Somehow, Mulder had been right.

"Modell," Mulder growled. He was rigid, every muscle straining to keep sudden hatred from boiling over. Even as he realized that this wasn't Modell in body, but only in spirit, he still struggled to keep from blasting the man's head off before he took even one more step.

Modell smiled, unaffected by Mulder's reaction, and moved easily into the room. "In the flesh," he said. "So to speak." The firelight barely illuminated him enough to make out his features. This man was young, tall, and broadly muscular, with a bright shock of blond hair falling from his forehead. His eyes were blue steel. Hard. Dead.

Mulder's mind raced with questions -- whatever Modell was doing now, it was clearly different, and more powerful, than what he'd done before. But Mulder had no intention of asking. Not when Scully was still in danger. He wanted the man gone. Now. His finger tightened against the trigger of the gun, and he fought with himself over relaxing it. "What do you want?" he said with barely contained fury.

Modell took several more steps until he was standing in the center of the room, one hand resting almost nonchalantly against the pipe leading upward from the pot-bellied stove. If it was hot, he pretended not to notice. "You're a quick study, Agent Mulder." His gaze ranged approvingly over Scully's bloody and pale form as she stared up at him with startled eyes. Mulder fought harder the urge to kill him, whoever he was, to take him down right where he stood. "You're an Oxford grad. You figure out what I want."

Mulder's lips pressed thin. He knew what the man wanted. Just to make him suffer. To extract revenge for Mulder's refusal, in the end, to play by his rules. But he wasn't going to give Modell the satisfaction of psychoanalysis. His eyes narrowed, revealing more tightly controlled rage than Scully had thought even Mulder capable of. "I should kill you right now," he snarled. His finger tightened again, imperceptibly, against the trigger.

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

Hit with déjà vu, Modell grinned. "Mulder, yes," he intoned, smirking. But this time his voice had no effect. Either those earlier abilities were gone, or they weren't being used. Mulder thought briefly that Modell must be working awfully hard to control this park ranger, whoever he was. It had to be taking a massive amount of energy.

"Yes, if you want to," Modell continued, completely undaunted by the gun pointed at him. "But it won't matter. I'll just be back." He grinned again. "Besides, I don't really think you want to shoot this man. He's divorced, but he's got two children." He reached into his back pocket, and Mulder tensed, but he merely produced a wallet. He opened it, revealing a crumpled picture of two small blond figures, a young boy and a younger girl -- a little sister -- smiling into the camera. He held it out for Mulder's inspection.

A little sister. Modell was too good at what he did, and he knew too much. For an instant Mulder wavered, but then he reached out with his free hand and slapped the wallet abruptly out of Modell's palm. Still, dammit, the man was right. Mulder couldn't shoot an -- another, he reminded himself, wincing at the thought of the hiker -- innocent bystander. There had been too many of them hurt already.

So now what?

Modell smiled. They remained that way for a long moment, neither of them speaking, eyes locked. Mulder's gun began to shake. Then he slumped, unable to shoot and hating the feeling of powerlessness that washed over him. The gun fell to rest in his lap.

Finally, it was Modell who spoke. "So, Agent Mulder," he murmured. "I'll give you another chance. What do you think I want?"

Mulder sighed and made a disgusted face. "I think you just want torture me a little more before you go."

A slow grin spread across the blond man's face, and he nodded slowly. "Maybe I do." His eyes wandered again over Scully's pale features. Involuntarily, she shuddered, and a slight cough escaped her lips despite her best efforts to keep it down. She realized suddenly that her fever had rapidly gone from vague to quite apparent -- a bad sign.

"I'd say I picked just the right soft spot, wouldn't you?" With a look of mock compassion, Modell moved toward Scully, hand outstretched.

Instantly, Mulder swung the Smith and Wesson in his hand back up to stop Modell in his tracks. "Don't -- you -- touch -- her," he warned, pushing the words out in a deadly staccato cadence.

Modell looked down, nodding, palms up. "All right," he agreed calmly. "Noted." He backed away, recognizing the seriousness of Mulder's threat. Apparently he didn't want this little act of the play to be over quite so quickly. "But you should check on her. Your lovely partner seems to be feeling ill."

Mulder looked suddenly stricken. Refusing to take his eyes off Modell, he reached out blindly, the back of his hand finding the nape of Scully's neck. Her pulse was rapid beneath his fingers; she felt hot.

"Mulder," she murmured, "don't let him distract you. I'm okay. I'm fine." For the tiniest split second, he let his eyes close. How many times had she told him that particular little lie? But she was right -- he was giving Modell the satisfaction of seeing him suffer. He opened his eyes quickly and trained his attention on the man in front of them.

But Modell merely shook his head. "I'd say you're in need of medical assistance, Agent Scully. Surely by now all the bacteria on the end of that knife are multiplying quite nicely inside your chest. The fluid -- "

Mulder lost control. Unable to stop the outburst, he leveled the gun squarely at Modell's head and roared, "Shut up, Modell!"

Modell only smiled. "I know too much about you, Agent Mulder. You won't shoot me. And if you think I was trying to kill her just now, you're wrong. I can't, anymore. Not that way. But that doesn't matter. This new gift is a greater advantage, considering my current position."

Mulder didn't budge, but Modell just kept smiling. "Besides, I was merely expressing my concern. Agent Scully needs the benefits of a modern hospital." As if to punctuate his point, she coughed again, involuntarily. Modell began to back away, heading toward the door. "But I can see you aren't going to give me what I want." He took another backward step. "So I'll be going now." Another step.

He began to turn toward the door, then stopped. As if it were an afterthought, he said, "Of course, if you'd like, I can give you the keys to Yogi Bear here's four-wheel drive."

A pang of hope surged through Mulder; he lowered the gun a notch. Modell grinned. "Yeah, Mulder, it's parked about a half a mile down the trail. Even has gas." His hand reached again for the door, and he began to turn away, saying, "But you probably wouldn't be interested."

Mulder glanced briefly at Scully, who looked back at him helplessly and shook her head. She looked even paler now, something he'd thought impossible. "Don't, Mulder," she barely whispered -- but she, and Modell, both knew what he would do.

He glanced from her to the man in the doorway, and back to her again. "Wait." His voice sounded far away to his own ears. Modell turned, grinning, and walked back into the room.

Mulder let the gun fall again into his lap. He was shaking openly now, half with rage and half with fear. He had to get Scully to a hospital, and soon, and this sociopathic son of a bitch before him claimed he had a way. Even though Mulder knew full well the man didn't plan on actually giving it to him -- he had to try. He looked at Modell imploringly and said, "Just tell me what you want."

Modell's eye twitched. He'd made the mistake of underestimating Mulder's devotion to his partner only once. He wouldn't make it again. He watched as a horrified look spread across Scully's face at the sound of Mulder's words and wondered...wondered what Mulder would be willing to do to prevent her from dying. Wondered if he really wouldn't kill an innocent -- and unarmed -- man.

"Agent Mulder," Modell intoned, "the keys are in my right hip pocket. All you have to do..." he paused, relishing the moment "...is take them."

"Mulder," Scully warned again, her voice hoarse. She took another breath to speak, but instead an unexpected cough, real and hard, gripped her. The force of it sent intense pain shooting through her chest, and she stifled a groan. He reached out, steadying her, and she caught and held his gaze. There was a silent plea in her eyes, one he understood. He couldn't kill this man, Modell's unwitting receptacle. There had to be another way.

Mulder stood then, abruptly pushing the gun into Scully's hands. He couldn't kill him; and out here, even shooting him in the knee might do that, because they would have to leave him. No. Mulder knew there was only one way to get those keys. The two of them would have to face off. Like manly men. What a load of bullshit. But he had a feeling this was what Modell expected from him, anyhow. Look out, Scully, he thought, I'm defending your honor, and it's about to come to blows. He looked up, realizing for the first time just how large this particular park ranger was. ...And I'm gonna get my ass kicked.

"Predictable, Agent Mulder," Modell responded. Still, he looked absurdly pleased. He backed away a step, waiting, allowing Mulder to make the first move.

Mulder lunged forward, reaching out with a jab that missed its target completely as Modell dodged. He grabbed Mulder's arm and pulled, throwing him into the wall. He connected with a sharp thud.

Mulder collected himself and spun around just in time to catch the brunt of a fist against his cheek. The impact was unbelievable, his head slamming back against the wall again. Stunned, he slid down and landed hard against the floor. Modell pulled back, intent on delivering a swift kick, but Mulder reacted, grabbing Modell's upraised foot. Modell fell, landing hard on his back, and Mulder was immediately on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scully holding the gun by the barrel, ready to strike Modell with the butt at the first opportunity. He shot her a brief warning glance then punched, catching Modell's chin with a sharp right cross.

...in his hospital room, modell's pulse rate spiked...

Modell kicked upward, hard, and Mulder was knocked away. Modell rolled quickly, briefly gaining the upper hand. He was facing Scully, whose alarmed gasp and clear frustration briefly distracted him. Mulder took advantage of the momentary lapse. He balled his fists and punched upward as hard as he could, right into Modell's solar plexus. Modell oofed and fell back, a huge rush of air escaping his lungs. Mulder scrambled away, intent on getting to his feet.

...sweat beaded along modell's forehead...

He wasn't fast enough. Before he could regain his balance, Modell threw his body at Mulder, and the two of them went crashing down --

...modell's heart contracted erratically inside his chest...

-- straight into the pot-bellied stove. It was knocked off its rusty moorings, its contents spilling out onto the wooden floor, rolling underneath the recliner -- and underneath the bed.

"Mulder!" Scully screamed with all the force she could muster. He lay abruptly motionless amid the debris as blood welled and ran from a deep gash in his right temple. Modell rolled away from him, avoiding the flames that rapidly began to engulf the recliner, and tried to stand. Unexpectedly, he swayed, as if suddenly dizzy.

When he righted himself and turned, Scully had the gun pointing straight between his eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the smoke begin to rise from the bedspread, but she tried not to let it distract her. "Don't," she said. She tried to make it sound convincing, but she was weak and obviously feverish now, and she saw that he knew she was wavering, still unable to shoot an ultimately innocent man.

He took a step toward her.

Her finger hesitated against the trigger.

It was enough. Modell reached out, knocking the gun from her hands with one powerful swipe. She gasped. The gun clattered to the floor. He kept coming toward her. She scrambled away from him on the bed.

...modell's blood pressure soared...

"Agent Scully," he grunted, his hand clamping down around her upper arm with a vicious grip. Scully noted that his words were slurring, but his strength was still intact. "You and your...partner...are both going to die here."

She tried to kick him, but she realized just how weak she was when he ignored the ineffectual blow and swept her up as if she weighed nothing. Struggling against him, she could feel the rage he was generating, the hatred he was suddenly positively crackling with. All pretenses were gone; this was pure revenge, raw and violent.

He swerved and heaved her against the wall above the bed with every ounce of strength he had.

She felt herself hit, then the world briefly exploded in a wash of bright light as she fell against the bed. When she came to, she realized she was gasping for air, but he already had her again, and before she could react, he had hauled her once more into his arms.

...modell began to wheeze...

He hurled her again, this time slamming her headfirst. She blacked out and fell, lifeless, onto the bed.

...modell's breathing stopped...

Modell ignored the way his head had begun to swim and reached down, closing his hands around her neck.

...in fairfax mercy hospital, robert patrick modell flatlined.

His eyes stung, but he saw the two of them clearly through the smoke. They both lay on the bed in a macabre heap, and neither of them moved. His heart in his throat, he was beside them in two swift leaps.

Horrified, he reached down to pluck Scully from the bed just as flames began to lick at her body. She was unconscious. Beating out the fire with one hand as he shifted her in his arms, he paused above the park ranger's body to check for a pulse. There was none. He checked the man's eyes. Dilated and bloody, both of them. Modell had literally blown the man's brain apart. He reached into the man's hip pocket, and there, like sweet salvation, were the car keys. Just as Modell had said.

He ran full tilt toward the door, juggling the too-hot keys as he did so. In the space of one breath, he pulled Scully in tightly against him and they were out of the burning building. He didn't stop moving until he could no longer hear the popping of burning wood.

Then, head throbbing spectacularly now in an intense new addition to the rhythm of pain in the rest of his body, he did stop, had to stop, stumbling as he tried to avoid dropping her, finally placing her down as gently as he could in the snow. In the dim glow from the building fire, he could already see bruises welling on her face and around her throat, and his chest contracted. Holding his breath, he checked for a pulse. He was rewarded with a strong and steady drumming against his fingertips. He pushed back the fabric of her flannel shirt and saw that, somehow, the plastic bandage he'd applied those long hours ago -- it seemed like days -- was intact. His breath escaped in a heavy sigh, and, awash with pure relief, he sat back on his heels.

Her eyes fluttered open then, and she looked up at him with confusion. Mulder felt a familiar pang of what he'd come to recognize as unbounded affection as he stared back into the depths of her crystal blue gaze. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"Scully," he whispered. He reached out, gentle fingers moving lightly against her cheek. He had to say the words before another minute, another chance, spiraled away from them. "Scully, I love you."

He heard her barely-audible voice as he wrapped his arms protectively around her, pulling her from the ground as he did so. "I love you, too," she murmured weakly. Her words trailed off sleepily. "For a long time...a long time..."

He would've liked to stay there, just like that, for an eternity, feeling her against him. He was exhausted. But she had to have medical attention. Her skin, where it touched his, was burning with feverish heat, and he could hear her beginning to wheeze.

He stood, picking her up again as he did so, willing away the pain that ran its tiny sharp blades everywhere inside him. She reached up, gingerly touching the bleeding gash and the rapidly blossoming black eye Modell had given him. Unashamed, tears stung her eyes.

Mulder cradled her against his chest and began to walk again, praying to a God he wasn't even convinced was there that Modell hadn't been lying.

The four-wheel drive was right where he had claimed it would be. And it even had gas.