Okay, so here we are, another chapter, dutifully plucked from the wonderous season 1.

It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the people who wrote it.

They are welcome to it.

Day 1 – December 6 - Monday
I don't get to testify often. Just doesn't happen – we don't usually press charges. But they won't let us examine Tooms any more, and there's a hearing, which we both have to testify at and explain why it's so important. No ruling today though. We lug our leagalese books out of the courthouse and back to the car afterwards, and Scully mutters, "I forgot what it was like to spend a day in court."

"Well, that's one of the luxuries of hunting down aliens and genetic mutants. You rarely get to press charges," I tell her, not mentioning that I just was thinking the same thing.

"It's open," she says as I look for my car keys.

That's not right. "What?"

"It's unlocked."

No... "That's weird. I'm sure I locked it."

"Must be an X-File." Ha ha. She gets in the car. "What's that?" she asks, pointing to a tape on the dashboard.

Ha! "I told you I locked the door."

"What do you think it is?"

Uh... "Ten-to-one, you can't dance to it."

I put the tape in the player. "Greetings, Agent Mulder. Six months ago, British Minister of Parliament Reggie Ellicott received an audio cassette much like the one you are listening to now."

I know that voice.

"Unfortunately for Mr. Ellicott, when he popped the tape into the car stereo, he armed a device, which, when he tried to exit the car, created an explosion that was heard five miles away. The Scotland Yard Forensic Team could only identify the poor bastard by his dental records. If only he hadn't reached for the door handle and triggered the detonator. But then how was he to know he was sitting on enough plastique explosive to lift the car forty feet in the air and deposit the engine block on top of a three-story building?"

Oh dear, she's here.

Help me!

The door opens and Scully gasps. And there she is. Dammit!

I hate my exes. Both my exes.

"Aren't we looking rather ghostly?" she asks.

"It's an old friend," I tell Scully, climbing out of the car. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

For what? "For what?"

"Saving your life. One tends not to make the same mistake twice."

Lovely.

"I'll try to remember that."

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you left your sense of humor in Oxford ten years ago," she says.

"No, actually. It's one of the few things you didn't drive a stake through."

She kisses me then, and I wish she wouldn't. Evil bitch – last time I saw her she was making out with some guy on Arthur Conan Doyle's tomb.

Some guy that wasn't me.

Bitch.

"You know, some mistakes are quite worth making twice," she says.

"Dana Scully, this is Phoebe Green, terror of Scotland Yard," ignoring the flirting.

"Hello."

"Hello," says Scully.

"She hates me."

"What brings you to the colonies?" I ask her.

"I'm on a case, and I thought I could use your help."

Oh for crying out loud, what did I do, anyway?

"Okay," I tell her, "Do you have a car?" I'm not letting her in mine.

"Yes."

"Why don't you follow us back?" I ask, and I climb back in the car and so does Scully, hoping for silence on the trip over. Blessed silence.

XXXXX

We get back to the office and she is already there. Typical. God only knows how she found it. "Some clever bloke has been giving the aristocracy a good scare. Killed off a ranking member of Parliament or three for good measure. Set Windsor Castle ablaze in 1992," she says as soon as we're sitting down. She already had the lights down and the projector on. My projector.

"Your car bomber?" I ask.

"No. This one likes to burn his victims alive. Can't figure out how he does it either. Not a crumb of evidence left at the crime scene. The last one died in his front garden, his poor young wife watching helplessly as he went up in smoke."

Okaaaay. "The Irish Republican Army?"

"Our suspect likes to send love letters to his victims' wives." So no then. "Sent one to the wife of some Malcolm Marsden a month ago. Three days later, he narrowly escaped a fire in his garage. Burned to the ground. So they're renting a place out on Cape Cod. Bringing the family over to the states for an extended holiday or until we can catch the dirty bugger."

Really? It's an 8 hour plane trip! "You think he's that determined?"

"Judging by his success, he seems to take a certain delight in his work."

Okay, fair enough. "So what brings you on this detour to Washington, D.C., Inspector?" Cape Cod isn't exactly local.

"I figured my friend Mulder couldn't resist a three-pipe problem." Inside jokes now? Are we back to that?

"I'll run it by our arson specialist." Now go away.

"Splendid. I'll call London, let them know." Great. Now it's official. She turns to look at Scully. "Oh, goodbye."

Scully waves. She actually waves. She leaves. "Three-pipe problem?" asks Scully.

Holmes. Stupid Holmes. "That's, uh, from Sherlock Holmes. It's a private joke."

"How private?"

I know what she's asking. Just not sure why she's asking it.

"Um... we knew each other in school in England. She was brilliant and, uh, I got in over my head and, uh, paid the price."

"Mulder, you just keep unfolding like a flower."

"That was over ten years ago, Scully." I'm still confused.

"Yeah, I noticed how you couldn't drop everything fast enough in order to help her out."

Still confused. "Oh, I was merely extending her a professional courtesy."

"Oh, is that what you were extending?"

She sounds jealous.

"Look, I'm going to run this by the arson guys and then she's on her own."

It won't end there of course. It never ends anywhere. But I can pretend.

"Something tells me you're not going to get rid of her that easily," says Scully. Perceptive.

Time to go talk to arson.

XXXX

Dammed if the bitch didn't beat me there too, waiting in Beatty's office, handing off more damn slides. Unbelievable.

"Mulder," says Beatty, I was just chatting with your friend.

Great.

"She was just filling me in. Sounds like quite a thing. Shall we? I take a seat and he turns on the slides."

Great.

Stupid flames.

"Beautiful," mutters Beatty. Freak.

More flames. "Oh, just beautiful. Look at that. Salmon red flames. This is fourteen-hundred, fifteen-hundred degrees. This is a work of art."

Burned body.

My nightmare.

"Was there any kind incendiary device used?"

She answers. "Yes, actually. The victim's body."

"Spontaneous combustion?"

"He was murdered. However, we've turned up no evidence that tells us how the body caught fire."

The slides get turned off. "Well, that's peculiar. People don't normally just catch on fire."

"I mean, we burn, but we don't conduct all that well. There's usually some kind of extraneous fuel involved like candle wax, gasoline, something flammable and incendiary that adheres to the skin."

"Like an accelerant."

"Like an accelerant, yes."

Why am I even here?

"But we found no trace of anything, save for a dusting of magnesium at two of the sites."

"That's aliphatic pyrolysis. It's a residue remaining after an exothermic reaction."

"But there's no evidence of the source, no pour patterns or ignition devices."

"There have been some arson fires in Seattle lately and, uh, Pennsylvania that burn so hot that the firemen can't put them out. 7,000 degrees. I mean, hosing that down just makes it worse."

Finally, something to say! My own innate sense of self-flagellation compels me to ask, "How's that?"

"Uh, the, uh, reaction is so intense that it splits the water into hydrogen and oxygen. Just adds fuel to the fire."

Great.

"What were they using?"

"We don't know for sure. Could be rocket fuel. That stuff burns so hot and clean, there's never any trace left. You see, it's very difficult to prove arson. It's driving the insurance companies nuts."

She and Beatty both chuckle.

"Well, that's about the only explanation that I can give you."

Which isn't one.

Time to get myself out of here.

"But there have been cases of pyrokinetics, people who can control and conduct fire," I can't help saying. Wish Scully were here.

"Well, I've seen fire bend around corners, seen it bounce like a rubber ball. Fire's got a certain genius, you know? A certain demon poetry." Demon is right. "It's like it's got a mind of it's own. But I've never seen one that can defy the laws of physics, not when you figure it out. You've, uh..." he glances at her "...You've got quite a case for yourself here, Mulder. I almost wish I could be in your shoes."

She looks at me and I look at her and I know what it is she's trying to do.

She didn't forget.

Bitch.

XXXXXX

Day 2 December 7 – Tuesday

When I get to work the next day, Scully is already reading in the office.

"So, Sherlock, is the game afoot?"

Not this time. Not doing it. "I'm afraid so, Watson. But you're off the hook on this one."

"What do you mean?"

I thought about this all night. "I mean I'm not going to put you through this."

I pull out the file on pyrokinesis.

"Put me through what?"

I'm gonna have to tell her. Part of me is relieved.

"Phoebe's little mindgame."

"What are you talking about?"

Here we go. "There's something else I haven't told you about myself, Scully." I start looking for a file in the cabinet but I'm not really looking – I just want to not look at her. "I hate fire. Hate it. Scared to death of it." I still remember that night. I still have nightmares about that night. "When I was a kid, my best friend's house burned down. Had to spend the night in the rubble to keep away looters. For years, I had nightmares about being trapped in a burning building." They replaced the nightmares about losing Sam. The second time I betrayed her.

"Wait, and Phoebe knows about this?" She sounds scandalized.

She used to light candles when I slept over, insist on a fire in the fireplace. Just to keep me on my toes. And I always came back for more. "This is classic Phoebe Green. Mindgame player extraordinaire. Ten years it's taken me to forget about this woman, and she shows up in my life with a case like this."

"So she shows up knowing the power she has over you and then she makes you walk through fire, is that it?"

Something like that. "Phoebe is fire."

"Mulder? Are you sure you don't want me to help you out on this one?"

Nice of her. "Sooner or later, a man's got to face his demons," I tell her. Demon poetry. I have to go, have to get travel arrangements to Cape Cod.

XXXXX

The fax comes in while I'm arranging my car. Just a little report on a bar that burned up, but what catches my eye is where someone says a customer caught fire. They're still looking for a body. And it's in a suburb of Cape Cod.

I call Phoebe and arrange to meet her in the hospital there to interview the witness in the morning.

Just for fun, I don't tell her why.

XXXXX

December 8 - Wednesday

I meet her in the waiting room by the main entrance the next morning and show her the report. "I pulled this report off the wire last night. Eyewitnesses are saying that a customer in the bar caught fire but they're still looking for a body," I tell her. I checked again this morning.

"Any indication an accelerant was used?"

I sign in to talk to Elaine Kotchek. 28E it says. from the bar. "The bar's across the street from the fire station. It burned to the ground before they had a chance to even respond. The fire marshall said it burned so hot, it turned the concrete foundation into sponge cake. This was a woman who was in the bar."

I knock on 28E. "Hello?" It's open, sort of.

"Hello."

"Miss Kotchek?" She's the only one there.

"Yes?"

"I'm Special Agent Mulder from the F.B.I. This is Inspector Green."

I sit down in the chair by her bed. Phoebe sits on the other side. "Can you tell us what happened in the bar last night?" she asks.

"There was this guy. I'd had a few drinks, so... he sat next to me and he did this thing. It was like a magic trick where he lit his finger on fire."

Fun. I write it down. "Next thing, I turned around and he was up in flames."

"Can you describe him?" asks Phoebe.

"Good looking, I think. Brownish hair."

Excellent description.

"Long hair, short hair?" I ask.

"I've already given the police the information."

So? "Do you think you could work with a composite artist and come up with a sketch for us?"

"I said I had a few drinks..."

She's trying to get out of it. "Can I get your full name and address?"

"See... I live with someone. He thinks I was at school last night."

Wow. She's Phoebe.

"That's no problem. You can come down to the field office and work with somebody there. I'll give you a minute to think about it, okay?" I drag Phoebe out to the lobby to finish my notes.

"Deftly done, Agent Mulder. Casually disregard her indiscretion. A firm but polite manner until she accedes to cooperate."

I wish she'd shut up.

Part of me missed her, I admit that.

But mostly I wish she'd shut up.

"It's a technique I refined in my relationship with you," I tell her, just to be a jerk.

"Oh. Yes, well, I see you haven't lost your sense of humor after all."

Whatever. I'm bigger than her. "I'm sorry, that was a cheap shot. I don't want to dredge up the past. Let's just stick to the case."

"Let's." Good. She takes the pad away from me and walks away and I feel like a big jerk.

"Look, Phoebe, I..."

"Unless I'm mistaken, ten years seems like sufficient time to have forgiven, if not forgotten, a few youthful indiscretions."

I suppose.

I am a jerk sometimes.

"I'm cursed with a photographic memory," I tell her.

"And don't you tell me that you've forgotten a certain youthful indiscretion. Atop Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tombstone on a misty night in Windlesham."

Yeah, I do. And she doesn't know what I saw when I went back on another misty night. She doesn't know I had an engagement ring. She doesn't know I was planning to stay in London. With her.

"Like I said, just stick to the case."

"Well, it occurred to me that we're going to a lot of trouble to find a description of a man who, in all likelihood, as been burnt to a crisp."

Not so fast. "I would agree with you but they haven't found a body yet." I walk back to Elaine's room. "So can we count on you?"

"Yeah, okay." Ringing approval. "I don't know if it matters but I remembered something else about the guy who caught fire. He had an English accent."

Huh.

XXXXX

I'm getting the impression that Firestarter was not a big hit in the U.K.

Once we're out of the hospital, I ask her, "Remember those reports I told you about, about people who could control and conduct fire, pyrokinetic?"

"Faintly..."

"I think this guy just sent us a message that he's far more exotic." He freaking set himself on fire.

"I'd say so, I mean, he can set himself afire." She's so unlike Scully, I can't help but chuckle. "What?"

"I'm just not used to someone so quick to agree with me," I tell her.

"Oh."

"What kind of protection does the family have?" I ask her.

"The driver's a very capable bodyguard."

Pfft. "Well, he should look into getting a few additional men and limit public exposure."

We get to my car. "Oh, they've got a party being held in their honor tonight in Boston. They're going to have to cancel."

Unless... "Unless you wanted to set a trap."

"I had thought of that. But we must be careful and discreet. The party's at 8:00 at the Venerable Plaza. I'll be traveling with the family so why don't you go on ahead and have a look around?"

I suppose I could do that.

"Oh, and I've taken a room at the hotel for the night." Damn it.

XXXXX

I get my own room.

Down the hall from Phoebe's.

After I get to the room and the bellhop leaves my bags, the phone rings. "Mulder."

"It's Scully, where are you?"

What does she even need? She's not even on this one. "I'm in Boston."

"There's something I need to show you. I'm going to come up there."

How? And why? "What have you got?"

"I might have some information on the identity of your arson suspect." Why? How? "You there, Mulder?"

"Yeah, yeah..." What is she doing?

"Can I meet you somewhere?"

"No, it's just that I'm, I'm kind of anticipating having my hands full." I don't know what else to tell her.

Or what the hell I'm doing.

Or why I wish I hadn't gotten my own room.

XXXXX

The family arrives at 8.

She is with them.

I'm all tuxed out, and I think I look pretty good. I have some champagne, watch her walk around in a gorgeous dress meant to drive me nuts, and wonder what the hell I'm gonna do. The party drags on. I have no clue what's going on with me.

She finds me when I'm out in the lobby, waiting for some thing to happen. It's late now, after midnight. I've missed Home Improvement. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Good food, great conversation. I'm having the time of my life." I hate parties. But then she knows that. Knew that. Whatever. "I wondered if you'd think it's safe enough to indulge ourselves in a dance."

I've missed – not her, exactly. I've missed this. Touching someone, making contact. Dancing. "It doesn't look like your arsonist is going to make an appearance."

"That doesn't mean there won't be any fires to start." And then I take her in my arms. Playing with fire. "I've thought about you often."

And then she kisses me.

It's been a long time.

"There's a fire upstairs."

Scully? "What?"

"On the fourteenth floor."

No. "That's where the children are," says Phoebe.

"We've got a fire on the fourteenth floor!" Yells Scully.

I have to go. I have to save the kids. I have to do something here. Something concrete.

So I run into the stairwell. I'm in good shape, and I make it up without a problem, but when I get to the door, I pause. It's a fire.

And I hate fire.

And I hate Phoebe a bit for getting me into this. And I hate myself for almost letting a huge mistake happen here tonight. Which may be why I'm opening this door now, and remembering the night Tyler's house burned down.

Tyler lived across the street, and the fire started on the first floor. And when his house burned down, he cried for help. And his screams sounded not unlike the child screaming now, down the hall from where I am.

I couldn't help Tyler. I wanted to.

"Help, help!"

I remember that night. And I remember the way the people came and tried to remove souvenirs from the rubble when it was all over. Tyler and I shared a tent. He treated it like an adventure.

I was awake all night, imagining the fire, my body turning to charcoal...

I can't move.

People are running by me. And then I'm moving, but God does my chest hurt. And then it feels better and I realize I'm wearing an oxygen mask and I'm in the lobby. And there is Scully.

And I'm woozy.

I think she helps me stand up, and I know there's movement. And then everything is black.

I wake up in bed.

Wearing only my boxers.

Scully is there.

My throat is killing me. She hands me a glass of water when I start coughing.

"You were really out."

Ugh. Am I safe? "Where's Phoebe?"

"She's down the hall."

Great. I hoped she'd go back with the Marsdens.

"How about the kids?"

"Okay, the doctor checked them out." Good. "What happened to you up there?"

I'm a wimp. "I panicked. I couldn't move, Scully."

"It could've happened to anyone."

Well, I'm not just anyone. "Yeah, but it happened to me. I hared out. Plain and simple." Nothing else to say and she knows it.

"What do you know about this guy that saved the kids? The driver?"

"I checked him out prior to the Marsdens' arrival." That would be Phoebe. "He's worked on the property for eight years. No record. His references checked out. They were lucky he was here tonight."

"Who was watching the kids tonight?"

"He was."

"Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw him down in the hallway about the same time that the fire broke out."

"He couldn't have. Anyway, the man we're looking for is English."

"Hey," I said. I close my robe when Phoebe looks over. No point in throwing gas on the fire.

"I came to see if you were okay."

Let's not go there. "How are the kids?"

"They're fine. Everybody's anxious to get back."

"To the cape?" I ask her.

"Only to pack. They've, uh, made travel arrangements to return to England the day after tomorrow."

Okay. Good. "And you?"

"I'll be leaving in a few days." Very good. "Look, I'll give you a ring back at the Bureau before I leave."

I don't care. "Right."

"Goodbye."

And then she's gone.

Really dodged a bullet there.

"You all right?" asks Scully. I put my feet up on the table.

"Yeah."

"You at all interested in what I came up here to show you?"

I can't help but smile. "Yeah."

She opens her briefcase. "Well, I did a little checking of my own. I didn't know a whole lot about arson or arsonists so I took the opportunity... for my own edification, of course." No. It wasn't. "I ran a profile of possible incendiary fuels and accelerants that could have been used in the crimes." She hands me a paper. "I also took the liberty of running a search through Interpol of all the gardeners, manservants and domestic help that were hired by the murder victims at the time of their death."

Good idea. "And?"

"And these people probably don't even tie their own shoes. There were over two-hundred names. And not a duplicate. Except one. A "Cecil L'Ively." He worked as a gardener for two of the victims."

Well that's good. "What did you find on him?"

"Nothing." I don't think she means nothing, though.

"So he's clean."

"Apparently, he was question by Scotland Yard and they released him but I dug a little further. Cecil L'Ively is a documented citizen of Great Britain, paid his taxes, never been on the dole, a model citizen until he died in 1971 in a London tenement fire." She has a little victory in her voice at the end there. "I know, that's what I thought. So, I checked a little further. Cecil L'Ively, spelled "L apostrophe," came up again. In fact, it came up twice. First, on a list of death certificates listed among a group of children who died in ritual sacrifice by a satanic cult in 1963 in the Toddingham Woods outside Bath, England."

Ooh. "Where else did you find him?"

"You're going to love this. On a list of recent visas issued by the British government. Cecil L'Ively's passport was stamped by U.S. immigration officials two weeks ago at the port of entry in Boston."

I need my clothes. We've gotta go find the Marsdens. Now. "Call the local field office in Boston of the F.B.I. and get them to fax to you the composite that the witness did of the man who burned down the bar and then get them to fax it to every local law enforcement agency in the area."

"What are you going to do?"

I hate to do this. "I'm going to try and catch Phoebe, this guy could be waiting for them in Cape Cod." I run to the bathroom to change, and then I run out the door after Phoebe, but she's not in her room. So I start driving to Cape Cod. By the time I get there, it's dark and I run into the house without knocking. For a second I think I might have walked into something between Phoebe and Sir Malcolm Marsden, but whatever. Who cares? Sir Malcolm walks upstairs and Phoebe comes back down. "His name is Cecil L'Ively," I tell her.

"Who?"

Who else? "Your arsonist. Where's the rest of the family?"

"They went outside for a walk."

Great. Just great. "Well, go find them. We've got to get them packed and get them out of here."

"Where's the driver?" asks Phoebe.

But we can't find him. The Marsdens haven't seen him.

And I know. And while I"m looking for him, I find a can of argotypoline in the garage. It was on her list. Damn my photographic memory.

Then there's a knock. "It's the driver," says Scully.

"I know. He disappeared."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, um... I found this out in the garage." I hand over the argotypoline. "It's been very hard on the family." Understatement of the century, Sir Malcolm just about hit the ceiling.

"Did you get the composite?" asks Phoebe, running down the stairs with Sir Malcolm hot on her heels.

"Yes."

Lady Marsden is still freaking out. "I don't believe it, I can't believe it. He's worked for us for over ten years."

'Well, obviously there's been some type of mistake," says Sir Malcolm.

And then Scully hands them the picture of the driver.

"Oh my God!" mutters Lady Marsden.

"This isn't the driver," Sir Malcolm tells us. "It's the caretaker!"

"And he's upstairs with the children!" finishes Lady Marsden.

We run upstaris and start yelling for the kids, and when we open a bathroom door, I find the missing driver hunched over a toilet and burned to a crisp. Scully comes in while I'm trying not to puke. "It looks like we found the missing driver."

"Mulder! In here, quickly!" We run into another bedroom – it's burnig. Or, more accurately, the drapes are burning.

"What's going on?" asks Scully.

"They just went up all by themselves."

The wall goes up, and the bed now. I try to smother the flames with a sheet, but I think they made that up. Typical yelling ensues. "Everybody out!" I shout in my most commanding FBI voice.

"Let's go, get out..."

We run out into the hall. "I think he rigged the whole house," I say, and I smell the sheet I'm carrying. Chemical. "It's fuel."

It catches fire. I drop it.

We run down the hall. "Scully, see if you can find a fire extinguisher," I tell her. "Everybody else, outside."

"But what about the children?" asks Lady Marsden.

There's only one thing to do. "I'll take care of the children. Go!"

"Are you going to be okay, Mulder?" asks Phoebe. Oh, now she cares.

"Oh yeah. I'll be fine. There's no place I'd rather be."

I hear a dog bark as I go upstairs. I follow the barking and yes, I am scared. And the door is locked. "Michael? Jimmie?"

I hear couging and start pounding on the door, but it won't open. "Time to call 911."

L'Ively. "Don't move!" I point my gun at him. He snaps his fingers and the hall explodes everywhere. L'Ively runs down the stairs but I think we'll just let Scully handle that. And yes, I am afraid.

But I keep moving anyway. I stay low and I get back to that door and then I knock it open and grab the kids and down the stairs and just like that it's over.

L'Ively is laughing in the yard, bursting into flames. And then I think something goes wrong – because he starts screaming and collapses.

Day 5 – Friday – December 10

When I get home there is a tape waiting for me in a messenger pouch. And I think about playing it. I think about it until - "Care to take me to lunch?" Sounds like Phoebe but when I look up I see Scully at the door, smiling. "Scare you?"

Thank God. "You have no idea."

"Where is Phoebe?"

Doesn't matter. "I don't know."

"You don't know? She didn't call?"

No. "No. She did messenger this to me last night though." I hold up the tape. And I know I won't listen to it.

"Did you play it?"

"No."

"Why not? Aren't you curious what's on it?"

Yes. And no. I know what's on it – and I'm done. "Ten-to-one, you can't dance to it."