Title: HOLDING PENALTY
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. Original characters are property of the author. 
No infringement is intended. 
Rating: PG
Classification: S
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Up through "Detour"
Summary: It's only a game until someone gets hurt.
Feedback: Treasured at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

HOLDING PENALTY (1/4)
By Jean Robinson


"THERE SHE IS!! GET HER!!"

Oh, damn. Dana Scully snapped a dismayed look over 
her shoulder to see Agent Brian Fuller poised some fifty 
feet away, pointing at her and yelling at the top of his 
lungs. She broke cover and started to run, a headlong 
dash uphill towards uncertain safety. In all the 
commotion since this nonsense had begun an hour ago, 
she'd lost her bearings in the New England woods and 
was no longer sure which way led back to the base.

And to think I scolded Mulder when he complained about 
this, she thought dismally, trying to ignore both the 
burning stitch in her side and the battle cries of the 
others as they closed in on the prey. Team-building, ha. 
This was =war=; these people were out for blood.

She crested the hill and paused, looking around 
frantically from the higher vantage point for signs of 
further pursuit. The instant her head was turned 
someone hit her in a flying tackle, the force of it knocking 
her off her feet and down the other side of the small, 
leafy grade. The world kalidescoped around her as they 
rolled; her equilibrium destroyed, Scully was powerless 
to break her assailant's grip around her middle or halt 
their tumbling downward momentum.

They skidded to a stop with a bone-jarring thud at the 
bottom of the hillside. Scully lay trapped on her back 
underneath her attacker, who was now cheerfully 
grinning down at her. "Got you!"

"Mu. . . Mulder," she gasped, unable for the moment 
draw a full breath to lend more force to the indignant 
protest. Her chest hurt, her back hurt and her legs hurt. 
Everything hurt. "That's. . . that's not fair!"

"All's fair in love and Capture the Flag, Scully."

"This is supposed. . . supposed to be a game, not a full-
contact sport!"

"I distinctly remember hearing that we could use any 
means to obtain our objective when they explained the 
rules. Weren't you listening?"

It was hard to stay angry with him, despite the pain she 
felt now and the aching soreness that she knew would 
follow this afternoon's activity. Hard because she had 
insisted they would enjoy this four-day team-building 
seminar, coaxing his sullen cooperation with the idea of 
being placed on opposing teams during the games. 
Actually, it was impossible to maintain her stern, 
forbidding facade for a much simpler reason. Playfully 
planting one hand on her breastbone and his shin across 
her thighs to pin her down, Mulder was tickling her 
unmercifully with his free hand as he groped at her waist 
for the blue banner tied there on a piece of string.

"Mulder! Eeek! Stop that!" she exclaimed, laughing 
uncontrollably and writhing helplessly under the 
unexpected assault.

"Well, damn it, Scully, what did you do, tie this in a 
sheepshank or something?" 

"Stop it. . . stop it!!"

And then it happened.

She was never absolutely sure then or afterward exactly 
what triggered it, no matter what her partner said. All 
she knew was that one second she was giggling so hard 
she couldn't breathe and her eyes were tearing, and the 
next second the person looming over her was no longer 
the man she'd worked beside for the last four years. 
Suddenly the face above her changed, and continued to 
change, becoming all the nightmare images of those who 
had trampled on her defenses in some way and left her 
damaged.

Eugene Tooms. Luther Lee Boggs. Warren Dupre. Duane 
Barry. Donnie Pfaster. The shape-shifter. Virgil Incanto. 
Gerry Schnauz. Leonard Betts. Ed Jerse. Alex Krycek. 
Others. They flashed in front of her eyes in a blurry 
melding of features, and the laughter died in her throat 
as fear and panic blossomed in its place.

Mulder didn't notice she'd suddenly ceased her struggles; 
he was still engrossed in unsnarling the little flag whose 
removal would take her out of the game and add points 
to his team's already winning score. "Scully, what kind of 
sailor knot is this, anyway? Something your father 
taught you for your chastity belt?"

"Get off me." It was spoken so quietly he heard neither 
the words themselves nor the desperate plea in the 
rigidly controlled tone, leaving him defenseless for what 
happened next.

"Give me a. . ." He never got to complete the sentence. 
Scully abruptly lunged up from underneath him, driving 
her palms into the hollows just below his shoulders, 
wrists bent and elbows locked. 

"GET OFF ME!!" she screamed. 

He topped her by almost a foot, outweighed her by nearly 
eighty pounds. All the laws of physical science dictated 
that from such a prone position she should have no 
leverage whatsoever, yet she threw him off as if his 
superior mass was of no more consequence than a 
feather pillow. A thoroughly unmanly grunt of "Huh!" was 
all he got out in his surprise. Landing hard on one 
shoulder, Mulder whacked his elbow on a moss-coated 
rock and stared uncomprehendingly at her as the terror 
escalated, obliterating her sense and reason in the blink 
of an eye.

Scully stumbled to her feet, all conscious thought 
narrowing to one single focus: escape. She staggered 
sideways, her head spinning, her vision doubling and 
tripling as if she'd spent the last hour dueling the red 
team in a drinking game instead of slinking through the 
woods eluding them. Her feet tangled together and she 
saw the ground rushing up to meet her. Faintly, she 
heard a voice calling her name, first in puzzlement then 
raised in alarm. 

She tasted the damp, loamy flavor of earth and leaves in 
her mouth as she hit the ground, and then knew nothing 
more.
**************

"Scully? Scully!" Mulder scrambled up but wasn't quick 
enough to catch her before she collapsed, crumpling 
down into the leaves like a blade of grass in a heavy rain. 
"Scully!!"

Nothing. She was completely unresponsive, her 
respiration shallow and rapid. He felt for a pulse at her 
throat, and was relieved to feel it strong and steady 
against his fingertips.

There were sudden voices and running footsteps behind 
him. The entire exchange between them had taken less 
than three minutes; nobody had been that far away. 
Drawn to the spot even more quickly by her cry and his 
shout, the rest of the team-builders were now upon him, 
sensing disaster.

"Mulder! What happened? Is Dana hurt?"

=Mulder=. =Dana=. He turned around. This particular 
seminar had included twenty people; ten sets of partners. 
One of the few rules was First Name Basis, again to 
foster companionship, friendship and unity. They'd been 
here a day and a half, and his partner had been "Dana" 
to everyone else from the outset. He'd marveled at how 
easily they called her that, even more so at how 
enthusiastically she responded to it. 

But he was still Mulder. Word was out on him; no one 
tried to call Dana's moody, unpredictable sidekick by his 
given name, and certainly no one dared even 
=suggesting= that he be Spooky for the weekend. And 
while he could and did refer to the other eighteen in their 
group by their first names, he'd been unable to use his 
partner's. He suspected the two of them could team-build 
until doomsday and still call each other Mulder and 
Scully.

"Mulder, what happened?" There was alarm in Brian's 
voice now, and Mulder suddenly realized they were all 
staring at him with equal amounts of concern and 
suspicion as he knelt over Scully's inert form, both of 
them covered with grass stains, dirt smudges and dead 
leaves from their tumble down the slope.

What, he thought to himself, had happened? He wasn't 
sure. Scully had had some sort of psychotic episode; in 
layman's terms, she'd freaked out. There was something 
deeper going on, but he didn't know what, and wouldn't 
be able to find out until his partner recovered and told 
him. Until then, he wasn't going to speculate in front of a 
bunch of relative strangers about her mental health. 
She'd kill him if he did.

So for now, he'd improvise on the truth.

"She fainted. All this running around. . ." he gestured 
with one hand. "I think it was just too much for her."

He watched them closely to see if they bought this, and it 
looked like they all had. They relaxed, the suspicion 
receding in favor of the concern. They all knew about 
Scully. Many of them had signed group get-well cards, 
sent flowers. Some had visited her during what they all 
thought were the final days of her life. It was not 
unreasonable for them to believe that someone who had 
been so terribly sick such a short time ago could overtax 
herself and pass out.

But they would start to wonder why she wasn't coming 
around yet, and in truth, he was worried about that 
himself. If she had simply fainted, she should be moving 
by now, showing signs of recovery, and she wasn't. He'd 
seen the expression on her face when she went down; 
whatever she saw had frightened her badly, enough that 
she had taken refuge in unconsciousness.

And that was =definitely= not right, because Dana Scully 
simply didn't scare that easily.

"Help me with her." He didn't really need assistance; 
Scully was by far the smallest person present and almost 
any of them could have carried her the short distance 
back to the condo. But he wanted their cooperation, 
wanted them to see he was including them and 
participating in the whole weekend charade, even when 
the situation was outside the realm of trust games and 
leadership exercises.

"Are you sure we should move her?" This was from Agent 
Linda Caleca, a short dark-haired woman. Brian Fuller's 
partner.

What did they want from him, a medical opinion? He 
wasn't the doctor, here. Then it hit him. The full details 
surrounding Scully's remarkable remission had not been 
released, but word got around. 

They didn't know about the microchip, but they all knew 
that somehow, in some way, he had been responsible. 
Something he'd done had brought his partner back from 
death's door. He had been raised to a new level in their 
eyes; he was now more than ever "Spooky" Mulder. He'd 
performed a miracle, and they would never fully discount 
his abilities again. If he could cure cancer, he might just 
do anything. So now they all deferred to him as if he were 
indeed a board-certified medical professional, waiting for 
him to save Dana Scully yet again, willing to do whatever 
he asked to help him with the task.

Okay, they think you're in charge, act like it.

"She'll be fine. Let's just get her back to the house. 
Brian?" He looked up at the other agent, and Brian 
nodded. Together, the two of them slid their arms under 
Scully and lifted her carefully. The rest of the agents 
surrounded them in a slightly gruesome parody of an 
ancient funeral procession. Scully's accident was 
bringing a premature halt to the afternoon's scheduled 
activity, but it hardly mattered. Although his attention 
was focused on her, Mulder could see that only two 
others still had their blue flags, while most of the red 
team's banners fluttered triumphantly from their waists. 
All in all, it had been a roust for the red.

The FBI owned the big condo on the edge of this forty-
acre wooded site; it was used primarily for conferences 
and seminars, and very occasionally as a ski lodge for 
one or two of the extreme higher powers. No one was 
supposed to know about that, but everyone did. The 
condo boasted six bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms, a 
living room and dining area with a fireplace large enough 
to roast an ox, two other smaller den/meeting rooms, 
and a full modern kitchen. The only thing missing was 
the Jacuzzi. There was room enough to sleep thirty 
comfortably.

They carried her into the bedroom she was sharing with 
three other female agents. Linda pulled off the bedspread 
and they laid her on top of the blankets. Someone 
grabbed two extra blankets from the closet shelf to put 
under her legs to elevate them, and Mulder draped the 
bedspread back over her. He sat down next to her and 
took her hand. "Come on, Scully, come on," he 
murmured, very quietly so the others wouldn't hear. Over 
his shoulder, he said, "Why don't we just give her some 
breathing space, okay?"

They took the hint and filed out, making vague 
comments about cleaning up and starting dinner. All but 
Linda Caleca, who sat down on the next bed and looked 
down at Scully with growing concern. "Mulder. . ."

It was clear she was worried, but didn't want to overstep 
her bounds, his authority and whatever peculiar 
territorial claim he had over his partner. Another time he 
might have been angry, but he was troubled, too, and 
oddly enough, it helped to have someone with which to 
share his fear. But he couldn't express it as fear, not just 
yet. He had to remain in charge for as long as possible, 
and hope that Scully wouldn't drag this out until the 
inevitable decision had to be faced.

"She'll be all right."

"Mulder, she's not all right. She's in shock."

He knew that. He knew the symptoms, understood that 
the hand clasped in his was cool and clammy because 
Scully's internal systems were in complete chaos, and 
that in trying to restore order her body was stealing the 
energy it needed to perform simple, autonomous 
functions, such as body temperature regulation and 
respiration. "Get another blanket."

"I think we should call an ambulance."

"No!" He hadn't intended for it to sound that brusque, 
and looked over at Caleca quickly to soften it. "No, not 
yet. Give her a few more minutes. She's not hurt. I know 
she's not, I saw it happen." He couldn't face sending 
Scully to another hospital, consigning her to another trip 
in an emergency vehicle, banshee sirens heralding her 
return to the harsh hands of modern medicine. 

Not after what she'd been through over the last year.

Linda's expression spoke volumes. It told him he was 
being foolish for reasons she didn't understand, that he 
was taking a risk with his partner's health, that shock 
could turn life-threatening in a heartbeat, and that his 
pride wasn't worth Dana Scully's life. All of which he 
knew. But she didn't argue further, and retrieved another 
blanket from the closet as requested.

"Five more minutes, Mulder. Then I'm calling the 
paramedics."

"Five more minutes," he agreed. It was all the time he 
could stand, anyway. Scully, where are you? What 
happened?

End part 1/4
________________________

HOLDING PENALTY (2/4)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


As if in answer to his unspoken query, she stirred, rolling 
her head to the other side on the pillow. "Scully?" he 
asked, brushing back a wayward lock of hair that had 
fallen across her cheek.

"Dana?" Linda said, at almost exactly the same time.

Scully blinked, reflexively squeezing Mulder's hand in 
response to his grip. Her eyes opened fully, exposing the 
unusual light blue crystal color that had so intrigued 
him the first day she crossed the threshold into his 
office. Confusion, followed by agitation, flared across her 
features. "What. . .?" She tried to sit up.

"Easy." Mulder held her down at the shoulder. "It's all 
right. You fainted back in the woods and we brought you 
back here." He gave her a meaningful stare. This is the 
story, it said. Until you tell me otherwise, this is the 
story.

Confused or not, Scully picked up on it. She'd seen 
Linda; knew they were not alone. She relaxed back down 
against the pillow. "Oh. Stupid of me. Too much fresh air 
and sunshine."

"How do you feel now?" Linda's question had the 
cautious overtones of one who senses that she's being 
excluded from some odd coded conversation of the non-
verbal kind. Mulder crossed his fingers that as long as 
Scully was awake and talking coherently Caleca would 
let it pass unchallenged.

"I'm fine." His partner's predictable answer was in fact a 
small lie; he knew she hadn't been sleeping very well 
lately and all this ridiculous gallivanting through the 
forest was enough to exhaust even a robustly healthy 
person. "Just a little sore." She pulled her hand out of 
Mulder's grasp and punched him lightly in the arm. 
"They did =not= say you could tackle in this game!"

"Mulder, you =tackled= her?" Linda asked him in 
disbelief.

"Well. . ." he grinned sheepishly in the face of the two 
women, who were now laughing at him. "Okay, so they 
didn't exactly say you could, but they didn't say you 
couldn't, either."

Scully's little interplay had the desired effect; the spell 
was broken and Agent Caleca was reassured that Dana 
Scully was indeed fine, after having fainted due to simple 
overexertion. She stood up. "I'll go tell the others you're 
all right. And Mulder," she favored him with the 
indignant glare of a blue team member, "we're going to 
have a little group chat later about whether to let your 
team score stand after your blatant admission of 
cheating. Tackling, my foot!" She gave them a final grin 
and left the room.

Scully's own smile faded as Linda's footsteps receded 
down the hall. She looked back at her partner. "Okay, if I 
didn't faint, what really happened?"

He shook his head. "I don't know, Scully. You'll have to 
tell me. One minute you were laughing, and the next 
minute I was flying through the air and you were 
screaming your head off."

"I don't remember that." She closed her eyes.

You're lying, Scully, you do remember, he thought. You 
never could lie very well, except for that one time, and 
that took almost everything you had. But he decided not 
to push her on it just yet. "You're really tired, aren't 
you?"

"Yes. Why don't you tell the others that I'm just going to 
try and sleep for a while. Don't wake me for dinner; if I 
get up I'll just grab a sandwich or something."

"You're sure?"

"I'm fine, Mulder. I'm just not as young as I used to be." 
She rolled over on her side, pulling the covers around her 
shoulders. "Go on, go build a tower of furniture with 
them or whatever else they're doing for the rest of the 
day." She grinned wickedly, and he returned it in kind.

"Just for that, next time you pass out I won't stop Brian 
from personally checking your heartbeat."

"Mulder!" She shot upright. "He didn't!"

"Got you big time." He poked the tip of her nose with his 
index finger. "Get some rest, Scully. See you later."

He went down the stairs to the main floor to find the 
group roughly divided into thirds; showering off the last 
reminders of Capture the Flag, sorting through the 
kitchen for the dinner provisions, and playing a 
continuation of last night's poker game, while spoiling 
their appetites with the leftovers from the wine and 
cheese reception of the night before as well.

They all looked to him when he came in; it was such a 
perfectly choreographed response that he almost 
laughed. "She's just tired. She's going to try and sleep." 
The little conversations that had ceased so suddenly at 
his entrance resumed.

"Deal you in, Mulder?" Brian paused, holding the deck.

"Thanks." He took a seat and tossed in his ante. "What's 
the game?" Last night it had been dealer's choice every 
round, resulting in a melange of different games and, 
although he hated to admit it, a great degree of hilarity. It 
might have been the wine, it might have been the hour, it 
might have been just the absurdity of being sent back to 
one of these dumb sessions almost as soon as he and 
Scully had returned from their little side tour of the 
Florida swampland after successfully ditching the last 
one, but it had been funny. Or maybe it was the sight of 
one diminutive redhead calmly bluffing him out of forty-
eight dollars when she held absolutely nothing, not even 
a pair, and he was staring at a flush. He still didn't know 
how she did that. He was the one with the photographic 
memory, he was the one who could count cards and 
figure odds, and she still managed to bilk him out of a 
week's worth of lunch money. 

Women's intuition. Go figure.

"Seven card stud, wild cards are deuces and jacks and 
the king with the ax," Brian announced, tossing cards 
out to the players with the smooth expertise of a Vegas 
dealer.

The shifts changed as the late afternoon drew toward 
early evening, with everyone rotating through to clean 
up, continue dinner preparations or replace the 
gamblers. Coming down after her shower, Linda reported 
that Scully was still sleeping.

Mulder checked on her himself just before dinner, and 
found her twitching restlessly; she'd kicked the blankets 
into disarray around her knees. He straightened them 
out and pulled them up, and the motion seemed to ease 
her out of that stage of sleep into a more peaceful one. 
He waited another minute to see if she would wake up, 
and when she didn't, he went back to join everyone else 
for lasagna and meatballs, the much-touted specialty of 
Agent Angelina Sterino. 

Scully appeared after the dinner dishes had been cleared 
away and everyone was relaxing in the living room while 
Brian built a fire. Someone who had spent one too many 
childhood summers at camp had brought marshmallows, 
chocolate bars and graham crackers. There were few who 
could resist the lure of such a familiar gooey treat, 
despite token protestations of diets and cholesterol, 
caffeine and fat content. Brian had just torched the 
kindling for the third time when Scully ambled in, 
tousled and yawning. She'd changed into a navy 
sweatshirt and matching sweatpants bearing the 
Quantico logo. Half the men in the room stood up when 
she came in, Mulder among them.

"Hi, everyone." She smiled at them all, reassuring them 
that all was right in the world and that no one need fuss 
over her. "Sorry about this afternoon. Did you all 
chastise Mulder for his rule infraction?"

How does she do that? he wondered. In less than three 
seconds, they were all at ease and laughing with her; any 
lingering worry about her condition had been neatly 
dispelled. He didn't have that kind of rapport with his 
colleagues. He never had.

"Are you hungry? I'm afraid we didn't leave much," Angie 
apologized. "I tried, but you know how these guys eat. . ."

She flashed another brilliant, forgiving smile. "Oh, I'm 
sure I can find something." She headed for the kitchen, 
and was back a few minutes later with a sandwich and 
some hot tea. She sat down on one of the couches across 
from Mulder, next to Linda.

The talk started up again, around sticky mouthfuls of 
marshmallow and chocolate. We're all going to need a 
shower again after this, Mulder thought wryly. This 
happened to be the one evening without any scheduled 
activity or topic discussion, so they were all talking about 
the one thing that bound them together.

Work.

Old and new war stories were dragged out, dusted off or 
tried out. Tales of stake-outs gone bad, wiretaps that 
revealed everything but the crime, shoot-outs where only 
the criminals survived, tense hostage situations, car 
chases on winding mountain roads, bomb missions to 
defuse ordinary cans of soda, profiling killers without 
definite patterns, and routine lab tests that became the 
turning points of a case. Mulder sat and listened, 
commenting when he could, but not adding anything of 
his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Scully 
doing the same, with a great deal more success than he 
was having.

No one seemed to notice that they were involved without 
actually participating, which was probably a good thing. 
He and Scully both had experience with the kinds of 
situations and events being bantered around the room 
this evening, but their primary investigations centered 
around ideas and circumstances that no one else here 
could relate to. How, exactly, did one try to trump a story 
of the successful detection and defusing of a terrorist 
bomb on an airplane full of panicking passengers with 
the admittedly bizarre description of an alien oil that 
turned one's eyes black and body-jumped from person to 
person?

The answer was one didn't. So he held his tongue. And 
again, he was in awe of and a bit perplexed by Scully's 
personal magnetism with everyone here. Okay, yeah, she 
was attractive; an Irish colleen in vivid contrast to the 
other three women present, who ranged the ethnic 
spectrum from the patrician Scandinavian features of 
Agent Elizabeth Dunn to Angie's olive-skinned 
Mediterranean beauty. But that didn't explain why 
everyone, male and female, lit up when Scully spoke, 
hung on her every word and looked extraordinarily 
pleased when she addressed them by name.

He concentrated on it while attempting to carry on a 
conversation with Angie, whose specialty was linguistics. 
Halfway through the evening it finally dawned on him. It 
was so obvious that he felt like an idiot for not seeing it 
sooner, except that he'd never really seen his partner 
demonstrate this particular talent before and so was 
unfamiliar with it.

Dana Scully had turned on the charm. 

Curled up on one corner of the couch, she had set her 
internal personality voltage on maximum and had the 
entire assembly eating out of her metaphorical hand. He 
bet if she asked Brian to toast his own foot, the man's 
only question would be, "Medium or well done?"

He'd assumed their isolation within the Bureau didn't 
bother her, because it rarely bothered him. He knew 
what they thought of him; the Bureau's pet profiler 
turned into a science fiction guru. "Spooky" Mulder and 
his little green men. He'd chosen his path and he could 
sleep fairly well in the bed he'd made for himself, 
insomnia notwithstanding. But following him down the 
yellow brick road hadn't been Scully's choice; it had been 
a direct order from her superiors. One that ultimately led 
to a great amount of personal suffering and tragedy. That 
aside, it had landed her an unwelcome, unasked-for 
place next to him in the surreal mists of Bureau lore that 
shrouded him.

They both knew what the others called her behind her 
back, at the coffee machine and the water coolers, in the 
bars at night after a few drinks, on boring stake-outs or 
any other dull duty where gossip took precedence over 
the tedium of the task at hand. Mrs. Spooky. The 
Alienator. Any number of other less flattering names as 
well. During her illness, it had all but stopped. 
Apparently even the worst offenders had consciences, 
and no one wanted to be accused of speaking ill of the 
dead. 

Mulder abruptly realized that she viewed this weekend as 
an opportunity to redeem the personal reputation she'd 
lost upon becoming assigned to him four years ago, and 
she was seizing it with all the aggression and 
determination she normally reserved for their 
investigations. Scully was pragmatic enough to know the 
entire Bureau staff couldn't and wouldn't revise their 
opinion of her overnight. But after these four days, 
perhaps at least these eighteen individuals would no 
longer see her as the red-haired incarnation of absolute 
zero. 

And maybe it =hadn't= bothered her before the cancer. 
But her perspective had obviously been colored by the 
experience. Now that she knew her life was not in 
immediate jeopardy, she'd clearly made a decision to 
change the things that might not have mattered to her 
previously. Before something else happened and she 
never got the chance to change them again. Starting, it 
seemed, with what her co-workers and colleagues 
thought about her.

There was, of course, the =other= rumor circulating 
about them. How could it not? They spent almost every 
waking moment together, were sent around the country 
on more field investigations than almost any other active 
partners, and neither appeared to have any other 
romantic attachments. Their personal lives had become 
inextricably intertwined with their work; there were 
actual X-File cases with their names on them. What sane 
person wouldn't automatically assume they were sleeping 
together?

Well, there are a lot of sane people who were going to be 
very disappointed when they find out that we aren't, 
Mulder thought sardonically. Partners, yes. Best friends, 
certainly. Soul mates, no doubt. But lovers? No. Not that 
he hadn't thought about it. And he certainly hadn't 
discounted the possibility for the future. But for now, 
they were comfortable together. They trusted each other 
implicitly, completely. He knew a lot of FBI partners, 
including some in this very room, who couldn't say as 
much.

The fire died down. It had been a long day, and everyone 
had been up late the night before with the welcoming 
party and up early this morning with the first big activity, 
another run-around-outside-and-get-acquainted game. 
They were expected to start first thing in the morning 
with an obstacle course requiring, of course, teamwork to 
complete. People started yawning, and one by one the 
numbers around the fireplace dwindled.

By 10:30, it was just the two of them. Scully, recharged 
by a five-hour nap, sat staring pensively into the glowing 
embers, all that remained of the earlier bonfire. Mulder 
sat watching her, thinking how thin she still seemed, 
floating inside the fleece sweatsuit, and how pale. The 
dancing light from the last few spurts of flame made 
shadows across her face, accenting the hollows under 
her eyes. Despite his part in her recovery, he could still 
barely believe she had actually survived. It had been so 
close.

It had been too close.

"Hey," he said now.

She turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in the 
familiar unspoken question.

"Contrary to popular belief, I don't bite. Come on over so 
I don't have to shout and wake everyone up."

She smiled and moved over to the couch he occupied, 
gracefully folding her legs up under her again as she 
curled into the opposite corner. "When was the last time 
you ever worried about waking anybody up, Mulder? You 
are the master of the middle-of-the-night phone call."

"Never mind about me. Let's talk about you. Like what 
happened in the Hundred Acre Wood this afternoon while 
Pooh and Eeyore and Piglet were out playing with 
Christopher Robin."

Her eyes widened. "Winnie-the-Pooh? Isn't that a little 
too cuddly and innocent for your usual tastes?"

"Well, what could be more paranormal than a bunch of 
stuffed animals that come to life only when one little boy 
is around? You never saw Mrs. Christopher Robin out 
there climbing the honey tree, did you?"

"Now that I think about it, I guess not."

"So, Pooh, what happened to you?" he asked again.

She arched an eyebrow. "Pooh?" she repeated 
indignantly.

"You'd rather be Piglet? Or the donkey? I won't even start 
with Tigger. And stop changing the subject," he 
admonished. "Just answer the question. Otherwise no 
reindeer games for you tomorrow."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she teased. "And you're 
mixing your fairy tales, you know."

"Scully, I'm serious." He changed his tone accordingly; 
the fun was over. "You're not the fainting type. You know 
you aren't. And I saw you right before you went down for 
the count. The last time you looked like that. . ." He 
stopped. What came to mind was the Polaroid 
photograph from the Schnauz case, the one showing 
Scully reaching toward the surface of the picture with a 
pleading hand and the face of a drowning victim being 
dragged underwater for the third and final time. 

Complete and abject terror.

She removed her gaze back to the dying fire. "I'm not 
sure what happened, Mulder."

"Scully, just tell me what you know. Don't make me pry 
every detail out of you or we'll be up all night."

She jerked as if his words were an actual physical blow; 
a verbal slap come to life. He realized instantly that it 
was the wrong approach to use with her, but it was too 
late now. How could he have forgotten, though? 
Forgotten that his partner valued control above almost 
all else, and that for her one of the most harrowing 
aspects of her illness was not her impending death, but 
the fact that she had been powerless to do anything 
about it? Been forced to accept help, acknowledge 
weakness, give herself and her care over to the control of 
others? She'd accepted the microchip partly because it 
had represented a decision she could actually make 
herself. And now that she'd just gotten her life back, he 
was demanding she capitulate that which she had barely 
had time to regain.

She drew in a sharp breath. "Don't. Don't do that to me."

He tried again, in a gentler voice. "What do you 
remember?"

She still hesitated, prolonging it. But he sensed it was 
not from stubbornness or spite, but rather an inability to 
find the words to describe her experience in a manner 
acceptable to her. How, in other words, to relate what 
was probably a non-scientific event in scientific terms.

Oh, Scully, did you ever dream your career would end up 
tearing you in half between what you can prove and what 
you can't?

He waited patiently while she chewed on her lower lip, 
again searching for some kind of answer in dim red glow 
of the coals.

End part 2/4
________________________

HOLDING PENALTY (3/4)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


She was aware Mulder knew the long-ago Pfaster case 
had disturbed her in a way she wasn't accustomed to; 
she'd let him assume it was a reaction somehow 
connected to her abduction. It was one of the few times 
he'd ever seen her completely lose her composure; her 
famed and prized control had deserted her and she'd 
broken down in his arms, sobbing from pent-up fear and 
stress.

What she hadn't told him, not then and not afterward, 
was how Pfaster had seemed to change in front of her, 
his chillingly ordinary face shifting into a multitude of 
evil manifestations. She attributed it to the concussion 
she'd incurred in the car crash. She did not include any 
mention of it in her field report. She had not brought it 
up in any future session at the EAP.

She'd simply buried it and moved on. Or so she thought 
until this afternoon, when her partner's innocuous 
actions had somehow tripped an unwelcome, hidden 
circuit breaker in her imagination. But how to explain it 
without sounding like she was losing her grip on her 
sanity?

"I saw something," she began slowly, her eyes still 
averted from his. She'd used that opening before, on 
other occasions, and the conversations usually went 
downhill from there. But she could think of no other way 
to broach this.

"When?"

"When you had me down. It was as if. . .  as if someone 
pressed a switch or changed the channel. Everything 
changed."

"Changed how?"

Scully finally forced herself to look at him. "You 
changed," she murmured softly. "You weren't you 
anymore. You were everyone else, one lunatic after 
another. All their faces, staring down at me, holding me 
down. I saw them all. Tooms. Luther Lee Boggs. Donnie 
Pfaster. All of them. And I panicked."

And I'm close to panicking now because I don't want you 
to think I equate you with those monsters, Mulder.

For the moment, at least, it seemed the thought didn't 
occur to him. He cocked his head at her. "When was the 
last time you had a decent night's sleep?"

She smiled a little sadly. "Probably the last time you did."

"You do realize that while you've survived, most of the 
people you saw are dead now, don't you?"

She nodded, and then reluctantly admitted, "Since I've 
been working with you, however, death itself seems to be 
a lot less permanent than I'm accustomed to."

He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment, Scully. Now 
do you want my professional psychological opinion of 
your alleged paranormal episode?"

"You're going to give it to me anyway, so why bother 
asking?"

"True." He locked his hazel eyes on her tired blue ones; 
she found it impossible to look away even though her 
every instinct urged her to run and hide before he could 
make his pronouncement. "You've had what most would 
consider a less than restful year. Your body is still 
recuperating; no matter how many 'I'm fines' you give 
me, I know you're not operating at 100 percent. Skinner 
does, too. That's why he sent us on this entertaining little 
escapade in charming New England. That's why he was 
so incredibly annoyed about our unscheduled excursion 
through Florida's winter wonderland."

She shifted uncomfortably, refolding her legs underneath 
her and wrapping her arms around her waist in a classic 
defensive posture. "Mulder, I know all this and I'd really 
rather not hear it. Get to the point, if there is one."

"You had a waking nightmare, Scully. Considering what 
you've been through, I'm surprised you don't have more 
of them. I put you in a vulnerable position and your mind 
reacted to it. Your head is playing games with you, but it 
won't do it forever. After a while your body will be strong 
enough to fight back, and it'll become second nature 
again. As for now," he gave her a sideways smile, "I 
promise I won't tackle you again." 

"Gee, thanks. So I'm not crazy, I'm just stressed?"

"You got it."

"Well, that's a relief." She didn't quite agree with his 
simplistic diagnosis, but she was willing to play along 
with it for now.

"Scully, do you feel I'm holding you down?"

She should have been expecting it, but his inoffensive 
explanation had lulled her into a false sense of security, 
and now she stumbled on the goal line. "I. . . no. Of 
course not, Mulder."

"You said once that you wouldn't have changed a day. Do 
you still believe that?"

"Yes." Her voice was firmer now; she met his eyes with 
the kind of confidence she hadn't felt in a long time. "I 
don't regret being given this assignment. It was my 
choice to stay."

He stared at her for a long moment without speaking, 
assessing her. 

He has to know I'm telling him the truth about this, 
doesn't he?

Doesn't he?

"They hit you where it hurts, Scully."

"What?" It was if his abrupt shift had not only changed 
the topic but also the language; she couldn't understand 
his words even though she knew he was indeed speaking 
English.

"All those people you mentioned seeing. Boggs. Tooms. 
The rest of them. They took a piece of your heart's 
convictions," he paused to tap a finger lightly against her 
chest and she flinched noticeably, "and mangled it. 
You're susceptible to suggestion right now in a way 
you've never been before in your life. Especially the ugly 
suggestions, the ones we keep bottled up in the back of 
our minds, the ones that never normally see the light of 
day. Once you get your full strength back, it will be over."

She didn't answer immediately, trying to conceal the tidal 
wave of relief that he did, in fact, believe her when she 
denied ruing her involvement with the X-Files.

And, by extension, her involvement with him.

"So you're suggesting that all this is just a temporary 
outward manifestation of my internal torment about our 
past cases?" she asked, half-jokingly.

"You want me to prove it to you, O Scientific One?" he 
challenged.

"And how, exactly, do you propose to do that?"

"Lie down on the floor and close your eyes."

"Mulder!" she exclaimed, pulling back even farther into 
the couch corner. "You just announced I wasn't crazy, 
and if you think I'm so gullible as to fall for something 
like that. . ."

"This is a scientific experiment, Dr. Scully. Come on, I 
swear I won't do anything that will land me in the middle 
of a sexual harassment lawsuit or a disciplinary hearing. 
Trust me." He pointed to the rug. "Lie down and close 
your eyes."

I'm going to regret this, Scully thought uneasily. I know I 
am. She studied his face but couldn't detect anything 
mischievous or deceitful. "All right, but I'm warning you, 
Mulder, I am not comfortable with this and I don't know 
what you think this is going to achieve." She slid down to 
the floor and stretched out on her back, eyeing him with 
misgivings.

"I'm going to show you that what happened this 
afternoon was a natural reaction, and that you can learn 
to control it. But you have to promise me one thing – you 
can't scream."

"That's it." She started to get up again. "Forget it, 
Mulder."

He grabbed her arm. "Will you let me finish? I just don't 
want you to bring everyone back down here in a panic. 
Come on, I'm not going to hurt you. Or would you rather 
find yourself passing out at the top of the ropes course 
tomorrow and breaking your neck? Trust me," he 
repeated.

I'll never get any peace unless I do this, she realized, and 
let him push her back down on the rug. "Now what?"

"Close your eyes."

"Mulder, what the hell is this?" she demanded.

"It's a minor reenactment of this afternoon, to see if we 
can desensitize you to that particular pressure point. 
Stay still. I'm going to touch you in different areas and 
show you how that one triggers the memory."

"Mulder, you put that hand in the wrong place and I will 
make you sorry you ever met me. Let me remind you that 
I am a doctor, and I know how to amputate," she 
threatened, then added, "without anesthetic," for good 
measure. Just in case he didn't get the point.

"I am well aware of your ability to put me in a full body 
cast, Scully. Not to mention the fact that if anyone 
happens to trot downstairs for a midnight snack and 
sees me doing this, rumors about whether you and I are 
doing the horizontal tango are going to be the least of my 
problems. So, are you still game?"

He was actually giving her a choice, yet at the same time 
he wasn't. She sighed. Yes, and it meant she trusted 
him. Trusted him not to hurt her, to help her through 
this, to believe him. No, and while he would back off and 
respect her wishes, he'd be hurt. Hurt that she didn't 
trust his instincts, didn't trust =him=, after all he'd done 
for her. This was about more than whether she was 
afraid of letting him get physical with her; they both 
knew it.

(Let me help you.)

(I'm fine.)

(You need help.)

(I'm fine.)

(You can't do this alone.)

(I'm fine.)

She shook away the warring voices inside her head. This 
had to stop. She couldn't face a repeat performance of 
her episode this afternoon. If it happened in the field, 
while she was engaged in a confrontation with a suspect, 
she'd be killed. Or worse, Mulder would, or some other 
agent or an innocent bystander, and she'd be responsible 
for that. He was trying to make her aware of that without 
actually stating it bluntly. And if what he was proposing 
worked, there would be no need to go back to the EAP 
and reopen a series of confessions that were, for her, 
anyway, emotionally draining and physically exhausting. 
Not to mention painfully humiliating.

He watched the mental battle raging inside her, knowing 
nothing he said would make her come to a decision any 
faster.

Abruptly, she relaxed into the carpet and closed her eyes. 
"Go ahead," she said wearily.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"I will."

"And Scully?"

The questioning tone made her slit her eyes to answer 
him. "What?"

"Remember, no screaming. Please."

"Mulder, just hurry up and do this, the suspense is 
killing me." She closed her eyes again and waited, trying 
not to hold her breath. When he put his warm hand on 
her forearm, she jumped, startled at the contact even 
though she had been anticipating it.

"Oh, not a very good start," he remarked lightly. "You 
okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. Keep going."

The hand shifted down to her ankle, and this time, she 
didn't react. "Much better," he approved. "See what a 
quick study you are?"

"Does this mean we're done?"

"You wish." He moved again to her knee and she twitched 
slightly. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm ticklish there, okay? And if you tell anyone, 
I will make you the subject of my next autopsy."

"Point taken, Doctor. Your secret is safe with me." He 
moved to her shoulder, then rested his hand lightly 
across her stomach.

"Mulder. . ." It was a warning.

"I'm being good, Scully, I swear I am. All my thoughts 
towards you are as pure as the driven snow." He touched 
her thigh without a response, then her forehead.

End part 3/4
________________________

HOLDING PENALTY (4/4)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


He actually hated to do this to her; she was calm now, 
her breathing steady and even. But he steeled himself for 
what would surely follow from his last contact. He took 
his hand off her face and moved it down to the place he 
remembered from the afternoon, on her breastbone just 
below her throat.

Reaction he expected, and reaction he got. Scully's eyes 
flew open; she gasped in fright and her hands flashed up 
to grab his wrist, trying to wrest him off. "Whoa, whoa, 
it's all right." He kept his hand down, applying gentle 
pressure. 

Her eyes flicked left and right in panic, and finally 
located his. "Mulder. . ." she said breathlessly, still 
struggling to move his arm.

"You're all right. Let go." He waited, and after a few 
seconds she did, letting her hands fall back to her sides. 
He held her down for another minute, then released her. 
She sat up slowly, eyes still wide from the shock of it all. 
"X marks the spot, Scully," he said.

She shivered, hugging her arms around her body and 
drawing her knees up. "Don't do that again."

He shifted back up the couch. "Did you see anything this 
time?"

She shook her head. "No. Just the minute you touched 
me there, I. . ." she stopped, embarrassed by her own 
body's betrayal.

"You're aware of it now. That's half the battle. It'll get a 
little better each time, and eventually, it'll stop 
altogether."

She shuddered again. "Not soon enough for me."

He took in her tense, stiff posture; there was more to it 
than just a delayed reaction from the hellish scare he'd 
just given her. "Where does it hurt?" he asked, guessing 
at the cause.

He got an irritated glare in return. "Where does it hurt? 
Where do you think? I hurt all over, Mulder," she 
snapped. "You threw me down a hill this afternoon, or 
did you forget that little part of today's drama?"

"Well, scoot on over and I'll see if I can make it better." 
He patted the couch cushion next to him.

Scully didn't move. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not going to let 
you get your hands on me again tonight, thank you very 
much. I've had enough therapy for one evening."

He leaned back, slightly exasperated. "Do you want a 
backrub or not, Scully? It's me or the aspirin, and face it, 
I'm much easier on your stomach."

The offer took her by surprise; if she had been her 
normal self he would have been on the receiving end of a 
comeback along the lines of, "You underestimate your 
ability to nauseate me, Mulder." The entire evening with 
him had taken her by surprise, he could tell. Even after 
four years of close association, their physical contact had 
been limited. A hug. A handclasp. A touch on the arm, or 
the cheek. A gentlemanly guiding hand in the small of 
her back.

He had been much more demonstrative when she'd been 
hospitalized, suddenly realizing those moments he spent 
with her might be the last chance he ever had to touch 
her. When the specter of her death had vanished, they 
reverted back to their previous habits. The one exception 
so far had been the night he spent huddled in her arms, 
injured and in shock, in the Florida swamp while she 
tried to keep him warm.

The rules were meant to be bent at this seminar, and 
Mulder, never one to suffer regulations and restrictions 
gladly, had happily bent them as far as possible, even up 
to slamming her into the ground, holding her there and 
tickling her. All things considered, he'd touched her more 
during the last twelve hours than he probably had in the 
previous four years.

He saw her draw back, saw the hesitation and indecision 
as she tried to investigate his motives and discern where 
this was leading, if indeed it was leading anywhere. 
Anxious to quell her fears before she bolted, he quietly 
said, "Scully."

"What?"

"It's just a backrub. Really. No strings attached, okay?" 
He smiled. "And if you'd rather not, the aspirin is that 
way." He pointed toward the kitchen.

Her face cleared then into an expression he recognized. 
Relief. She relaxed visibly and she returned his smile 
with a tentative one of her own. "In that case I'll take you 
over better living through chemicals." She pulled herself 
up off the floor and sat beside him on the couch, turning 
to face away from him.

Feeling absurdly touched at this uncharacteristic, 
tangible demonstration of trust, he set his hands gently 
on her shoulders, the protective side of him noting grimly 
that the bones under his fingertips still felt far too fragile 
and slight, easily broken and bruised.

And you decided it would be fun to indulge your NFL 
fantasies by including Sack the Quarterback in a 
harmless little game of Capture the Flag. Way to go, 
bright boy. What =were= you thinking?

He squeezed the muscles under his hands, and Scully 
tensed immediately, inhaling sharply and hunching her 
shoulders toward her ears.

Mulder eased up instantly, but didn't lift his hands. "Am 
I hurting you?"

"Well. . . a little," she admitted, striving to return to her 
normal posture.

"Sorry." He tried again, with far less pressure. "That 
better?"

"Much."

"Tell me if I hurt you again." Mulder settled into a 
comfortable rhythm, massaging the muscles across the 
top of her shoulders and down over her shoulder blades 
with his palms and fingertips, gently pressing up the 
back of her neck with small, circular motions of his 
thumbs.

Silence fell, broken only by the hushed whisper of his 
hands brushing over the fabric of her sweatshirt and the 
occasional pop and crackle of the last knots in the dying 
fire.

"You okay?"

"Mmm hmm." Scully's head had tipped forward as he 
worked his way up the back of her neck; her chin now 
rested on her chest. Her voice sounded thick and hazy, 
half asleep. "That feels good."

"I'm glad." Mulder smiled to himself. "Ready to admit 
your belief in extraterrestrial life now?"

"I'm relaxed, Mulder, I'm not hypnotized."

"Can't blame a guy for trying." He gave one final rub 
down her spine and announced, "All finished. You should 
be good as new."

Instead of turning around, Scully simply leaned back 
against him, eyes closed. "I hope this is covered under 
my medical plan," she murmured languidly. "I'd hate to 
think of what you charge for office visits like that."

For a second, he was too astonished at her actions to 
respond. Scully had rarely been the one to instigate what 
little physical contact they did have; even today he'd been 
the one to start it. And continue it well past all the 
danger signals to cease and desist, the nasty voice inside 
his head piped up. You're the reason she lost it out there 
to begin with.

True. But now Scully had unwittingly presented him with 
another opportunity to help her overcome the little 
episode she'd experienced this afternoon.

He just had to be certain he didn't mess it up this time 
and frighten her again.

Reclining farther back against the couch cushions 
himself, Mulder carefully wrapped his arms around her, 
taking her with him until she lay against his chest, his 
forearms resting lightly over her collarbones.

Scully didn't move. Didn't resist, didn't pull away, 
struggle or go rigid in his embrace. Simply rested calmly 
and peacefully within the circle of his arms, eyes still 
shut, breathing slowly and evenly. He slowly relaxed his 
arms until their full weight lay across her upper chest, 
and she remained quiet and passive.

Thank you, God.

"Asleep, Scully?" he asked softly, after a moment of 
silence.

She shook her head lazily. "No. Just too comfortable to 
move."

Me, too, partner.

They sat for maybe five minutes without speaking, when 
suddenly the creak of a floorboard interrupted the serene 
interlude.

Footsteps thumped overhead.

"Maybe it's just someone going to the bathroom," Mulder 
suggested hopefully.

Uneven footfalls sounded on the staircase, accompanied 
by the squeaking of a hand sliding along the polished 
wooden railing.

"No such luck," Scully commented dryly, opening her 
eyes. She sat up slowly and finally turned to look at him, 
eyes shining in the dim light from the few stubborn 
embers that refused to extinguish themselves. "It's time 
for bed anyway."

Mulder nodded mutely, wondering if the faint blush that 
stained her cheeks pink could be attributed to the 
mutual heat generated by their recent body contact, or 
embarrassment at almost being caught in what, despite 
its total innocence, appeared to be a compromising pose.

Or something else entirely.

He knew what Scully would say. She'd deliver a lecture 
about the role a good massage played in restored and 
increased circulation, and that would be that.

The approaching intruder shambled past them, more 
asleep than awake. It was Angie, swaddled in a thick, 
pink flannel bathrobe and matching slippers. She 
mumbled a garbled noise that might have been either 
"Hello" or just "Hell" and continued on into the kitchen, 
rooting around in the fridge for the milk.

Scully stood up. "We should douse those coals," she said, 
indicating the fireplace.

"I'll do it. You need to get to bed. For all we know, 
someone's already done a bed check and we've been 
busted."

She laughed softly. "As if that's anything new." There was 
shuffling sound from the kitchen area, and they turned 
to see Angie holding an empty glass, blinking owlishly at 
them with sleepy confusion. "Good night, Mulder. 
Thanks for the therapy."

The hell with Angie. The hell with everyone. Mulder was 
suddenly overcome with a tremendous, crushing sense of 
relief that Scully was here, alive, and he didn't care who 
knew it. He stood up and hugged her fiercely, knowing he 
was probably awakening all the hurts he'd just soothed 
to sleep but not caring. "Any time, Scully. Any time."

For a brief second, she returned the gesture with equal 
intensity, and then she pulled away. He thought he spied 
a subtle shine on her face that might have been tears, 
but when she spoke, she sounded completely calm and 
composed.

"Angie, you look like you need a map to find your way 
back upstairs."

"Hmm? Dana? 'zat you?"

"Yes. I was just on my way up to bed. Come on, I'll make 
sure you don't get lost." She took the other agent by the 
arm to lead her away. "Wait. Leave the glass here, Angie. 
Now say good night to Mulder."

"Nigh Muller," Angie slurred obediently.

"Good night, Angie." Mulder watched as the two of them 
disappeared in the direction of the stairs, but Scully 
didn't look back.

He picked up the water bucket to damp down the 
remains of the fire, then went to bed.

End


Author's notes: For those who are wondering, yes, I 
borrowed Agents Brian Fuller and Linda Caleca from 
"Apocrypha." All other agents are nothing more than figs 
from my imagination. ;-) Many thanks to Jill, who saved 
me from more than one potentially embarrassing 
misconception when I wrote this. 

Feedback treasured at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com