When Scully asked him what he was working on, he told her he was
writing his memoirs.  Anonymously, of course.  "I'll publish under
the name of Kurtzweil," he said with grim humor.  "Then I'll be sure
it won't draw too much attention."

Some days he felt like a bear in his cave, waiting for spring.  He
scratched his chin, still a little surprised to encounter the beard
that he'd grown in the past month, just to be doing something.  The
jury was still out on whether Scully liked it.  

This winter had been especially difficult.  The weather had been
harsher than usual, leaving him housebound frequently.  There had
been a few times when Scully couldn't make it back from Richmond,
long lonely nights that gave him a taste of what it would be like if
he and Scully were truly separated.

He didn't like it one bit.

He heard steps on the porch and the doorknob rattle.  He turned back
to his desk, busily cutting out an article as the door to his inner
sanctum opened.

"You're becoming awfully trusting, Mulder, for a man wanted by the
FBI," Scully said behind him.

"Eyes in the back of my head, Scully," Mulder replied, winding up
for the pitch.  "Auf einer wellenlange, as the Germans say.  It's a
precognitive state, often confused with intuition, in which the brain
perceives the deep logic of transitory existence unaided by the
rational mind."

He could feel her leaning against the door jamb, waiting for the
punch line.  He could almost hear her eyes rolling as he rattled off
his spiel.  "Moments of clarity," he continued, "materializing as
conscious awareness of space and time independent from all sensible
reality.  Such moments of clarity can materialize much as you did
just now, Scully.  Though if you'd actually 'materialized,'" he
added, "you'd be rapidly de-materializing even as I speak."

He turned, and there she was in reality, just as he'd imagined her. 
She gave him a half-smile, still waiting.

He gave her the half-smile back.  "But who believes that crap
anymore anyway?"  He waved his latest clipping at her, about the
Princeton ESP lab closing after 40 years.  Finding a place on his
wall-sized bulletin board/filing system, he pinned the article up.

Scully said, "Evidently they still believe at the FBI.  I had a
visitor today, Mulder."

He stiffened slightly.  "That can't be good."

Her next words surprised him.  "The FBI needs your help, Mulder."

"Well, I hope you told them to go screw themselves," he said.  He
sat down at his desk, but turned toward Scully as if to say he would
at least hear her out.

"They say," Scully said slowly, feeling the words as she spoke them,
"all is forgiven.  They'll drop all charges against you if you'll
just come in and help them with this case."

"They'll forgive *me*?"  Mulder practically shouted, unable to stay
seated.  "I'm the one they put on trial for murder, and they did
their damnedest to invalidate a decade of my -- *our* work.  They
should be asking for *my* forgiveness."

Scully had thought about this all the way home.  "I think they are,
Mulder," she said.  "Desperately."

"How could I possibly help these people?" he asked, not sure he
wanted to know the answer.

"There's a missing FBI agent, and someone who has come forward with
some promising evidence," she said.

Mulder gestured to her to continue.  *And*? he seemed to say.

"He's a psychic, or so he claims."

Now it was Mulder's turn to roll his eyes.  "It's a trap," he
decided.  "They're trying to smoke me out."

Scully sighed.  "Mulder, if the FBI wanted to find you, I have no
doubt they could have, long before this.  I think they've been happy
having you out of their hair."

"Well, I've been perfectly happy having them out of mine," Mulder
huffed.  "I was on trial *for my life,* Scully.  Do you remember
that?"

She looked stricken.  "How could I ever forget?" she asked.  "But I
do believe that they're serious about this forgiveness."  She
withdrew an envelope from her pocket.  "Take a look at this."

Mulder read the short letter over carefully, then read it over a
second time.

"There's a young agent's life at stake, Mulder," Scully said softly.
"I know I don't have to say this, but once upon a time it could have
been you -- or me."

Low blow, Scully, Mulder thought, but he said nothing.  His eyes
slid away to his desk.

Scully tried again.  "Mulder, to be honest I worry about you.  I'm
worried about the effects of this long-term isolation on you."

"Nothing to worry about, Scully," Mulder said expansively, leaning
back in his chair.  "I'm happy as a clam here."

Scully's eyes went from the overflowing trash can up to the ceiling,
where at least a dozen pencils lodged in the acoustical tile.  She
didn't have to say anything; her expression said it all.

Mulder waited her out.  Finally, she sighed and turned back to the
door.  "I'll let them know your answer," she said, shutting the door
softly.

He started to turn back toward his desk, but his eye was caught by
the picture in the center of the door -- the whole reason he got
involved in the X Files in the first place.

Samantha's picture smiled back at him, and he sighed and muttered
"Shit..." under his breath before heaving himself out of his chair
and going out to Scully.

"Okay, I'll go," he said with resignation.  "On one condition..."

Scully smiled at him.  "Of course I'll go too," she said.   

-x-

Chapter Four: I'm a Stranger Here Myself

"Sounds like our ride's here," Mulder said, as the familiar sound of
helicopter blades filled the air.  "Guess they're serious about the
urgency of this case, huh?"  He followed Scully out onto the porch
and locked the front door securely behind him.  It was the first time
he'd left the house by the front door since they'd moved here.

Not just a helicopter, a black helicopter, Mulder noted as he ducked
under the blade wash, helping Scully in before getting in behind her.
He almost said something smart-ass to Scully, but she was wearing her
I-don't-like-to-fly face, and he didn't want to upset her any more
than she already was.  The mere fact that she was coming with him was
enough for now.

The ride to Washington, DC took quite a while but was over too soon.
It had been a long time since Mulder had seen the skyline of the
nation's capitol.  Once it had been so familiar he barely noticed it
when coming in for a landing.  Now, he saw it with fresh eyes, the
lights looking like jewels in the night sky.

It was very impressive, as long as you didn't look too deeply
beneath the beautiful, heart-stirring facade.  Nothing was ever as it
appeared, as they well knew.  The bright lights hid a pool of slime
that a guy could drown in.  He almost had, on more than one occasion,
and taken Scully with him.  He still harbored some misgivings about
this adventure, but when had that ever stopped him before?  At least
he and Scully had each other's backs.

The helicopter landed on the roof of the Hoover Building and one
lone agent awaited them.  It was hard to tell in silhouette -- could
it possibly be Skinner, welcoming the prodigals home?

As they got closer, Mulder could see that the only resemblance
between this man and Skinner was height and expression.  Scully
identified him to Mulder as Agent Drummy as they approached him. 
Which was good, since the agent didn't bother to introduce himself.

"Thanks for the ride," Mulder said as they neared him.

"Don't thank me," Agent Drummy replied.  "I didn't send it."

Great, Mulder thought.  Some things never change. 

If the stone-faced agent had asked him about the flight, Mulder
would have replied, "It was a little choppy," but this agent seemed
to have checked his humor at the door.

It was a familiar sensation to walk down these halls again.  Mulder
looked around him to see what had changed.  In essentials, not much
had.  The walls might have a few different pictures -- there had been
how many new Directors since Mulder had left?  Otherwise, it felt and
sounded and smelled like the Hoover Building of old.  

Even at this late hour, there was a lot of activity.  Agents came
and went from various conference rooms along the hall.  Mulder noted
sidelong glances at himself and Scully, two civilians being escorted
by the dour agent.

"Wait here," Agent Drummy instructed as he entered a conference room
alone.

Mulder looked over at Scully, who was looking a bit bemused herself.
What the hell are we doing here? she seemed to be asking.

Don't ask me, he thought.  This was your idea, Partner.  He gave her
a half-smile, and she seemed to divine what he was thinking,
returning his smile with a small grimace.

Agent Drummy emerged from a different door.  "Come in," he said
without ceremony.

The room they entered was like any of a hundred rooms they'd been in
before.  A low buzz of activity swirled around them.  Only a few
people looked up and noted their entrance.

At the far end of the room, two women conferred as Agent Drummy
approached them and gestured to the two visitors.

One of the women excused herself to the other and strode over to
greet them, hand out in greeting.

Scully watched closely as the agent approached.  She was wearing
dark trousers and white shirt, her dark hair in a neat chignon. 
Scully noted, almost as a reflex, the woman's tall, slender frame,
her dark eyes.  Scully had always done a threat assessment whenever a
stranger entered their sphere.  It was partly her FBI training, but
in some cases, it was more personal.  Fleetingly, it crossed her mind
that Agent Drummy hadn't mentioned that the ASAC on this case was a
woman.  Had the FBI come so far in such a short time that this was no
longer unusual?  Scully pursed her lips slightly and recognized the
odd emotion she was feeling as envy.

"I'm Dakota Whitney," the agent said directly to Scully, shaking her
hand.  "Thanks for making this happen."  This was unusual, too:
almost everyone shook Mulder's hand first, and then hers, if Mulder
introduced her.

Then Dakota Whitney turned her focus onto Mulder.  "Fox Mulder, I
believe," she said, holding out her hand for him to shake.  "Thank
you for coming.  I know this must be awkward for you."

The understatement of this or any other century, Mulder thought.

"My team and I appreciate your trust," Agent Whitney went on.

"Trust being what it is," Mulder replied, "what if I can't help you?
Or your agent ends up dead?"

"The past is the past," Agent Whitney said.  "We know your work on
the X-Files and believe you may be the best chance Monica Bannan
has."  She handed Mulder a file, watching him intently as he perused
it.

Scully asked, "How long has she been missing?"

"Since Sunday night," Dakota Whitney said.

"I know I don't have to tell you this, Agent Whitney, but there's
slim chance, after seventy-two hours, that she's still alive."

"And we have slim reason to believe that she is, that's true,"
Whitney admitted.  "But the facts give us hope."  She picked up
another file and held it out to Scully.  "We found this about ten
miles from the crime scene."

The top picture in the file was of a severed arm.  "But this is a
man's arm," Scully said.

"A man's arm," Mulder echoed, "that is a match for evidence found at
or near your crime scene.  Blood or tissue?"

Whitney smiled slightly but refrained from looking at the rest of
the team, who were now listening intently to Mulder.  "Blood, found
just outside Monica Bannan's carport, and on a hand rake, which she
may have used as a weapon against him.  Although she carried a gun,
we found it locked in the trunk of her car, and her spare weapon was
inside the house."

"What did Forensics say?"  Mulder asked.  Scully could see the
wheels starting to turn behind his eyes.

"Male, thirty to forty, no match for any fingerprints in the
database," Whitney said.

"And you were led to this arm...?"

"Like a needle in a haystack," the ASAC said.  

"By someone claiming psychic powers," Mulder stated.

Dakota Whitney nodded again.  "Joseph Patrick Crissman."

"But you think he's full of shit," Mulder said.

Agent Drummy finally chimed in.  "Now what makes you think that?" 
He asked snidely.

"Mulder matched his tone.  "Maybe *I'm* psychic."

"Look," Agent Drummy said, "this *psychic*, this Father Joe --"

"*Father*?" Scully interrupted the pissing match with her startled
reply.  "He's a *priest*?"

Agent Drummy nodded.  "Catholic."

"And he contacted you?"  Scully went on.

"He cold-calls us six hours after Agent Bannan was reported missing.
Nothing had been made public yet, no one outside the FBI knew a
thing.  And he claims he's had a vision of her.  That he's got some
kind of 'psychic connection' to her."

That was the most Mulder and Scully had heard out of Agent Drummy
the whole time they'd been there.  He appeared ready to go back to
holding up the wall and shooting disapproving looks, but Mulder kept
asking him questions.

"And this Father Joe tells you that Monica Bannan is still alive?"

"That's right," Agent Drummy said.

"And he claims a psychic connection to her.  Tell me, have you
discovered any other kind of connection?"

"To Monica Bannan?"  Agent Drummy was being deliberately obtuse now.

Before Mulder could say anything else, Dakota Whitney said, "No
other connection between the two.  That's when I decided to call you
in."

As if there had been any doubt as to who did the calling.  Scully
did wonder what kind of 'connections' Dakota Whitney had to find out
about Mulder, and then to get permission to bring him back.

"I need your expert opinion," she continued.  "That we're not
wasting time here, going down this road with Father Joe."

It was certainly a road that Mulder had been down a few times, and
he gave it his best shot.  "Well, he's a religious man, plainly," he
started.  "A well-educated man.  He took right action.  He cast no
doubt on himself or his motives.  You say he has no material
connection to the crimes."  He paused.  "You *are* wasting time,
Agent Whitney, only it's mine and your agents'."

She looked at him with shock.

"This is the only road you have, Agent Whitney.  You have no reason
to doubt him, why the hesitation?"

"Well, there's a question of credibility --"

"If you have no reason to doubt the man, why doubt his visions?" 
Same old, same old, Mulder thought.  They never want to believe. 
What did they expect me to say? 

"Look, Mulder," Agent Drummy said, "he didn't lead us to Monica
Bannan, just some guy's bloody arm!"

"This is not an exact science," Mulder retorted, really tired of the
same old shit.  "If I was you, I'd be on this Father Joe twenty-four
seven.  I'd be in bed with him, kissing his holy ass."

There was a gasp in the room, and a choked-off chuckle.  Mulder
looked around, daring anyone to openly laugh at him.

Agent Whitney said quietly, "The reason there's a question of
credibility is that Father Joe Crissman is a convicted pedophile."

Silence in the room.  Drummy looked smug.  Everyone else got busy
looking at the files in front of them.

"Oh."  Mulder said flatly.  "Well, maybe I'd stay out of bed with
him." 

He would not look at Scully, but he felt her hand on his arm.

Dakota Whitney noted it, too.  "Would you come with us to see Father
Joe in person?  I'd really like to get your opinion of him."

Now Mulder did glance at Scully, and she nodded slightly.  She was
still willing to go along, at least.

"Lead on," he said.

-x-

Chapter Five - Seeing Is Believing

Richmond, Virginia, 1:00 AM

It was a long drive to Richmond.  Agents Drummy and Whitney sat in
the front of the lead SUV, followed by another with a second team of
agents.

Mulder and Scully sat together in the back of the first SUV.  Mulder
resisted the urge to check the back of Agent Drummy's neck for a
knobby spine while he mulled over the facts of the case in his head. 
Scully sat quietly beside him, but the steady motion of the car was
her downfall, as it usually was, and before long she was leaning on
his shoulder, fast asleep.

Well, she'd had a long day, he reflected.  Early at the hospital,
then this little jaunt to DC and back -- no wonder she was beat.  He
carefully brushed a strand of hair away from her face, enjoying the
rare treat of being back in the car with Scully.  When she woke up,
he'd be sure to tease her about drooling on him.

The apartment complex they finally pulled up to was a non-descript
collection of buildings.  Three two-story structures formed a U
around an area of open ground.  It was as if the buildings had just
been plopped down with no landscaping or softening.

Nowhere to hide, Mulder thought.  Whether it was deliberate or
unintentional, that was the result.

"What is this place?" Scully asked, gazing around her.  No one would
choose to live in such a bleak place, surely.

"They're dorms for sex offenders," Agent Whitney said.

"Dorms?"  Scully echoed in disbelief.

Agent Whitney shrugged.  "It's voluntary.  They're self-policing. 
Father Joe lives here with his room mate."

Mulder leaned over and said to Scully, "Just avoid the activities
room."

Agents Whitney and Drummy led the way up the exterior stairs of the
closest building.  Agent Drummy knocked on the door as Mulder and
Scully approached.

The door opened and the man who answered recognized them, but he was
not the man they sought.  He turned his head without greeting the
people on his doorstep.  "Joe!"

An accented voice floated out from the bowels of the apartment. 
"Tell them to come in."

The four entered, standing close together in the small living room. 
The smell of something frying permeated the air, battling with the
smell of stale cigarette smoke.  A TV played quietly in the corner,
the theme song to an old comedy which seemed extremely out of place.

Scully could just see into the next room, which appeared to be
Father Joe's room.  He got up slowly from a pre-dieu and shuffled
into the front room. 

The man was a sight to behold.  Gray stubble adorned his cheeks and
wild gray hair floated around his face.  Cheap glasses framed intense
blue eyes and a face that might have been called cherubic in the
distant past.  He wore an old flannel robe and slippers.

Scully was revolted.  She sensed, rather than saw, the discomfort of
the others around her as Father Joe turned the sound down on the TV
and lit a cigarette.  

"Sorry for the mess," he said with the air of a weary host.  "I
haven't been sleeping."

Agent Drummy said, "Father Joe, this is Fox Mulder."

Father Joe looked at Mulder, unimpressed.  "Okay," he said.

"He'd like to ask you some questions --"

"Actually," Scully broke in, "I'd like to ask you a question."

"Okay," Father Joe said again, as if it was the most ordinary thing
in the world to be visited by strangers with questions in the middle
of the night.

"I saw you praying in there," Scully continued.  "Just what were you
praying for, sir?"

"I was praying for my immortal soul," Father Joe said in a soft
Scots burr.

"And do you think God hears your prayers?"  Scully asked.

"D'you think he hears *yours*?"  Father Joe countered with a half-
smile.

"*I* didn't bugger thirty-seven altar boys," Scully said in a flat
tone.

Mulder grinned.  This was the side of Scully he missed, the agent
who brooked no subterfuge, who didn't call a spade a spade but a
damned shovel.  He loved it, and he especially loved the shocked
looks on the two FBI agents' faces.

"Ooh Scully, that's an interesting way to put it," he said, sotto
voce.

"I have another way if you'd like," she said crisply.

"I bet you do," he said admiringly.

Father Joe himself interrupted their repartee.  "I have to believe
that He does hear me," he said, with no sign that he'd heard Scully's
last comments.  "Or else why would He be sending me these visions?"

"Maybe it's not God doing the sending," she replied.  

Mulder stepped in.  Time to play Good Cop, or at least, Neutral Cop.
"These visions.  How do they appear to you?"

Father Joe lit another cigarette off the butt of his last one.  "In
what you might call my mind's eye," he said.

"What did you see?"  Mulder asked.

"I see...I see the poor girl being assaulted," he said, fixing his
eyes on a distant point.  "I see...the bloody arm.  I hear dogs
barking."

Agent Drummy shifted restlessly.   They'd heard all this before.

Mulder asked, "Can you show us how you do it?"

Father Joe looked at Mulder, considering, and then turned his gaze
on Scully.  "I don't think I can," he said, "though, perhaps, if
*she* wasn't here..."

"Maybe what you see is a way to make people forget what you *really*
are," Scully said, but she turned and walked out the front door. 
Mulder watched her go with regret but not surprise.

Scully felt better out in the cold air.  The atmosphere in the
apartment was suffocating, with its smells of cigarettes and fried
food.  She looked through the folder she'd carried with her from the
car, studying the picture of the severed arm, looking through the
test results.

The apartment door opened behind her and she turned, hoping it was
Mulder and he was ready to go home.  That he'd determined Father Joe
was a fraud after all, and now that he had his Get Out of Jail Free
card, they were both free to --

-- to what?  They'd never discussed it.  Maybe neither had wanted to
plan for something that might never happen.  They'd been living from
day to day for a long time.

But it wasn't Mulder, after all.  Father Joe's roommate sidled past
her, carrying a bag of garbage.  He looked at her the whole time he
walked along the balcony to the stairs.  She watched him right back,
then when he was out of sight, turned back to the folder.

She was so intent on it that she jumped when she felt Mulder's hand
on her arm.  "Jesus, Mulder."

"I can't take you anywhere," he murmured, echoing her words from a
case long ago.

"I'm sorry," Scully said.  "I've been too long away from this
business -- or not long enough."

"No, no, you were good in there.  All I had were questions, but you
challenged him -- it was like old times."

"Yeah, well, he's a creep -- and a liar.  He knows who did this, and
they're feeding him with information -- really, look where he lives!"
She gestured around the apartment block.  "And this arm that they
found -- it wasn't injured in some accident; it was severed cleanly,
almost surgically.   How is it that Father Crissman could lead them
to this and not have the faintest clue where Monica Bannan is?"

Mulder did not answer, but he was listening to her, his eyes never
leaving her face.

"Two things you're going to find in the next twenty-four hours is a
dead agent, and that this 'Father Joe' is a big, fat fraud."

"You could be right, Scully," Mulder said softly.  "You could be
right.  But, what if you're wrong?"

The apartment door opened and the two agents came out with Father
Joe, who was winding a muffler around his neck.

"What's going on?"  Scully asked Mulder.

"Field trip," Mulder said with a grin.  "We're gonna see if Father
Joe is really the psychic he claims to be."

Scully handed him the file and started down the stairs.  "Yeah,
well, it's been fun."

"Where are you going?"  Mulder hurried after her.  "No one's going
to make you sit with him," he said with a smile, not really believing
she wouldn't go along.

"I've already been taken for a ride tonight," Scully said. 
"Besides, *he* doesn't want me here."

"I want you here," Mulder said quickly.

Scully shook her head.  "I'll get someone to take me back home.  Why
don't you come too?  Nothing says you have to be a part of this."  

But as she said it, she could see the spark in Mulder's eyes.  The
Mulder of old was awakening.  It was good to see, but her joy was
accompanied by a curl of fear.  What had she done by getting him
involved?

"Scully..." he started to try and persuade her, but she cut him off,
walking away.

"This is not my life anymore, Mulder.  I'm done chasing monsters in
the dark.  And I think you've done what was asked of you.  No one can
make you stay."

Mulder touched her arm, and she turned toward him again.  "These
people need my help," he said.  "Desperately."

She grimaced at his choice of words, but didn't turn away.

"And I need yours," he said.  "You don't have to come along.  Just --
just stay involved."  He held the file out to her.

Reluctantly, she took it from him, and was rewarded by a full 
smile.  

She gave him a very small smile back, but she tucked the file under
her arm.

-x-

Continued in Part Three -