Chapter 3

Day after day, Scully worked in the morgue as body after body was brought in to be catalogued, identified, autopsied and packaged. Any personal belongings were carefully searched. It all became a grisly blur. Working in such primitive conditions had increased everyone's workload exponentially. The total was up to 39. She knew that she would be eternally grateful that the temperatures had not risen above 70 degrees and that the bodies had not been exposed to the sun, otherwise none of them would have been able to handle the gruesome duty.

It was Day 9.

Mulder had the equally unenviable task of notifying families and next-of-kin, conducting interviews with devastated husbands, wives, sons, and daughters. All the agents who had phone detail were nearly overcome by the continued outpouring of grief, shock, denial, and rage that poured through the phone lines.

Night after night they all struggled to put it behind them and try to sleep. Sleep was their only escape although through nightmares, the horror would return regularly for most of them. On that ninth night, Mulder awoke with a violent start, gasping for breath, his body bathed in sweat despite the 40-degree chill in the air. He lay in bed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, his hazel eyes wide, trying to separate the terror of his nightmare from the waking horror he and the others were living each day here. He shuddered as the images from his own nightmare floated before him, refusing to go away no matter how hard he rubbed his eyes.

Scully was one of the victims - her body on the top of the heap of mutilated corpses - face down - her reddish-gold hair matted with her blood - flesh ripped from the back of her slender neck - lifeless blue eyes staring...

"No - dammit!" He hissed in frustration and fear, "No. She's fine. She's okay." The images, however, remained and would not go away. Grimly he put on his sneakers, grabbed his jacket and slipped out of his tent. The two other agents slept on - oblivious. Once outside, he paused, trying to catch his breath. He knew he was behaving illogically, but he was known to do that where Dana Scully was concerned. Besides, going back to sleep would be impossible without checking on her first. A quick glance around confirmed that the camp was quiet.

As he stealthily stepped over to Scully's tent, he flashed back to his yearly visits to summer camp. He was 10 years old and he and two other boys had snuck over to the girls' camp on the other side of the hill, intent on bringing back their flag. They had gotten caught and it was left to Mulder, the oldest to explain. He hadn't known what to say then. What would he say now, if he was discovered lurking outside Agent Dana Scully's tent at 2:00 in the morning?

(I have to know she's okay,) he muttered softly before plunging inside.

The space heater provided little illumination. Mulder pulled his penlight from his coat pocket. Standing at the entrance of her tent, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, he turned the tiny light on. Aiming the beam at the ceiling provided enough light to see and he took a step closer. The comfort he took in seeing her safe quickly dissipated as he stared at her face.

Tonight, sleep brought her no peace either. Her brow was furrowed, her full lips moved as if she was speaking but no sounds came out. Mulder could only stand and stare at her helplessly. Unexpectedly, Scully began to thrash; her arms and legs becoming entangled in the covers. As she became more and more agitated, Mulder realized he'd have to wake her or risk having half the camp in here if she cried out.

Without any hesitation, he moved to her. He was a step away when Scully suddenly, and without warning, sat straight up in bed - her eyes wild with terror. The sudden movement jolted Mulder as if he'd been hit with a cattle prod.

Dropping his penlight, he shot forward to Scully's side. Before she could utter a sound, he clamped one hand over mouth and gently but firmly pushed her back down on her cot.

Not surprising, she began to fight him. Mulder caught her hands before she could connect, as he quickly reassured her, "Scully - it's Mulder - it's okay," he whispered urgently at her ear. "Ssssh, it's okay - it's me."

Scully froze, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, realizing that it really was Mulder hovering over her, holding her wrists in an iron grip. She winced slightly, causing Mulder to immediately release her.

"Sorry, Scully," he apologized.

She stared up at him - gasping for breath. Finally she found her voice, "Oh God, Mulder! What are doing! You nearly scared me to death!" She panted, her chest painfully tight.

"Actually, you nearly scared me to death!" he retorted good-naturedly, but shakily. He took her hand and placed it over his pounding heart as if to prove his point. "I was afraid you were going to scream and wake the whole camp."

Her thoughts in turmoil, Scully pulled her hand back and placed it over her own racing heart.

Mulder watched her closely, "That must have been some nightmare you were having," he said, his voice filled with sympathy.

Scully pushed it aside and shook her head. "It was nothing - really. I'm fine," she babbled, looking away, "You know - just a bad dream - everything going on around here -" she abruptly broke off and saw that Mulder's gaze had drifted away. Scully realized that Mulder had just tuned her out.

(Wait a minute. What is really going on here?) She thought incredulously, (This isn't about my nightmare at all.) Then it hit her: (What was he doing in my tent in the first place?) She reached back to turn on the small lantern at the head of her cot. By the light, she struggled to read him, to look into his troubled eyes and get the answers she needed.

"Mulder, what's going on? Has something happened?" her tone becoming more concerned. "Are you okay?"

Mulder dropped his gaze, rocking back on his heels. This was definitely not going as planned. Scully pulled herself to a sitting position.

(Something is wrong,) she thought, fighting the dread that coursed through her veins like ice water. She watched him anxiously, reaching out to touch the hand that rested on the edge of her cot. At her touch, he moaned softly.

"Mulder - what is it?" she beseeched him, her voice betraying the alarm she felt. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mulder cringed. He knew that tone and his face seemed to sag as he looked uneasily away. (What's wrong with me?) He berated himself. (I get so frustrated with her for not opening up to me and here I am closing her off. Some example I'm setting.)

Rubbing his eyes, he finally confessed the fears that had brought him here. "Have you ever been so deep in a nightmare that you didn't know it was a nightmare? Not even after you woke up?"

Scully let out the breath she'd been holding. She had been imagining any number of horrifying reasons for Mulder's behavior, but not this. "A nightmare," she said, taking hold of his hand. "I'm sorry. Was it Samantha?" She felt bad for him; no one should have to relive an event like that over and over again.

Mulder shook his head. "No - not Samantha." (I don't want to do this) he thought frantically. (I don't want to tell her.) But he knew he couldn't back out now. He took a breath and plunged ahead.

"You were dead, Scully!" he blurted out. "I saw it with my own eyes. I walked over there and you - you were at the top of that pile. I could actually feel your skin: it was icy cold. And the blood. There was blood everywhere." His hands gestured wildly as he relived the horror. "And the smell. God, the smell. I could smell death, decay, and the blood. I really did. And your neck. The skin was ripped away, bones were sticking-" he abruptly shut up when he caught sight of Scully's face.

Her hands were at her mouth; her eyes wide and filled with shock. She looked like she might faint - or get sick – or both!

"Dammit - I'm sorry, Scully! I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so graphic," he said, his voice filled with remorse. "I'm sorry..."

Scully waived him off, "It's okay - I'm okay," she said weakly.

Mulder sighed. "It was so real. I knew without a doubt that I wouldn't get back to sleep until I saw with my own eyes that you were all right." His voice dropped. "You probably think I'm a complete idiot," he heard himself whisper.

Scully stared at him in amazement and confusion. (Is that how Mulder sees me? Am I that judgmental and distant towards him?) She didn't think so, but then again, sometimes - usually - she'd pull away. (Don't worry about me, Mulder. I'm fine, Mulder.) Did he think that because she didn't tell him her fears that she'd think him "an idiot" if he did? Didn't he understand that she didn't want to worry him? Didn't want to burden him? But that if she did open up to him or he to her, that it was okay. They were partners, for God's sake.

She could never think less of him for sharing his fears. She didn't stop to think that the reverse might also be true. All of a sudden she remembered her own nightmare. Life without Mulder. Life without the man who meant more to her than life itself. (No. No way.) It was like an epiphany.

Before he could go on, she suddenly launched herself at him, holding him tightly. He nearly fell backwards before regaining his balance, his arms automatically wrapped around her slender waist and held on.

"Mulder, don't say that!" she cried, unable to look at him. "I do not think you're an idiot! I - I dreamed it was you! I was dreaming that you were killed - that someone thought that you had an implant!" She drew in a tortured breath and bit down on her bottom lip. "I did your autopsy." She buried her face in her hands, helpless to go on.

Mulder was aghast and too stunned to say anything. (Boy, there was something he had never dealt with: doing an autopsy on your partner. For all the nightmares he had ever had, that seemed more unendurable than anything did.) For several minutes he sat there with an armful of a trembling Scully until she tilted her head up. Her voice tickled his ear, sending goose bumps down his arms.

"If you hadn't been here -" she stopped abruptly.

"What, Scully?" he urged, silently begging her to keep her walls down. "What would you have done?"

"I - I probably would have done the same thing," she murmured softly, finally looking up at him. Her eyes glistened with tears she refused to let fall.

Their eyes met and held. The electricity crackled between them. No words were spoken. Nothing needed to be said. Mulder rose to his feet, gently pulling Scully up with him, and then hugging her tightly. Scully leaned into him as he buried his face in her hair and tightened his embrace. At last, he pulled back. His hands traveled from her arms, across her shoulders, up her slender neck until he had her face in his hands. Her eyes never left his, her skin on fire at his touch. His fingers caressed her cheeks, her lips...

At that moment, someone walked past Scully's tent. The 2 agents instantly stepped apart as if they'd been doused with cold water. The spell was broken. The moment lost.

"I should go," Mulder muttered, his breath ragged.

"We should try to get some sleep," Scully managed weakly.

"Yeah," Mulder agreed half-heartedly. He planted a kiss on her cheek and drifted out, into the night, without saying another word.

One hand on her cheek, reliving the kiss, Scully crawled into her cot, pulling up the covers to her chin. (What is happening to us?) Two tears finally slid down.

For both of them, sleep was very slow in coming.