The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and related
concepts belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox
Broadcasting, and other people who aren't us. Used without
direct permission. No infringement of copyright intended.
The rest is c.1996 Amanda Summers and Vickie Moseley.
This story takes place during the first season
episode "Fire" by Chris Carter and was written as an homage
to a wonderful, fun script by the Creator. Doubtless Phoebe
Green is also property of Chris Carter.
Write to us, summer@camelot.bradley.edu
<mailto:summer@camelot.bradley.edu> and vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com
<mailto:vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com>
to let us know what you think! We crave feedback and answer all our
mail.
Thanks!

Burning Book
An X-Files Thing
by Summer (summer@camelot.bradley.edu)
In Tandem with Vickie Moseley

The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Mon. 6 November

Phoebe Green.

I could probably stop there. The name says
it all.

I'm in trouble. I'm in so much trouble.

Phoebe Green. She's here. She's right here
in Washington. Right now. At this moment, Phoebe
Green is settling into her hotel room here in DC,
just a phone call... or a cab ride... away.

No. I'll say it again: No.

Okay. That's established from the outset.
The answer is No. It's been ten years. I'm over
her. I've been over her for a long time. No.

Okay. Okay. We spent the day in court,
Scully and I. It wasn't a waste of time, for a
change. We put Tooms away.

Trial went more smoothly than I expected,
mostly due to Scully's faultless professionalism.
My partner can be difficult, stubborn, rigid and
uncompromising... qualities which would annoy the
hell out of me in anyone else. Qualities which are
unassailable positives in Dana Scully. A day like
today proves that my instincts about her were right,
beyond a shadow of a doubt-- despite the circumstances
of her assignment to the X-Files, Scully is totally
dedicated and sincere.

She got up on the stand and delivered her
medical opinion that Eugene Victor Tooms does in
fact possess genetic abnormalities which may well
permit him to change the structure of his body, bones
and musculature. Met every cross-examination coolly
and successfully. And convinced the judge to approve
further study and testing of Tooms at the institution
to which he has been committed.

I heard Tooms' lawyer blowing off about appeals
and civil rights violations, but surely an appellate
court would throw out the case. Tooms was convicted
of attacking Scully. Assaulting a federal officer is
a serious offense. We've won this one.

So this marked a serious milestone in our
partnership: our first successfully prosecuted case.
I was all ready to find out if we could celebrate
with dinner tonight. We were going back and forth
with some chatter on the way to the car, batting
around jokes instead of arguing about a case, just
talking. It was great.

Then we got into the car. The unlocked car.
Even though I remembered hitting the power lock. And
there was a cassette tape sitting innocently on the
dashboard. I thought maybe it was an anonymous tip.
So I stuck it in the player.

"Greetings, Agent Mulder..." A woman's smooth
voice, inflected with a toney British accent. Scully
and I exchanged glances, and I started looking around
the parking garage. No one was around. "Six months
ago, British minister of Parliament Reggie Ellercot
received an audio cassette much like the one you're
listening to now. Unfortunately for Mr. Ellercot, when
he popped the tape into the car stereo, he armed a
device which, when he tried to exit the car, created
an explosion which was heard five miles away."

Needless to say, I started to get nervous at
that. It went on, "The Scotland Yard forensic team
could only identify the poor bastard by his dental
records. If only he hadn't reached for the door handle
and triggered the detonator." It was the five miles
bit that made me wonder if it could be her. England
goes by the metric system, but the message referred
to miles and feet... just like Phoebe always did.

"But how was he to know that he was sitting on
enough plastic explosive to lift the car forty feet in
the air, and deposit the engine block on top of a three
story building?" So casual. Scully and I both stared
at the door handle. If I'd been alone, I might have
followed through on the urge to shove the door open
and to hell with it-- I can tell when I'm being psyched
out, and I was sure there was no bomb in the car. Well,
pretty sure, anyway.

I couldn't quite bring myself to believe the
voice was Phoebe's. It's been ten years and her tone
is a little more posh than it once was. I'd almost
convinced myself it wasn't her, when the car door
on my side abruptly yanked open. I heard Scully gasp.

"Aren't we looking rather ghostly?" Phoebe
asked. Her eyes flipped right past me to Scully and
back again. So I told Scully she was an old friend
and scooted out of the car.

Phoebe wanted to know if I intended to
thank her for her little prank, since now I'm not
likely to put a strange tape in the player in my
car, lest the vehicle explode-- or worse, lest Phoebe
show up again. "One seldom makes the same mistake
twice," she observed.

And when I confided that I didn't think much
of her little joke, she asked if I left my sense of
humor back at Oxford.

"No, actually, that's one of the few things
you didn't manage to drive a stake through." Yeah,
that was a tactically intelligent maneuver. Concede
right at the beginning that she fucked me over ten
years ago. Sure. Bright. Absolutely.

Typically enough, she blew it off and said,
"You know, some mistakes are quite worth making
twice." And of course, she waited until Scully got
out of the car and had a good view before Phoebe
leaned over and kissed me.

Then pretended she hadn't noticed Scully
and said hello. I made a strained introduction;
Scully chirped, "Hi." She must have a special
voice she keeps in reserve for such occasions,
a tone which expresses both nonchalance and
loathing in one slim syllable. I gotta learn
how to make that voice.

Phoebe whispered into my ear, "She hates
me." I manfully resisted the urge to reply, As
well she should.

"So what brings you to the colonies?" I
asked. She tossed another coy look at Scully, and
said she's love to tell me all about it at my
office.

"It's a... sensitive matter," she said,
"so I'd prefer to discuss it in more secure
surroundings." Found out that she already knows
where FBI Headquarters is and where the X-Files
office is located. "I'll meet you there."

Not a question, but a statement. How
very... Phoebe. I just nodded and when Scully
and I got back into the car, told her I'd explain
later.

Phoebe brought me quite a little gift.
She's probably waited almost a decade for a chance
like this. The case involves a serial arsonist
who burns his victims alive.

Fire. Why didn't she just bring a match
and set my desk aflame? It amounts to the same
damn thing. She must hate me. I can't understand
it, but Phoebe must really, really hate me.

Flipped open the file and saw the first
crime photo, a man literally barbecued, blackened
skin warped on his loose bones. And felt that
ugly dark odor rise in the back of my mouth, the
heavy taste of smoke. The low, malevolent glow of
smoldering ashes... the color of Phoebe's hair.

After all this time, she knows me. She
knows just how to pull me up short and pull the
ground out from under me. I could almost hear
the echoes, my best friend panting "I think my
house is burning-- Fox, I think it's burning
down--". I remembered pacing around the hot
stones of the foundation as the wisps of smoke
rose and twisted like a web of silk closing in
around me.

Phoebe's arsonist stalks the wives of
his victims, sends them letters, then eliminates
the husbands. Three deaths so far, all aristocrats,
two ranking members of Parliament. The wife of
Malcolm Marsden recently received a letter and
Marsden narrowly escaped a fire. They've come
to the States in an attempt to throw the guy
off the trail.

"So why'd you bring it to me?" I asked
her. Go on, say it out loud: because you knew it'd
shake me up.

Instead, Phoebe leaned forward and said,
"I figured my friend Mulder couldn't resist a
three-pipe problem." God, that wide-eyed stare...
hypnotic.

I heard myself agreeing to run it by the
FBI labs and see if they could help her out.

She said, "Splendid." And I knew I'd just
made a big mistake. But by then it was too late.
Phoebe sauntered out and added over her shoulder
to Scully, "Oh, goodbye."

Scully asked, so I gave her the shorthand
summary: I was young and stupid, Phoebe was young
and brilliant, and I paid the price.

"Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a
flower." (Huh?) Scully... is great. I can't believe
her equilibrium. I mean, I had just agreed to take
time from our work to help Phoebe on a case, a breach
of conduct that would enrage most agents. She just
needled me a little. "I noticed you couldn't drop
everything fast enough to help her out."

"I was merely extending a professional
courtesy," I defended, which sounded lame even to me.

"Oh, is _that_ what you were extending?" My,
my, did prim Dana Scully really make a risque joke at
my expense? Well, it's nice to see I'm having _some_
effect.

So I just assured her that once I got the
labwork for her, Phoebe's on her own.

Yeah, right. She was waiting for me right down
the hall. "You've come a long way from Oxford," she
said, falling into step beside me.

"A long way downhill, you mean." The only
way to deal with Phoebe is to shoot myself in the
foot before she shoots me in the head. Defuse her
bombshells by detonating them myself.

"I did some checking up on you. It seems there's
quite a legend built up around you here-- `Spooky' Mulder."
She went on in that vein, parroting the usual empty
accolades. Best analyst in the Investigative Support
Unit, all-around promising junior detective, quite a
guy if he'd just stop asking _questions_ all the time.

Note: apparently, I'm the only person in the
FBI not familiar with this alleged reputation, legend,
myth or religious cult, whatever it is, that supposedly
has been created around me. Scully claims she's heard
the story about the blowout with Patterson over the
Ghantous case as frequently as the hoary old Bureau
legend about the New York agent who flashed his credentials
at a diner and proclaimed, "FBI! More roast beef!"
What I want to know is, if I'm really such a `legend',
why doesn't anyone _listen_ to me?

Anyway, Phoebe loaded it on pretty thick, then
commented, "Your partner seems rather insecure. She gave
me quite the killing look while we were speaking."

"Phoebe, _I_ gave you killing looks while
we were speaking."

"Are you sleeping with her?"

My instantaneous reply: "No, of course not."

But what I have to admit somewhere, lest
Phoebe sense that I've held something back and
set about to ferret it out, is that there was
a split-second hesitation there. And in that
moment I wanted to say... As a matter of fact,
yes; she's better than you could ever dream of
being and I'm deliriously in love with her and
happier than I ever was with you.

Of course, she'd be delighted if she
knew I considered lying to her just to undermine
her little games.

And I won't-- would _never_-- do that to
Scully. Use her like that. God, even the idea makes
me sick. Only Phoebe Green could push me so far
out of line.

"Oh, of _course_ not," Phoebe agreed.
"That's against your little rules, isn't it."

"It's called ethics, Phoebe. Look into
it sometime." I escorted her to the lab, asked
Agent Beatty if he could take a look at something
for me. His eyes scrolled up and down Phoebe and
he said he'd be happy to look at something for me.

Everything sounds like bad porno dialogue
when Phoebe's around. Agent Beatty looked at slides
of the fires. I couldn't take the sight of the flames,
so... I looked at Phoebe.

I'm in so much trouble.

She's even more achingly attractive now than
she was ten years ago. That sleek torch-singer roll
she used to wear her hair in has been streamlined
down to a shorter style that shows off her slender
neck to good advantage. Her bangs still fall enticingly
into her eyes. Still dresses conservatively, but the
combination of proper tailored clothes and her usual
come-hither demeanor is just as potent as ever.

Found myself recalling all the days I spent
gazing at her in Deviant Behaviors class, certain she was
forever out of reach. Ran into her at one of Seine's
sedate parties, ended up wrapped in conversation for
hours. Scraped together the chutzpah to ask if I
could take her out sometime.

And Phoebe replied, "You can take me home right
now." When I hesitated-- rather, when I froze in total
shock-- she leaned across the table and whispered into
my ear precisely what she liked about me, and why, and
what she wanted me to do about it, all in magnificently
explicit terms.

I think I can be forgiven the foolishness of
taking up with Phoebe. I was barely twenty-one. I'd
been in two serious relationships, both of which ended
badly (though I wonder if any relationship really ends
well). I simply was not prepared for the virtual onslaught
of her approach.

After the first time I discovered she'd been
seeing someone else, though, I should have left. And
never looked back. Waiting around until she finally
dumped me... was just abject. Pathetic.

Phoebe has that effect on me.

The verdict on the fires: probably the guy used
accelerant, but there's no detectable incendiary device.
I'm thinking there's a possibility the arsonist could
be pyrokinetic. But the theory is impossible to confirm
until we catch the killer. After he finished the analysis,
Agent Beatty nudged me, looked Phoebe over again, and
said, "This is quite a case you've got for yourself,
Mulder. I wish I was in your shoes."

I didn't say it, but it came to mind: So do
I, Beatty. So do I.

She left me with her business card: Inspector
Phoebe Green, Scotland Yard. The name of her hotel, the
phone and room numbers, written neatly on the back. She
said she'll be in town for two more days.

No.

_No_.

Well...

Maybe.




Dana Scully's Personal Log

Monday, November 6

A successfully prosecuted case. Taken to court. It was
almost too much to believe. I mean, we've spent so much
time in the last few months running into dead ends, having
the evidence snatched from our grasps at the last minute,
basically never being allowed to *close a case* that I had
come to think we would NEVER have a successful court
case. And, yet, with Tooms, we did.

I hope.

I saw the look in Tooms' lawyer's eyes... and she
looked like a pit bull to me. Which means that she'll find
a way to get him out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even if he's
not over a hundred years old, I will never forget the look
on his face as he tried to rip out *my* liver--I was a steak
dinner laying on that floor. Not a human being, not a
person. I was FOOD. And he would feel as much remorse
at my death as I feel when I spread peanut butter on bread.

But it's finally over. We won that one.

Another case file closed. They really seem to be piling
up. Our solved rate is actually pretty good. Sitting in the
restroom the other day, I overheard one of the secretaries
from VCS saying our closure rate is one of the highest in
the building. Of course, we'll never hear of it, directly.
That would be too much like praise. But it's nice to know
that at least in the real world, we are making a difference.
And someone is watching, I know that for a fact.

So Eugene Victor Tooms is officially off the streets.
But just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water,
so to speak . . . I find another predator lurking in the
shadows. Only this one is female and she's got her sights
set firmly on my partner.

We had fun in the parking lot today. The case was
over, we were both feeling good. Successful. Yuppies in
the most extreme sense-- Young, Urban Professionals. Till
we got in the car.

Mulder the Paranoid always locks the car doors. OK,
I'm being harsh here. I lock the doors, too. But Mr.
Memorex NEVER forgets to lock the doors. So when the
door opens before he gets to the car, I think something
might be amiss. Understatement of the decade, in
hindsight. Anyway, we get in and there's a cassette tape
on the dashboard.

Mulder gets his information from everywhere, including
the magazine aisle of the local grocer, so I don't get that
rattled when he pops the unmarked cassette into the tape
player and we start to listen. It's when the tape starts
getting vaguely threatening, talking about a member of the
British aristocracy who had just such a tape arrive in his
'auto' and popped it in, just as we had, and suddenly
reached for the door latch to have a nice BIG bomb
explode and blow him to kingdom come--that's when I
started getting a bit nervous. When Mulder's car door
suddenly opened I think I jumped a foot.

The perpertrator of the little 'demonstration' was one
Inspector Phoebe Green of Scotland Yard. "An old friend"
of my partner's. Why didn't it surprise me when she had to
give my partner a hello kiss? Why *did* it surprise me
when my partner leaned in for the kiss-- but did not return
the favor? Something is going on here and it looks
historic.

Inspector Green looks nothing like Sherlock Holmes,
the only other name I tend to link with Scotland Yard. She's
very pretty. If you like barracudas. She has dark, dark
auburn hair, cut short and stylish (a little like Princess Di's,
or is that being catty?). She's taller than me, but not by
much. Still had to lean up for that kiss. She missed his
mouth, by the way, but I got the impression she didn't miss
much else.

Why don't I like this woman? I mean, we're both in
tough careers; she's made her mark on a male dominated
field. I should look on her in a "sister in arms" sort of way.
Not in the "where can I put the bullet so the blood doesn't
splash on my suit" way that I did today.

I want to put something down for posterity here. I
don't really want to know who Fox Mulder is sleeping
with. I find it hard enough dealing with my own sex life
(or lack thereof) to go around sticking my nose in my
partner's sex life (or video-induced fantasies, as the
case may be). So, if Phoebe the Terror (his term, not
mine) comes swooping in on her British Airways
Broomstick for a night of unbridled passionate lust with
Mulder, well, he's a big boy, he knows how to unroll a
condom (I hope) and I will happily resist the urge to tease
him if he comes into the office with an "I finally got some
last night" grin on his face.

HOWEVER, I don't think that to be the case. I don't
think Phoebe was here because she was hungry for a little
American Beefcake, as it were. I think she's a
monutmental bitch of the first order and for some reason
known only to her, she's here to torment my partner.

That's where I draw the line. And that's why I don't like
her. She has it out for Mulder and not just to get into his
bed, either. I can see it in her eyes. There was a predator's
gleam there that I usually associate with cobras and other
deadly snakes. And Tooms.

Yeah, that's it. The last time I saw somebody with that
look in their eyes was when Tooms had me on the floor,
about to rip out my liver. But I think Phoebe will aim a
little lower and more to the center.

The way she pulled that little stunt was typical,
apparently, and cute, if you like to put gummi worms in
people's oatmeal and watch them have a heart attack. And
the way she totally ignored me while pawing Mulder in a
public parking garage was beyond obvious. I thought the
British were supposed to be *aloof*.

What is she doing here, anyway?

It looked soooooo reasonable. The British aristocracy
is experiencing another round of terroist attacks. This is
not exactly news, here, but these attacks have an
interesting twist. Unlike the little tape-recorded teaser,
these are not bombings. They are fire attacks. The victims
literally catch fire, in front of several witnesses and away
from any known sources of heat, apparently. They then
burn to a crisp before rescue attempts can be made.

Arson. Made so personal in that no buildings were set
aflame, just people. And no trace of accelerant or how the
flame started. Definitely an X-File, if there ever was one.

I have a confession to make. When I was 8, I really
wanted to be a fireman. OK, fire fighter. I did. It was so
cool, those neat trucks with the ladders and the hoses and
the absolutely to die for helmets. And the axes. And the
dog. There was NOTHING about being a fire fighter that
I didn't find fascinating.

Melissa has a lot to say on the subject, of course, when
she's talking to me. Says I'm ruled by all the forces of
nature: wind, fire, earth and sea. I try to ignore it as much
as possible. Speculating about what Missy thinks can be
hazardous to my mental health. But I have to admit, there
is something about fire.

I went to see 'Back Draft' four times. Full price. By
myself. I loved that movie. Have it on tape. And not just
because the little Baldwin is kind of sexy in an innocent sort
of way and Kurt Russell always looks best with soot on his
face. I just love the visuals, the pictures of fire and how it
seems to have a life of its own.

So, apart from the fact that I trust Inspector Green
about as far as I could throw her (bet she weighs more than
she looks, too), I found myself intrigued by this case.

I spent a little time reading up on fire as a kid. I still
remember a lot of what I read. The fact that these are
people catching fire is unusual in itself. The human body
just doesn't burn that well. It takes a lot to get it started
and the high volume of liquid in us makes it hard to sustain
the flame. Most times, rolling on the ground will put out
the kind of flames that these men died of. And apparently,
that was tried with the last victim.

But if their clothes were flammable-- now that would
help. All dry cleaning fluids are highly flammable. But the
process neutralizes that, so that we don't all go up in flames
everytime some dumb smoker flicks an ash in our direction.
Clothing manufacturers have spent millions on research to
ensure that we don't burst into flame.

But these men did. They literally burst into flame. And
not over any political agenda, either. I would have
expected this from the likes of a terrorist. But the
infatuation and love letters sent to the wives of the victims
puts this in a very different category than terrorism. This is
obsession in its purest form.

I don't argue giving this case to Mulder. He knows
obsessive behavior better than anyone I know. OK, and
he's a fine psychologist, too. I can even see the need to
make connections with the FBI, since the Marsdens (the
next intended victim and his family) have escaped to Cape
Cod in an effort to get away from this psycho. But I still
find it interesting that of all the gin joints in the world, she
has to walk into his . . .




The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Tues. 7 November

I took Phoebe to lunch this afternoon. She
was there to pick up Agent Beatty's written analysis,
she dropped by the basement, I didn't have any plans...
Not the most brilliant thing I've ever done, but I
was thinking about it all morning: Phoebe has not been
sitting at Scotland Yard for ten years waiting for a
nasty case to cross her path so she could bring it
over and freak me out with it. That's just my warped
ego kicking in again.

It's just a coincidence that the case that
brought her to the States concerns an arsonist, I
decided. She happened to be on the Eastern Seaboard,
she looked me up. Played a joke on me; a joke that
was maybe not in the best of taste, but I've pulled
a few of those myself, in my time. But it has been
a decade and then some. There's no reason we couldn't
put the past behind us, maybe settle things amicably
and part as friends.

Except for one tiny little detail. Phoebe
hasn't changed a bit.

Not a bit, not a smidgen, not a fraction,
a particle, a notch, an atom. And while I _have_
changed, as Phoebe herself observed at lunch, I
guess I haven't changed enough, because she can
still pull my strings as effectively as ever.

We began civilly enough. Phoebe observed,
"I see your interest in the bizarre hasn't deserted
you. That office of yours houses all the FBI's most
unusual cases, according to Agent Beatty."

So I explained a little to her about the
X-Files; she was attentive, sympathetic, asked
questions; I ended up confiding some things that
now I truly wish I hadn't told her. I almost told
her about going through hypno-regression therapy,
but mercifully I didn't quite go that far.

Phoebe has become a prize detective for
Scotland Yard (she didn't say so, but I read between
the lines), mostly specializing in serial crime cases,
violent deaths. Like this arson case; because of the
people involved, this must be an incredibly high-profile
assignment, and she's in charge of the investigation.
Impressive.

While I, on the other hand, have built a
little empire of `weird stuff' in the basement which
is in grave danger of being destroyed or usurped by
the Bureau. Well, it used to be in grave danger; it's
safer now. Section Chief Blevins sent Scully down
to my domain hoping that her observations would give
him the justification he needs to shut me down.

Instead, Scully came into that office, took
a look around, rolled up her sleeves and started
working. We've closed a dozen X-File cases just by
reviewing the files and making connections that were
missed in other investigations. With Scully there, I
have time to concentrate on finding the cases with
the greatest likelihood of paranormal activity. She
pitches in on those, plus she combs the files I toss
over my shoulder and finds the smoking gun that can
close the case or refocus the investigation.

End result: our efficiency ratings are up,
up, up there, and we've pumped up the ratings for
the entire Violent Crimes section. They'll really
have to work to justify closing us down now. Even
if we haven't yet uncovered clear and concrete
evidence of paranormal phenomenae, we're processing
and closing a high volume of cases. The paperwork
coming out of our office now is streamlined and
perfectly in order, thanks to Scully. Now that she's
making those field reports and keeping me from going
out of line (well, most of the time), the guys upstairs
have a lot less to complain about.

Every time I go up to Blevins' office now,
I just wanna grin and shake the man's hand. Thanks
for assigning Dana Scully to the X-Files, you stupid
putz-- best thing that ever happened to me! Suck on
that, big guy.

Actually, I do make a point of mentioning
Scully every time I talk to him. "I couldn't have
managed to make this case without Agent Scully's
forensic expertise, sir; her work was absolutely
invaluable." And then he gets that raw quinine
expression, like maybe the cure turned out to be
worse than the original disease.

Tough, because I've already reviewed the
regs regarding assignment and reassignment of agents
and I have a veritable arsenal ready to deploy should
he try to take Scully off the X-Files cases. I'll
take it all the way up to Louis Freeh if Blevins
tries to mess with me. In a weird way, I'm kind of
looking forward to it. I'm tired of dancing around
with these guys; I'm ready for an out-and-out fight.
And this partnership is absolutely something I'm
willing to fight for. Of course, if Scully decided
not to contest them, there's nothing I can do about
that... it always comes back to that, doesn't it.
Never mind.

Right. Anyway.

So here I am, at lunch with Phoebe, telling
her all this... But really, who can I talk to about
this kind of thing? The guys at the Lone Gunman listen
when I talk about Scully, but they don't really understand
what a revelation it is for me, working with someone who's
genuinely willing to go all out to solve a case, who
matches my commitment to the work. I've worked with
plenty of agents, but I don't think I ever really had
a partner before.

And Phoebe had deserted her High Royal Bitch
demeanor. I started to think maybe I'd just been over-
reacting yesterday. She's always been cutting; it's just
the way she is. That doesn't mean she's out for blood.
She probably doesn't even realize that it's painful.
In a way, everything she'd said up til that point had
been conciliatory. Maybe she was just trying to make
things up again, cut up a few old touches, touch up
a few old cuts, make everything okay again.

Mm-hm. I've changed a whole lot in ten years,
but it seems I haven't really learned a thing.

She was listening, all right. She was gathering
ammunition. Phoebe's questions started to prod me into
unwelcome directions just as coffee and dessert arrived,
and for every protest I made she came up with a quick
"But you just _said_ something else..."

A moment to clarify: I am not in love with my
partner. I entertain no delusions of sweeping her off
her feet and into my bed. I don't even _have_ a bed.
It's not going to happen. End of story.

Phoebe's insinuations really bemused me more
than they offended me, since she was mostly riffing
on my propensity for obsession. I can take hits on
that.

It's true. I get fixated on things, and sometimes,
unfortunately, I get fixated on people. I was totally
infatuated with Phoebe. I'm aware of it, I deal with
it as best I can. Okay, not very well. But I'm aware
of it.

Then she started aiming at Scully. I ceased
to be amused. And told her so, forthwith.

Phoebe did that transfixing eyes thing at me,
that look that has always stopped me dead. (A la the
boa constrictor in _Jungle Book_, now that I think
about it. `Trust in me... just in me...') "Why so
protective, Agent Mulder? Romantic aspirations? Are
you taking it slow? You always did have a sentimental
streak."

Now, by this time, I _know_ Phoebe is, for
some reason, seriously set on fucking with my head.
So what do I do? A la Mowgli in _Jungle Book_, I
fall right back into her eyes and, against every
commonsensical notion in my brain, I admit that
yes, I am protective of Scully, and yes, I care
about her, but, you know, not like that.

Ammunition. Her eyes lit up, the spell
was broken, and I'm a goddamn fool. Phoebe said,
"So... it's more like a brother-sister thing."
In an innocuous, light tone that bit right into me.

Because I'm a psychologist and I know that
the easy, pat explanation for my attitude towards
Scully is that I see her as some kind of little
sister. Samantha-by-proxy.

But that's not why I value Scully as a
partner. That's not why I hope I've gained her
trust, why I'd like to gain her friendship. Scully
is important in and of herself. Because she had
every chance to betray me and she stuck by me
instead. Because I put my trust in her and she
has never let me down.

"Unlike me," Phoebe commented coolly.

I skinned back my teeth at her. Sort of
like a smile. "Unlike you."

"Well," she said suddenly in a changing-
the-subject voice, "you can't fault me for wondering.
I'm quite surprised you're still unattached. I'd
expected a picket fence and family from you by now."

"You know me better than that." (Insert
Homer Simpson `DOH!' here. Why do I admit crap like
this? Here, Phoebe, have some bullets.)

Phoebe's laugh still flashes brightly, cuts
a swath through conversation, dazzles. God, she still
is dazzling. "You're right. I'd feared that you had
a family by now. But I'd hoped to find you the same."

"But I'm not the same."

"True. You've changed immeasurably. All for
the better, Fox." And with that, she stood up and
said, "Shall we go?"

Just like that? Yeah. Just like that. And
I stood up, and followed her, and wrote it off again.
Just like that.

"Do you have time to drop me at the Embassy?
I believe it's on your way...?"

"Sure," I said. As long as I'm doing Disney
analogies (well, hell, my cable company's giving me
the Disney channel free for a month. That shit's
addictive), Phoebe waved her magic wand and said
Bibbity bobbity boo, and all is forgiven.

Abracadra abraxas. There are no strings on
me. You know, the weird thing is, my personal Jiminy
Cricket let-your-conscience-be-your-guide voice is
very rational and sensible and in the past few months,
has started to sound an awful lot like Dana Scully.
I can't say I didn't realize what I was doing. Jiminy
Scully told me precisely what I was doing. Stripped
down to the nasty truth, I was going along with Phoebe
in hopes of getting laid.

Gasp! The audience reacts with horror and
disgust. Our Sterling Hero, acting out of base motives?
Chasing tail like some sad G-Man James Kirk wannabe,
exploring strange new girls and seeking out new
civil libations?

Excuse me, but I _am_ human, and exactly
how long has it been since I had a date? The numbers
tell an unhappy story, folks. Eleven months. Two
weeks. Six days. I hate my memory.

Still. Am I really willing to use and be
used, to sacrifice my tenuous equilibrium, to let
this woman into my blood again... merely for the
sake of a tumble with Phoebe Green?

Like I said yesterday: No. NO. Well, maybe.

Because like always, she punched buttons,
pulled strings, and generally played me like a half-
crocked accordian with eight keys missing. In the
car, she began asking after some of our old friends
and we caught up on Where Are They Now.

Seine is a _lawyer_ now! Your pardon, old
chap, a _barrister_. Copyright law! I never would
have guessed. Aberdine really did become a Civil
War historian, the foremost authority on the American
Civil War in British academia, apparently. Bartley's
an accountant; he auctioned off his Les Paul. Traitor.
And so forth. Phoebe updated me on the lives of most
of the set we used to associate with at school.

Unwisely, I decided to get in a dig or two
of my own. "How about Marty? How's he?"

"Marty! I always hated that twit," Phoebe
muttered.

Reflexively I shot back, "Yeah? Is that
why you propositioned him while we were dating?"
We fenced over the issue until I revealed that
Marty told me she came on to him at Seine's.

I was a mess when Phoebe finally took off
for the country with one of her numerous affairs,
the lawyer-- sorry, barrister-- whose divorce she'd
apparently been waiting on all that time. Left me
with our flat, emptied out of all her things, turned
inside-out. (Me or the flat? Same difference.) I
blundered over to Marty and Gloria's derelict old
house and asked if I could crash on the couch.
Fortunate timing: Gloria was moving out to get a
place with Ben, and Marty needed a new roommate.

When, a week or so later, Marty finally
sat me down with tea and asked what had happened,
I reeled off the list... I'd been completely crazy
about Phoebe, almost to the point of obsession, and
she got sick of it. We were from different countries
and I'd been so wrapped up in the here-and-now that
I'd never thought about the future. A whole laundry
list of reasons why she cut out on me.

"Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't
she cheating on you off and on the whole time you
were together?" Marty inquired.

I started in on the rationalizations that
Phoebe and I had exchanged from the first time I
caught her going out on me. The initial affair
took place after we'd been seeing each other for
only a couple of months, and she `wasn't sure how
she felt' about me then.

Yeah, I know when I'm unsure of my feelings
for someone, I run right out and fuck someone else
to gain insight into my emotional state.

(And what, asks Jiminy Dana, do you think
you're doing now, messing with Phoebe instead of
dealing with your partner?)

Shut up.

Second time, she cried and said she didn't
think I really loved her. But I did. I really did
love her. So I stayed. Then we moved in together
and I thought we'd be secure.

Third time, we set about to analyze why
she felt compelled to fool around. Fox Mulder, Junior
Psychologist at Large. Lots of ideas bounced around,
and once more we made up, Phoebe swearing eternal
fidelity, I certain that we'd finally gotten to the
root of the problem and eliminated it.

Times four and five I just sent her down to
the clinic to make sure she hadn't picked up anything.
Okay, time five I packed to go but she persuaded me
to stay.

And the sixth was the barrister, and she
left me to live with him on his country estate. It
turned out that she had been cultivating his acquaintance
for five months. Overlapping not only with our
relationship, but with her fifth affair. Say this
for her, Phoebe knows how to schedule. Her stamina
amazes.

When I'd spilled my guts to Marty, his
response floored me. He told me to quit blaming
myself and forget about her. Keep in mind, everyone
else I knew had been saying things like "You finally
lost her, huh? Well, no one could hang onto a prize
like Phoebe Green for long... did you ever get to
meet her father?" (Supposedly a British Intelligence
agent, though as far as I could tell, he was just
Army brass; nothing to sneeze at but nothing to
cower in awe over, either.)

Marty told me, "The only thing you did
wrong was getting involved with that toxic psycho
vampire bitch in the first place. She's twisted,
Fox. She doesn't get off on fucking those guys
half as much as she gets off on fucking them over."

And then he uncomfortably admitted that
she had made a pass at him at one of Seine's parties,
that he'd thought it a joke at the time, but now
realized she's like that with everyone. "See, she'd
never give me a second look, Fox-- but Phoebe found
out I was stuck on someone else. And she just had
to prove that she could win me away from this other
person. That's always how she is. Didn't she make
her play for you when you were right about to get
back together with Jen?" I conceded the point. "All
right then. Nothing to do with you-- you just put
up with it longer than most. Stop forgiving her.
Move on."

Good advice, Marty. Sorry I could never
take it.

When I brought up this talk with Marty,
Phoebe gave one of her dangerous smiles. "I don't
suppose he told you the exact nature of this so-
called proposition."

"He didn't go into the gory details, no."

She examined her fingernails, just like
she used to do when she had some kind of tremendous
shock prepared. "I felt sorry for him, then, actually.
So I told him he could take me to bed if he wanted,
because it was the closest he'd ever be able to
get to sleeping with you."

I hate that smug look she gets when she
knows she's getting to me. "Look, Phoebe, I know
you're blowing smoke. I moved in with Marty after
we broke up. He never said--"

She laughed, called me naive. I _hate_
that. "I'm sure he didn't say a word. After all,
you would have moved out quickly enough if he had,
mm? Rather romantic, when you think about it, poor
Marty silently adoring you all that time."

I informed her that the most `romantic'
thing that occurred while I stayed with Marty
was that we'd play marathon chess tournaments.

Why do I even try to fend this woman off?
She didn't even slow down. "That must have been
touchingly domestic. The two of you, sitting in
front of the fire, enjoying a quiet game of chess
all alone..." And then that cutting smile. "But
I forgot. You don't care for fire, do you."

Glanced at her sidewise and said, "No,
I don't. Not in the least."

"Is that how you are with your Irish
poster girl? Chaste games of chess and the
occasional brotherly kiss?"

"That's enough, Phoebe."

"She's in love with you, you know. I
can tell."

"Yeah, well, according to you, every
man, woman and child in the free world is either
smitten with me or out to get me..." I wheeled
into the parking lot, telling myself I was glad
to be rid of her.

"Or both," she said cryptically, and put
her hand briefly over mine. "Look, I'll call you
tonight in case you turn up anything, all right?"

"All right," I said. And meant it. Just
like that.

I am interested in the arson case, actually.
There've been no incendiary devices used to set these
fires. I really think the unsub's pyrokinetic. I look
at the case file, and it looks like an X-File-- just
lacks those snazzy red-striped borders.

But the real reason I agreed to help her is
that I can't stay away. I can't know she's this close
and think about anything else. One way or another, I've
got to exorcise Phoebe from my mind, because it's been
_ten_years_ and she can still have this effect on me.
I can't live with that for another decade.

When I got back from lunch, Scully correctly
guessed where I'd been: "So, Sherlock, is the game afoot?"

"'Fraid so, Watson," I answered, and avoided
looking at her. "But you're off the hook on this one."

Of course, she didn't let it go at that, so I
had to explain that I didn't want to put her through
Phoebe's little mind game. I said that, but I couldn't
shake Phoebe's voice saying, `She's in love with you,
you know. I can tell.' It's got as much to do with
Scully as with Phoebe, really. I've got to get my head
straightened out again before I can come back to this.
I refuse to let Phoebe... honestly, now... I refuse to
let my feelings for Phoebe wreck our partnership.

When she pressed, I admitted to Scully a little
about the fire. How my best friend's house burned to
the ground, and we spent the whole night guarding the
rubble. Keeping looters at bay. In Massachusetts? On
Martha's Vineyard? Scully didn't ask further. So I
didn't have to mention that it was my father who
insisted that we protect the ruins of the house.
That I suspect it was a good way to punish me because
when Curtis told me that his house was burning, I had
Sam call the fire department and went over with him to
wake up his parents. I should have got my father to go.
The look on his face when he found out that Curtis and
I went back into the house and got his parents out by
ourselves... he kept asking me about the fire. It started
in the basement. Was the first floor burning when we
went back inside? Were the stairs in flames? What if
the stairs had collapsed while we were on the second
floor? What if the smoke had thickened and we'd lost
our way? What if his parents had already left the house?
We would both have died for nothing.

Yeah, Scully. I hate fire. Scared to death
of it.

And Phoebe knows this, just as Phoebe knows
nearly all my secrets. We spent almost two years
together. She saw the nightmares, heard the stories,
read the book, bought the T-shirt. She knows.

Scully considered this for a moment. "So she
shows up knowing the power she has over you and makes
you walk through fire."

"Phoebe is fire." Until I said it, I hadn't
realized it was true.

She offered to pitch in again, but in a rare
fit of rugged individualism, I told her that sooner
or later, a man's gotta face his demons. I think I
heard that in a John Wayne movie once.

So why don't I face my demons? Not only
haven't I faced it, I haven't even been able to
acknowledge it for ten years.

It's so easy to martyr myself at Phoebe's
expense. To cast her as the Wicked Witch of the
West: "How about a little fire, Scarecrow?" As
though I'm so easy to live with. Like I'm not
just as much to blame.

I keep pushing it away, but now and then
I see the slideshow in my mind's eye... Phoebe
nervously counting her birth control pills while
she thought I wasn't looking. Phoebe, pale and
shaky, excusing herself from breakfast. Phoebe
appearing at the door of my lit class as I left,
telling me she had to go out of town for the week.
Picture-perfect. I hate my memory, I really do.

Phoebe knows almost all of my secrets.
Including my terror of fatherhood. But she still
would have told me... God. Unless she wasn't sure
it was mine.

She was out of town and out of reach by
the time I began to wonder. And then she was back,
and it was too late to do anything about it, even
if it had been true. So I never asked. And she left
me a month later.

I never told anyone about that, not even
Marty, and I told him almost everything; he was
a good friend. I did a little digging tonight.
Last I heard from Marty was a postcard from Coney
Island saying `You were right, I love this place!'
I know he's a columnist for a small London weekly,
that he also does some cartooning. So I looked up
his name on the Net. Marty's been fairly successful
creating comic book stories for avant-garde magazines.
Including `AARGH!', an anthology in support of gay
rights in Great Britain.

Which doesn't necessarily mean anything. Even
if Marty did come out of the closet (he dated women
when I knew him), that doesn't mean Phoebe was telling
the truth. She's just trying to throw me off balance.

Same with that stuff about Scully. I mean, when I
talked to my partner today, she was friendly, supportive,
concerned. She's not jealous or upset, she's not pining
or worrying about it. And she shouldn't have to worry
about it, except that it's affecting our work. I'm
sorry about that, but I think she understands.

Danny called; I'd asked him to alert me to
any fires in or around Cape Cod. There was a bar
fire in Boston tonight; the place was across the
street from a fire station, but it burned to the
ground before they could mobilize. The reports
suggest that one patron set the fire when he tried
to perform some kind of magic trick to light up his
finger. Now, tilt your head sideways and squint, and
this may be our pyrokinetic arsonist.

So it seems that tomorrow I'll try to run
the gauntlet once again. Walk over the hot coals
and try hard to believe it doesn't hurt. Resolve
this thing with Phoebe... and keep my life from
going up in flames in the process.





Dana Scully's Personal Log

Tuesday, November 7

I was right. Phoebe Green is a bitch. Just how much of a
bitch, I had no idea until today.

Mulder wants me off the case. Actually, he said it like
he was doing me a favor. I was all set to tell him that I
was really looking forward to it, with the arson angle and
all, when he dropped the little bombshell. He said he didn't
want to 'put me through it'. Like it's optional or
something. Like it really isn't our case, it's THEIR case.
His and Phoebe's. Definitely NOT his and mine.

I have to admit, I got a little pissed about that. I mean,
what's going on here? Some old girlfriend comes waltzing into
the office and sweeps my partner off his feet? I thought he
had a little more backbone than that.

I am NOT jealous! OK, maybe a little. But hell, we've
come so far. I mean, I look back on that first day and all I
really wanted to do was wipe that shit-eating grin off his
face (with steel wool, if I could get my hands on some) and
'educate' that thick Oxford-trained head of his to the ways
of science. But it's not like that now. I look forward to
the cases. What I once saw as obstacles I now see as
challenges. What I once saw as his arrogance, I now see is
just his way of dealing with derision. How he handles the
jeers and snickers behind his back.

So, yeah, I'm jealous. I've been by his side faithfully
these last 8 months and I'll be damned if some little British
tart is going to mess things up between us. Besides, when
all is said and done, it won't be me in a shambles. It'll be
Mulder. And I'll be left to pick up the pieces. Like the
time in Idaho when I had to practically carry him back
home after they 'rewired' his head and stole some of his
memories, or so he still thinks.

He said Phoebe brought this case to him on purpose.
It's a little mind game to her. Mulder is afraid of fire and
Phoebe knows it full and well and she is expecting him to
follow her through it. So if he does, is she the prize on the
other side?

Mulder gave me a story about how he had to sit with a
friend after the kid's house was burned to the ground.
Apparently they stayed at the sight all night to keep looters
away. As a direct result he had nightmares about being
trapped in a fire for years. I'm not so sure what to think
about that; I mean, there was surely more to it than just
spending a night next to smoking ruins. The Fox Mulder I
know would have been sympathetic to his friend's tragedy,
but he would have been busy trying to figure out what had
caused the fire, what it had done to the structure, if
*aliens* were involved-- in short, it would have piqued his
curiosity and compassion, but not his deepest fear. There's
something else going on here and at some point, I might
find it out, but not now. Too much stuff at once coming
down on him right now.

OK, so the man is afraid of fire. So what? I never
assumed that he was invincible. I mean, the man is fearless
when it concerns ghosts, ghouls, aliens, mutants, worms
that turn you into a killer and neanderthals running amok in
New Jersey, but he's afraid of fire. I can handle that.
Besides, everyone's afraid of something, right? I won't fall
asleep in a room that has a closet door ajar (thank you
very much, Bill Jr., for that little phobia), so there's no big
deal here.

As a matter of fact, that would be a good reason to
keep me around, I'm thinking. Keep his head above water,
take the burden off his shoulders a bit. What I thought I've
been doing for the last eight months.

EXCEPT for Phoebe. He must have had it baaaaad.
Even he admits it. "Got in over my head, . . . and paid the
price." I don't know how long they were together, but it was
too long. The tread marks are still visible on his forehead.
And the really sad part is, it was not his decision to end it,
I'm certain. Oh, I'm sure he thought he was over her, I can
see that in his eyes. But he was all too willing to drop
everything in his inbox so that he could walk her to the
arson specialists lab and "get her started".

But I caught a glimpse of something else today. Mulder
may be afraid of fire. I truly believe him when he says that.
But Mulder is afraid of something else. He's afraid of
Phoebe. But he's drawn to her, like a moth to a flame.

I've yet to see Mulder afraid of anything. I've seen his
side ripped up by a naked woman half a hand taller than
him, and all he could tell me was how beautiful she
was. I've seen him run after a little boy whom he honestly
believed was about to be abducted by a UFO and not even
glance back to me. I've seen him, unarmed, confront
people who he was sure were under the influence of a
lifeform that *forced* them to kill anyone around them, and
he was the picture of calm. I've even seen him after he was
locked in a room with a 'vengeful ghost' (or so he still
believes) and he was steady enough to drive home and
order a pizza with his cell phone. So how will he react
when he finally gets scared, whether of fire or of Phoebe?

I don't know. I don't think I want to know.

Especially when a good portion of his mind (or rather
his body) is more than likely focused somewhere further
south.

I had a dream last night. I was a firefighter. Full outfit.
The suit was a bit big, but I had it rolled up and fitted with
belts. The hat wanted to slip down over my eyes, but I
could still see out. I was having the time of my life!

We were on the way to a fire. I was sitting up front,
and the Dalmation was sitting right next to me, tongue
hanging out and tail wagging like crazy. I know, fire
fighting is dangerous business. It's lethal, all too many
times. But God, what a rush!

When we pulled up to the scene of the alarm, there
were so many cars and other trucks that it took me a while
to figure out where I was. It wasn't until I was helping
hook the hose up to the hydrant that I took a look around
and realized that we were in front of Mulder's apartment
building. Fire was shooting out the windows and the roof.
The whole place was going up fast, even though it's a brick
building.

I was handling the hose (which was actually sort of fun)
and shooting it where the chief directed when one of the
other guys shouted "There's somebody still inside!" I looked
up at the windows, and there, standing in his window,
looking more terrified than I could ever imagine being and
still be able to stand-- was Mulder. He was wide-eyed
and screaming and I could see even through the window
that he was chalk white and covered with sweat and soot
from the flames. It made my heart pound just to look at
him.

I grabbed the chief and told him that Mulder was my
partner. I know, that doesn't make sense, since I was a
firefighter and not an FBI agent, but hey, who said dreams
make sense, right? So the chief told me to get a hatchet
and go up after him.

There was a ladder, but it didn't reach Mulder's
window. Besides, for some reason, he couldn't get the
window up and couldn't break the glass. He was shouting
and screaming and pounding on the glass and I could see
the smoke and the flames all around him. He was so
scared and I was scared, too. I ran into the building.

OK, here comes the *really* strange part. I used the
elevator. Totally stupid, I would NEVER use an elevator
in a fire, but hell, I wouldn't have been fighting the fire in
the first place, so I went with it. I got in the elevator and
as the doors started to close, I noticed that I wasn't alone.
Phoebe Green was the elevator operator. Just like in the
old days, when all the big department stores had operators.
There was one store in Chicago, when Ahab was stationed
at Great Lakes, and Mom took us shopping at Christmas.
It was Goldblatz or something like that. Anyway, they had
elevator operators and for years, that was what Charlie
wanted to be when he grew up.

Anyway, there was Phoebe, in one of those funky
looking uniforms, and that pillbox hat, smiling and asking
me what floor I wanted. I told her the fourth floor, please.
We were very polite. It was just like the real thing. We
got to the fourth floor, Mulder's floor, and the whole place
was on fire. I could hear him screaming and it sounded
like he was coughing and having a really hard time. I ran
down the hall and started banging at the door with the
hatchet, making one hell of a hole in the damn thing.
Suddenly, the whole door caved in and I was standing in
the opening.

And there was my partner, lying on his couch, with
Phoebe in his arms. They weren't dressed and they were
definitely horizontal and decidedly occupied and I woke
up.

This shouldn't bother me as much as it does. I mean,
Mulder is entitled to a life. God knows, *I* would love
one. But this thing with Phoebe-- that wouldn't be a life.
That'd be a layover. And he doesn't seem to want to be around
her, but he also can't seem to stay away. I think it must
be driving us both nuts.

I have absolutely no room to complain, mind you. I've
been blessed. Mulder has a very quiet life. I don't have to
cover for hangovers or sleepovers. Friends from the
Academy have told me some REAL horror stories about
some of the guys in Violent Crimes. Hooker patrols and all-night
binges. But never Mulder. He's never picked up women
on the road during a case. I don't have to worry if I need
to call at any time (in fact, he makes a point of calling ME
at all hours of the day and night). In general, I sort of
forgot that he's a normal man with a normal sex drive,
because any drive he shows to me is usually focused on
one of two things-- finding his sister or solving the case
at hand.

So how is he going to react on this case? His mind is
*definitely* not on it. Well, it is, but it sure doesn't want
to be. His mind is somewhere on Phoebe's body, right
where his hands would like to be.

Look at it rationally. He could choose between facing
his greatest fear, if what he tells me about himself and fire
is correct, OR getting reacquainted with a major love of
his life that, by his own admission, it has taken him 10 years
to overcome. Gosh, that's a *hard* one! I can hear him
now,--'Well, Monty, I choose door number 2." And out
pops Phoebe wearing nothing but a feather boa and a
smile.

I need some coffee.

Anyway, somebody needs to really work on this case,
and it might as well be me. So, I sort of talked to Agent
Beatty a little. And I got a list of accelerants that might be
hot enough to cause a person to 'spontaneously combust'--
provided the proper incendiary device was used.

I did a little eavesdropping yesterday. Stood in the
doorway and listened to Agent Beatty run down some
possiblities. Rocket fuel seems to be the best bet. It burns
at temperatures of over 7000 degrees F. according to
Beatty. It's a real bear to put out, it splits the water
molecules into hydrogen and oxygen and the fire then feeds
on it.

If that wasn't mindboggling enough, Mulder had to
come up with a theory. I was almost relieved to hear it,
actually. It told me that he *was* thinking about this case
and not just staring dreamily at Inspector Green's ass. He
came up with a new one on me: pyrokinesis. OK, a
telekinetic is a person who can supposedly move objects
with his mind. That must mean that a pyrokinetic
can create fire with his mind. Damn good trait in an
arsonist, if you ask me. And a complete and total load of
horse manure, but hey, it's coming from Mulder, so I'm not
surprised.

Still, it got me thinking. Love letters. The victims live
relatively sheltered lives. Most of the fires occured at
home. The UNSUB had to have very intimate details of
the victims lives to get that close. And it is likely that the
creep would have known about the extended holiday that
the Marsdens are taking on the Cape, and would have
decided to accompany them on the journey.

God, how I love dealing with Immigration and
Naturalization. They think they're God's great gift to the
country. And they make the Social Security
Administration look good by comparison. This case just
keeps getting better and better.

And after a fun day dealing with all the red tape a good
Washington Bureaucrat could dish out at me, my mom
called the second I walked into my apartment. I had
forgotten that Thanksgiving is coming. Whoa, what a
thing to forget.

Mom was hinting that I should ask Mulder to
Thanksgiving Dinner. I don't know where this idea came
from, but I'm not quite ready for that kind of meeting.
Mom has talked to him on the phone once or twice when
she's called the office and I was somewhere else, but, well,
it just doesn't feel right. Besides, I'm sure his own mother
wants to see him on Thanksgiving, although he's never
talked about it.

To be real honest, I'm not all that sure that *I* want to
go to Thanksgiving Dinner this year. I don't want to go
through the litany of Bill Jr.'s wonderful accomplishments,
Charlie's "girl in every port" stories and Ahab giving me
looks and saying next to nothing about my work. And I
really don't know what I would tell anyone, even Ahab, if
they asked about work, anyway.

I can hear the conversation now. "Well, gee, Mom, we
had an interesting case the other day. Remember when I
called from Alaska to tell you that I might be gone for a
few days? Well, actually, I was in quarantine because
USAMRID thought I might be infected with a worm that
would turn me homicidal. Turns out I was uninfected and
only had to stay overnight. But they have *really* nice
facilities and the food was fabulous! The Army really
knows how to feed its infected subjects." Oh, yeah, that
would go GREAT over turkey and stuffing.

And Charlie will invariably want to know why I'm not
dating anyone. The hormones of a 26-year-old sailor are
quite possibly the greatest undiscovered energy resource of
the human race. I DO NOT want to get into it with him.
Besides, his taste in women is horrid.

A strange thought just occured to me. That's what this
feels like with Mulder. Like all the times I would go
absolutely bonkers over the women that Bill or Charlie
decided to date. I'm not being jealous-- I'm being
overprotective. Or maybe, in this case, just protective.
My God, how often have I accused Mulder (silently, of
course) of comparing me to his sister, of turning me into
some weird "Samantha Substitute"--and here I am, doing
that exact same thing!

But that doesn't mean that Mulder's out of danger here.
It just means that I'm more alert to it than he is.

The sooner we find this guy, the better off we'll all
be. Phoebe will hop on her broomstick and head east, and
Mulder's hormones will simmer back down to Low and we can
go back to dealing with monsters *under* the bed and not
*in* them.

I can't wait.




The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Wed. 8 November

Safe! For the time being, at least. I feel as
though I just survived an epic battle.

Which, in a way, is what happened; I spent the
morning with Phoebe.

And it looks like I may be spending the evening
with her, as well. I said I survived the battle. I never
said I won it.

I called her early this morning to let her know
about the bar fire near Cape Cod. Instantly she said "I'll
meet you at the hospital in an hour."

And... I said, "That's okay. Let me drive you."

Ahem.

So we drove to the hospital. She brought coffee
and croissants, which was thoughtful, particularly since
I neglected to have breakfast in my rush to get dressed
and go pick her up. Ahem. Phoebe told me about the Marsden's
summer home at Cape Cod and we brainstormed on likely points
of entry and so forth. Fairly pleasant, actually. Inspector
Green is an excellent detective. And not quite so eager to shoot
down my ideas as other redheads I could mention, which was...
actually, not that great. I put forward a few ungrounded
theories about pyrokinesis and Phoebe just nodded and
accepted the concepts, so I didn't have to bother to back
them up. That's a good way to explore ideas, but not a good
way to solve a case.

Still and all, things went well enough.

Until Phoebe asked, "Where's your little friend?"

"Sorry?" And believe me, I was sorry.

"Your Miss Riley or Kelsy or whatever it was."

"Scully," I gritted. "Her name is Scully."

"Very well, where's Miss Scully? It is Miss,
I assume, not Mrs.?"

Suddenly and absurdly I remembered overhearing
some pinhead from the metropolitan field office who
gestured toward my partner and said, "Oh, look, it's
Mrs. Spooky."

And his companion said, "What a waste."

"Actually, it's Agent Scully," I told her.

Phoebe gave her scimitar laugh. "Of course.
Agent Scully. Where is Agent Scully, then? Did you
pack her off to the steno pool, or just send her to
the library to keep her busy while we work?"

I said, "You know, Phoebe, you're more than
welcome to go to hell. Scully and I can investigate
this case through the X-Files. We have federal
jurisdiction. I don't have to work with you to
solve this case."

"Interesting tactic, Agent Mulder." The
only thing worse than Phoebe provoking me is Phoebe
analyzing my responses to her provocation. "Reassert
your dominance by claiming a territorial imperative.
Very effective. Especially considering that dominance
has never been your favored approach."

I flinched, which I'm sure gratified her to
no end. "Are you finished?"

"I haven't started yet," she practically
purred, and there were all kinds of promises and
warnings lurking there.

But by then we'd arrived at the hospital.

We spoke with the best witness of the incident,
a woman named Janine Cashak. Her hands were thick with
bandages, and at first I thought she was in too much pain
to answer questions. But it became fairly clear that it
was something else that made her reluctant to cooperate.
Finally she blurted that she lives with someone, and he
thought she was at school last night.

"That's not a problem," I told her quickly, and
explained that we could have her come to the field office
discreetly to help put together a composite picture of
the guy.

What guy, you may well ask. The gentleman who
lit his finger on fire, who is assumed to be ground zero
of the blaze and who is also, naturally, assumed to be
dead. But they haven't found a body. Imagine that. And
as Ms. Cashak recalled when she agreed to work with us to
get a composite of the guy, the man in question had (wait
for it...) a British accent.

No such thing as a coincidence. Ah, Patterson,
you _did_ teach me that much so well. An Englishman who
plays with fire, starts a tremendous bar blaze, and either
vaporizes into nothing, or escapes unscathed... does this
sound like a pyrokinetic arsonist? Bet your ass it does.

What I haven't worked out yet is, well, how could
someone start a fire spontaneously just by thinking about
it? I need to serve the tennis ball of that idea across
the net and get it rebounded right back into my face. But
I get the impression that I can only play singles if I
want to go back and forth with Scully. And Phoebe just doesn't
have the same whiplash backhand.

But then, all Phoebe ever needed was a racket.

"Excellent work, Agent Mulder," she congratulated
as we left Ms. Cashak's room. "Casually disregard her
indiscretion. A firm but polite manner, until she acceeds
to cooperate."

"A technique I refined in my relationship with
you," I shot back.

It hit too surely. "I see you haven't lost your
sense of humor after all," she said stiffly. She looked
genuinely shaken.

I felt like a fool. I'd let her get to me and
retaliated without thinking. But what I'd conveniently
forgotten is that Phoebe's terribly thin-skinned; that's
why she strikes out so quickly and so fatally. She can't
sustain the blows herself. I know that. I know her secrets,
too. A mother who criticized her vociferously all her life,
a distant mysterious hero of a father who rarely deigned
to notice her... For Phoebe, cutting remarks aren't cruelty;
they're a method of survival.

So I sucked it in and apologized. "I'm sorry.
I don't want to dredge up the past. Let's just stick
to the case."

"Yes. Let's." She froze over and walked off. But
when I called her name and tried to explain, she turned on
me again. "Ten years is long enough to have forgiven, if
not forgotten, a few youthful indiscretions."

Youthful indiscretions? She tore me up six times
and left me bloody and trampled in her wake. Youthful
indiscretions. "I'm cursed with a photographic memory,"
I reminded her. A double-edged curse at times, I have to
say; I recall the estacy just as clearly as the agony, and
certainly we had plenty of both in our time together.

And as though she knew what I was thinking, Phoebe
stepped close and whispered, "Then don't tell me you've
forgotten a certain youthful indiscretion... atop the grave
of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, on a misty night in Wendleshire..."

As though I could.

Not Wendleshire, nor Humberside, nor Stoney
Littledon, nor the Holy Well of St. Ambrew in Cornwall,
nor any of the sites along the ley lines of England that
we visited over the course of those two years. Each one
perfectly captured and preserved in my mind.

I can't decide if the memories of the good
times are somehow worse than the recollections of
the bad. It hardly matters. They're all with me to
stay.

God, was I ever really that young? Did I honestly
drive with Phoebe all over the countryside, tracing those
legendary veins of latent energy that supposedly run all
throughout the land... did we really make love at the foot
of the monolith near the Humberside church, on the long
barrow at Avon, atop Sir Arthur's resting place and in
a dozen other places I haven't even the patience now to
name?

So hard to believe that I was another person
once, an American kid struck dumb by the profound depth
of English history-- by the sense that for the first time
in my life, I was not standing on stolen ground, but on
earth that my ancestors trampled underfoot for centuries
as they fought to earn the land by spilling blood into its
soil. I felt both scorned and welcomed, a native alien
gone almost too long from ancient roots. A stolen child
returned too late to do much more than mourn an all but
forgotten past.

I drank it all in, the folklore and legends, the
deepest dreams of a hundred centuries gone by, from songs of
Camelot to Spenser's _Faerie Queen_, until I half-expected
to find the rusted sheath of Caliburn under a stone, or
to encounter Titania during one of my moonlit excursions
to the dense tangled woods. From Chaucer to Tolkien,
Shakespeare to C.S. Lewis... I was so steeped in magic
and romance that it's no wonder I half-worshipped Phoebe
then.

So unforgiving and then so gentle. Beautiful and
brilliant and cruel and perfect. I loved her; everything
in me made me love her; everything about her made me love
her. God, I loved her. That night in Wendleshire laid open
everything I'd ever felt in my life, sliced me to the bone
and reduced me to the barest essence of who I was, and all
I was then was a man in love with Phoebe. Christ. I was
so convinced that she must be the other half of me; what
else but love could be powerful enough to make something
seem so pure, so good, so nearly divine...

It must have meant something to her. Even if it
was only an echo of what I felt, it must have mattered.

But now, before I throw myself off a cliff in a
fit of dreary romanticism-- lest I forget that time in
the East End, just across Goulston Street from the site
of the final Whitechapel murder... when Phoebe pulled me
into the alley at dusk and I pushed her up against that
wall... then she whispered that perhaps this had been
where Mary Kelly took her customers, that maybe the Ripper
had seen her here, had taken her here... what was pure
in that? The only time in my life that sex felt dirty,
shameful, wrong. Obscene.

Agony and ecstacy. Highs and lows. What would
it be like now? Has time smoothed the intensity away,
eroded the feelings to dust, rendered it level and even?
Or is there still something there to reach for, however
old and tenuous... something we shared that hasn't been
broken, not by time or tide or mutual betrayal.

Is this the exorcism I hoped for? Or am I just
trying to justify myself, now that I've all but conceded
the fight? Face it, Mulder. This was what you wanted all
along.

We went out to the car as it started to rain, and
I suggested to Phoebe that the man in the bar had been
the arsonist, that he's more exotic than a mere pyrokinetic.
Again she took me up on the idea without a murmur of protest,
and I thought of Scully. I didn't want to think of Scully.
I don't want a conscience now.

I told her that the Marsdens should try to keep
a low profile. Phoebe said that there's going to be a
party in their honor in Boston tonight. "They'll have to
cancel," she said.

"Unless you wanted to set a trap," I replied.

Phoebe smirked; of course she had thought of that
already. "We must be careful and discreet," she informed
me, and I realize now that we both assumed I would go along
with her to Boston, though I hadn't said so. She gave me
the time and place, then added with mock casualness, "Oh...
and I've taken a room at the hotel for the night."

And merely looked at me.

I've seen that look. I know that look.

I like that look.

I'm doomed.

But then, that was a foregone conclusion all along,
wasn't it.

So now I've trundled myself and my tuxedo and yes,
damn it, a change of clothes, all packed up and ready to
go back to Boston as soon as Phoebe returns from the Embassy.
We'll drive up together, she'll go to meet with the family,
and tonight... I suppose I could hope that the arsonist
shows up and saves me the effort of the last futile melee.
But I think the guy has a fetish for striking at his victims
in their own `safe' places. I don't think he'll attack Sir
Marsden tonight. Not in public, not now.

This was how it always was between us, wasn't it.
All those trips we took to Cornwall, Dorset, all along the
ley lines; each time I'd go along, each time protest at
the prospect of making love in such unlikely places, and
each time I'd be persuaded quickly enough. It was always
just a nominal defense on my part. Just as it has been now.

And yes, I know I should call my partner and tell
her where I am, what we're planning, but I don't want her
to know. If she knew how complicit I've been in this game,
she'd lose any respect she has for me.

I know I have.

And all this for what? One night? One last chance
to get it right, or get it wrong, or get it over with, or
just get it on. One last dance.

I surrender. One way or another, Phoebe Green
is going to drive me absolutely crazy.

I may as well give up and enjoy it.




Dana Scully's Personal Log

Wednesday, November 8

I have decided that women really need to take over
the world and put all men on a single island (Australia
might work, but Greenland fits the mood I'm in better)
and only bring them off occasionally to replenish the
species.

I knew Mulder had it bad. I just had no idea how
bad it would be. "Bad" now has a new low in my book.

I should have seen it coming. I knew he went to
Boston this morning. There was a bar fire last night, the
place burned to the ground. One witness claimed that a
man had "caught himself on fire" and then set fire to the
rest of the place. Pretty outlandish story. Right up
Mulder's alley. He and Inspector "Let me take my
tongue out of your ear while I'm interviewing this
witness" left in a rental and I stayed behind doing
research.

Bitter? No, I'm not bitter. That was the easy part.
Actually, I was glad he wasn't here. He had been
bugging Danny for some stuff and Danny was getting a
little upset with Mulder's tone. I am not the only one
noticing that the boy is off the deep end. Anyway, when
I told Danny that I was helping Mulder with the research
(a white lie for which I will say a few Act of Contritions),
Danny was more than accommodating. I had a whole ton
of juicy stuff to tell Mulder.

I called his cell phone. I figured he would be halfway
back from Boston when I called. Not the case,
apparently. Seems 'the royals' were the guests of honor
at a little 'tea and toast' at the Venerable Plaza and
Mulder had agreed to help Phoebe stake out the place.
Oh, yeah, of course. And will that be one king sized
bed, Agent Mulder, or two doubles for the night? A
king, you say? Why, of course, sir. Should we chill a
bottle of Dom Perignon, as well, sir? Yes, I believe we
have a bottle of 1982. Yes, it was a VERY good year!

I'd throw up, but then I couldn't get to the really
good part.

I hit on some information that could NOT wait, so, in
a fit of diligence about the case that wasn't mine, I jumped
into my car and drove for four and a half hours in pouring
rain and sleet to get to the hotel and my partner.

My partner, who was busy with his arms wrapped
around Inspector Green in an interesting interpretation
of the "lend-lease" arrangement with Great Britain. You
lend me your neck, I'll give you a new lease on life.

The really disgusting, so awful that I want to claw his
eyes out and shoot her a couple of dozen times part is--
they made a rather nice looking couple. She's closer to
his height when she's wearing heels. And he was
standing there, wearing a perfectly fitted tux with a silk
cummerbund that caught the light from the chandelier
almost as well as his eyes. And she was in a sequined
gown that she had to have rented because it would never
have survived the trip across the Atlantic in your
standard two suiter, every hair in place, her lips so red
(and a touch of that red was already gracing my partner's
collar) and her nails a perfect match and ohmigod, for a
moment, I think even I could have believed that she
loved him, is still in love with him. And he with her.

The thought that kept running through my head all
this time was, "Is this what he wants? Or is this what they
had, and now it's gone?" I mean, is Mulder a self-imposed
monk because he's so commited to his work, or because
Phoebe hurt him so bad that he's afraid to enter the
water again? Or because he thinks that she's the only
one for him?

I wanted to scream.

I was trying to calm down and wait for a good
moment to interrupt (somewhere before he whispered
"Let's take this upstairs" into her ear) when I saw
this guy. With very creepy eyes. OK, not a very
professional assessment, but those eyes really were
creepy and *I* know creepy, now. And he was smiling
like he knew something that I was going to find out,
probably a few minutes too late.

He unnerved me a little and I looked over to Mulder
again (he hadn't noticed my arrival--probably wouldn't
have notice a patriot missile at that point) and then back
to the guy who was hiding behind a potted palm--and he
was gone. I scanned the room, trying to find him, when
I saw the emergency lights. Smoke and fire detectors
where going off on the 14th floor.

I ran up on the steps, interrupting what looked like a
great kiss, and for a split second, I'm sure that Mulder
looked annoyed, before I told them that there was a fire.
Not that I cared at that point. He told me he had to
*face* his demons, not *suck face with* his demons.

At any rate-- Phoebe was quick to inform us that
the children were on the 14th floor. The words weren't
even completely out of Phoebe's mouth when Mulder
raced off for the stairs. Phoebe and I called 911
and alerted the hotel staff. Then I went back to the
lobby and ran up a fire escape.

I thought I was following Mulder. Apparently I got
turned around in the lobby, because he was not on the
stairs I was on. And all the doors were locked. They
were all equiped with crashbars on the inside, I later
found out (amazing what a concierge will disclose when
he thinks his life is in danger from a gun-wielding FBI
agent). I figured Mulder would be down soon, too.
Then I remembered-- he had checked in. He had a key to
the doors on the fire escape. Any room key would do.

So I had to stand around and wait for my partner.

The fire crew arrived in just a few minutes. As I saw
them lugging hoses and hatchets, the visions of my
dream came back to me full force and all I could think of
was Mulder. The look on his face in my dream, as the
smoke and fire engulfed him.

I was feeling a bit *frustrated* at my inability to
do anything when I noticed Phoebe. She was standing
there, eyeing the stairway door and she looked pretty
frantic herself.

Suddenly, the elevator doors opened and out stepped
the Marsdens' driver and the two little boys. They were
sooty, dressed in their pajamas, but both seemed to be
completely unharmed. I took a deep breath and
searched around the three of them for Mulder. I was
starting to panic when I heard the fire escape door open
and a fire fighter carried Mulder over to the wall, quickly
fixing an O2 mask on him.

Aside from the smell of smoke and the soot that
covered his face and once-white starched shirt front, he
looked all right. I mean, there was no evidence of burns
on his clothing or his body. But a deep cough racked his
lungs and his eyes weren't focusing at all. I went over to
check on him.

A quick grab to the throat told me that his pulse was
racing, but probably from fright and exertion. He was
still coughing, but he appeared to be able to get his
breath easily enough, considering the smoke in his lungs.
Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
A fire fighter stood near me and asked if I thought he
should call for an ambulance. I made a big "doctor"
decision and said no. Being carried down the stairs by a
fireman was bad enough, when the objects of the rescue,
the two boys, had been airlifted from danger by means
of the elevator. But to wake up in the hospital after such
an ordeal would definitely not go over well with my
partner. He has made it no secret that he hates hospitals.
When I wanted him to go to one after he showed up
drugged to the gills and ranting about not remembering
anything at Ellens Air Base, he threatened to walk from
Idaho to Washington if I tried to check him in.

I glanced over to find Phoebe knee-deep in
congratulating the driver for saving the kids. Guess
you have to die in a fire to rate a second look from her.
Two of the firefighters helped me get Mulder up to his
room. I got the tux off him, thinking that he probably
lost that security deposit. He didn't move a muscle,
except when the coughing hit. I elevated his head and
shoulders, made sure he was warm enough, and settled
down in this chair to wait out the night.

There is nothing physically wrong with Mulder. He
inhaled some smoke, possibly breathed in some hot
cinders. But just looking at him, I can tell that isn't what
is causing this blackout.

This was a panic attack. Plain and simple. He is
reacting to an extreme amount of stress and his mind just
shut down for a while, to sort it all out. He never should
have rushed up those stairs.

The man is a psychologist, but then, what is that
saying about "Physician, heal thyself"? He should have
waited for the fire department. That's their job, for
God's sake! But I know why he didn't wait. I know
what drove him up those stairs into an inferno.

It was the next best thing to saving Phoebe.

And if he saved Phoebe, or in this case, Phoebe's
charges, she would be indebted to him. *Extremely*
indebted. And more than likely, she would also
remember what had caused her to fall in love with him in
the first place, whatever that was.

Thank God this joker didn't throw his victims off a
bridge-- I'd be fishing my partner out of the bay!

Mulder's plan for glory failed the second he didn't
find the boys and bring them down himself. So, instead
of Phoebe's undying gratitude and respect, he'll wake up
to find out that the driver "outFoxed" him.

He's not going to be happy.

Phoebe made an appearance around midnight. She
knocked on the door, but opened it with her own key.
All right. No big surprise there. She was in for a
surprise, however. She didn't expect to find *me* there.

She gave me a sour expression and moved over to
the bed, sitting on the edge and looking long and hard at
Mulder. "He'll be all right?" she asked.

"Smoke inhalation is nothing to mess with," I replied.
OK, I was being a bitch. I knew it then, I know it now.
But you know what? I don't give a damn. Phoebe Green
pissed me off. Where was she when he was leaning
against the wall, sucking O2 because simple air wasn't
doing it for him? Where was she when we carried him up
the stairs and into this very room? Where was she when
he started coughing his lungs out right after I got him
in bed and I was beginning to rethink my refusal of an
ambulance? He could have died up there in that blaze.
And she was busy mugging it up for the crowd. No, I
wasn't about to let her get off that easy.

"You mean he could be in danger? Why didn't you
take him to the hospital?" Oh, yeah, the bitch had claws.
I almost forgot.

"I'm a medical doctor," I told her. I then went on to
explain that I could observe him in the room just as
easily as I could in a hospital. If he had any difficulties,
the firemen had left the oxygen tank with me and the
ambulance could be on the spot in less than 10 minutes.
Take that, Inspector!

Then the conversation took an interesting turn.
"You don't like me very much, do you, Agent Scully?"

I had to think about how to answer that one. I mean,
sure, she had basically dropped him flat when he needed
her most, but he was out for the count at the time.
Chances were real good that he would want to talk to
her when he woke up. And what I was about to say
would very possibly get back to him when they talked.

So, I told the truth. "I don't think you're very good
for him." And that much was true.

"And you are?" she asked, in this really catty voice
that only the very highest of British aristrocracy can pull
off well. Oh, and any of Bond's girls.

I'd had enough. I stood up, glancing down to make
sure that Mulder was really asleep, because I was pretty
sure I was going to be raising my voice. Then I walked
over and let her have it.

I was angry and I don't remember word for word
what I said. I do remember invoking our partnership,
and the time we had spent on it. Even though short in the
span of a lifetime, it's been long in events and their
meaning. I told her that we have been there for each
other, emphasizing the "each other" part, since our very
first case. And I pointed out, rather loudly, that I have
never asked him to walk through fire for me. Even
though I think that he would if he had to, without giving
it a second thought. I don't need to test his loyalty to
me. I trust him. And he means too much to me to see
him being toyed with like he was some cat's little catnip
mouse.

She blinked. But she didn't respond. She chewed on
her lip for a moment. Then, she looked over at him
again. "You're staying with him, then?" she asked. For
some strange reason, I got the impression that the
question was meant for more than just the night.

"Yes, " I said firmly. "I'll be right here whenever he
needs me."

End of discussion. She left without another word. I
settled in to watch over my partner.

His breathing is still a little labored, but he hasn't been
coughing as much in the last hour. I think he's finally
slipped from unconsciousness into real sleep. I'm trying
to figure out how to get comfortable on this stupid
Queen Anne's chair, and then I'll join him in dreamland.

Tomorrow, if I can keep Mulder from jumping out
of the window from sheer embarrassment, I'll tell him
what I've found out about the arsonist.




The Journals of Fox Mulder

* Fri. 10 November

Back in the apartment. I finally got some rest
last night, but I'm still worn out. We have the day off
from work-- the FBI's good about giving leave time to
agents who bring in a man wanted in two nations-- so I
have a chance to recuperate. As usual, though, it's
going to take some time to wind down and turn off my
brain before I can sleep again.

And yeah, rest was all I got last night.

It was a gorgeous room at Venerable Plaza. A
lot like that bed-and-breakfast Phoebe and I visited
in Northumberland. I had never slept on a feather bed
before that-- pretty nice, actually, except that we
were fooling around and we kind of knocked one of the
bedposts half off the headstand. Youthful indiscretion.

Once the bellhop left me up there with my
luggage, I gave up all pretense and checked the bed.
Big, fluffy comforter and huge soft pillows and a firm
mattress that could easily stand up to any conceivable
acrobatics performed thereon. I should have been... I
don't know, but "depressed" should not accurately describe
one's state of mind when one is looking forward to a
night like the one that I mistakenly thought I was in for.

So then my cellphone rings and it's Scully.
And she has information about this case to give to me,
very important, I have to see it as soon as possible.

On the one hand, I wanted Scully to come and help
me solve this case, wanted to try to come up with some
kind of explanation for the pyrokinetic aspect of the
fires which would satisfy her scientific mind.

On the other hand... I didn't want to resort
to the other hand.

Ahem.

However, this being an urgent murder case, I
could hardly ask her to wait until I'd settled things
with Phoebe. But I wanted to. Which was why I stupidly
blurted something like, "I don't know, I was kind of
anticipating having my hands full."

The silence I got in answer to that... I could
practically hear her opinion of me shrinking in that
quiet space of time.

So I quickly diagrammed just what we'd discovered
that morning and what the plan was for that night. Scully
agreed that the trap might work, though she sounded doubt-
ful and frankly a little fed up. Certainly she had every
reason to be. I told her to come to the Plaza and we could
discuss the case after the party wound down, assuming that
our arsonist didn't show his hand during the festivities.

What was that they told us back at the Academy
about never assuming anything?

Climbed into the tuxedo-- I tried on a straightjacket
once, just to see what it was like. I shouldn't have bothered.
You get the exact same effect from a tux, only your hands are
free. And the straightjacket is probably a little less confining.
Tuxedos are adequate revenge for high heels, I think. I don't
know how (un)comfortable the average evening gown might be, but
it can't possibly be as torturous as that hideous assemblage of
cufflinks, cummerbund, tails, starch, and bow tie. I think it's
the bow tie that really bugs me. It's so... small. A tie should
be a banner-- a standard-- a flag! If it's just a knot stuck up
against your Adam's apple, what's the point? So. So I felt dumb,
looked dumber-- I'm not a tuxedo person, I'm a rolled-up shirt
sleeves person.

It got worse when I joined the party downstairs. A
cheerful tumult of socialites, lobbyists, and politicians;
I recognized a couple of Congressmen. I heard people talking
about the Marsdens, and about Phoebe, whispering anxiously,
wondering when they'd arrive.

It was just like in school: Phoebe, so brilliant and
flawlessly cosmopolitan and shatteringly desirable... sought
after by everyone... and me, awkward and alone and out of
place. It had all been some colossal game with her, a joke.
She didn't really want anything to do with me; after all,
here was a tide of people with wealth, prestige and power,
all within her grasp. All I could offer was a handful of
memories.

And then Phoebe arrived. I hadn't realized until then
how much she's changed; she's only now become what she always
wanted to be. Simply the most stunning, sophisticated, amazing,
charismatic woman possible. Ten years ago, I thought she was
all those things, but I see now that when I knew her, she was
just warming up. Now she's everything I ever thought her to be
and more. Moving through the crowd, she had the kind of glamour
that the rest of them aspired toward... and from across the
room she looked at me and smiled.

That was all. She meant it. I knew I was lost.

I circled the proceedings a couple of times, but people
kept glancing at me; it's tough to be inconspicuous when you're
the only person at the party who isn't having a good time. So I
found a smaller serving room off the main ballroom, away from the
party but close enough to hear the hum of conversation, close
enough to react fast to an alarm.

Shuffled around this little room and conjured Seine's
parties in my mind. Usually just twenty people, a stereo, some
drugs, and some good conversation. I don't know how many nights
I spent talking Kant and Sartre, buzzed on secondhand pot smoke
and drippy with melancholy, like every other college student
long on learning but short on ambition. Then there was the night
things got totally out of hand. Someone had boosted a tremendous
quantity of Guinness and champagne and passed it all around. We
put on the Sex Pistols and tore the house apart dancing. I dimly
recall shouting "Anarchy in the U.K.!" and breaking bottles in
the decrepit stone fireplace. Phoebe leading me into the kitchen,
whispering persuasions; I consented without being very clear on
what was happening.

The first hot dart of pain cleared away the cobwebs, and
the second woke me up completely. So I was, happily, concious
enough to stop the guy when he waved the needle towards my
nose. I remember telling him that wasn't a feature I cared to
draw attention to. He just shrugged and smacked his gum around
the hoops through his lower lip, eyeing Phoebe with fatalistic
hope.

She let her fingers graze over my hair and without
even looking at me, asked this guy, "What else, exactly, can
you pierce?"

Fortunately, he only knew how to do ears and noses--
or god knows where I might have holes right now.

I quit wearing the rings when we broke up, and the
piercings healed. There's still a tiny tube of scar tissue
in each ear, barely perceptible. Phoebe left her mark on me
in more ways than one.

She found me in that serving room last night, asked
if I was enjoying the party. Glanced carefully over her shoulder
while I made some tepid reply. No one was around. She said, "I
was wondering if you thought it would be safe to indulge ourselves
in a dance."

"Doesn't look like your arsonist is going to show up."

She moved close enough to kiss, and said, "That doesn't
mean there won't be any fires to put out."

Only Phoebe could say something so ridiculously seductive
and mean it. So I put my arms around her... so familiar, even after
all this time... and we danced.

"I've thought about you often," she murmured. "I've had
so many regrets... wished that things had been different..."

"So have I." Finally, just to admit, to surrender.

She said, "I've missed you."

No vacillating, here: I knew Scully was on her way, I
knew the arsonist could strike at any moment, and I think I
suspected even then that Phoebe's transformation didn't quite
ring true. I hesitated.

And made a decision. The wrong decision. I kissed her.

"There's a fire on the fourteenth floor!" Scully
showed up, it seemed, out of nowhere. I broke away from
Phoebe, and for one second I was simply enraged-- at the
arsonist, at Phoebe, at Scully, at myself-- for the stupidity
of the situation. Then what she'd said actually registered.

And Phoebe answered, "That's where the children are."

I was halfway up the stairs before I realized I
was running, and I could hear Scully saying something about
911 and taking the other stairway while I pounded up the
lushly carpeted steps. A locked door barred my way up--
a perfect excuse to turn back. I got my room key out and
tried it. It opened. The air seemed to change as I ascended;
thin, dry, acrid. My hair felt crisp. It's as though I were
one of those straw effigies the Druids used to burn in legends.
A wicker man. A sacrifice.

It took forever to reach the fourteenth floor, and
by then the dark scent of smoke hung heavy in the air. I had
to stop. And I damn near turned tail and ran back down those
stairs. But I thought, maybe the fire hasn't reached their room
yet. I could dart in and herd the kids out and run them down
the stairs, and maybe never even see the flames. And Phoebe
might be right there at the foot of the stairs; she'd know
I had failed. Besides, my partner wouldn't let some stupid
lingering childhood fear stop her, if she were in my place.
I don't know that Scully's afraid of anything, but I know
she wouldn't allow those kids to be hurt no matter what
it might cost her.

I went in. Heard it before I saw it: the open-mouthed
roar of destruction. Made it a few steps down the hall, and then
caught sight of the plume of fire spouting from the hallway ahead
of me.

What if the stairs burned while I was up here? What
if the kids had escaped already? What if I was trapped here
by the flames? I'd die for no reason. I could imagine it easily
enough-- my skin already felt taut and dry as a husk. I stared
at the fire and imagined that it stared back. What did it see?

Fuel.

I faltered. Dropped to my knees, inhaled spasmatically
and felt the heat searing down my throat, throughout my chest.
Like I was already burning from inside. That did it. I hared
out completely, tried to run. Ended up collapsing on the floor.

There's a point where you realize that the universe
doesn't care if your story isn't over yet, if there's still
so much you have left to do. There's a point where you realize
that maybe it won't all come out all right in the end. A point
where you recognize that you might die sprawled across the
carpet of a classy hotel in Boston, crammed into a tuxedo,
of all things, eaten alive by fire... never knowing for
certain who started the blaze, let alone whether he'd be
caught.

Now, safe, I just can't imagine not seeing it through.
But in that corridor I watched the future narrow and dwindle
away to nothing as the smoke closed in around me like a web of
silk. I thought I might die. I thought that might not be such a
bad thing.

The firefighters hauled me down the stairs-- my
head-first view of the trip is going to give me dizzy, nauseous
nightmares for months, I'm sure-- and since I don't fold into
a neat package, my feet banged against every step down all
fourteen floors. I think the pattern of those wingtip shoes
will be branded on my instep for all eternity.

They dumped me onto the floor and screwed an oxygen
mask onto my face, and as much as I hate those things, I
grabbed for it and sucked in as much pure air as my lungs
could hold. I registered that Scully was close by, going
into her doctor thing, trying to check my eyes for dilation
and so forth. I thought... I really thought I might lose
it for a minute there, start... just crying, right there.
Didn't know if those kids had been rescued-- how could I
live with myself if they'd been hurt? And even if they
were safe-- I'd still failed.

And if the mess I'd created with Phoebe hadn't
totally alienated my partner, then this surely had. Any
respect she might have had for me that had survived the
past few days must have been burned away.

I heard people crying out, and murmurs of conversation
saying that the children were all right, someone saved them.
Then I didn't hear much of anything.

Scully's face blurred back into sight eventually. I
always thought of her as a redhead, but actually, her hair
is more orange-- one stops to consider the subtleties of
color when large blocks of fuzzy hues are all one can see.
And there ought to be a more pleasing word than `orange'
to describe that color, since saying she has orange hair
makes her sound like Carmen Miranda, like she's wearing
a fruit bowl on her head.

She gave me a glass of water, asked if I was okay.
I took a drink, coughed some more-- smoke inhalation is a
bitch, no doubt about it-- and tried to gauge whether Scully
was ready to brain me or write me off as a lost cause or
what. She seemed to be reserving judgement; she asked, "What
happened up there?"

It occurred to me that maybe I could tell her that
I'd just been overwhelmed by smoke and... no, she deserved
better than that. So I told her the truth. I hared out,
plain and simple. Couldn't move. Couldn't think.

"It could have happened to anyone," she said.

"Yeah, but it happened to me." I stalked into the
bathroom, splashed some water around. --I just realized
something; I woke up sans tuxedo. Did Scully do that? And I
_missed_ it?

Damn.

Anyway. She asked me about the Marsden's driver, and
Phoebe answered; she'd come in while I was splashing, I suppose.

So I emerged to face her again, suddenly awkward and self-
concious, and asked a few pertinent questions. Phoebe told me the
kids were fine, having been rescued by the driver, and that the
Marsdens were anxious to get back to Cape Cod, pack their things,
and return to England.

"And you?"

"I'll be leaving in a few days as well." Phoebe seemed
edgy, glancing at Scully and then looking steadily, uneasily at
me. "I'll give you a ring before we go, all right?"

I nodded; Phoebe took off; she was careful to say goodbye
to Scully, in a surprisingly civil tone of voice. I wonder if
something happened there while I was out of it.

I could imagine a real fight developing between them,
but that could go into fantasy territory way too quickly, and
I think I should probably just let it lie.

Scully got this smug tone in her voice and said, "So
are you at all interested in what I came all the way from
Washington to show you?"

Frankly, at that point, I wasn't, really. Drastically,
appallingly unprofessional of me. I owe Scully big time for
this one. So I grabbed a chair and listened.

She deliberately strung me along with it, revealing
a bit at a time-- an informational striptease. I could be
reading too much into things... my plans having fallen
through and so forth... but it seems remotely possible
that Scully might have been a little jealous. I mean,
really, not just pissed because I was behaving unprofession-
ally. She could've been little green around the edges because
I threw her over for Phoebe. I suppose if some grand
affair from Scully's past came back and she ditched me,
I'd probably blend in with the plant life myself.

I must admit, the taunting way she laid out the
facts she'd found on this arsonist got my attention. She's
come a long way from "Better than you expected, or better
than you hoped?" in the past few months... she was always
an exemplary agent, but she's become an excellent investigator
as well.

Scully decided to check and see if the proverbial
butler did it. Ran a search on the servants in each of the
targeted households.

"These people probably don't even tie their own
shoes," she joked. "Two hundred names, without a duplicate.
Except one: a Cecil L'Ively."

Who, as she eventually revealed, had alternately
died in a tenement fire and in a ritual sacrifice in Bath.
And who had received a passport which was recently stamped
at a Boston point of entry.

If he was close enough to set their hotel rooms
afire, he was close enough to see them return to Cape
Cod, and follow them there. "Call the field office and
have them send an agent to the Cape-- I'm going to try
to catch Phoebe. This guy could be waiting for them at
the house."

So it turned out that I did need the second suit,
though not for the reason I'd packed it. I got dressed in
a rush while Scully called the Marsden's rooms-- no one
answered. They had already left.

Scully stayed to wait on the fax of the composite
of our arsonist. Also, tacitly, to let me get to the Cape
first and settle whatever I had to settle with Phoebe.
She seemed to sort of wash her hands of the matter. Told
me to be careful.

I just said, "Thanks."

I definitely owe her one.

So, the long drive. No cell phone coverage, so
I couldn't call ahead to warn them. Just pushed the bucar
to its puny limits and tried not to think about the night
I hadn't had.

Finally found the house and strode boldly inside,
this being an emergency and all, flush with the solution
to the mystery (given to me by my partner) and arrogantly
sure that Phoebe and I would finally be on equal terms.

Suh Malcome Mahsden. High-ranking British dignitary
Sir Malcolm Marsden. Important, wealthy, titled, _married_
old Sir Marsden... he was kissing Phoebe on the stairs.

She was kissing him. They were kissing each other.
What-the-fuck-ever. Physical contact occurred. A kiss was
involved.

I'm thinking about it now, wondering... you know,
maybe I was the other guy this time. God, I used to despise
them. She picked them up, I know, probably the same way she
drew me in. Phoebe wasn't interested in guys who approached
her. She liked the ones who watched and wanted from a distance,
and she always knew just who it was, and why. Each of the
men she saw behind my back-- every one of them had been involved
with another woman, and cheated on her for Phoebe. Marsden's
no different. But he probably thinks of her as his mistress.
I wonder what he'd think about this little sidetrack she's
been running with me.

"Your arsonist's name is Cecil L'Iveley," I told
her. Just sort of ignored that shattered feeling that was
ringing in my chest. "Get the rest of the family packed
and let's get them out of here."

I still can't believe it. Phoebe looked... chastened.
She actually seemed to regret that I'd seen her with Marsden,
who slunk away unnoticed. I mean, this is Phoebe Green, who
was brazen enough to tell me it was my fault she cheated on
me when I walked in on her and some art student in our own
flat. But she did what I said, and silently helped the family
pack without saying anything to me. Though I turned several
times to see that she was watching me, her expression completely
unreadable.

The driver was missing, the Marsdens said. I told them
what Scully found about the servants list and made the predictable
jump: the driver was the arsonist. Searched the house and found
a can of argocyline in the garage, which also seemed to implicate
the driver, unless he was souping up the Marsden's Rolls with
rocket fuel.

Scully arrived, and here's another thing I disbelieve--
she asked if something was wrong. My partner's so stringently
scientific. I didn't expect that kind of intuition from her.
Unless FOOL was writ large across my forehead (as it probably
should have been), I don't know how she'd figure that out.

She said, "It's the driver," and showed me the composite.
The Marsdens protested that the driver's a loyal and trusted
peasant, surely there's been a mistake, whatever. Scully showed
them the composite-- and suddenly a large point of semantics
became clearer.

The "driver", the man who drove the Marsdens to Boston,
was not the driver, the man who usually drives their car. He
was the _caretaker_. This is what happens when you think of people
in terms of what they do for you, rather than who they are.

Eventually we found the missing chaffeur/driver, burnt
to charcoal in an upstairs bathroom. But the caretaker/driver
was the man who saved those kids in Boston-- and he was looking
after the kids upstairs while we were standing downstairs in
the summer house with our thumbs up our asses.

We went up in a rush, searched through the rooms--
they weren't in the kids' room-- found the real driver's corpse
crouched over the toilet, nicely braised-- and heard Phoebe call
out; Scully and I ran into the Marsden's bedroom. The curtains
had burst suddenly into flames.

And... I don't know. I don't know why it wasn't
terrifying. It was frightening, absolutely. But I could
look at it. I could grab a towel off the back of a chair
and try to beat it out. Phoebe and the Marsdens were frozen;
Scully stood back, between them and the fire and me. Then the
pictures went up, then the bed. There was no chance of
suffocating it-- we had to run. And as we were backing
out, I realized that the caretaker must have taken better
care of the house than the Marsdens could imagine. The
whole place was rigged to go up in smoke. I brought the
towel to my face, and breathed the tang of fuel.

It started burning in my hands. We evacuated, but
the kids were still upstairs. I told Scully to get a fire
extinguisher and ordered the others out of the house.

Phoebe said, "Are you going to be all right?"

It's unkind, but when I glanced at her right
then, I didn't see gorgeous, unattainable Phoebe Green;
she looked like any woman in her thirties. Attractive,
but not sublime. And with her too-long, alluring bangs
flopping into wide eyes, she actually looked a bit like
a frantic Pekinese.

I don't even remember what I said to her. I knew
the caretaker was still in the house-- he'd survived that
bar fire, he could live through this. I knew he'd locked
those two boys in a room up there somewhere, and he was
just waiting for their parents to try to find the kids...
and then he'd start the whole house ablaze. But maybe
he wouldn't burn it down, not if the Marsdens were safe;
they were the target. The kids were incidental.

To him. But not to me. I mounted the stairs and
followed my gun down the hallway. The door was locked,
but I could hear them. And I could hear echoes of that
other fire, too. My best friend calling to me through
the haze, "Can you hear me? Fox, do you know where I
am?" Groping in darkness and catching the collar of his
shirt. The two of us staggering up the stairs to find
his parents, leading them down again, scared, but
stupidly exultant. But what I heard in those kids'
voices behind the door-- it was just the same tone
as the moment Curtis broke, when he almost sobbed,
"Can you hear me?" The same moment when I first knew
fear.

I wanted to shoot the lock off the door and
get them out but I couldn't be sure they were clear
and they couldn't seem to hear me when I called their
names: Jimmy. And Michael. Jimmy and Michael.

Then I heard: "Time to call 911." He stood down
the hall; even without the composite, I would have known.
He had the wide-eyed gleam of mania that emerges at the height
of obsession-compulsion. The arsonist, finally. He watched
with arrogant confidence as I swung the gun at him and
told him not to move. Gave me a huge smile like a rictus
and snapped his fingers.

The hall exploded into fire. The pictures all
along the corridor vomited flame; it rode along the ceiling,
licked at the walls and devoured the woodwork. I dodged.
I nearly threw down the damn gun and scrambled for the
corner and tried to wrap up small and hope the fire didn't
notice I was there. I heard him laughing as he strode away
through a tunnel of flames, his voice stretching in the
superheated air.

I crouched there and god, I almost let it happen
again; I could feel it uncurling like a cool blanket that
would fall gently over everything and make it null and void.
And all the pain and fear and anger would melt away. And so
would I.

I looked up at the fire. It rippled across the
ceiling in waves, in tides. So beautiful. I could just
stare and let it take me. Finally, just to admit, to
surrender.

No. Let me say it again: No.

...I picked myself up off the floor and I slowly
crab-walked back down the blazing hallway, putting my
hand out along the wall to guide me, and something hit my
wrist and burned me, and I was for one moment supremely
angry, just furious-- so I grabbed all that anger and I
used it to break down the stout oak door. Called to the
kids. To Jimmy and Michael. And also, somehow, to Fox and
Curtis. After twenty-four years, boys... come out of that
burning building, at last.

They were coughing. I scooped them up and carried
them down the stairs and out the building. Scully waited at
the foot of the steps; she opened the door to let us out.
At the time I didn't know it, but Scully had faced off
with the arsonist. He'd pressed her back, pointing out that
the spark from her firearm could ignite the house. Then
_Phoebe_ grabbed the argocyline and splashed it all over
the man. She may have saved Scully's life.

By the time I'd made it out with the boys, the
arsonist was whipping around the front lawn. The argocyline
should have lit him up like a tallow candle on contact,
but somehow it took seconds, nearly a minute, before
he finally caught. Shouting all the way: You can't kill
me. You can't fight fire with fire.

And we didn't. He survived. Well, fine. Maybe
we couldn't kill him, but I doubt he'll ever see open
skies again. That's enough for me.

The arsonist finally collapsed into the neatly
manicured grass. Moments later, a whole platoon of emergency
vehicles arrived. Scully had alerted them to be on standby
while she was still in Boston. They couldn't save the house,
of course; it was cinders. But they loaded Cecil L'Iveley,
if that was really his name, into an ambulance. And packed
us and the Marsdens into cop cars.

At least, in a classy area like Cape Cod, the police
station is relatively clean and pleasant.

Ah, the questions. Ah, the paperwork. Form after
form after form until my knuckles got raw. I signed my
name so many times that letters started to slur together,
disappearing: Fox Mulder. Fx Muldr. FM-ldr.

They finally got done with us around eleven-thirty.
Scully and I sat side by side in a pair of scruffy vinyl
chairs, and when they released us, she paused for just a
second. Then she said, "It's late. I'm going to find a
motel."

"I'm going to", not "We ought to". I couldn't read
her face; her hair fell and veiled her expression while
she gathered her things. In the fluorescent lights, her
hair shone red-gold. Not orange. A dozen other adjectives,
from cinnamon to cognac. But red-gold is the most fitting,
I think; like the wrought sword hilts in a Tolkien epic.
Red-gold.

"Sounds like a good idea," I said, striving for
a casual tone. "Will you wait for me? I want to say
goodbye."

She didn't look at me; just raised her eyebrows,
nodded. "I'll be here."

Phoebe was at a desk, trying to get through to
the Embassy. It was curious how she'd lost her luster,
in my eyes. It's like I had a superimposed double image
of the Phoebe I imagined and the woman who was really
there. And the fable was fading, while the truth remained.

I told her, "It looks like we're done here. We're
taking off."

She said into the receiver, "Yes, I'll hold," and
put down the phone. Phoebe's face was hard to decipher. She
smiled, I think, maybe a little sadly. "There. Let me give
you a proper goodbye."

"Was that what this was, this interlude?" I didn't
mean to ask, but I couldn't stay silent. "A proper goodbye?"

She studied me for a moment. "Perhaps I was trying
to give you a proper goodbye," she said finally, "when what
I owed you was an apology."

"No." Too easy, for both of us, to pretend it was
so simple. "You don't owe me an apology, Phoebe. You owe
me the truth." I faced her squarely, and for the first
time, I felt equal to her. "Were you pregnant, that
October?"

Slow dawn, but of what, I couldn't tell. Maybe
it was regret. In a way, I'd like to think so. But it's
best to harbor no illusions. I don't know what I saw in
her for certain. Phoebe said, "No. Not then. Never when
we were together."

I nodded, and after everything, I knew regret.
Even sympathy. Not then, she said. Not when we were
together...

She has demons of her own, I suppose. They'd better
look out when she's ready to face them. Phoebe is nothing
if not formidable.

I didn't know how to say goodbye. She saved me
the trouble, leaning to brush her lips against the side
of my face, whispering "Farewell."

Scully didn't say anything when I came back to
her; we went out to the parking lot and she motioned me
into her rental car. She drove us to a motel a couple
of miles down the road. We arranged for the rooms and
pulled the car around, and after she took the keys out
of the ignition, she stopped for a moment.

I might have expected any question but the one
she asked. "What happened up there?"

I told her, as best I could. Scully looked at
me thoughtfully.

And then she said, "That's good."

That was all.

I went into that motel room and fell face-first
into the bed and somehow, somehow, I didn't have a single
nightmare. All my dreams were gentle memories of England,
mingled with fragments of legends and ballads.

Maybe Phoebe didn't sleep so well. She messengered
another tape to me. I don't know what to do with it. I
don't need to know anything else she has to say.

Once, we went to see _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Are Dead_... my favorite play. Afterwards we began a game
of Questions.

She started with, "Did you enjoy the performance?"

"Didn't you?" I came back.

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Rhetorical question. One-Love," I scored, gloating.
"Where are we?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Don't you know?"

"How should I know?" she inquired.

"Aren't you familiar with London?"

"That's the same question. Repetition-- One-One. Do
you love me?" Phoebe asked.

"Yes, statement, so I lose a point. One-Two. Do you
love me?"

"Repetition! Three-One. What were you saying?"

I suppose I've been asking that question for ten years.
Did she love me? Does she still? I can never really know for sure.

Does it matter?

No.

But even with what it cost me, even with all the
mind games and the lies and the disappointment, I'm glad
we had it out at last. I'm glad we had a chance for one
last dance.




Dana Scully's Personal Log

Friday, November 10

We just pulled in. It's been the morning, day, and
night from hell. I want nothing more than to run the tub
full of bubbles, jump in and sit until the water turns from
scalding hot to a giant ice cube.

No such luck. For one thing, we aren't staying at the
Venerable Plaza. This dump has a shower, and a fairly
scuzzy one at that. Besides, I'm too wired from the night
to try and go to sleep. So help me, if Mulder's insomnia
is wearing off on me, I'll . . .

No, I'm too glad he's around to let him torment me
right now.

Mulder woke up this morning. He was definitely in a
mood. It was a good thing there were no spare
railroad ties in the room, because I'm pretty sure he
would have built a makeshift cross and nailed himself to
it. Self-pity is never pretty. It's even uglier when topped
with a good dose of self-hatred. If I hadn't felt so sorry
for him, hacking and coughing and looking the worse for wear,
I probably would have helped him find some wood.

But I have to admit, I now have a healthy respect for
men who prefer boxers over briefs. Oh yes.

Phoebe finally made an appearence. She came in
while Mulder was in the bathroom. Mind you, he had
managed to get from the bed to the bathroom in front of
me without bothering to cover up. Phoebe shows up,
and suddenly, he's wearing a full robe and looking like
my maiden Aunt Martha when she comes for a visit. It
was funny, in a nails on a chalkboard sort of way.

She came by to check on him. Yeah, right. I must
admit, I think there may have been a little guilt and self-
hatred in *her* eyes, too. It had been almost ten hours
since our little conversation, and I tried very hard not to
gloat at her somewhat chastened demeanor. Thankfully,
Mulder was too occupied to notice the change.

She told him that they were leaving. The Marsdens
had decided that if they weren't safe at home and weren't
safe in the States, they might as well go home. He asked
if she was going to be leaving right away and she gave a
vague answer and a promise to call. Gosh, where have I
heard that one. But if I'm not mistaken, it's usually a
male voice saying it.

I wasn't sure how I should approach him after she
left, so I went for the throat. I know Mulder well
enough now. Nothing gets him out of the dumps faster
than a good case. Or a good lead. And I had both. The
information that I had patiently sat by his bed to tell him.
I had him by the neck and he knew it. The thing I like
most about Mulder is that he not only didn't mind, I
think he expected it of me.

I love it when I can throw a lot of clues at him at
once. He gets this sort of impatient look on his face, like
it's taking all of his concentration not to *beat* the
information out of me. And then, as it starts getting
finely ground in that grist mill mind of his, his eyes start
to twinkle and he looks like a kid on Halloween with a
sack full of candy and no school in the morning.

I ran the names of all the male servants who'd worked
for the victims' families in the past year and came up with
200 names. No wonder the colonies revolted. They couldn't
afford the overhead. So then I looked for matches and found
just one.

Cecil L'Ively showed up a couple of times. But Cecil
L'Ively was dead. He died in 1971 in a tenement fire in
London. Then I found the name again, among the names of a
group of children who had been killed in ritual burnings
by a Satanic cult just outside of Bath, England in the
early 60's. What would Chaucer think?

But then came my favorite part. With Danny's help, I
called INS. And found out that Cecil L'Ively had applied
for and been awarded a visa to this country just two
weeks ago; he arrived in Boston.

As Mulder is so fond of telling me, there's no such
thing as coincidence.

We still didn't have a copy of the composite sketch
the woman at the bar fire had given the field office, so I
called and asked them to fax it to the hotel. Meanwhile,
Mulder took off for the Cape to warn the Marsdens.

Oh, yeah, and to save Phoebe.

Face it. The man is constantly going to spend his life
saving women, all because of the one that got away. It
affects every relationship he has ever had and more than
likely will affect every relationship in the future. I hate
it-- it drives me to distraction when he's overprotective
and usually I can throw him off the scent with just a
nasty look. But I knew full well why he all but ran out
of that hotel room like a bat out of hell. He was saving
Phoebe. Some guys just do not learn. Especially the
smart ones.

He'd been gone about half an hour when the
composite showed up on the fax. It was the driver.
Cecil L'Ively was the Marsdens' driver and was with
them at the Cape.

So, what did I do? Ran like a bat out of hell to
save my partner. Okay, so sometimes women never learn,
either. Especially the smart ones.

When I got there, Mulder had a very strange look on
his face. It was almost a mix of sorrow and anger. He
didn't look happy, that was for sure. And for some strange
reason (no, I'm not that naive, I'm just looking the other
way) Phoebe and the "Lord of the Manor" had been alone in
the house while Lady Marsden and the two boys were
taking a final walk around the grounds. I can't believe
people actually live like this.

They had found a can of argocyline while searching
the house... the rocket fuel that Agent Beatty mentioned.
A mundane explanation for the power of the fires, then,
if not for the incendiary device.

When everyone was supposedly safe back in the house,
we discovered that the person we thought was the driver
(that _was_ what he'd been doing the night before) was
actually the caretaker of the house. Cecil L'Ively was the
caretaker. It all fell into place like a little jigsaw puzzle.
L'Ively had found out where the Marsdens were staying,
had replaced the real caretaker, then sat and waited for
his prey to show up. I have now gone back and
underlined the part in my profile about "above average
intelligence".

But L'Ively had been sent upstairs to take care of the
kids. So we searched the house, looking for L'Ively
and the boys. We found the Marsdens' real driver, the
one who had come over with them from England. He
was burnt to a crisp in the bathroom of the servants'
quarters.

Phoebe shouted for Mulder-- we ran to the Marsden's
master bedroom. The curtains had gone up in flames. Mulder
grabbed a bath towel and started flailing it at the fire. I
pushed the Marsdens back and hoped he'd follow me, but he kept
beating at the flames even when a painting and the bed itself
flared up. I thought of a lion tamer, holding off the beast
with a chair and whip; Mulder was trying to face his fear the
same way, snapping a damp towel at the fire.

But it wasn't helping and everything was burning. We
finally backed out into the hall. Mulder put the towel to his
nose and realized that the rocket fuel accellerant was every-
where; the house had been rigged to burst into flame with just
a spark.

Phoebe and I herded the Marsdens out. Mulder was
right behind me when we got downstairs. I directed the
Marsdens out on the lawn and called the fire department
on my cell phone-- I'd already made sure that the local
forces were on alert. When Phoebe joined us, Mulder wasn't
with her.

"He's gone to look for the boys," was all she said, and
got that same look on her face that she'd had when we
were waiting for the firemen to bring him down the stairs
at the hotel. I wanted to run in after him, but she caught
me arm. "L'Ively," was all she said.

At that moment, I really hated Phoebe Green. Of
course, she was right. L'ively was still at large. Running
up to help Mulder might have given the bastard the
opportunity to kill Marsden and his wife and make off
into the night again. So when I went back into the
house, it was not to help Mulder; it was to find Cecil
L'Ively.

I didn't have to look far. He was coming down the
stairs as I came in. I had my gun drawn and challenged
him to stay put. He, of course, figured he had all the
cards. "You don't know that one spark from that gun
won't blow this whole place to kingdom come," or
words to that effect. And Mulder was still upstairs,
searching for the boys. I couldn't risk it. I had
to wait until I had him outside and had a clean shot.

He jumped down the stairs, daring me to make a false
move. I backed up, giving him enough room to come
forward, out into the open. Like a fly in a spider's web.
When he got to the bottom landing, Phoebe splashed
him with the rocket fuel.

I'm still not sure exactly what happened next. I
could hear the flames upstairs and I was getting really
frightened that Mulder might not make it down when he
appeared, carrying the boys, one under each arm. He
was coughing again, but otherwise, none the worse for
wear.

It was then that I could finally turn my attention to
L'Ively. I knew Phoebe had him covered. He had run
out onto the front yard. He was cackling madly and
screaming, "You can't burn me-- you can't fight fire
with fire--" And then he just burst into flame. It was
incredible. He was totally engulfed in fire within the
blink of an eye.

The fire department arrived. The house was a
complete loss. I fully expected to be called upon to
announce Cecil L'Ively's time of death, but amazingly, he
was still alive. The severity of his burns were such that
I truly doubted that he would survive the trip to the
hospital.

Due to the international nature of the incident, the
paperwork will probably still be there at our retirement
party, but most of it has been put off for the time being.
We made a brief statement to the local sheriff and we'll
wade through the piles of forms tomorrow in the office.

I kept expecting a call from the hospital announcing
the death of the suspect, but none came.

I also expected that I would getting myself a room
and traveling back to DC tomorrow by myself. Mulder
could have easily taken a day or two to say goodbye to
Phoebe. Considering the fact that he's in the office more
often than not on weekends and holidays, he could have
rented a rowboat and oared her back to England and it
wouldn't have put a dent in his comp time.

I stopped by to tell him that I was leaving the station.
He asked me to wait for him. That surprised me. Quite
a bit, actually. And I think the most surprising part was
that way he said and the look in his eyes. He looked like
a man who had just been acquitted. It had been a
horrific trial, and he wasn't unscathed, but he was whole
and he was free. And for that, he looked truly grateful.
So am I.

On the drive to the motel I couldn't put the thought
of L'Ively out of my head. I don't buy the pyrokinetic
horse shit that Mulder was throwing back at the Bureau
arson lab. But I do have no compunction declaring that
Cecil L'Ively was indeed the instigator in all those
murders and fires. The man is a vicious criminal, one of
the worst. He kills his victims for the unattainable, the
love of their own loved ones. And when he achieves his
goal, that of clearing the way, he drops the object of his
affection and goes off to the next unattainable goal. This
was not love. This was the worst form of greed and
covetousness. "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife."
Adultery never rang so true as when applied to Cecil
L'Ively. Whether he set his victims aflame with a match
or with a snap of his fingers makes no difference to me.
He is guilty of murder, of several murders. And in my
mind, the attempted murder of a Federal Agent. He was
positive that Mulder was dead or dying when he came
down those stairs in Cape Cod. I'm certain of that.

I don't care who handles the details. I just want Cecil
L'Ively off the streets forever. An English prison is just
as good as an American one, as far as I'm concerned. I
just don't want to have him walk into my life again.

I'm curious about his very survival. But is it enough
to make me reconsider his guilt? Not in the least. The
criminal has been apprehended, is in custody. The case
is closed. I'm just happy that we survived this one.

Monday, November 13

I finally got through the paperwork that had piled up
since my foray into arson investigations and international
relations. I think next time one of Mulder's 'friends from
Oxford' shows up on our door, I'm going to drag him off
on a nice ghost hunt in the Adirondacks. Maybe search
for the biological sister of the New Jersey Devil Woman.
Something nice and safe.

I went down to see how he was doing. He was
sitting in his office, glasses on, staring into space.
Looking too pensive for a man who just escaped the net.
I couldn't resist teasing him just a little. I mean, after
all those times he's gotten me . . . I feigned my best
English accent (hey, I made a damn fine Eliza in 11th
grade) and asked him to lunch. I thought the poor boy
was gonna jump out of his skin.

Phoebe never called. I guess our little talk made her
stop and think about what she was doing. Or, more likely, she
has already set her sights on some other poor guy. I feel
for him, whoever he is. But my partner seemed to be
handling it, as well as I think I would have under the
circumstances.

She sent him another tape. He hadn't listened to it.

We went out to the mall for lunch. Hot dogs at the
stand by the Archives. Mulder still had Phoebe's cassette;
he told me that he didn't want it, but that it didn't seem
right to just throw it away.

I had some matches.

So when the Capitol foot patrol was looking the other
way, we set the tape on fire, tossed it in the garbage can,
and let it burn.

the end.