COLD CASE (Part Six)
By Char Chaffin 
MSR, Case File, Rating R to NC-17

Spoilers: Assorted up to and through Season Seven's "Closure"

Disclaimer:  Clones on Loan

ADDITIONAL SUPPORT, ADVICE AND STORY CONSULTING: Provided by Tess. 
Thanks, Partner Mine!
Beta Support:  Thanks to ML, Donna and Carol!
Technical Consultation:  Thanks to Mimic!

Story Note:  THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS!

You can find the first five parts of "Cold Case" at my website:
http://char.chaffin.com/coldcasepage.htm

Summary:  When a "cold case" over twenty years old resurfaces with
new victims, Mulder and Scully are called in to head up the
investigative team -


~~~~

CHAPTER TEN
	

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
JANUARY, 1997	

Tracey was thirty years old when she found the first of her father's
journals.

She'd been in her rented unit in the mini-warehouse, looking through
old papers, tax statements and such, trying to find enough to present
for a tax audit.  The very words 'tax audit' chilled her to the bone,
for she knew any trouble with the IRS could spell doom for her
savings account.  She had a decent job but she didn't make a whole
lot of money.  She'd been on the lower rungs of the professional
ladder for going on seven years, and despite all of her efforts it
didn't look as if she'd ever make it even several rungs up farther
from where she was.  She just didn't have what it took to succeed,
she supposed.

It was probably her father's fault, but even now, even after all
these years, she had a hard time thinking of her father without
suffering severe stomach pains and difficulty breathing.  Conflicting
emotions within her heart would just about flatten her, for if ever
there was a love-hate relationship between a father and his daughter,
Tracey had one with Neal Carlson.

He'd died when she was eleven.  Had been walking home from who-knows-
where, on foot because he'd crashed the car a month before and hadn't
the extra money to get it repaired so that it would at least be
driveable.  Walking along one of the lesser highways coming in and
out of New Haven, still it had been a dangerous place for anyone to
be, late at night during a heavy rain.  Visibility had probably been
low and he'd never seen the truck that hit him.  Or the driver of
that truck never saw him.  Either way, he'd died almost instantly.  

Tracey had sobbed for days, alone in the cramped bedroom where she'd
been little more than a prisoner.  Her reluctant sanctuary, for she'd
grown to depend on that small area she'd called her own, even as
she'd railed against it over the years that she lived in the dingy
old apartment with her father.  Her aunt Miranda had sat with her at
times, stroking her tangled hair, and at other times had remained in
the messy kitchen, smoking one cigarette after another and making
lists of what was needed to be sold and what could be junked. 
Apparently Aunt Miranda thought most of her brother's apartment could
be easily junked, for she'd done exactly that.  And she'd strode into
Tracey's tiny room, opened the equally-tiny closet and sent one
scathing glance over the meager assortment of clothes hanging on
crooked wire hangers, before turning to her niece and holding out a
handful of paper shopping bags.

"Pack your things, Punkie.  You're going to come home with me.  I'm
going to take care of you."

Besides an overflow of bitterness, cursing life in general and
blaming everyone else for what had gone wrong in his world, Neal
Carlson had left nothing for his daughter except for a few heavy
boxes labeled 'books,' and another small box labeled 'Anna.'  When
she'd opened that box with trembling fingers, she'd found only a
folded stack of her mother's clothes; things she hadn't wanted when
she'd left her father for Papa Doug.  

Tracey had been only three, but she remembered the day they'd walked
away from the pretty little house on Moss Lane.  She'd pitched a fit
because she'd loved her frilly pink bedroom, and Mama was pulling at
her, trying to get her stuffed into the car so quickly.  Papa Doug
had been behind the wheel, smiling at her and telling her everything
was going to be all right, he'd be her daddy now and he'd adopt her,
take such good care of her...

Thing was, he'd made good on all of his promises.  Doug Blanden had
adopted her; given her his name.  He'd treated her as if she were his
very own.  She'd had a lovely, spacious room in the big house in
Groton, and for a while she'd been so very happy.  Her mama smiled
all of the time and had pretty new clothes to wear.  Tracey had lots
of toys and dolls to play with; best of all her dog Moosie had come
with them, too.  Life sure seemed perfect.

Then she lost it all - everything.  Her mama.  Papa Doug.  Even
Moosie, who'd run away and was never found.  How she'd cried!  Tracey
remembered all of it as if it had happened yesterday...

He'd slipped his leash and had run off.  Tracey had been in her bed,
dozing; the babysitter was in the living room, watching television. 
Mama and Papa Doug had been out to dinner and were supposed to be
home late.  Tracey had awoken to hear Susan swearing, which in itself
was unusual, for Susan never swore.  She was only sixteen years old
but she was very responsible and she never said bad words, even when
Tracey wasn't around to hear her.

"Shit!  Goddamn it!  Now what am I supposed to do?  Stupid dog!"

Tracey had crept down the stairs and had sat on the first landing,
watching as Susan alternately paced the foyer and stared out the
window. Susan knew she couldn't leave Tracey all alone.  She had
called a few of the neighbors and asked them if they'd seen Moosie
running around; none had.  But Mama and Papa Doug had come home
earlier than they'd promised, and to this day Tracey recalled the
happiness simply radiating from them, when they'd walked in the house.

They'd been celebrating, Papa Doug had said with the world's biggest
grin.  There was going to be a new baby, he said.  Mama had gotten
dizzy at the restaurant and he'd rushed her home. 'Susan, you know
how these ladies are when they're pregnant...'

And Susan, finally getting a word in edgewise, told her mama and
papa that Moosie had run off.  And right about then, Tracey had come
flying down the rest of the stairs and had launched herself at her
mama, begging, "Please find my doggie!  Please find Moosie!"

Well, that was what they'd done.  With a smile and a hug, Mama had
promised they'd find him, and she'd asked Susan to stay a little
longer, because she figured two heads were better than one when it
came to looking for that silly dog, and even Papa Doug knew that
Moosie was stubborn enough to come only when Mama called for him.  He
had never really gotten used to Papa.

So out they went to look for Moosie.  They never came back.  Hours
later, a tired-eyed policeman knocked on the door and told Susan that
Mama and Papa had been hit head-on by another car when they rounded a
sharp curve out on Spring Road, looking for Moosie.  The policeman
said the man in the other car was drunk and weaving all over the
road, driving way too fast.  

They never came back... any of them.  Mama.  Papa Doug.  Moosie. 
Gone.

And so was her life, as she knew it... gone.  She went back to New
Haven with her toys and her dolls, and lived the next six years in
that grimy old apartment with a father she didn't even know,
listening to him rail at night about his beautiful Anna.  Watching
him smoke endlessly, drink himself into a stupor and lose three jobs
in the space of two years.  Afraid to talk to him, afraid to get too
close to him, and yet needing a touch, just one small touch from him,
to assure her she wasn't all alone in the world... A touch that never
really came.  Knowing in her heart that she'd never be able to
measure up to her mama, at least never in her father's eyes.

Tracey had sat in the dim storage space and remembered it all, as
she sorted through folders and files and placed anything that looked
like tax mumbo-jumbo in a neat pile.  She'd dug in the final box,
bypassing a few old photographs, her emotions too raw to handle
looking at anyone's pictures... and then she found it, in the bottom
of the box.

Two journals, banded together with a piece of string.  A binder,
stuffed with clippings and what looked like the edges of snapshots
peeping out along the sides.  And she had no idea why on earth she
should feel such a chill, coming up from the floor and saturating her
as she sat there and stared at what was in her hands.  No idea at all.

She untied the journal bundle and opened the one on top.  It wasn't
very thick but as she flipped through, it looked as if every page had
been filled with her father's curiously neat handwriting.  She
thumbed back to page one and started reading.

'I can't stop him.  He keeps coming back.  I've killed him over and
over and he keeps coming back.'

Tracey had dropped the book as if it had suddenly developed snake-
like fangs, and jumped to her feet, staring at it with eyes gone wide
with utter shock.  For endless seconds she stood, trembling, staring
at her father's journal -

Then she sank to the floor and picked it up, hands shaking, and
began to read.

~~~~

CHAPTER ELEVEN

  
HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
7:05 AM

When he answered the door, toothbrush in hand and a mouthful of
foam, Scully found herself grinning inanely.  Mulder could look like
a five-year old when he performed some of the most everyday rituals. 
Somehow the sight of him in his doorway holding a hot pink
toothbrush, that warm light in his eyes, did her in.  She must be
losing it.

And she was having an impossible time forgetting the night before,
when his mouth had kissed her almost senseless and his hands had
touched her with such restrained passion.

She had to tease him, just to regain a bit of balance.  She pointed
to his toothbrush and inquired, "Pink?"  Her expression reflected
amused disbelief.  Mulder shrugged as he turned back to the bathroom
to spit and rinse; she heard water running.  He walked out wiping his
mouth on a hand towel and before she could react, swept her into his
arms and planted a good-morning kiss on her lips that obliterated
what small amount of lipstick she'd applied and erased vital brain
matter right along with her Lancome Rosy Gloss.  She kissed him back,
one hand clutching his shoulder, needing that anchor.

So, this was the path, she thought dizzily.  It was happening fast,
not fast enough, she was ready, she was in a panic of not-ready, she
wanted it, feared it, this would interfere with their work
concentration, this wouldn't change who they were, this would affect
every nuance of their lives, who was she kidding, this was everything
to her.  To both of them.  She kissed him back and her arm went
around his neck as she pressed herself to him.

He released her lips but kept her close.  "Morning.  You ready for
breakfast? Are you hungry?"  His eyes were even brighter, the smile
in them so warm.  Up close, it was almost too much.  She had to ease
back just a little, had to regain some small chunk of composure.  He
allowed a few inches, his arms now loose about her waist.  

Scully cleared her throat.  "Breakfast would be - Mulder, are we
being stupid, here?"  She couldn't help it.  Always in the past
they'd been careful to keep that physical distance irregardless of
what their eyes, their hearts might be saying to each other.  Seven
years, and she felt ready for more... but she still had to question
it.

Damn it.  So much for going with the flow. 

Mulder didn't pretend ignorance.  He stroked a palm over her hair
and rested it against her neck.  Cocked his head just a bit to the
side the way he did when he was processing something of importance. 
His eyes searched hers, noting the traces of confusion as well as the
desire still banked from the other night.  He could relate; he was a
bit bemused himself.  And yet, this felt right.  Felt good.  He knew
what he wanted and he knew it was the same as Scully's wants.  But he
understood her hesitance, far better than she might think he did.

"Maybe we are, a little.  Stupid, that is.  Let's face it, our lives
right now might not be all that conducive to romance.  But Scully,"
he drew her closer, relieved when her arms went about his waist, "I
wanted this two years ago.  Three, four, five years ago.  I wanted
this when I barely knew you.  I wanted this before I knew you.  The
years have simply urged up the wanting.  Ten years from now that urge
will still be there, and if we aren't together at that time I'll
still live and work and exist, but I won't be happy.  I won't be
fulfilled.  And neither will you."  He shook her gently, as if to
persuade her to see.  "Will you?"

She shook her head, slowly.  "No.  I wouldn't be happy.  I might be
saner, but not happy."

"Oh, well... sanity is way overrated, trust me.  Better to be off your
onion."  He bent his head and rubbed his cheek against hers.  His low
rasp feathered the hair at her ear when he repeated, "You ready for
breakfast? Are you hungry?" 

Her whisper almost took him to his knees.  "I'm hungry.  But that's
another story.  I'm also ready for breakfast, too."  She slipped from
his arms and reached for the jacket hanging in the tiny closet in the
narrow hallway.  Holding it out, she quipped, "I'm buying. But only
if you eat something healthy."

Mulder shrugged into the jacket and caught at her hand, pulling her
out the door.  "Then it's a good thing I have cash on hand.  I feel
the need for saturated meat fat and sugar."

"Ugh."  

They walked to the elevator and stepped on.  As the doors closed,
Scully inquired sweetly, "So.  Pink?"

His reply was long-suffering.  "That's what the clerk at Rite-Aid
asked me when I bought it.  What, real men can't use a pink
toothbrush?  Anyhow, I thought it was orange."

"Like that's any better.  Mulder, that thing is as hot pink as they
come.  You need glasses."

"I have glasses.  If you're a good girl, I'll wear them tonight,
just for you."

"The wire frames?"

"Yep."

Her droll, "Oh, be still my heart," simply delighted him.

~~~~

FBI FIELD OFFICE
8:45 AM

Lynda Kelly, the assistant from their secondary team, greeted them
both when they walked in.  She handed Scully a thick folder and shyly
informed them, "Special Agent Morris is running late.  This is the
latest from the primary team; some of it you have already seen, Agent
Mulder."  She blushed when Mulder smiled his thanks at her, and
stammered, "I'll be in your orifice, um, I mean I'll be in your
office setting up the boards. Do I have everything you want in
there?"  Her pale eyes darted from Mulder to Scully and back again
and her cheeks reddened even more as she realized what she'd said.  

Mulder replied gently, "We have all we need at this time, Lynda. 
Thanks very much."  He watched as she nodded and bobbed up and down a
little, almost as if she were curtsying, then turned and hurried out
of the room.  "She's a timid little thing, isn't she?"

"Well, actually she's taller than me.  But I know what you mean. 
She's not sure what to make of you, Mulder.  What did you do this
time, wink at her?"  

"I never did!  I barely smiled at her, Scully.  Honest."

"Uh-huh."  Scully hid a smile of her own as they chose seats at one
end of the conference room.  

Mulder sat down next to her and, noting the as-usual persistent
stare of one Anton LaVeille from across the wide table, muttered
under his breath. "Speaking of... have you mentioned LaVeille's
behavior to Morris, yet?  They're occasional weekend golfing buddies.
Might not be a bad idea for Morris to say something.  I know it makes
you uncomfortable."

She shook her head and turned in her chair, effectively giving
LaVeille the shoulder treatment.  Mulder noticed the dark look that
crossed his face, before he turned and started chatting with the
agent sitting closest to him. Nudging her lightly with his elbow,
Mulder vowed, "I'll protect you.  My nail-clippers are a registered
lethal weapon."

"You're a goof."  Scully knew what he was doing; deflecting her
attention from the grisly photos that she'd unearthed when she'd
opened the folder.  "Mulder, do you realize that any of these victims
could be related to you?  The resemblance is uncanny."  She'd noticed
it the very first day but hadn't wanted to say anything about it,
much less think it.  But it had to be mentioned.  And she could no
longer deny her worry.

Mulder glanced over at the photos.  Shrugged, "Well, I have better
taste in clothes than they do, but yeah.  I noticed.  Kind of hard
not to.  But Scully, there are several men in this room that fit the
description.  Tall, dark and handsome is common enough in any city,
don't you think?"  He fluttered his eyelashes at her and weaseled a
partial smile out of her.  

But she persisted, "That's not the point.  We need to be as cautious
as anyone else.  YOU need to be, Mulder.  No more late-night jogging
through the dark streets of New Haven.  Not unless I'm with you."

"You want to jog with me?  You hate jogging."

"Yes.  I hate it.  But I kind of um, like your skin, and I'd hate to
see it flayed open or anything like that.  So humor me.  I'll start
going with you."

"If you insist."  Secretly he was thrilled at the thought of extra
evening time with her.  How could he not be?  

Morris came in as they both turned their attention back to the
folder in front of them, glancing up when he walked directly to their
side of the table and slipped into the seat next to Scully. 
"Agents."  He poked at the folder with one blunt finger.  "We might
have a break on this latest victim, Mathew Borden.  We have a
witness."

"A witness?  From where?"  Mulder exchanged a hopeful expression
with Scully.

"Borden's neighborhood.  A house two doors down, a Mrs. Barbara
Fordent.  Widowed, retired and probably nosier than hell, which
fortunately for us could be a good thing.  Mrs. Fordent has a habit
of getting up late at night and making the rounds of her house,
staring out through every window and sometimes standing out on her
porch with binoculars.  She called into the local PD when Borden's
photo hit the news. Said she saw someone on the front porch of
Borden's residence, someone she says looked suspicious.  Of course,
probably everyone walking around in her neighborhood she doesn't know
would look suspicious.  Can you go over there and talk to her?" 

"Definitely."  Mulder was on his feet and pulling out Scully's
chair, already thinking ahead.  Scully rose and gathered up the
folder, nodded to Morris and preceded Mulder out of the conference
room.  Morris noticed LaVeille's eyes never left her as she walked
away with Mulder - as usual, it would seem - guiding her with one
hand at the small of her back.  Well, maybe 'guide' was the wrong
word. Whatever the proper interpretation, it was clear to Ross Morris
that the pretty agent was spoken for.  He sighed and got to his feet,
intent on pulling LaVeille out the door and giving him a lecture
concerning the impropriety of continually gawking at a fellow peer
and how lucky he was that Agent Scully hadn't peeled the flesh from
his bones, yet.  Delicate-looking she might be, but Morris had a
feeling she could more than hold her own when crossed or seriously
hit on by some fool who didn't know better. Like Anton LaVeille.   

He caught LaVeille's attention and then jerked a thumb toward the
outer door.  As the younger agent rose and walked toward him, Morris
couldn't help but feel as if he was about to lecture one of his own
kids.  

~~~~

CHAPTER TWELVE


1727 ALMOND COURT
NEW HAVEN
10:30 AM

Barbara Fordent was a late-sixty-something, retired bookkeeper who
had a houseful of cats, some lethargic-looking goldfish swimming in a
small aquarium and a pair of mini-binoculars slung around her neck. 
Mulder had the feeling she put them on in the morning and didn't take
them off, even when she went to bed at night.  

Six cats of varying size and gender watched the goldfish with
predatory eyes as their mistress perched herself on the edge of a
flower-print sofa and in a breathless voice regaled her reluctant
visitors with the comings-and-goings of the entire neighborhood.  

"And I told the poor woman that she really needed to keep a better
eye on her husband.  Why, you know how these men wander about and get
themselves tangled up in affairs with younger women!  It happens all
the time.  If I hadn't been looking up the street that morning, I'd
have never seen that floozy sneak in the back door as soon as Dorothy
walked out the front!"  Mrs. Fordent brushed a cat off her shoulder
as absent-mindedly as one would brush at lint; the cat leapt sideways
with a muttered hiss and missed landing on Mulder's knees by merely
inches.  He flinched and the affronted feline streaked into another
room.  

Scully turned a laugh into a cough; then tried to steer the woman
toward the subject at hand, for about the third time since they'd
arrived and sat down on her cat hair-infested sofa.  "Mrs. Fordent,
tell us about the suspicious-looking person you saw on Matthew
Borden's front porch.  Can you provide a description?"

Mrs. Fordent gave it some thought as she reached down and picked up
an enormously overweight cat that obviously hadn't missed any meals,
be it Lil' Friskies or goldfish.  She propped the purring blob on her
chest and held it like a baby as she remarked, "Well, let me think. 
It was hard to see even with that full moon.  The crazies always come
out during a full moon, don't they?  Why, I remember a few years
back, when Frannie Loomis over on Oak Lane up and stabbed her poor
maid, Maisie, with a pair of scissors, then ran out in the back yard
wearing nothing but an apron and lopped off the heads from every
single rose in her garden!"

"Mrs. Fordent. Could you please try to think about what happened
just a few nights ago -"

The cat lady was on a roll, however.  "And then there was that rash
of newspaper robberies, here on the cul-de-sac.  Someone stole every
single paper in everyone's mailboxes.  Rolled them up and piled them
on the Thompson's front lawn and set fire to them, and all because
Arnold Thompson liked dancing in his wife's underwear in his own
living room.  It was a wonder the flames didn't reach the house, what
with the wind that evening!"  She quivered self-righteously as she
recounted the event, the cat purring in tandem with her huffing
breaths.  Mulder rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.

"Mrs. Fordent -"

She ignored his attempts to change the subject and plowed gleefully
on, secure in the knowledge that she had a somewhat captive audience.
"I've often thought I should move.  This neighborhood simply isn't
what it used to be, you know?  But I'd have to dig Herbert up, if I
did.  I couldn't stand to leave him behind."

Scully knew she was going to regret asking, but she just couldn't
help herself.  "Herbert?  Is that one of your, um, cats?"

"Oh, heavens NO!  Herbert was my husband!  I had him cremated when
he passed away, oh, I guess it's been fifteen years, now.  I planted
him in the Japanese garden out back.  The poor man always wanted to
go see Japan but we never could afford the trip.  I figured making
that garden for him and then laying him to rest in that fancy
lacquered urn was the next best thing to a week in Tokyo."  She
beamed at Scully, who sent her a weak smile in return and wondered
how the hell this interview had gone down the tubes so damned fast.

Mulder appeared to be choking on something but it was impossible to
see his face as he had his hand shielding his eyes.  Scully decided
it was past time to reel Mrs. Fordent in; they'd be here for the rest
of the week, sitting in cat hair, if her relentless storytelling
wasn't stopped.   She stood and hovered over both woman and cat,
hoping to project a bit of professional intimidation.  "Mrs. Fordent,
Agent Mulder and I are investigating a murder.  It would help us a
great deal if you could concentrate on the events of the night
Matthew Borden died, and tell us what you saw.  Without
embellishment.  Please."

Barbara Fordent puffed a bit indignantly but apparently realized
she'd milked it for all she could, because her reply was surprisingly
concise and brief.  "I was up at around one in the morning.  I walked
to the back door, let out a few of my babies, then walked to the
front door to check the lock, which I do every night.  I noticed a
dark shape on the porch of Matt's house.  I looked out the screen
door and watched this person walk down the street toward me.  I don't
think he knew my front door was open.  I watched him until he turned
the corner."

"Can you describe this person?  And are you certain it was a man?"

"I'm almost positive it was a man. Below-average height, I guess,
for a man, but I'm certain of the gender. Maybe five-seven.  Maybe
less.  Wore all black from head to foot.  Black hat, what you call a
watch-cap, on his head.  I couldn't see any hair sticking out.  No
skin showing, either.  Wasn't carrying anything that I could tell."

"What about his build, Mrs. Fordent?  Age?" Mulder scribbled quickly
as she paused to consider.

"It was hard to tell, because his clothes looked bulky.  Might have
been heavy.  Might have been slender.  I'm just not sure.  I couldn't
even guess his age, truly.  But I knew he was up to no good.  Why on
earth would anyone dressed all in black be skulking about in this
neighborhood at one in the morning?  This is a nice neighborhood,
always has been.  Even if some of these folks around here are a
little eccentric."

"Yes, of course.  Thank you, Mrs. Fordent.  You've been a big help."
Scully backed toward the door as Mulder smiled blindingly at the
woman, causing her to pause in the middle of yet another tattle on
one of her hapless neighbors.  She put a hand to her throat and
managed a sighing 'good-bye,' as they made their escape.

Mulder brushed off clumps of feline fur from his slacks.  Sneezed
twice.  Scully started laughing as soon as they reached the car, and
he pointed an admonishing finger at her.

"Not a word, Scully.  Not a single damned word."

"Wouldn't think of it.  I'll drive, Mulder.  You're all... fuzzy." 
She swallowed a chuckle and moved to the driver's side.

"Oh, shut up."

~~~~

FBI FIELD OFFICE
3:20 PM

He paced outside the elevators. Then he paced around the entrance to
the stairwell.  Then he stalked to the entrance of the conference
room and paced there, awhile.  And he steamed as he paced.  Anton
LaVeille was pissed.

Morris had chewed him out like a first-year rookie.  It hadn't set
very well at all.  Granted, his boss had done the chewing in a vacant
room on the first floor, but it had rankled.  It made him feel like
an idiot.  LaVeille didn't appreciate being made to feel like an
idiot.

Okay, so he stared at Dana Scully, some.  Okay, a lot.  All right,
damn it, all the time.  Shit, how the hell was he supposed to control
a basic male urge like that?  Any other woman would have been
thrilled to find themselves the object of his regard.  Any other
woman would have loved the attention.  He was doing this chick a
favor, as far as he was concerned.

As soon as Anton thought of it that way, he immediately felt some
shame.  Dana Scully wasn't like that, as far as he could tell.  She
genuinely didn't SEE him for the man he was, because she was too far
gone on Mulder, the lucky bastard.  Hell, he knew some of their
background, didn't he?  Partnered for seven years, through some of
the worst and most bizarre cases in FBI history.  He knew all of
that.  He knew there'd been a bad time in Dallas, the beginning of
their sixth year, when both had gone out on a massively-complicated
case and they'd barely made it back alive.  He'd made a point of
reading up on a little of their history inside the Bureau. After all,
he and Mulder had been paired on a case, once.  They'd been temporary
partners, and he'd remained curious about the young agent whose
reputation had grown by leaps and bounds.

Admittedly, some of what he'd read had seemed way too fantastical to
be real.  He supposed anything could be exaggerated, and perhaps the
Bureau had its own reasons for plumping up the Dynamic Duo's solve
rate.  Who knew for sure?  So they'd been through a lot together. 
They were dedicated to each other.  Shit, for all of their clinging
to each other, he should assume they'd been screwing on a regular
basis, too.  He'd have been hard put to set Dana aside, if he'd been
Mulder and had a chance for a piece of that sweet ass of hers...

It didn't mean she couldn't give someone else a chance, a try, did
it?  How in hell could she know who was best for her unless she
sampled what was out there?  Anton knew it was up to him to educate
her.  He didn't give a fuck who told him differently, boss or not. 
Anton was on a goddamn mission.  That was enough of a reason for him. 

He was going to talk to her, tonight.  He was going to make her
understand what she was missing by avoiding him.  He'd never had a
woman avoid him in his entire life, never.  It was completely foreign
to him.  For as long as he could remember, women had fallen all over
themselves to be around him, including his sisters.   He'd been the
only boy in a household of five older sisters and a doting mother. 
He'd learned early in life that charm and good looks got you
everything you ever wanted.  Add a fascinating job into the mix and
you could pretty much write your own ticket.  He was a damned good
agent because he'd used what God had given him; his intelligence and
his looks. 

Anton could feel himself calming down, walking around instead of
pacing, his natural good humor restoring itself quickly.  He was one
hell of a catch.  He knew it and all of his lady friends knew it. 
He'd had several girlfriends already this year, and he'd parted from
all of them with no regrets on his part and just enough longing on
theirs to feel pride in his abilities as a ladies' man.  He'd been on
the lookout for quality, and Dana Scully was exactly what he wanted.

All he had to do was convince her of it...

"Agent LaVeille?  You wanted to know when Agents Mulder and Scully
returned. Agent LaVeille?"  Hearing his name called, Anton turned and
faced the thin blonde standing in the corridor leading to the main
conference room, her fingers twisted into knots in front of her.  He
frowned for a moment, then his confusion cleared as he recalled her
name.  Lynda Kelly, the temp the Bureau had borrowed from the local
PD.  Part of the secondary team, mostly made up of New Haven's police
enforcement and assistants like her who kept the basic cogs moving.
Not much more than a gofer, really, but he supposed the mousy little
thing was getting a big charge out of being a part, however small, of
an ongoing investigation such as this.

He smiled at her widely, noting the way she blushed and stammered as
she explained that the Agents had called in and were expected back
sometime later.  She mumbled a little when she talked and her eyes
never really met his.  Anton figured she was a professional virgin -
no surprise there, considering how pale and rabbity she was.  Well,
what the hell.  He was bored waiting for Dana to return, and here she
was, blushing at him, no doubt wishing for a little excitement in her
drab life.

"Thanks, Lynda.  The Bureau appreciates all of your help.  I do,
too, did you know that?  You're always so well-organized.  It's so
very important with a case like this one." Another smile aimed at
her, and her eyes were bright as stars when they looked up at him. 
Her hands fluttered at her waist as if she wanted to reach out and
grab onto him.  Anton continued to smile at her and felt that
familiar power come into him; the power a man felt when a woman who
had never experienced much excitement suddenly looked to him to
provide it.  And usually women like that were so very grateful...

"Um, Lynda, I was wondering: what are you doing this evening?  I'll
bet you never had time for lunch, did you?  How about an early
dinner, just you and me?"

This time when she smiled at him in astonished pleasure, and reached
out one fluttering, nervous hand toward him, Anton took it in his and
held onto it, his smile never dimming one bit.  

Well, why not?  He'd bet anything Dana Scully and her partner had
already made plans.  He'd bet anything they'd get back here late. 
What was the point in waiting around?  His shift had ended early
today and he was free until morning.  Might as well have a bit of fun.

He'd talk to Dana tomorrow. Anton tucked Lynda's thin hand in the
crook of his arm and guided her toward the elevator, smiling down at
her, using all of his considerable charm to dazzle her.  As the
elevator doors closed behind them, he wondered idly how long it would
take to get her clothes off and into his bed.  Or hers, he wasn't
fussy.  Probably not long at all.

Maybe he should make a bet with himself.  Just for kicks.

~~~~

HAMPSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
9:45 PM

If the first kiss knocked her sideways, the second - and the third -
wiped the floor with her.  She'd expected it.  Hell, she'd craved it.
But she didn't know just how much - until Mulder backed her up
against the locked door of her room - that she'd needed it.

Oh God, his mouth.  

Crushed to hers, drinking deeply, taking everything she had and
giving back more than she imagined was possible.  She'd thought the
kiss they'd shared that morning was wonderful but he'd obviously been
toying with her.  Just the idea that Mulder had a hell of a lot more
pulsing inside him than what he'd given her hours before... it was
mind-boggling. 

They'd skipped breakfast in the first place and by the time
afternoon had segued into early evening, they were starved.  They'd
argued good-naturedly about where to eat and had settled on a diner
just a few blocks from the hotel.  Scully had figured she'd find a
decent soup and salad bar; Mulder was trolling for meatloaf.  They'd
ended up with fried chicken and biscuits and a double serving of
apple brown betty for dessert.  

They'd walked off the filling and calorie-rich dinner, wandering in
and through Wooster Square; moving briskly along River Street when
the wind kicked up and the night turned colder.  They wimped out in
reaction to the cold and decided to forego walking back, instead
jumping into a cab and taking it back to the hotel when they felt
frozen straight through their coats and gloves.  

And they'd kissed for the first time that evening in the slow-moving
elevator that took them up to the tenth floor.

The first time that evening, but hardly the last.

His lips had been cold and firm.  They'd warmed against hers, sugar
melting in the sun, heating up the way his body seemed to give off
bolts of power everywhere it pressed into hers.  Through layers of
coats, suit jackets and the thinness of silk and cotton underneath,
they'd felt it.  Addictive. So very addictive...

She'd gasped into his mouth, against his tongue.  He'd swallowed the
sound and his groan had echoed it.

He lifted her into his arms, holding her high so that he could
nuzzle her collarbone and drag his mouth along the upper swell of her
breasts, still covered with her silk blouse.  He didn't want to put
her down long enough to even rip open the buttons.  He kissed her
through two layers of silk and the heat of it seared her.  She arched
impatiently against him.

<Oh, God.  Do I want to do this?  Am I ready?>

<Yes.  You're ready, you asshole.  Don't stop now.>  The two halves
of her brain, the sensible and the foolish, both argued and fought
for supremacy while she hung in Mulder's embrace and he dampened her
blouse at nipple-level with a dozen kisses.  

Thoughts of the case went out the window.  Fragments of sensible
behavior also got tossed aside; things like early to bed and early to
rise, non-sexual-involvement with your partner, the impropriety of
intimacy in the field... all pitched out that same window.  Seven
years, she thought, thrusting ten fingers into his hair and holding
on tightly.  Seven long, often-lonely and starving years.  Waiting
for the right time to do more than simply gaze at one another and
maybe steal a kiss or two.  

Enough, she managed to declare in silent rebellion, in between
kisses.  No more denial.

He let her slide down his body; let her feel every eager pulse and
ridge of it. That alone had her weak at the knees.  All that lovely
heat, just for her.  All of that passion and fire; Lord, who knew
Mulder carried that much passion and fire around?

Somehow they spun together, from the wall to the bed.  Somehow they
landed on enough of the mattress, that they didn't immediately slide
off.  She looked up into the face she knew as well as her own, and
saw dark intensity there.  Saw a glitter in the eyes that held her
almost spellbound; felt the hard muscle beneath the finely tailored
suit.  Knew his fingers could bruise as well as soothe.  Right now
she'd welcome either.

"Cell phone."  He muttered the words against her neck, then bit
where he'd muttered.

"What about it?"  Her voice was a thin wheeze.

"Off?"  Accompanied by another bite, this time on her earlobe.

"Think so.  Yours?"  God, she couldn't get enough air in her lungs
to breathe.

"Yes, no, I don't give a fuck -" He bit her again.  And that little
pinching caress made her vibrate all over.

He grasped the buttons on her blouse and then suddenly fisted a hand
in it, fully prepared to rip it from her body.  And her body would
have welcomed that level of savagery.  But her mind, well... that was
different.  Her mind always traipsed along behind her body when it
came to sex.  To intimacy.  And her mind always had to find ways to
toss wrenches into wherever her emotions tried to send her.  

Damn it.

But in this case, she didn't have to toss a single wrench, because
as if reading her mind, his fingers relaxed on her buttons, and he
released the material.  Took that hand on a gentle slide down her
breast, to her waist, and rested it there. 

"Mulder."  Quietly spoken, even as she pressed another kiss on his
lips.  She broke away and caught him, eye to eye, honest desire and
equally-honest worry in hers.

He nodded slowly, and his forehead met hers briefly in a kind of
half-amused, half-frustrated resignation.  "Yeah.  I know.  Me, too."

"What's wrong with us?  Besides the obvious, I guess."

"It means too much to both of us.  That's what's wrong.  It's too
important.  I don't want to mess this up and you don't either,
Scully.  We're both warped."  He tried to smile and she took the
small gesture at face value, returning it at about the same wattage.

"Off our onions.  I believe that's a better term."  They remained
close, arms still holding on, her face now pressed into his chest. 
Beneath her cheek his heart pounded fast and strong, and she could
feel hers regulating alongside that rushing beat.  

A muffled shout and a thud outside the hotel door had them easing
apart, as footsteps ran by the room.  Mulder picked up his coat from
the floor where he'd dropped it, and Scully made a subtle effort to
re-tuck her blouse back into her slacks.  They never broke eye
contact.  They didn't really smile.  But all of the longing that came
from years of wanting and pretending otherwise... that was thick in
the air between them.

He cleared his throat but his voice still came out in a deep rasp. 
"Breakfast tomorrow?"

She shivered.  "Yeah.  I'll come by and get you."

"Ooh, a date.  I'll make sure the back of my neck is extra-clean. 
You know, in case you want to sniff it."

She refused to laugh at his silliness.  "Why would I want to sniff
your neck, Mulder?"

"Because it's there."  He opened the door and stepped out with one
foot, then darted back in and grabbed her, kissed her again.  One
more for the 'road,' so to speak. Before she'd even had a chance to
respond he'd let her go and was walking down the hotel corridor,
loose-limbed and elegantly lanky, turning to look at her and stopping
long enough to deliver a parting shot.  

"Reprieve, Scully.  For both of us.  It's getting closer, though. 
You know it is.  And when it hits, it won't make a damn bit of
difference if we're on a case or on vacation, in the basement or in a
DC cab.  We'll deal with it, as we deal with everything."  And with a
nod, he stepped up to his door and unlocked it, slipped in.  

Her breath shuddered out in a shaky little sigh.  They'd deal with
it, for sure.

And with each other.

~~~~

To be continued