Suddenly, clearly, she was in the hospital room again, staring in horror down the barrel of a revolver. Mulder's hands were shaking. Modell's words reverberated in her ears: "Shoot the little spy!" The pain in Mulder's eyes was like a separate entity, a tangible thing with a life of its own. It was too much; the tear she had been fighting to contain spilled over onto her cheek. "I'm gonna kill you, Modell," Mulder grunted, his voice breaking, then, "Scully, run!" She tried but felt herself frozen in place, and with sudden fear she realized she wasn't wearing a vest. She saw him try to say her name again, twice, but Modell had taken even that. His finger tightened around the trigger, and the last thing she saw was the terror in his eyes as the bullet barked from the gun with a kick and struck, tearing into her with vicious certainty. The pain pierced her chest, suddenly, intensely --

She started awake with a short, muffled cry. What was happening? She felt her breathing, fast and difficult and shallow, and suddenly memory flooded back. She realized quickly that she was still in Mulder's arms. Twilight was descending -- how long had he been walking? She looked up at him as he glanced down at her, responding to the startled noise she'd just made.

"Scully? Scully, it's okay...I think we're...almost there," he managed, breathless. She nodded once, and he smiled. She realized he'd been carrying her for what must've been an eternity for him. She could feel his heart pounding through his sweater. His dark hair was drenched, and all of his exposed skin was steaming in the cold. He's going to catch pneumonia, she thought, hearing the worried cliche echo through her. And she noticed that his arms were shaking. People running on adrenaline sometimes did amazing things, true, but their bodies paid the price. She was light as human beings went, but all of her weight was resting on his arms. By now he couldn't have avoided joint damage in his elbows and shoulders, regardless of how strong he was. But he was smiling at her, looking relieved to see her glance up at him.

She felt something tug at her, a feeling more familiar than she was willing to admit. The fleeting thought -- I love this man -- rose unbidden from somewhere quiet and buried. Deciding it was blood loss making her punchy, she pushed the thought away. At the moment, it scared her less to contemplate having just been stabbed.

Stabbed. By who? Why? Her memory was fuzzy, distorted, but she could've sworn the man had said something to Mulder about playing by the rules. No, he couldn't have said that. She was just too hazy to remember. Feeling lightheaded, she let it go and settled in deeper against Mulder's body. She liked the feeling of his heart beating against her cheek and the smell of his cologne mixed with new sweat. But that didn't mean...no, of course not. That was absurd...no, no that was insane. It was the situation, not the man. It had to be.

The ranger station came into view as they passed over a small rise in the trail. Relief flooded over Mulder, coursing through his entire body and making his injured joints throb. The pain in his left shoulder was bad, and he had been wondering silently how much further he would be capable of going before his body rebelled and refused to do his bidding.

The station rushed up on them swiftly, and Mulder quickly appraised it. It was really a small house, or so it appeared. A stack of firewood rose next to the front door, but the chimney was still. Two parallel ruts led off into the distance, through the snow, and there were footprints all around the porch and stairs, but there was no sign of the four-wheel drive vehicle it would take to get here from the road many miles to the south.

He stumbled up the porch stairs and pounded on the door with his foot as he peered into the large window set just above the doorknob. It was dark inside the station, too dark to see within it in the fading light. When he didn't get an immediate response, he pounded harder. "Hey," he shouted, "FBI! I've got an injury! Open the door!"

His frustrated kicking built in intensity, until finally it was obvious that no one was there. He stopped abruptly, and in one fluid, startling movement, he set Scully down a safe distance away on the wooden porch, turned back, and smashed the window with the heel of his fist. He reached in and turned the doorknob, smearing it with fresh blood, and the door creaked backward.

Scully watched him in amazement. He hadn't even bothered to protect himself. She saw glass fragments glittering along the heel of his bloodied hand as he reached back down for her. "Mulder," she whispered, "you're bleeding."

He stopped, startled, realizing what he'd done, and looked down at his hand. "Damn," he muttered, surprised and sheepish. "Sorry."

What is he apologizing for? she thought, watching him as he yanked the sweater over his head and wrapped it around his hand. His white T-shirt was soaked with sweat and stained with her blood, and as he bent down to pick her up she felt him shivering. Still, it seemed easy for him to carry her inside -- if he was hurting, he wasn't letting her see it.

Pain screamed at him to let her go as he lifted her from the wooden planks of the porch and brought her inside. He ignored it as he stood inside the doorway, letting his eyes adjust. He kicked the door closed behind him and felt the draft from the broken window.

The living area wasn't much, one sparsely furnished room with a bed, an old recliner, a reading table with a small lamp, and a tiny kitchen alcove. A pot-bellied stove appeared to be the only source of heat. He began to lay her down gently on the bed, but she shook her head. "No," she murmured. "I need to sit...I need to sit up...to breathe."

"Ok." Carefully, he repositioned her so that she was sitting, grabbed the pillows, and stuffed them behind her. She settled back, feeling as comfortable as she could get. Her chest was throbbing now, unrelentingly, and she began to shiver as well.

It was cold in the cabin. Mulder, not wanting to jostle her any more than necessary, reached over her and pulled the blanket's edges in toward him. He wrapped her carefully in the blanket, and, when he was sure she was warmer, he found himself reaching up, for just an instant, to smooth the hair away from her forehead with his uninjured hand. She was so pale, and her lips were still tinged with blue, and her hair was matted with blood, and he thought she was beautiful enough to take his breath away because she was alive and she was awake and she was looking at him.

It was only an instant before he realized what he was doing and pulled away, but it was long enough for Scully to recognize the look on his face. She'd seen it before, and she had never been sure what to make of it, or of him when he did it. But he always looked embarrassed when she caught him, like a little boy who'd given away a secret he wasn't even supposed to know. She felt her heart tugging at her again, like a child trying to get someone's attention. Steadfastly, she ignored it.

Mulder cleared his throat, threw the blood-soaked sweater he was still clutching into a corner and emptied his pockets onto the reading table. He reached for the switch on the lamp, only to discover that it had no light bulb. "Great," he muttered.

His hand was beginning to sting, but at least it had for the most part stopped bleeding. He began to glance around the room. "There has to be a radio here," he croaked. There were two interior doors in the room. One turned out to be the bathroom, and the other one was locked. Without a second's hesitation, he yanked his gun free and fired, shattering the doorknob. The lock gave way, and he shoved the door open with a bang.

His heart sank; the small office had been wrecked. His eyes ranged quickly over the room, taking in a morass of paper, broken glass, and dented metal as he searched for any sign of a radio or a telephone. Digging through the contents of a file cabinet that had been dumped on the floor in a far corner of the room, he finally found the radio. It had been hopelessly smashed.

Feeling suddenly nauseous, he sat down hard on the floor and cradled his injured hand. It was throbbing now in time with the quick cadence of his heart. And it was getting more difficult to move his arms, as well, as mind began to catch up with body, as the ridiculous abuse of muscle, joint, and bone he'd just put himself through began to catch up to him.

Now what? Nothing left. Helplessness.

She'll die.

The unthinkable thought was enough to flip the switch.

No.

Futility immediately gave way to anger, an emotion with which he was much more familiar. You aren't going to win, you son of a bitch! Pain shot from several locations as he slammed both fists suddenly down on the floor and stood up abruptly.

Scully was looking at him curiously as he stalked back into the small living area. She could tell by the look on his face that he hadn't found a radio, and she felt the briefest instant of fear; the helicopter wasn't due to pick them up for two days, and the landing site was twenty-five miles away. Then she swallowed hard and willed the feeling away.

He sat down on the bed beside her. She saw the muscles in his jaw tensing rhythmically as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then said, "He's been busy. He's already been here."

Scully looked puzzled. "Who?"

Mulder sighed inwardly. Here we go, he thought. At that moment, the thought of arguing with her was almost too much to contemplate. "Listen, Scully, I think it was Modell," he said plainly, not even trying to convince her. "I know he isn't done with us. And he's already been here. The radio's been smashed."

Scully frowned. She had remembered the hiker's last words, after all. But even so, what Mulder was suggesting... "What are you...saying, Mulder?" she breathed. God, she had to work so hard to talk. She wanted to say more -- what Mulder believed was just impossible. She believed Modell had a power over people; she had experienced his effect on Mulder firsthand. But now the little man who'd wanted so desperately to be called Pusher was unconscious, practically vegetative. Besides, how could he be influencing people from his hospital bed in another state? He couldn't do that even when he was conscious.

Mulder scowled, reading the gist of her thoughts in her upturned eyes. "I know, Scully, but astral projection is..." The familiar, incredulous look on her face as he said the words made him trail off, but only for an instant. "I know what I heard," he insisted. "It sounded like him. Hell, it even looked like him! And the last thing he said was that I hadn't played by the rules." He fought back a sudden surge of guilt. He hadn't, and she was paying for it, paying a twisted penalty in some sick game. He should've known. He should've trusted his instincts.

Scully wanted to answer him, to tell him that there just had to be another explanation. The hiker had clearly been under the influence of at least one substance of choice. He must've been hallucinating. His words had just been a coincidence. That had to be it. The idea that Modell could be responsible was both too bizarre and too frightening to accept.

She tried to speak, but talking was so alarmingly difficult, and she found she was just too drained to argue. She made do by simply arching an eyebrow at him.

Recognizing the look, he thought better of continuing the conversation. Suddenly overwhelmed by his own fatigue, he sighed deeply, hanging his head, and managed to raise his arm enough to rake the fingers of his uninjured hand through his still-damp hair. It was growing progressively darker as the sun set, and he knew they were stuck there for the night. He couldn't leave her alone knowing that Modell was still out there, waiting. He didn't know what to do next, he was frightened beyond his willingness to acknowledge it at the thought that she still might die, he hurt everywhere, and he was damned cold. He shuddered involuntarily.

The touch of Scully's hand lightly moving across his back startled him, and he lifted his head to look at her. She was giving him that tender look he knew was his alone, and he felt the heat rise against his cheeks. He was glad the light was fading. She'd looked at him like that before -- why did it make him so uneasy now? He felt rooted to the spot, unable to move.

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

He felt her hand as it moved gently down to the small of his back, then fell away. Then her eyes closed and the spell was broken.

He fought down a wave of panic. He took note of the steady, if shallow, way her chest rose and fell, and he reassured himself that she was just growing tired, and she'd soon be asleep. She didn't seem to be in immediate danger. She would make it through this. She had to; the alternative wasn't something he could conceive of.

He turned toward her, reaching out in the growing darkness to brush the hair away from her forehead. "Shhh," he whispered. "I'll take care of it after I get a fire going to keep you warm." He leaned in, intending to kiss her on the forehead.

Instead, of their own accord, his lips brushed hers, very lightly. He jerked back swiftly, feeling guilty and surprised at himself, shocked when it dawned on him that she hadn't protested, and flooded with an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when he realized that it was because she was already fast asleep. He scowled and shook his head. "You are losing your mind," he mumbled absently to himself as his feet found the floor.

It took a moment for recent events to come back to her, where she was, why her body ached so miserably and her breathing was shallow and pained...why Mulder had that look on his face. Her heart stung when her eyes focused and she got a better look at him in the warm, flickering light emanating from the pot-bellied stove in the center of the room. He'd taken off his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and she was horrified to note the huge dark bruise, black and purple, working its way to the surface from the joint in his left shoulder, the one that had earlier been bearing the brunt of her weight. A torn bit of white cloth -- she guessed it was from his T-shirt -- was tied around the palm of his right hand. Worst, though, was the way he was looking at her. He looked terrified, and he looked exhausted.

"You look like hell," she murmured, testing her voice, carefully pushing herself further upright against the pillows. Speaking was coming somewhat more easily, and that was a good sign. She shifted a bit more and noted with irritation that the tape -- she realized it was duct tape -- Mulder had so liberally applied to her body was beginning to itch.

"Yes, but I have such a wonderful personality," he replied, moving quickly to help her. "Besides, isn't that my line?"

Satisfied that she was comfortable, he grabbed the gun again, moving it so that it was once more within easy reach, and sat down beside her. She knew he was serious -- he believed Modell would be back. He was pointing straight at the door, but she was facing away from it, and she was surprised to note how much that bothered her.

"Not if you know what's good for you," she answered with a quick half-smile, determined to keep a tight rein on the paranoia creeping into her own psyche. What if he's right?

Mulder lifted his eyebrows, noting the strength that had returned to her voice. "You sound better." She nodded, seeing the relief in his eyes; she didn't have the heart to remind him that surviving the wound was nothing compared to surviving the infection that would inevitably follow.

She wondered how long she'd been asleep. Then she wondered how long he'd been keeping watch. She looked up at him, reminded suddenly of another time, another vigil he'd kept for her. He did look so tired. Tired, and vulnerable. He wasn't making much of an effort to hide that. She searched for something to say, something that would comfort him, but all that came out was, "What time is it?"

Mulder glanced down at the watch that somehow still clung to his wrist. "Nine-thirty. You've been asleep for a few hours, Scully."

"Oh," she breathed. She reached out with unsteady fingers and picked up his hand, the one with the makeshift bandage. She turned it over slowly, inspecting his work. He silently allowed her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The image of him smashing the window came back to her, full force. He'd been so single-minded, so intent on keeping her safe, that self-protection hadn't even occurred to him. And with Modell...when the order had been to pull the trigger on himself, he'd barely hesitated. It was only when the gun had been aimed at her that Mulder had fought. With the sudden kind of epiphany only hindsight can bring, she realized in that instant that he'd endangered himself so willingly because he wanted the bullet. He wanted it so that he wouldn't be pushed into putting it in her. He must've known that Modell would use her against him. His protectiveness, his concern -- Modell had seen immediately the power of what she'd been fighting ever since coming back from the coma last year. Mulder's search for Samantha had taken him quite literally to the ends of the earth; but somehow, over the course of their work together, she, Dana Scully, had become his biggest vulnerability. And that, she feared suddenly, made her a liability.

She wondered if he regretted it. "Mulder..." she murmured, breaking the silence. Still clutching his hand, she let it come to rest in her lap. She caught and held his gaze. "Mulder, what do you regret most?"

The suddenly personal turn of the conversation took him completely by surprise. She saw the look on his face, but she pressed onward. Unwilling to ask the question poised before her, she asked the obvious instead. "Is it losing your sister?"

He frowned. He had so many regrets. He regretted losing his sister, yes, and the X-Files had grown from the power of that regret like mushrooms taking root in rotten wood. But he had since come to know, and to understand for the first time, that his sister's loss was a part of something much larger than him, something his father had somehow blundered into so long ago. And the X-Files had brought him Scully; despite everything, he just couldn't regret her presence in his life, and he often wondered just what caliber of selfish bastard that made him.

"Most? No," he answered quietly. He saw her tense, didn't understand quite why, but he was being honest. For whatever reason she'd asked, he sensed that she needed honesty. "No, it isn't. What I regret most -- " He swallowed hard, feeling an unexpected tightness in his throat. The truth was so vital to his sense of himself -- so why was it that truths like this were so difficult? And yet, without even giving it thought, he knew that this was the truth. "What I regret most is not being there for you."

Her expression changed, and he swore he saw relief in it. Relief, and then confusion. She shook her head, not understanding. "But you've always been there for me."

He pulled his hand away from hers, abruptly angry. "No, I haven't," he hissed, turning away. Then, softer, "I haven't. I wasn't there when you called me about the chip -- when Duane Barry..." He trailed off, unable to say the word 'abducted'. Both hands swiped helplessly through his hair this time. "Not then...and not last week. I wasn't there for you when Modell..." Dammit! An unexpected surge of frustration hit him. He lurched abruptly from the bed and took two swift steps away from her. Why did he have to say this? Why was she making him say this? "Scully," he rasped, unable to turn around, to face her, "don't you realize that I almost shot you?"

There was a long pause, then, "But you didn't." The words were soft, so soft he almost didn't hear her. He turned to face her slowly. "You didn't shoot me."

He cringed. How could he explain? There weren't any words to describe what Modell had done to him. It was worse than just being trapped in a body that wouldn't do what you told it. Modell had pushed his mind as well, telling him to hate her, telling him she was a traitor, a spy...not just telling him to kill her, but telling him to want it. It had taken everything he had, everything, just to tell her to run, to resist pulling the trigger just long enough for her to get away. He hated himself for that, hated his inability to resist -- hated hearing her exhortations to fight back and knowing he'd let her down.

How could he tell her that?

The worst of it was the knowledge that she forgave him, even though he couldn't forgive himself. He didn't think he deserved her loyalty. But despite that, he knew he needed it, and her, more than anything else. The thought of him without her swept away the anger. Slowly, he eased back down beside her.

Her pupils were large as she watched him intently in the dim light. Despite himself, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth when he saw her face. "I never thanked you," he noted, the rest of Modell's words coming back to him.

She squinted at him. "For what?"

His lips twisted into a wry grin that was not devoid of humor. "For shooting me. For saving my ass that night with Krycek."

There was momentary pain in her expression, and he immediately regretted being so flippant. But it was an old pain, one they both understood, one they had long since gotten past. She smiled, too, answering him with, "You know I wouldn't shoot just anyone, Mulder."

"What about you?" he asked abruptly. She looked puzzled at the sudden change of subject. "Why did you ask me about regret? What do you regret?" He looked at her anxiously, half afraid to hear the answer. He was afraid that what she most regretted was being assigned to the X-files; he knew that was what she should regret. It had cost her too damned much -- a promising career, her sister's life, three months of her own. He felt a sudden stinging deep in the center of his chest.

Her eyes flashed briefly with a veiled something he couldn't quite read, then she stunned him. She told him the truth. "Honestly, Mulder? I regret so many things. But I have never once regretted having the X-Files in my life." Her heart tugged at her again, insistently, and this time she felt the push of its tiny palms against that barrier, the one that had been so clear until this moment. Panic gripped her as she was unable to stop the words from fleeing her lips. "Having you in my life."

She held her breath and stared at her hands. She was half-expecting, and half hoping for, one of Mulder's distancing remarks to pierce the bubble of truth in which she found herself suspended, to return the upended status quo. But for once, he was painfully silent. She knew the silence was a tacit agreement, even a question -- a quiet entreaty to be honest.

Panicked, she heard the words, felt them escape in a rush. "I've thought a lot about Modell, Mulder. He used me against you. He played on your feelings. I never wanted you to think you had to protect me. Never. But..."

Her words trailed off as he reached a finger under her chin and tilted her gaze to meet his. His eyes shone almost black in the shifting light from the stove. Having you in my life, he repeated silently. The barrier was blurring; he felt it too. How had they arrived at this moment, here, now? He knew what it meant to him; what did it mean to her?

He finished her thought, forcing the words out deliberately, slowly, the importance of what he was saying not escaping either of them. "But I do."

She felt the tears and cursed silently. When had her feelings for him gotten so out of control? "And I'm afraid that one day that will kill you," she murmured starkly. And I couldn't take that, silent thoughts continued. I need to protect you too, you bastard, and you make it damn hard. Anger surged, anger at herself for feeling what she did, anger at him for -- for what? For returning the sentiment? For loving her? Goddamn you.

He watched the emotion play across her face, and it scared him. "Dana," he insisted -- his use of her first name surprised them both -- "it hasn't killed me yet." His fingers moved to touch her face, his thumb tracing the outline of her cheekbone. He felt her anger ebb swiftly beneath the warmth of his touch.

He was afraid she could feel his hand shaking. The old, familiar terror was encroaching on him now. He cared about her too much, too much for him to be comfortable. Caring meant wounds, not the kind you could doctor but the kind that just hung around, festering, waiting for a familiar smell or a sound or a fleeting memory to break free and make them bleed again.

But in Scully's case, it was just too goddamn late. Though he couldn't pinpoint the exact instant of his defeat, he knew he'd lost that particular little war a long time ago. All that remained now, all that had remained for months, was to admit it -- to her, and to himself. He was the psychologist; he recognized the denial that was no longer working. He would have to be honest now, too; say it, and then pick up the pieces. He took a deep breath.

"I'm still alive," he said, hesitantly. His hand fell away to land in his lap, and his gaze slid from her face to stare at the door again. This was too hard. His voice sounded as if it had taken brute force to unseat. "...And I don't think it would be humanly possible for me to care about you more than I do already."

For a long moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the crackling of the wood burning in the stove. He just couldn't bring himself to look at her. She had his heart. What she intended to do with it was another question, one whose answer he both feared and needed to know.

Scully wrestled with her own emotions. She couldn't speak -- she didn't trust her voice, and tears still blurred the corners of her vision. It wasn't the situation. It was the man, and she knew it. She'd known it for quite some time. But it was just too much, too complicated -- they were partners, and she valued that as much as he did. And his intensity could be frightening. More than once, she had found herself comparing him to a brush fire, the kind you think is only smoldering until it erupts suddenly and scorches the earth around you with searing heat.

Would he be like that as a lover?

Why did he pose such a constant challenge to her better judgement?

Of all people, it was Missy, the negative image of her scientific detachment, whose words suddenly came to her, words of advice from a far distant place and time. They had been sitting on the floor in her room, giggling teenagers chattering on about boys and love and the future that seem to stretch out before them like a vast and mysterious ocean. Then suddenly Melissa had grown serious, as if an abrupt revelation had struck her, a prophecy she was moved to explain. Love isn't something you do, Dana; it's something that happens to you. It isn't yours to decide. You have to give a little and just trust it. Just trust that there must be a reason.

Scully knew she was still in danger. Her lung had reinflated somewhat, and she had survived the initial wound, but she recognized the first vague signs of fever and realized there was still a good chance she would die out here...greater a chance than she wanted Mulder to know. She couldn't leave all this unfinished. Both of them deserved better. But if she survived...what kind of jeopardy would this put their partnership in?

Reaching up to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, she suddenly found her breath. "Mulder," she said, her voice sounding oddly low to her own ears. He looked at her then, with a cryptic intensity that was reflected back at him in her own eyes. "You've always been the believer." Afraid to move, he watched her struggle with herself. She bit her lower lip, suddenly frightened, then released it slowly. "If you believe in...in this, you've got to promise me, promise me, we won't lose what we've already got together." God, she thought, that was so unfair. But the need to hear him say it overpowered everything else.

He had the answer he needed -- he knew her intentions. This time he didn't hesitate, didn't even blink. The barrier dissolved, and there was nothing across the span of his consciousness but her -- her and the truth. "Not as long as I'm breathing, Scully," he whispered.

She pulled him in close even as he said it, her fingers twining through his hair, her lips finding his with infinite gentleness. The kiss was tentative, exploratory, lingering.

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

Mulder didn't see the shadow on the porch, but he heard the creak of rusted hinges as the door swung back. He broke away from Scully instantly, grabbed his sidearm, and swung it around to stare down the barrel at the burly figure of a man in a park ranger's uniform.

"How touching, Agent Mulder," the man said, smirking. "I thought the two of you were...close."

GO TO PART THREE