WARNING: This is a piece with romantic involvement between M&S.  If

you don't like this idea, DON'T READ THIS!  That having been said,

this is not merely a relationship piece, but does involve some action.

In particular, Pusher returns.



Rated PG for a few ugly words.



Standard disclaimers, whatever they are, certainly apply.  These

characters aren't mine but belong to CC and 1013, yada yada yada.



This is my first attempt at XF fanfic, though it is by no means my

first attempt at writing.  Hope you enjoy it.  Flames will be ignored,

but real comments, criticisms, etc. are welcome: rm12908@navix.net





[This is part 1/3.]





                          Will to Power

                        by Birgit Mueller



     Despite her best efforts, Carrie Porter yawned.  These double

shifts were going to kill her.  Forcing herself to concentrate, her

eyes ranged one by one over the monitors at her station.  She was

relieved to see that everyone looked good, even that guy who'd just

been transferred from the ICU, the one who'd just been taken off life

support.  She hated it when people died during her shift, even if they

were killers.  And this guy -- Modell, that was his name -- jeez, he'd

had a bullet put in his head by some FBI agent, right here in the

hospital.  On her floor, in fact.  Spooky.  But at least there weren't

any guards getting in her way; an unconscious criminal with a severe

head injury wasn't likely to hop out of bed and walk away.



     Satisfied that her patients were holding their own, she was about

to let her gaze return to the chart she'd been updating when Modell's

heart monitor blipped strangely.  She saw it out of the corner of her

eye, and her brow furrowed.  She watched carefully as the green line

moved in rapid peaks and valleys across the black monitor screen.  His

rhythm was strong and steady.  Maybe she'd just imagined it...no,

wait, there it was again, two rapid, irregular beats.  Glancing at the

clock above her on the wall, she considered paging the doctor, but as

she continued to watch the monitor, the irregularity seemed to be

gone.  She sat for a few more moments, until she was certain the

incident had ended, and wondered whether or not the episode was worthy

of noting in Modell's chart.  Absently, she rose and started toward

the kitchen for a cup of coffee...



     Carrie awoke with a jangled start as the telephone beside her

rang loudly.  Disoriented, she blinked.  What had happened?

Modell...she glanced at his heart monitor.  Strong and steady.  She

must've fallen asleep in her chair; it must've been a dream.  Her head

ached badly. *I need a vacation*, she thought, reaching over a stack

of charts for the phone.





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



     Dana Scully stared at the snow on her boots and scowled, puffing

steam into the crisp winter air as she walked.  She had dreamed of

Modell again, awoke feeling sick and frightened and out of sorts, and

the feelings had stayed this time, refusing to be forgotten as the day

wore on.  She told herself this was expected -- it had only been a

week -- but it made her feel out of control.  It was not a sensation

she liked, especially when she thought other people could tell that

something was disturbing her.  And Mulder, tromping along beside her,

could obviously tell.



     "Y'know," he murmured, "one day your face might freeze that way."

*That damned soft sarcasm of his*, she thought.  It was his double

talk, his way of letting her know he'd noticed, but it was nothing she

could talk about yet, and she knew he knew that.  Still, she couldn't

help but smile, and she tilted her head to regard him.



     "Thanks for the tip," she mumbled, looking him over, for what was

not the first time today.  He looked so out of place, and it amused

her.  They were high in the Rockies, miles from anything that could be

called civilization and ankle-deep in snow, investigating a supposed

alien abduction site that had piqued Mulder's interest.  As usual,

approval for the trip had been difficult, but as usual, he had gotten

his way in the end.  She suspected Skinner was well aware that Mulder

would go where his instincts pointed him, regardless of bureau

approval.



     She decided, chuckling faintly, that she was surprised he hadn't

given the Assistant Director an aneurism yet.  As for her, well -- she

wasn't going to contemplate what she'd lost since she'd been with

Mulder.  But she wasn't sorry, she couldn't be sorry, even as Missy's

face skimmed lightly across the canvass of her imagination.  She

couldn't bring herself to be sorry for her fidelity.  She shook off

the abrupt pang of melancholy -- at least routine had become a distant

memory.  Here they were, hiking a seldom-used national trail together

in February because Mulder felt some kind of investigative need.  At

least he was, for once, properly attired, wearing old, faded jeans, a

white sweater, an actual winter coat, and hiking boots.  He was even

carrying a pack on his back.  Still, she thought he looked lost, like

an investment banker who'd stumbled into a mosh pit.



     Mulder, noticing the appraisal, gave her a sidelong look and

grinned.  "What?"  He glanced down.  "Is my fly open?"



     What should've been a smile turned wistful as, reminded again,

unexpectedly, of Modell, she said too softly, "Made you look."



     Mulder frowned, and they walked on in silence.  He understood

full well at least part of what was bothering her.  He didn't want to

remember Modell any more than Scully did, but the experience was too

much to be put behind them so quickly.  He remembered watching the man

after it was all over, remembered how Scully had reached out for his

hand, remembered how she'd said they shouldn't let him waste any more

of their time.  It was her way of letting him know -- *You didn't hurt

me.  I trust you.  It wasn't you.*  But the terror he felt when his

finger tightened on the trigger would stay with him for the rest of

his life.  That, and the bright image of Dana with tears in her eyes,

tears that he had caused.  That image blazed like a fireball in his

own nightmares, every night since.



     Scully's voice pulled him back to the surface.  She was staring

at him now, eyebrows raised questioningly.  "Hey, you were saying

something about *my* -- "



     A rustle in the trees ahead cut her off and made them both stop

dead.  Mulder eased the pack off his shoulders and reached

instinctively for the handle of his gun, nestled in the holster

beneath his coat.  It was probably nothing, he thought, another deer.

His eyes strained to see into the persistently green stand of fir

trees.



     Mulder's grip on his gun relaxed slightly as a lone hiker

appeared and wound his way back onto the trail from between the trees.

The man glanced up, suddenly noticing that he was not alone -- and

that the man in front of him had his hand resting against the butt of

a holstered gun.



     "Hey, man," he said carefully, lifting his hands in a placating

gesture.  Mulder appraised him swiftly: in his mid-thirties, average-looking

but scruffy, with long brown hair and a ragged beard.  Mulder

lifted his hand in a conciliatory gesture of his own, then dug in his

breast pocket for his ID.  Scully followed his lead, and they

approached.



     "FBI," Mulder explained, holding his badge up for the man to

examine.



     The hiker nodded slowly, still warily watching him.  "Okay."



     "You mind if we ask you a few questions?" Mulder began, stepping

in closer.  He immediately noted the familiar, pungent aroma that

clung to the man, who looked uncomfortable but shook his head.  "What

were you doing in there?" Mulder asked, pointing into the fir trees.



     The man shuffled nervously and said in a low voice, "You know,

nature calls, man."



     Mulder leaned in toward him and sniffed.  The man promptly went

from nervous to positively panicked.  "Well, there's nature and then

there's nature," Mulder murmured.  He reached into his breast pocket

again and tossed the man the package of mint lifesavers that he'd

picked up in the last convenience store they'd visited.  They were a

poor substitute for sunflower seeds anyway.



     Relief played briefly over the man's features.  Scully moved

toward him a bit.  Mulder relaxed a notch.



     ...in a semi-private room in fairfax mercy hospital, modell's

adrenaline surged...



     Mulder glanced up again and his hand instinctively moved to again

clutch the butt of his Gun.  The man's expression had changed.

Suddenly.  Startlingly.  And it wasn't just that he was blatantly

stoned.



     The man smiled, but it was an expression devoid of warmth -- and

rich with recognition.  He glanced quickly from Mulder to Scully and

back again.  Instinctively, Scully backpedaled, reaching for her own

gun, but it was too late.  With unbelievable speed, the man reached

into his boot and lunged toward her.  Mulder swerved, yanking his gun

free in one clean movement, but he was too close in to fire in time.



     There was a brief flash of silver as the man's clenched fist came

down with a sickening thump.



     The impact knocked Scully into Mulder.  Mulder shoved hard,

sending the hiker reeling away, but he lunged forward again.  This

time, though, Mulder was ready, and he fired, more than once.



     Still clutching the knife, the hiker slumped to the ground.

Mulder felt his heart slamming against his rib cage -- what the hell

had just happened?  He kept the gun trained on the man, who was

straining against the ground, trying mightily to sit up.  His eyes

struggled purposefully upward until they found Mulder's, and then the

man did something surprising.  He smiled, even as blood trailed from

one corner of his mouth.



     Then he spoke.  "I'll find you...again, Agent Mulder," he rasped.

Mulder could only stare at him.  "Gotta play by...the rules, G-man."



     Then the man's eyes drooped, and he fell back against the snow

and was still.  A thick blanket of silence descended, punctuated only

by Mulder's own heavy breathing.  His own, and -- *Scully*.



     Somehow, she had still been standing.  What he would remember

later was not the sharp realization as he turned on his heels and

caught her as she began to fall, or the way he breathed her name over

and over as if, somehow, it was a mantra that could take the moment

back.  All he remembered was the blood, *her* blood, sprayed in bright

droplets over the snowy ground; the blood and the abrupt sickening

feeling that he was going to lose the only person who'd ever mattered,

ever been able to really touch him, a second and final time.



     "Scully!" he whispered again, this time with a steady intensity

that nonetheless belied what he was thinking. *God, no.*  He felt her

sink into him, her hands, wet with the same thick blood, gripping

tight handfuls of his white sweater.  Her upturned eyes registered a

sheer surprise that was frozen in the instant the blade had come down.

She gasped for breath. *No.*  His blood ran cold.  He held her,

frantically ripped his winter coat from one shoulder, then the other,

and threw it out over the snow.  Gently, almost gingerly, he eased her

to the ground.



     He felt dizzy.  That was Modell.  My God, that was Modell!

Somehow, *somehow*, that son of a bitch had tracked them down from his

hospital bed.  He'd been so quick to pick up on Mulder's weak spot,

and he'd used it so well.  Hurting Scully to hurt him. *Payback time.*



     He felt paralyzed, but a small, detached voice spoke in the back

of his mind. *Pressure.*  He needed to put pressure on the wound.  She

wouldn't let go of him, so he crouched on hands and knees, his face

inches from hers as he fumbled, pushing her coat aside, until he found

the jagged rip just above the right front pocket of her blue flannel

shirt.  He covered the hole with one palm and pushed down as hard as

he dared.  Blood continued to run beneath his hand, seeping between

his fingers, soaking her chest and hair, puddling underneath her.



     With the other hand, he rummaged urgently for his cell-phone,

finally yanking it from the pocket of his coat beneath her.  He

flipped the phone open with a violent snap and jabbed at the emergency

button with his thumb. *Please*, he thought, *please*, but he knew

they were high in the mountains, miles from anything.  A vague static

hiss was his only reward.  He watched as realization crept into her

eyes.  Her grip on his sweater relaxed, and a sudden spike of fear hit

him.



     "Dammit!" he growled, flinging the phone away.  "We're out of

range."  She nodded once, slowly; her face was growing so pale, her

lips were turning blue, her eyelids falling, as shock sank in.

Panicked, he felt her begin to slip away from him, her labored and

erratic breathing growing more and more shallow as she lost

consciousness.  "Dana, don't you do this," he hissed.  She was going

limp, a heavy, life-sized rag-doll.  Her hands released his sweater

and fell.  "Look at me!"  She didn't respond. *Please, no,* he pleaded

silently, *I can't do this again.  Not again.*  Sudden anger overtook

him.  "Goddammit, Scully," he barked sharply, "*look at me!*"



     He was rewarded with movement, and her eyes fluttered open, but

the gaze that she fixed on him seemed so far away that he wasn't sure

she was seeing him.  "Scully," he said again, loudly, "come on.

You've been stabbed.  You're a doctor.  I need your help."



     She licked her lips and squinted at him.  She was having such a

hard time getting her breath...was she drowning?  No, not drowning.

There was pain, but it didn't feel like it belonged to her.  From a

distance, she heard Mulder's voice telling her she'd been stabbed.

Suddenly the pain made sense.  The drowning feeling -- a hole in her

chest.  She could hear herself wheezing with a characteristic gurgling

sound.



     "Plastic," she whispered finally, fighting her punctured lung for

precious air.  "And tape."



     His heart leapt when she spoke, but he didn't falter.  "Hold on,"

he said.  Their eyes locked, and he saw recognition in hers; it was as

much a forlorn plea as a simple turn of phrase.  He took her hands,

put them where his had been, and pushed down hard.  She nodded.



     He pulled their backpack closer and tore through it, flinging

things to the ground -- food, tent stakes, a painfully useless first-aid kit --

until he came up with a roll of grey tape and an empty plastic bag.

The tape was new, and his hands shook as he unraveled it.  "Now

what?" he asked unsteadily.



     "Plastic," she breathed, "over the wound...tape it down."  She

moved her hands away.



     He pulled her gently upward and pushed the coat away from her

shoulders, deftly unbuckled and removed the shoulder holster she'd

chosen for this trip, then gently eased her back down.  Trembling

threatened to overtake him as he unbuttoned her shirt, and the part of

his brain that just couldn't believe this could be real whispered to

him that unbuttoning her shirt would have him shaking in any context.

But when he pulled back the blood-soaked, checkered blue flannel, it

was like ice-water down his spine.



     "Oh," he murmured, despite himself, "oh, God."  The stab wound

was sizeable, about an inch and a half across, and obviously deep.

Foaming blood bubbled from it as she tried to breathe.



     One look at her expression and he regretted his words.  "Bad?"

she mouthed barely, panic briefly visible in her clear blue eyes

before it was squashed, quickly replaced with a look of detached

medical concern.



     *Jesus, you jerk,* he thought, but it was too late to lie to her

now; he looked down and nodded slowly as he pushed the plastic down

over the wound.  "Yeah," he muttered, unsure of what else to say.  He

watched in amazement as the wound sucked the plastic in tight against

her skin, and he was immediately relieved to hear her breathing steady

and become less labored.  Though still wheezing, she relaxed visibly,

no longer desperately gulping air.



     She felt his hand slide beneath her shirt to rest between her

shoulder blades.  He lifted her gently and pulled her right arm out of

her sleeve, then carefully eased the satiny green of her brastrap down

and moved her elbow through it carefully.  (*Green,* that tiny,

disbelieving part of his mind whispered.)  He wound the heavy grey

duct tape around her body, under her right arm and over her left

shoulder, to assure that the plastic bag stayed in place.  The blood

made it hard to get the tape to stick, but he managed.  It was slowing

now, and the pressure of the makeshift bandage was helping -- the

knife had missed the artery.



     She was surprised at the way the pain felt, vague and distant.

Blood loss and shock threatened to drag her into unconsciousness a

second time.  Desperate to keep herself awake, she focused on Mulder.

He was handling her as if she were crystal, and with a sudden, amazed

jolt she realized she didn't want to die now, not because she was

afraid, but because she didn't want to leave him.  Not yet.  She

reached up, weakly brushing his chin with her fingers, and held his

unfathomable gaze.



     Mulder froze at the touch of her fingers against his skin.  The

thought surfaced quietly, not unexpected (or even unwelcome? he

wondered briefly). *My life for hers.  It's a fair trade -- whaddaya

say?*  He buried it quickly, shook off the way her eyes searched his

face, and mustered an unsteady smile.  "Would you believe," he

murmured, suddenly uncomfortable, "that this was all a plot to get

inside your shirt?"



     She had to smile.  Even when he was a jerk, he knew how to make

her smile.  "Mulder, you are...an asshole," she managed.



     "I've been called worse," he shot back, amused at her words and

relieved to hear any hint of life in her voice.  She'd only cursed

once before in front of him -- it was so unlike her.  Then again, he

realized with a sudden, bleak shudder, she usually wasn't lying in the

snow with a hole in her chest.



     He was abruptly terrified that she was dying.  (The quiet voice

spoke again -- *if she did, it wouldn't take you long to follow her,

would it?*)  Despite the X-Files, despite Samantha, it would be so

easy to die for Scully.  Too easy -- easier than living without her

again.  He had to get her out of there fast.



     His mind raced.  How many miles were they from a ranger station,

a radio, anything?  At least five -- yes, five.  They'd passed a

ranger station about five miles back on the trail.  He looked up at

the grey sky -- it was going to be dark in a few hours, and it was

twenty-five degrees now.  Leaving her here was out of the question --

Modell wasn't through with either of them, that much was clear.  And

leaving her might mean leaving her to die, a thought that was more

than he could bear.  If she was going to die, she wasn't going to be

alone when it happened.  He was in shape, and she was small (how she

hated it when he pointed that out!).  He could carry her five miles.

He could.



     He looked back down at her, straight into her eyes, and said with

that particular brand of determination that was his alone, "I'm

getting you back to that ranger's station we passed.  Now."  And

before she could muster the strength to answer he cast around, fished

his cell-phone out of the snow and shoved it into the back pocket of

his jeans.  He glanced down at the backpack.  He'd have to leave that

where it was.  He grabbed the roll of grey tape, stuffed it into

another pocket, slung Scully's holster over one shoulder, then bent

down for her.



     Her eyes grew imperceptibly wider as he hefted her easily into

his arms, cradling her gently, her head resting against his chest.

*He's really going to try to carry me,* she thought, disbelieving.

Still, his resolve comforted her, and despite the pain and the shock

she was suddenly, irrationally certain she wasn't going to die here,

on this mountain, as long as he stayed with her.  She smiled weakly.

"Testost...erone-induced...delusion, macho man?" she mouthed, barely

audible.  "You can't...carry me...that far."



     "Watch me," he grunted and, shifting her gently in his arms,

began to walk.



End part 1...................





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



From: rm12908@navix.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW:  Will to Power 2/3

Date: Wed, 27 Mar 96 08:46:13 GMT





Disclaimers, etc., in part 1





                           Will to Power 2/3

                           by Birgit Mueller





     Scully hovered between consciousness and surreal dreaming as the

pain in her chest, much sharper now, nudged her awake and then

subsided in cycles.  She felt soft wool against her cheek and smelled

the familiar smell of Mulder's cologne.  She moved to look up at him,

but suddenly she was staring into the bright, unreal, yellow eyes of

Eugene Tooms.  He lunged forward and bit hard into the soft, bare

flesh above her breast.  She tried to scream, but couldn't.  God, it

hurt, but then Tooms disappeared and she realized he had never been

there at all.  She looked down at the source of the pain and gasped,

seeing the word SISTER carved across her chest in jagged, bloody

marks.  No, that couldn't be real.  The marks disappeared.  What was

happening?



     Suddenly, clearly, she was in the hospital room again, staring in

horror down the barrel of a revolver.  Mulder's hands were shaking.

Modell's words reverberated in her ears:  "Shoot the little spy!"  The

pain in Mulder's eyes was like a separate entity, a tangible thing

with a life of its own.  It was too much; a tear spilled over onto her

cheek.  "I'm gonna kill you, Modell," Mulder grunted, his voice

breaking, then, "Scully, run!"  She tried but felt herself frozen in

place, and with sudden fear she realized she wasn't wearing a vest.

Mulder tried to say her name again, twice, but Modell had taken even

that.  His finger tightened around the trigger, and the last thing she

saw was the terror in his eyes as the bullet barked from the gun with

a kick and struck, tearing into her with vicious certainty.  The pain

pierced her chest, suddenly, intensely --



     She started awake with a short, muffled cry.  What was happening?

She felt her breathing, fast and difficult and shallow, and suddenly

memory flooded back.  She realized quickly that she was still in

Mulder's arms.  Twilight was descending -- how long had he been

walking?  She looked up at him as he glanced down at her, responding

to the startled noise she'd just made.



     "Scully?  Scully, it's okay...I think we're...almost there," he

managed, breathless.  She nodded once, and he smiled.  She realized

he'd been carrying her for what must've been an eternity for him.  She

could feel his heart pounding through his sweater.  His dark hair was

drenched, and all of his exposed skin was steaming in the cold. *He's

going to catch pneumonia,* she thought, hearing the worried cliche

echo through her.  And she noticed that his arms were shaking.  People

running on adrenaline sometimes did amazing things, true, but their

bodies paid the price.  She was light as human beings went, but all of

her weight was resting on his arms.  By now he couldn't have avoided

joint damage in his elbows and shoulders, regardless of how strong he

was.  But he was smiling at her, looking relieved to see her glance up

at him.



     She felt something tug at her, a feeling more familiar than she

was willing to admit.  The fleeting thought -- *I love this man* --

rose unbidden from somewhere quiet and buried.  Deciding it was blood

loss making her punchy, she pushed the thought away.  It scared her

less to contemplate having just been stabbed.



     Stabbed.  By who?  Why?  Her memory was fuzzy, distorted, but she

could've sworn the man had said something to Mulder about playing by

the rules.  No, he couldn't have said that.  She was just too hazy to

remember.  Feeling lightheaded, she let it go and settled in deeper

against Mulder's body.  She liked the feeling of his heart beating

against her cheek and the smell of his cologne mixed with new sweat.

But that didn't mean...no, of course not.  That was absurd...no, no

that was *insane*.  It was the situation, not the man.  It had to be.



     The ranger station came into view as they passed over a small

rise in the trail.  Relief flooded over Mulder, coursing through his

entire body and making his injured joints throb.  The pain in his left

shoulder was bad, and he had been wondering silently how much further

he would be capable of going before his body rebelled and refused to

do his bidding.



     The station rushed up on them quickly, and Mulder quickly

appraised it.  It was really a small house, or so it appeared.  A

stack of firewood rose next to the front door, but the chimney was

still.  Two parallel ruts led off into the distance, through the snow,

and there were footprints all around the porch and stairs, but there

was no sign of the four-wheel drive vehicle it would take to get here

from the road many miles to the south.



     He stumbled up the porch stairs and pounded on the door with his

foot as he peered into the large window set just above the doorknob.

It was dark inside the station, too dark to see inside in the fading

light.  When he didn't get an immediate response, he pounded harder.

"Hey," he shouted, "FBI!  I've got an injury!  Open the door!"



     His frustrated kicking built in intensity, until finally it was

obvious that no one was there.  He stopped abruptly, and in one fluid,

startling movement, he set Scully down a safe distance away on the

wooden porch, turned back, and smashed the window with the heel of his

fist.  He reached in and turned the doorknob, smearing it with fresh

blood, and the door creaked backward.



     Scully watched him in amazement.  He hadn't even bothered to

protect himself.  She saw glass fragments glittering along the heel of

his bloodied hand as he reached back down for her.  "Mulder," she

whispered, "you're bleeding."



     He stopped, startled, realizing what he'd done, and looked down

at his hand.  "Damn," he muttered, surprised and sheepish.  "Sorry."



     *What is he apologizing for?* she thought, watching him as he

yanked the sweater over his head and wrapped it around his hand.  His

white T-shirt was soaked with sweat and stained with her blood, and as

he bent down to pick her up she felt him shivering.  Still, it seemed

easy for him to carry her inside -- if he was hurting, he wasn't

letting her see it.



     Pain screamed at him to let her go as he lifted her from the

wooden planks of the porch and brought her inside.  He ignored it as

he stood inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust.  He kicked the

door closed behind him and felt the draft from the broken window.



     The living area wasn't much, one sparsely furnished room with a

bed, an old recliner, a reading table, and a tiny kitchen alcove.  A

pot-bellied stove was the only source of heat.  He began to lay her

down gently on the bed, but she shook her head.  "No," she murmured.

"I need to sit...I need to sit up...to breathe."



     "Ok."  Carefully, he repositioned her so that she was sitting,

grabbed the pillows, and stuffed them behind her.  She settled back,

feeling as comfortable as she could get.  Her chest was throbbing now,

unrelentingly, and she began to shiver as well.



     It was cold in the cabin.  Mulder, not wanting to jostle her any

more than necessary, reached over her and pulled the blanket's edges

in toward him.  He wrapped her carefully in the blanket, and, when he

was sure she was warmer, he found himself reaching up, for just an

instant, to smooth the hair away from her forehead with his uninjured

hand.  She was so pale, and her lips were still tinged with blue, and

her hair was matted with blood, and he thought she was beautiful

enough to take his breath away because she was alive and she was

awake and she was looking at him.



     It was only an instant before he realized what he was doing and

pulled away, but it was long enough for Scully to recognize the look

on his face.  She'd seen it before, and she had never been sure what

to make of it, or of him when he did it.  But he always looked

uncomfortable when she caught him, like a little boy who'd given away

a secret he wasn't even supposed to know.  She felt her heart tugging

at her again, like a child trying to get someone's attention.  She

ignored it.



     Mulder cleared his throat, threw the blood-soaked sweater he was

still clutching into a corner, placed Scully's holster on the reading

table, emptied his pockets, and began to glance around the room.  His

hand was beginning to sting, but at least it had for the most part

stopped bleeding.  "There has to be a radio here," he croaked.  There

were two interior doors in the room.  One turned out to be the

bathroom, and the other one was locked.  Without a second's

hesitation, he pulled his gun free and fired, shattering the doorknob.

The lock gave way, and he shoved the door open with a bang.



     His heart sank; the small office had been wrecked.  His eyes

ranged quickly over the room, taking in a morass of paper, broken

glass, and twisted metal as he searched for any sign of a radio or a

telephone.  Digging through the contents of a file cabinet that had

been dumped on the floor in a far corner of the room, he finally found

the radio.  It had been hopelessly smashed.  Feeling suddenly

nauseous, he sat down hard on the floor and cradled his injured hand.



     Now what?



     *No.*  Helplessness quickly gave way to anger, an emotion with

which he was much more familiar. *You aren't going to win, you son of

a bitch!*  Pain shot from several locations as he slammed both fists

suddenly down on the floor and stood up abruptly.



     Scully was looking at him curiously as he stalked back into the

small living area.  She could tell by the look on his face that he

hadn't found a radio, and she felt the briefest instant of fear; the

helicopter wasn't due to pick them up for two days, and the landing

site was twenty-five miles away.  Then she swallowed hard and willed

the feeling away.



     He sat down on the bed beside her.  She saw the muscles in his

jaw tensing rhythmically as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.  He

took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then said, "He's been busy.

He's already been here."



     Scully looked puzzled.  "Who?"



     Mulder sighed inwardly. *Here we go,* he thought.  "Modell.  I

know he isn't done with us.  And he's already been here.  The radio's

been smashed."



     Scully frowned.  She *had* remembered the hiker's last words,

after all.  But even so, what Mulder was suggesting...  "What are

you...saying, Mulder?" she breathed.  God, she had to work so hard to

talk.  She wanted to say more -- it was just impossible.  She believed

Modell had a power over people; she had experienced his effect on

Mulder firsthand.  But now the little man who'd wanted so desperately

to be called Pusher was practically vegetative.  Besides, how could he

be influencing people from his hospital bed in another state?  He

couldn't do that even when he was conscious.



     Mulder scowled, reading the gist of her thoughts in her upturned

eyes.  "I know, Scully, but astral projection is..." He trailed off,

seeing the incredulous look in her eyes, then continued with renewed

insistence.  "I know what I heard.  It sounded like him.  Hell, it

even looked like him!  And the last thing he said was that I hadn't

played by the rules."  He fought back a sudden surge of guilt. *He*

hadn't, and *she* was paying for it, paying a twisted penalty in some

sick game.



     Scully wanted to answer him, to tell him that there just had to

be another explanation.  The hiker had clearly been stoned.  He

must've been hallucinating.  His words had just been a coincidence.

That had to be it.  The idea that Modell could be responsible was both

too bizarre and too frightening to accept.



     She tried to speak, but talking was so alarmingly difficult, and

she found she was just too drained to argue.  She made do by simply

arching an eyebrow at him.  Recognizing the familiar look, he thought

better of continuing the conversation.  Suddenly overwhelmed by his

own fatigue, he sighed deeply, hanging his head, and pushed the

fingers of his uninjured hand through his still-damp hair.  It was

growing progressively darker as the sun set, and he knew they were

stuck there for the night.  He couldn't leave her alone knowing that

Modell was still out there, waiting.  He didn't know what to do next,

he was frightened beyond his willingness to acknowledge it at the

thought that she might still die, he hurt everywhere, and he was

damned cold.  He shuddered involuntarily.



     The touch of Scully's hand lightly moving across his back

startled him, and he lifted his head to look at her.  She was giving

him that tender look he knew was his alone, and he felt the heat rise

against his cheeks.  He was glad the light was fading.  She'd looked

at him like that before -- why did it make him so uneasy now?  He felt

rooted to the spot, unable to move, like a rabbit caught in the

headlights of an onrushing semi.



     "Mulder," she whispered, "your hand..."



     He felt her hand as it moved gently down to the small of his

back, then fell away.  Then her eyes closed and the spell was broken.



     He fought down a wave of panic.  He took note of the steady, if

shallow, way her chest rose and fell, and he reassured himself that

she was just growing tired, and she'd soon be asleep.  She didn't seem

to be in immediate danger.  She would make it through this.  She had

to; the alternative wasn't something he could consider.



     He turned toward her, reaching out in the growing darkness to

brush the hair away from her forehead.  "Shhh," he whispered.  "I'll

take care of it after I get a fire going to keep you warm."  He leaned

in, intending to kiss her on the forehead.



     Instead, of their own accord, his lips brushed hers, very

lightly.  He jerked back swiftly, feeling guilty and surprised at

himself, shocked when it dawned on him that she hadn't protested, and

flooded with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when he

realized that it was because she was already fast asleep.  He scowled

and shook his head.  "You are losing your mind," he mumbled absently

as his feet found the floor.



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



     When Scully awoke, it was from a sleep that had been dark and

dreamless.  The first thing she saw was the hazy image of Mulder,

watching her from his seat at the foot of the bed.  He was pointing

toward the door, and when her vision cleared she noted that his gun

was lying near her feet.  She glanced around, searching for her own

weapon, until she saw it on the reading table, its clip removed and,

presumably, safely tucked in Mulder's pocket.



     It took a moment for recent events to come back to her, where she

was, why her body ached so miserably and her breathing was shallow and

pained...why Mulder had that look on his face.  Her heart twinged

briefly when her eyes focused and she got a better look at him in the

warm, flickering light emanating from the pot-bellied stove in the

center of the room.  He'd taken off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and she

was horrified to note the huge dark bruise, black and purple, working

its way to the surface of his skin from the joint in his left

shoulder, the one that had earlier been bearing the brunt of her

weight.  A torn bit of white cloth -- she guessed it was from his T-shirt --

was tied around the palm of his right hand.  Worst, though, was the way

he was looking at her.  He looked terrified, and he looked exhausted.



     "You look like hell," she murmured, testing her voice, carefully

pushing herself further upright against the pillows.  Speaking was

coming somewhat more easily, and that was a good sign.  She shifted a

bit more and noted with irritation that the tape -- she realized it

was duct tape -- Mulder had so liberally applied to her body was

beginning to itch.



     "Yes, but I have such a wonderful personality," he replied,

moving quickly to help her.  "Besides, isn't that my line?"



     Satisfied that she was comfortable, he grabbed the gun, moving it

so that it was again within easy reach, and sat down beside her.  She

knew he was serious -- he believed Modell would be back.  He was

pointing straight at the door, but she was facing away from it, and

she was surprised to note how much that bothered her.



     "Not if you know what's good for you," she answered with a quick

half-smile, determined to keep a tight rein on the paranoia creeping

into her own psyche.  What if he were right...



     Mulder lifted his eyebrows, noting the strength that had returned

to her voice.  "You sound better."  She nodded, seeing the relief in

his eyes; she didn't have the heart to remind him that surviving the

wound was nothing compared to surviving the infection that would

inevitably follow.



     She wondered how long she'd been asleep.  Then she wondered how

long he'd been keeping watch.  She looked up at him, reminded suddenly

of another time, another vigil he'd kept for her.  He did look so

tired.  Tired, and vulnerable.  He wasn't making much of an effort to

hide that.  She searched for something to say, something that would

comfort him, but all that came out was, "What time is it?"



     Mulder glanced down at the watch that somehow still clung to his

wrist.  "Nine-thirty.  You've been sleeping for a few hours, Scully."



     "Oh," she breathed.  She picked up his hand, the one with the

makeshift bandage, and turned it over slowly, inspecting his work.  He

silently allowed her.  For a moment, neither of them spoke.



     The image of him smashing the window came back to her, full

force.  He'd been so single-minded, so intent on keeping her safe,

that self-protection hadn't even occurred to him.  And with

Modell...when the order had been to pull the trigger on himself, he'd

barely hesitated.  It was only when the gun had been aimed at her that

Mulder had fought.  With the sudden kind of epiphany only hindsight

can bring, she realized in that instant that he'd endangered himself

so willingly because he wanted the bullet.  He wanted it so that he

wouldn't be pushed into putting it in her.  He must've *known* that

Modell would use her against him.  His protectiveness, his concern --

Modell had seen in a day or two the power of what she'd been fighting

ever since coming back from the coma.  Mulder's search for Samantha

had taken him quite literally to the ends of the earth; but somehow,

over the course of their work together, *she*, Dana Scully, had become

his biggest vulnerability.  And that, she feared suddenly, made her a

liability.



     She wondered if he regretted it.  "Mulder..." she murmured,

breaking the silence.  Still clutching his hand, she let it come to

rest in her lap.  She caught and held his gaze.  "Mulder, what do you

regret most?"



     The suddenly personal turn of the conversation took him

completely by surprise.  She saw the look on his face, but she pressed

onward.  Unwilling to ask the question poised before her, she asked

the obvious instead.  "Is it losing your sister?"



     He frowned.  He had so many regrets.  He regretted losing his

sister, yes, and the X-Files had grown from the power of that regret

like mushrooms taking root in rotten wood.  But he had since come to

know, and to *understand* for the first time, that his sister's loss

was a part of something much larger than him, something his father had

somehow blundered into so long ago.  And the X-Files had brought him

Scully; despite everything, he just couldn't regret her presence in

his life.



     "Most?  No," he answered quietly.  He saw her tense, didn't

understand quite why, but he was being honest.  For whatever reason

she'd asked, he sensed that she needed honesty.  "No, it isn't.  What

I regret most -- " He swallowed hard, feeling an unexpected tightness

in his throat.  The truth was so vital to his sense of himself -- so

why was it that truths like this were so difficult?  And yet, without

even giving it thought, he knew that this *was* the truth.  "What I

regret most is not being there for you."



     Her expression changed, and he swore he saw relief in it.

Relief, and then confusion.  She shook her head, not understanding.

"But you've always been there for me."



     He pulled his hand away from hers, abruptly angry.  "No, I

haven't," he hissed, turning away.  Then, softer, "I haven't.  I

wasn't there when you called me about the chip -- when Duane Barry..."

He trailed off, unable to say the word  abducted'.  Both hands swiped

helplessly through his hair. "Not then...and not last week.  I wasn't

there for you when Modell..." *Dammit!*  An unexpected surge of

frustration hit him.  He lurched abruptly from the bed and took two

swift steps away from her.  Why did he have to say this?  Why was she

making him say this?  "Scully," he rasped, unable to turn around, to

face her, "don't you realize that I almost *shot* you?"



     There was a long pause, then, "But you didn't."  The words were

soft, so soft he almost didn't hear her.  He turned to face her

slowly.  "You didn't shoot me."



     He cringed.  How could he explain?  There weren't any words to

describe what Modell had done to him.  It was worse than just being

trapped in a body that wouldn't do what you told it.  Modell had

pushed his mind as well, telling him to hate her, telling him she was

a traitor, a spy...not just telling him to kill her, but telling him

to *want* it.  It had taken everything he had, *everything*, just to

tell her to run, to resist pulling the trigger just long enough for

her to get away.  He hated himself for that, hated his inability to

resist -- hated hearing her exhortations to fight back and knowing

he'd let her down.



     How could he tell her that?



     The worst of it was the knowledge that she forgave him, even

though he couldn't forgive himself.  He didn't think he deserved her

loyalty.  But despite that, he knew he needed it, and her, more than

anything else.  The thought of him without her swept away the anger.

Slowly, he eased back down beside her.



     Her blue eyes were large as she watched him intently in the dim

light.  Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth

when he saw her face.  "I never thanked you," he noted, the rest of

Modell's words coming back to him.



     She squinted at him.  "For what?"



     His lips twisted into a wry grin that was not devoid of humor.

"For saving my ass that night with Krycek."



     There was momentary pain in her expression, and he immediately

regretted being so flippant.  But it was an old pain, one they both

understood, one they had long since gotten past.  She smiled, too,

answering him with, "You know I wouldn't shoot just anyone, Mulder."



     "What *about* you?" he asked abruptly.  She looked puzzled at the

sudden change of subject.  "Why did you ask me about regrets?  What do

you regret?"  He looked at her anxiously, half afraid to hear the

answer.  He was afraid that what she most regretted was being assigned

to the X-files; he knew that was what she *should* regret.  It had

cost her too damned much -- a promising career, her sister's life, two

months of her own.  He felt a sudden stinging deep in the center of

his chest.



     Her eyes flashed briefly with a veiled something he couldn't

quite read, then she stunned him.  She told him the truth.  "Honestly,

Mulder?  I regret so many things.  But I have never once regretted

having the X-Files in my life."  Her heart tugged at her again,

insistently, and this time she felt the push of its tiny palms against

that barrier, the one that had been so clear until this moment.  Panic

gripped her as she was unable to stop the words from fleeing her lips.

"Having you in my life."



     She held her breath and stared at her hands.  She was half-expecting,

and half hoping for, one of Mulder's distancing remarks to

pierce the bubble of truth she found herself suspended in and return

the status quo.  But for once, he was painfully silent. *What the

hell,* she thought. *You've done it now, so tell him the rest.*  She

felt the words escape in a rush.  "I've thought a lot about Modell,

Mulder.  He used me against you.  He played on your feelings.  I never

wanted you to think you had to protect me.  Never.  But..."



     Her words trailed off as he reached a finger under her chin and

tilted her gaze to meet his.  His eyes shone almost black in the

shifting light from the stove. *Having you in my life,* he repeated

silently.  The barrier was blurring; he felt it too.  How had they

arrived at this moment, here, now?  He knew what it meant to him; what

did it mean to her?



     He finished her thought, forcing the words out deliberately,

slowly, the importance of what he was saying not escaping either of

them.  "But I do."



     She felt the tears and cursed silently.  When had her feelings

for him gotten so out of control?  "And I'm afraid that one day that

will kill you," she murmured starkly. *And I couldn't take that.  I

need to protect you too, you bastard, and you make it damn hard.*

Anger surged, anger at herself for feeling what she did, anger at him

for -- for what?  For returning the sentiment?  For loving her?

*Goddamn you.*



     He watched the emotion play across her face, and it scared him.

"Dana," he insisted -- his use of her first name surprised her -- "it

hasn't killed me yet."  His fingers moved to touch her face, his thumb

tracing the outline of her cheekbone.  He felt her anger ebb swiftly

beneath the warmth of his touch.



     He was afraid she could feel his hand shaking.  The old, familiar

terror was encroaching on him now.  He cared about her too much, too

much for him to be comfortable.  Caring meant wounds, not the kind you

could doctor but the kind that just hung around, festering, waiting

for a familiar smell or a sound or a fleeting memory to break free and

make them bleed again.  Life had taught him that, the hard way.



     But in Dana's case, it was just too goddamn late.  Though he

couldn't pinpoint the exact instant of his defeat, he knew he'd lost

that particular little war a long time ago.  All that remained now,

all that had remained for months, was to admit it -- to her, and to

himself.  He was the psychologist; he recognized the denial that was

no longer working.  He would have to be honest now; say it, and then

pick up the pieces.  He took a deep breath.



     "I'm still alive," he said, hesitantly.  His hand fell away to

land in his lap, and his gaze slid from her face to stare at the door

again.  This was too hard.  His voice sounded as if it had taken brute

force to unseat.  "...And I don't think it would be humanly possible

for me to care about you more than I do already."



     For a long moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the

crackling of the wood burning in the stove.  He just couldn't bring

himself to look at her.  She had his heart.  What she intended to do

with it was another question, one whose answer he both feared and

needed to know.



     Scully wrestled with her own emotions.  She couldn't speak -- she

didn't trust her voice, and tears still blurred the corners of her

vision.  It wasn't the situation.  It was the man, and she knew it.

She'd known it for quite some time.  But it was just too much, too

complicated -- they were *partners*, and she valued that as much as he

did.  And his intensity could be frightening.  More than once, she had

found herself comparing him to a brush fire, the kind you think is

only smoldering until it erupts suddenly and scorches the earth around

you with searing heat.



     Would he be like that as a lover?



     Why did he pose such a constant challenge to her better

judgement?



     Of all people, it was Missy, the negative image of her scientific

detachment, whose words suddenly came to her, words of advice from a

far distant place and time. *Love is not something you do, Dana; it's

something that happens to you.  It isn't yours to decide.  Just trust

that there must be a reason.*



     She knew she was still in danger.  Her lung had reinflated, and

she had survived the initial wound, but she recognized the first vague

signs of fever and realized there was still a good chance she would

die out here...greater a chance than she wanted Mulder to know.  She

couldn't leave all this unfinished.  Both of them deserved better.

But if she survived...what kind of jeopardy would this put their

partnership in?



     Reaching up to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, she suddenly

found her breath.  "Mulder," she said, her voice sounding oddly low to

her own ears.  He looked at her then, with a cryptic intensity that

was reflected back at him in her own eyes.  "You've always been the

believer."  Afraid to move, he watched her struggle with herself.

She bit her lower lip, suddenly frightened, then released it slowly.

"If you believe in...in this, you've got to promise me, *promise* me,

we won't lose what we've already got together." *God,* she thought,

*that was so unfair.*  But the need to hear him say it overpowered

everything else.



     He had the answer he needed -- he knew her intentions.  This time

he didn't hesitate, didn't even blink.  The barrier dissolved, and

there was nothing across the span of his consciousness but her -- her

and the truth.  "Not as long as I'm breathing, Scully," he whispered.



     She pulled him in close even as he said it, her fingers twining

through his hair, her lips finding his with infinite gentleness.  The

kiss was tentative, exploratory, lingering.



     ...modell's adrenaline surged once more...



     Mulder didn't see the shadow on the porch, but he heard the creak

of rusted hinges as the door swung back.  He broke away from Scully

instantly, grabbed his Smith & Wesson, and swung it around to stare

down the barrel at the burly figure of a man in a park ranger's

uniform.



     "How touching, Agent Mulder," the man said, smirking.  "I thought

the two of you were...*close*."



End part 2...................





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



From: rm12908@navix.net

Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative

Subject: NEW:  Will to Power 3/3

Date: Wed, 27 Mar 96 08:48:33 GMT





Disclaimers, etc., in part 1









                           Will to Power 3/3

                           by Birgit Mueller







     Startled, Scully tried to slow her breathing down.  She couldn't

afford to put stress on her injured lung.  She didn't dare twist to

see what had made Mulder react.  But then she saw Mulder's face, and

heard the voice, and she knew.



     He had been right.



     "Modell," Mulder growled.  He was rigid, every muscle straining

to keep sudden hatred from boiling over.  Even as he realized that

this wasn't Modell in body, but only in spirit, he still struggled to

keep from blasting the man's head off before he took even one more

step.



     Modell smiled, unaffected by Mulder's reaction, and moved easily

into the room.  "In the flesh," he said.  "So to speak."  The

firelight barely illuminated him enough to make out his features.

This man was young, tall, and stocky, with a bright shock of blond

hair falling from his forehead.  His eyes were blue steel.  Hard.

Dead.



     Mulder's mind raced with questions -- whatever Modell was doing

now, it was clearly different, and more powerful, than what he'd done

before.  But Mulder had no intention of asking.  Not when Scully was

still in danger.  He wanted Modell gone.  Now.  His finger tightened

against the trigger of the gun, and he fought with himself over

relaxing it.  "What do you want?" he said with barely contained fury.



     Modell took several more steps, until he stood in the center of

the room, one hand resting almost nonchalantly against the pipe

leading upward from the pot-bellied stove.  If it was hot, he

pretended not to notice.  "You're a quick study, Agent Mulder."  His

eyes ranged approvingly over Scully's bloody and pale form as she

looked up at him with wide eyes.  Mulder fought harder the urge to

kill him, whoever he was, where he stood.  "You're an Oxford grad.

You figure out what I want."



     Mulder's lips pressed thin.  He knew what the man wanted.  Just

to make him suffer.  To extract revenge for Mulder's refusal, in the

end, to play by his rules.  But he wasn't going to give Modell the

satisfaction of psychoanalysis.  His eyes narrowed, revealing more

tightly controlled rage than Scully had thought even Mulder capable

of.  "I should kill you right now," he snarled.  His finger tightened

again, imperceptibly, against the trigger.



     "Mulder, *no*," Scully whispered, her hand on his arm.



     Hit with deja vu, Modell positively grinned.  "Mulder, yes," he

intoned, smirking.  But this time his voice had no effect.  Either

those earlier abilities were gone, or they weren't being used.  Mulder

thought briefly that Modell must be working awfully hard to control

this park ranger, whoever he was.  It must be taking a massive amount

of energy.



     "Yes, if you want to," Modell continued, completely undaunted by

the gun pointed at him.  "But it won't matter.  I'll just be back."

He grinned again.  "Besides, I don't really think you want to shoot

this man.  He's divorced, but he's got two children."  He reached into

his back pocket, and Mulder tensed, but he merely produced a wallet.

He opened it, revealing a picture of two small blond children, a boy

and a girl, smiling into the camera.  He held it out for Mulder's

inspection.



     Mulder, the gun never wavering, reached out with his free hand

and slapped the wallet abruptly out of Modell's palm.  Dammit, the man

was right.  He couldn't shoot an -- *another,* he reminded himself,

wincing at the thought of the hiker -- innocent bystander.  There had

been too many of them hurt already.



     So now what?



     Modell smiled.  They remained that way for a long moment, neither

of them speaking, eyes locked.  Mulder's gun began to shake.  Then he

slumped, unable to shoot and hating the feeling that gave him.  The

gun fell to rest in his lap.



     Finally, it was Modell who spoke.  "So, Mulder," he murmured.

"I'll give you another chance.  What do you think I want?"



     Mulder sighed and made a disgusted face.  "Oh, I dunno, Modell.

Maybe you just wanna torture me a little more before you go."



     A slow grin spread across the blond man's face, and he nodded

slowly.  "Maybe I do."  His eyes wandered again over Scully's pale

features.  Involuntarily, she shuddered, and a slight cough escaped

her lips despite her best efforts to keep it down.  She realized

suddenly that her fever had rapidly gone from vague to quite apparent

-- a bad sign.



     "I'd say I picked just the right soft spot, wouldn't you?"  With

a look of mock compassion, Modell moved toward Scully, hand

outstretched.



     Instantly, Mulder swung the S&W back up to stop him in his

tracks.  "Don't -- you -- *touch* -- her," he warned, pushing the

words out in a deadly staccato cadence.



     Modell looked down, nodding, palms up.  "All right," he agreed

calmly.  "Noted."  He backed away, recognizing the seriousness of

Mulder's threat.  He didn't want this little act of the play to be

over quite so quickly.  "But you should check her.  Your lovely

partner seems to be feeling ill."



     Mulder looked suddenly stricken.  Refusing to take his eyes off

Modell, he reached out blindly, the back of his hand finding the nape

of Scully's neck.  Her pulse was rapid beneath his fingers; she felt

hot.



     "Mulder," she murmured, "don't let him distract you.  I'm okay.

I'm fine."  For the tiniest split second, he let his eyes close.  How

many times had she told him that particular little lie?  But she was

right -- he was giving Modell the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

He opened his eyes quickly and trained his attention on the man in

front of them.



     But Modell merely shook his head.  "I'd say you're in need of

medical assistance, Agent Scully.  Surely by now all the bacteria on

the end of that knife are multiplying quite nicely inside your chest.

The fluid -- "



     Mulder lost control.  Unable to stop the outburst, he leveled the

gun squarely at Modell's head and roared, "Shut *up*, Modell!"



     Modell only smiled.  "I know too much about you, Agent Mulder.

You won't shoot me.  And if you think I was trying to kill her just

now, you're wrong.  I can't, anymore.  Not that way.  But that doesn't

matter.  This new gift is a greater advantage, considering my current

position."



     Mulder didn't budge, but Modell kept smiling.  "Besides, I was

merely expressing my concern.  Agent Scully needs the benefits of a

modern hospital."  As if to punctuate his point, she coughed again,

involuntarily.  Modell began to back away, heading toward the door.

"But I can see you aren't going to give me what I want."  He took

another backward step.  "So I'll be going now."  Another step.



     He began to turn toward the door, then stopped.  As if it were an

afterthought, he said, "Of course, if you'd like, I can give you the

keys to Yogi Bear here's four-wheel drive."



     A pang of hope surged through Mulder; he lowered the gun a notch.

Modell grinned.  "Yeah, Mulder, it's parked about a half a mile down

the trail.  Even has gas."  His hand reached again for the door, and

he began to turn away, saying, "But you probably wouldn't be

interested."



     Mulder glanced briefly at Scully, who looked back at him

helplessly and shook her head.  She looked even paler now, something

he'd thought impossible.  "Don't, Mulder," she barely whispered -- but

she, and Modell, both knew what Mulder would do.



     He glanced from her to the man in the doorway, and back to her

again.  "Wait."  His voice sounded far away to his own ears.  Modell

turned, grinning, and walked back into the room.



     Mulder let the gun fall again into his lap.  He was shaking

openly now, half with rage and half with fear.  He had to get Scully

to a hospital, and soon, and this sociopathic son of a bitch before

him claimed he had a way.  Even though Mulder knew full well the man

didn't plan on actually giving it to him -- he had to try.  He looked

at Modell imploringly and said, "Just tell me what you want."



     Modell's eye twitched.  He'd made the mistake of underestimating

Mulder's devotion to his partner only once.  He wouldn't make it

again.  He watched as a horrified look spread across Scully's face at

the sound of Mulder's words and wondered...wondered what Mulder would

be willing to do to prevent her from dying.  Wondered if he *really*

wouldn't kill an innocent -- and unarmed -- man.



     "Agent Mulder," Modell intoned, "the keys are in my right hip

pocket.  All you have to do..." he paused, relishing the moment "...is

take them."



     "Mulder," Scully warned again, her voice hoarse.  She took

another breath to speak, but instead an unexpected cough, real and

hard, gripped her.  The force of it sent intense pain shooting through

her chest, and she stifled a groan.  He reached out, steadying her,

and she caught and held his gaze.  There was a silent plea in her

eyes, one he understood.  He couldn't kill this man, Modell's

unwitting receptacle.  There had to be another way.



     Thinking, Mulder looked back up at Modell.  "What do you mean?"



     Modell wasn't buying it.  "You know exactly what I mean, Mulder.

Quit stalling."



     Mulder stood then, abruptly pushing the gun into Scully's hands.

He couldn't kill him; and out here, even shooting him in the knee

might do that, because they would have to leave him.  No.  Mulder knew

there was only one way to get those keys.  The two of them would have

to face off. *Like manly men in the full bloom of manhood.  What a

load of bullshit.*  But he had a feeling this was what Modell expected

from him, anyhow. *Look out, Scully,* he thought, *I'm defending your

honor, and it's about to come to blows.* He looked up, realizing for

the first time just how large this particular park ranger was. ...*And

I'm gonna get my ass kicked.*



     "Predictable, Mulder," Modell responded.  Still, he looked

absurdly pleased.  He backed away a step, waiting, allowing Mulder to

make the first move.



     Mulder lunged forward, reaching out with a jab that missed its

target completely as Modell dodged.  He grabbed Mulder's arm and

pulled, throwing him into the wall.  He connected with a sharp thud.



     Mulder collected himself and spun around just in time to catch

the brunt of a fist against his cheek.  The impact was unbelievable,

his head slamming back against the wall again.  Stunned, he slid down

and landed hard against the floor.  Modell pulled back, intent on

delivering a swift kick, but Mulder reacted, grabbing Modell's

upraised foot.  Modell fell, landing hard on his back, and Mulder was

immediately on him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scully

holding the gun by the barrel, ready to strike Modell with the butt at

the first opportunity.  He shot her a brief warning glance then

punched, catching Modell's chin with a sharp right cross.



     ...in his hospital room, modell's pulse rate spiked...



     Modell kicked upward, hard, and Mulder was knocked away.  Modell

rolled quickly, briefly gaining the upper hand.  He was facing Scully,

whose alarmed gasp and clear frustration briefly distracted him.

Mulder took advantage of the momentary lapse.  He balled his fists and

punched upward as hard as he could, right into Modell's solar plexus.

Modell *oofed* and fell back, a huge rush of air escaping his lungs.

Mulder scrambled away, intent on getting to his feet.



     ...sweat beaded along modell's forehead...



     He wasn't fast enough.  Before he could regain his balance,

Modell threw his body at him, and the two of them went crashing down --



     ...modell's heart contracted erratically inside his chest...



     -- straight into the pot-bellied stove.  It was knocked off its

rusty moorings, its contents spilling out onto the wooden floor,

rolling underneath the recliner -- and underneath the bed.



     "Mulder!" Scully screamed with all the force she could muster.

He lay abruptly motionless amid the debris as blood welled and ran

from a deep gash in his right temple.  Modell rolled away from him,

avoiding the flames that rapidly began to engulf the recliner, and

tried to stand.  Unexpectedly, he swayed, suddenly dizzy.



     When he righted himself and turned, Scully had the gun pointing

straight between his eyes.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the

smoke begin to rise from the bedspread, but she tried not to let it

distract her.  "Don't," she said.  Modell saw how she tried to make it

sound convincing, but she was weak and obviously feverish now, and he

knew she was wavering.



     He took a step toward her.



     Her finger hesitated against the trigger.



     It was enough.  Modell reached out, knocking the gun from her

hands with one powerful swipe.  She gasped.  The gun clattered to the

floor.  He kept coming toward her.  She scrambled away from him on the

bed.



     ...modell's blood pressure soared...



     "Agent Scully," he grunted, his hand clamping down around her

upper arm with a vicious grip.  Scully noticed that his words were

slurring, but his strength was still intact.  "You and

your...*partner*...are both going to die here."



     She tried to kick him, but she realized just how weak she was

when he ignored the ineffectual blow and swept her up as if she

weighed nothing.  Struggling against him, she could *feel* the rage he

was generating, the hatred he was suddenly positively crackling with.

All pretenses were gone; this was pure revenge, raw and violent.



     He swerved and heaved her against the wall above the bed with

every ounce of strength he had.



     She felt herself hit, then the world briefly exploded in a wash

of bright light as she fell against the bed.  When she came to, she

realized she was gasping for air, but he already had her again, and

before she could react, he had hauled her once more into his arms.



     ...modell began to wheeze...



     He hurled her again, this time slamming her headfirst.  She

blacked out and fell, lifeless, onto the bed.



     ...modell's breathing stopped...



     Modell ignored the way his head had begun to swim and reached

down, closing his hands around her neck.



     ...in fairfax mercy hospital, robert patrick modell flatlined.



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



     Mulder awoke coughing.  He sat up slowly, cradling his head,

unsure of just where he was or what was happening.  Then he saw the

flames and the smoke, and he was on his feet and shouting for Scully.



     His eyes stung, but he saw the two of them clearly through the

smoke.  They both lay on the bed in a macabre heap, and neither of

them moved.  His heart in his throat, he was beside them in two swift

leaps.



     Horrified, he reached down to pluck Scully from the bed just as

flames began to lick at her body.  She was unconscious.  Beating out

the fire with one hand as he shifted her in his arms, he paused above

the park ranger's body to check for a pulse.  There was none.  He

checked the man's eyes.  Dilated and bloody, both of them.  Modell had

literally blown the man's brain apart.  He reached into the man's hip

pocket, and there, like sweet salvation, were the car keys.  Just as

Modell had said.



     He ran full tilt toward the door, juggling the too-hot keys as he

did so.  In the space of one breath, he pulled Scully in tightly against

him and they were out of the burning building.  He didn't stop moving

until he could no longer hear the popping of burning wood.



     Then he did stop, laying Scully gently down in the snow.  Seeing

the bruising around her throat, his chest contracted.  Holding his

breath, he checked for a pulse.  He was rewarded with a strong and

steady drumming against his fingertips.  He pushed back the fabric of

her flannel shirt and saw that, somehow, the plastic bandage he'd

applied those long hours ago -- it seemed like days -- was intact.  His

breath escaped in a heavy sigh, and his eyes fell closed in relief.



     Her eyes fluttered open then, and she looked up at him with

confusion.  Mulder felt a familiar pang of what he'd come to recognize

as unbounded affection as he stared back into the depths of her

crystal blue gaze.  She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off

with a wave of his hand.



     "Scully," he whispered.  He had to say the words before another

minute, another chance, spiralled away from them.  "Scully, I love

you."



     He heard her barely-audible voice as he wrapped his arms

protectively around her, pulling her from the ground as he did so.  "I

love you, too," she murmured weakly.  Her words trailed off sleepily.

"For a long time...a long time..."



     He would've liked to stay there, just like that, for an eternity,

feeling her against him.  He was exhausted.  But she had to have

medical attention.  Her skin, where it touched his, was burning up,

and he could hear her beginning to wheeze.



     He stood, picking her up again as he did so, willing away the

pain that ran its tiny sharp blades everywhere inside him.  She

reached up, gingerly touching the gash and the rapidly blossoming

black eye Modell had given him.  He began to walk again, praying that

Modell hadn't been lying.



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



     The four-wheel drive was right where Modell had claimed it would

be.  And it even had gas.



END