Author's Note: Two things.

First, I wrote this back in the beginning of my writing endeavors, long before I learned that most freshmen writers throw in unnecessary 'dream sequences' so I didn't know it was 'cliché' at the time I decided to make dreams a pivotal plot point. Ah well, since then I've grown enough as a writer to unabashedly publish a cliché with my own, original spin.

Second, the thing with the door actually happened my first night in the Highlands (yes, I've been there!). Too bad I didn't have a Mulder there to rescue me.

Oh, wait, three things! Thanks to all of you who are reading this story. I hope you enjoy the turns that are coming...

"What's the matter with our ways
I'm missing something, not to blame
But don't you worry, this will pass
It's only 'cause my mind's been spinning
No control, I've lost my head
All of this is just beginning
Not enough, it's never enough
I'll only want to keep on dreaming."

Dreamer

—Uh Huh Her—

Dreamer

.

Onich, Scotland
8 October 1998

Cold. Her sleeping bag was useless. She thought about getting up and pulling a coat out of her canvass bag but didn't want to brave the tent's frigid environment even long enough for that. Trying instead to snuggle closer to Melissa, young Dana Scully finally opened her eyes enough to peek out when she couldn't find her sister's warmth. Melissa's sleeping bag was empty, and she was not in the tent.

"Melissa?" Her ragged whisper shattered the pre-dawn stillness, and she winced. Dad would kill them both if she woke him and he found Melissa gone on top of it. Dana slipped out of her inadequate sleeping bag and hurried over to the pile of clothes she'd laid out last evening. She donned shoes and a coat in seconds, chilled into high-gear, and then eased over her sleeping parents to the tent's zippered door.

Dawn was just brightening up the forest, sending beams of ruby light through the trees and setting fire to the lake. Dana looked from the black ashes of last night's cooking fire to the car parked several yards away. A squirrel chattered at her from its hiding place among the fir boughs spreading over her head, but he was her only companion this morning. "Melissa?"

Cold pierced her through the sweats she'd been sleeping in, and she wrapped her down jacket more tightly around herself before venturing down to the shores of Willow Lake. It was mid-October, high Indian Summer, and Dad always insisted on one last camping trip before winter buried the campgrounds. Today was Columbus Day, she recalled. Monday. They would drive back home late this afternoon. Then again, if she didn't find her sister soon they wouldn't be going anywhere.

So Dana trudged through piles of shriveled, dead leaves and ducked every now and then under low branches that leaned over the trail. Her breath formed thick clouds of steam in the blue twilight of early dawn. A bitter wind blew warmth away from her body, lifted her hair and breathed icy puffs against her neck. She huddled deeper into the down ski-jacket, bending her head against the cold. The lake was just ahead.

At the shore she paused, searching for signs that anyone had passed there. The sand before her was damp and smooth, telling her that no human footsteps had passed over it recently. Yet someone was there with her at the lakeshore. She stepped out of the concealing forest and approached a still figure sitting on a fallen tree trunk.

"Melissa?" The figure did not respond.

Dana walked around the tree and gazed at her sister with concern. The older girl's face was ashen, her lips blue. Her eyes were closed. Reaching out, Dana gently shook Melissa, gasping when her sister's eyes popped open unexpectedly. Melissa stared blindly ahead at the lake, as if completely unaware of her surroundings and the younger girl who was trying to get her attention.

"Melissa? What's wrong?"

Silently, the girl stood and brushed past Dana. She walked over the unblemished sand to the water's edge and began humming an eerie tune to herself. Dana gazed down at the sand, still unmarked even after her sister had passed over it. She followed Melissa to the shore, confused by the girl's odd trance. Tiny ripples lapped at Melissa's bare feet as she waited on the shore.

Dana noticed something stirring beneath the surface of the lake. Large circles spread outward from a point just yards away, then the water bubbled and frothed as a form rose out of the depths. She saw that it was a man who looked vaguely familiar, still in the water and gazing back at the two girls on the shore. Water rushed off his smooth limbs and splashed around his feet as he came to hover just above the lake. He stretched out his hand to Melissa, who responded by walking unhesitatingly into the water.

"Melissa! What are you doing?"

Her sister did not stop. She didn't pause, didn't look back — just left the younger sister standing alone on the sandy shore. Without hesitation Dana plunged into the lake, gasping at the shock of freezing water rising around her. Tremors shook her entire body as she struggled to reach her sister. Her fingers caught at Melissa's arm, tugged at the sleeve of Melissa's nightgown, but she did not have enough leverage to stop the older girl. Melissa went further, deeper, until only her head was above the surface of the water. Dana pushed deeper into the frigid lake, fighting both the cold and the drag of her soaked clothing.

"Melissa, stop!" she screamed. Her hands and feet burned from the cold, her breath came out in short, panicked bursts. The swirling water pulled at her, drawing her resisting body down into its black depths. She cried out in terror, seeing Melissa disappear beneath the rippling surface.

At the center of the lake, the man smiled. "You're next."

Dana's body went numb. Water closed over her head and she struggled just below the sunlit surface. She felt pressure against her chest, a burning in her lungs. She couldn't breathe! Hands pushed her down, held her under until her starved lungs gave up and she choked. Something unseen wrapped around her legs and pulled her away from the light, down into the black depths of the lake. She screamed as the water rushed around her, drowning her, and darkness claimed her.

~Q~

She gasped for air, her conscious mind forcing awareness upon her when the nightmare became too intense. Her heart still thundering in alarm, Scully swallowed down a sob. She held herself stiffly in the darkness as the tremors subsided. She heard birds outside her window, their soft chirps reassuring after the frightening sensation of drowning faded away.

Scully shivered and drew the blankets closer. She never told Mulder about any of the nightmares that cropped up around an investigation, didn't want him to know the depth of her distress during those times when their cases disturbed her sleep. Even so, he had a knack for seeing them anyway. So many times Mulder spoke her fears aloud, often making them both legitimate and reasonable with just a few words. She didn't have to tell him when she was afraid — he always seemed to know.

That fact made her wonder what he would say if she confided this morning's surrealistic visions to her quirky partner. He was difficult to predict sometimes, being equally likely to indulge in brotherly teasing about the sexual implications of a seductive man drowning her, or to reassure her that it was just a dream and everything would be all right. Which way would he lean this morning?

What difference does it make? she finally asked herself. It's not like she was actually planning to share any of this with Mulder. For ten seconds she closed her eyes and held still, awaiting the return of sweet slumber. Her thoughts whirled, though, twirling over the sister she'd lost both in real life and then again, just moments ago in the lake and so, sighing in defeat, Scully sat up. With sleep no longer an option, maybe a shower would help her warm up.

Thin grey light slanted through the lace curtains covering a leaded-glass window and spilled onto a highly polished oak floor. Dust motes danced in the pale rays. Scully glanced from her suitcase, still open and looking ransacked from last night, to the haphazard pile of travel-rumpled clothes she'd dropped on a rose-hued armchair. Flinging the quilt and blankets aside, she slipped out of the high brass bed and scrambled into a bathrobe hanging by the door. She moved quickly, trying to sweep up an armful of clothing, toiletries and underwear before the room's chill could penetrate her robe, but when she got to the door the items fell in a heap at her feet.

The door would not open.

She tugged violently, gripping the doorknob with both hands. The wood bowed out near the floor but remained firmly lodged under the doorjamb at the top. Even pushing down on the knob, hoping to lower the door enough so it could slip out from under the frame, didn't help. Scully was rewarded with fractional success followed by an ominous creak. Cursing softly, she let go of the knob and stared at the uncooperative door. It stayed just as she'd left it, top wedged under the lintel and bottom jutting into her room several inches. Scully pushed the bottom of the door back into place with her foot.

How do I get out of here?

Stepping over her clothes she went to the window, brushing the curtains aside to peek through the small diamond panes. Her room was at the front of the house, an ancient attic room that had probably been home to a servant and was therefore unlikely to have the luxury of a balcony but it might be possible to climb out over a trellis or down a drainpipe. No such luck, however. The street curved three stories below, cobbled and rimmed with cramped sidewalks. Tall, narrow buildings pressed close together along the street like hobos around a fire. So much for climbing.

If not that, perhaps she might flag down someone passing in the street to let her hostess know the guest in the front attic was stuck in her room. But the only movement she could see was smoke drifting out of a couple of chimneys. A bird darted across the cobbled street. She let the curtains drop back into place. Obviously, the window wasn't an option.

Their rooms didn't have phones, either. She found the wireless phone she'd left charging at her bedside and punched in Mulder's number.

He answered sleepily. "Scully, it's quarter to six."

"I can't get my door open."

"What?"

"My door is stuck. I need you to help me get it open."

His sigh rattled over the static. "Just a minute."

A click signaled his disconnection. A few moments later he rapped against her door.

She stood near it and called out. "It isn't locked."

The door trembled slightly as he tried to open it. Then it shuddered from the impact of his shoulder slamming against the wood. She started to grasp the knob, thinking to help him, but thought better of it as a third blow rattled the window. Instead she kicked the forgotten pile of clothes aside when realizing the violence needed to shove the wood free of the lintel and open the door would propel him into the room and she didn't want him to trip. A final punishing blow crashed against the door, causing the top to pop free of the jamb with a horrendous rending screech.

Mulder stumbled into the room, colliding with Scully before she could get out of his way. Together they crashed to the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and startled gasps. She remained completely still, pinned by his weight and too stunned to do anything about it. Warmth seeped into her body, transmitted from the man and intensified by her own embarrassment at the situation. Shocked blue eyes met amused hazel.

His breath tickled her face. "Good morning."

Scully slid her hands up to push him away, then drew them back as quickly as if she'd touched fire. He wasn't wearing a shirt, a fact that had escaped her notice until that moment. A burning blush spread over her face, staining her cheeks crimson.

As for Mulder, he noted she fit under him perfectly. Too perfectly. Awareness of the press of her body against his sent tingles racing along his limbs and tripped his pulse into double time but the astonishment in her eyes as he looked down at her was comical enough to ward off any further wayward thoughts. Then she touched him and the amusement drained, her cool fingers sliding against his chest in an unconscious caress before she gasped and jerked them away. A tremor whipped through him, prompted more by her withdrawal than the touch that preceded it because with that touch, he knew she was feeling it, too.

Mulder tried to distract them both with humor, ever his fail-safe. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble to get me into your room, Scully. All you had to do was ask."

He lifted off her slightly, chuckling at the mortified expression on his partner's face as she tried to scoot away. His hands, braced on both sides of her shoulders, blocked her escape.

Her eyes darkened to near-violet. "Get off me."

Mulder considered teasing her a little more but changed his mind at the murderous glare she was directing at him. He couldn't avoid brushing against her once more as he pushed himself away, and grinned at the barely stifled intake of breath that betrayed her.

She missed his warmth immediately. As he'd pressed into her on his way up she'd felt a spark of intense awareness sizzle along every nerve in her body. That had quickly given way to the even greater shock of wanting him back. She suppressed a groan, cursing the bizarre circumstances that had awakened long-forgotten hormones. Why now? And for God's sake, why him?

He reached down a steady hand and pulled her quickly to her feet, his eyes dancing with boyish good humor. "Aren't you going to thank me?"

"For what — nearly killing me?" She was relieved to note that he had pulled on a battered pair of jeans before riding to her rescue.

"You were in the way!"

"Thanks," she grudgingly offered, "for knocking the wind out of me."

"That's it?" he demanded. "I sacrificed sleep to break you out of here. You still owe me."

Her eyes flashed. "I'd say you still owe me. How many times have I been dragged out of bed in the middle of the night because of you?"

"That's different," he countered.

"How so?"

"Desperate times, desperate measures ... but this wasn't an emergency."

"Says who?"

"This couldn't have waited another thirty minutes?"

She rolled her eyes. "I was cold. I wanted a shower. So I woke you up thirty minutes early — in terms of favors this is microscopic, Mulder."

He crossed his arms and smirked. "I say you owe me something, Scully. Nothing comes for free, you know."

"Just how do you expect me to repay you?" She had to make a conscious effort to keep her eyes off his chest, the sight of his arms resting there providing a distraction that was difficult to ignore.

"I don't know ... maybe with a kiss?"

Oh, that sure wasn't helping her keep her mind off of baser things! He knew. Glancing up at him, she knew he knew. The bastard. She imagined in that moment fifteen different, painful ways to kill him. Slow and agonizing. Scully's work as a pathologist had supplied her with a few horrific yet creative ideas, and he deserved to suffer all of them for this. But then she thought of an even better way to get even and this way wasn't even illegal. Making no effort to hide her devious intention, Scully smiled sweetly and nodded. "Okay."

Her quick agreement threw him completely. "What?"

"You can kiss me."

His eyes met hers, still surprised, but seeing the invitation there he leaned forward. What would it be like, this first touch of their mouths? He indulged in a moment of fantasy, imagining her lips soft and warm under his. Their breaths mingled, their eyes locked together as Mulder covered the final distance between them. At the last second she turned her head; his lips landed on her cheek. The bubble burst. He realized she'd turned the tables on him and hearing her muffled laughter, Mulder drew back and tapped her lightly on the nose. "That's the last time I come charging to your rescue like some misguided knight. Next time you're on your own."

"I'll take my chances," she murmured, still enjoying that moment of triumph, when the shoe had been on the other foot.

He backed up a step, asking mischievously, "So, who gets the first shower?"

"Don't even think about it," she warned.

His own laughter floated back to her as he returned to his own room. "See you at breakfast, Scully."

.

Glen Coe Mountain Rescue Post
Achnambeithach

William Stark was not particularly pleased to see his work being questioned by foreigners. The stout Constable sat behind his ancient, institutionally-provided desk and defended his territory with all the bluster and rage of a wronged aristocrat: which is to say, his icy control was impressive. "We handled the investigation as carefully and professionally as you'd expect for any citizen of the United Kingdom. I fail to understand why the United States has sent you two here to question our approach."

"We're not questioning your approach, sir." Scully tapped one delicate finger against the case-file she'd first read two days ago in DC. Though the facts were bare, that was due more to a lack of evidence rather than expertise. "In fact, it's doubtful that Agent Mulder and I will uncover anything you haven't already recorded in your reports."

Aside from an enraged twitch here and there, the Constable kept himself well in check even as he found himself repeating the question yet again. "Then why are you here?"

Sharing a loaded glance, Mulder nodded and Scully drew a fortifying breath as she cracked open the proverbial can of worms. "In many ways, our presence here began as just an exercise to placate Ms. Campbell's parents."

"Aye, that's what has me in a conundrum. You say that the girl's parents are Scottish themselves, yet they aren't satisfied with the work of their own countrymen. They've had you sent here to do my work for me."

"I don't think their request for the FBI to assist should be construed as a lack of faith in your ability to do the job correctly." Mulder leaned forward to drive his point home. "They've lost their only daughter and so far no one's been able to provide them with an explanation. Turning to us was merely the act of desperate parents willing to explore any avenue if it means they could get their daughter back safely."

Stark sighed, loosing some of his indignation. "Then what do they want? What do you want?"

This was the part that Mulder had stumbled upon shortly after snooping across Kersch's desk two days ago. Most of the arrangements had already been made with the exception of assigning and sending out agents, and indeed, AD Kersch initially assigned the dead-end case as punishment. But when Mulder started researching the loch in question, that's when things got ... interesting.

"The FBI staffs Legat offices around the world, established to assist local law enforcement agencies with limited resources. In addition to Ms. Campbell's disappearance, we've become aware of several additional disappearances at the same location. That's why the FBI is offering assistance. The investigation is yours, we're just here to lend support in case there's a link between these disappearances."

"We've read your reports," Scully added. "We'd just like a few minutes of your time to discuss your impressions of Ms. Campbell's disappearance, to see if you have anything new to add to the file. We'll look around, conduct a few secondary interviews. As Agent Mulder said, we're looking for links between the various cases."

He pushed back, his chair squeaking loudly. "I've nothing new to add. The girl walked to Loch Gnathaigh on the morning of September 16th. When she didn't return for supper at the Kingshouse, where she'd taken a room, the proprietor —Mrs. McNeil— became concerned and rang me. Just before Mrs. McNeil rang, I received a message from Robert Martin that a Peugeot was left sitting on the A82 at the turnout for Loch Gnathaigh. Robert is the other Constable posted here in Glencoe. When Mrs. McNeil told me the girl had a Peugeot, I put two and two together and opened an investigation."

"And you found no physical evidence?" Mulder prompted.

"Nothing. Robert and I went out to the Loch the next morning. The only thing we found was a knapsack and two foot impressions in the mud. They appeared to be from a woman's hiking shoe. We processed the car, found nothing out of the ordinary, and finally returned it to Glasgow two weeks ago."

"What direction were the impressions facing?" Mulder wanted to know.

"They were facing the water. She was standing right on the shore at some point. We found another faint footprint, with the same tread, on the footpath leading in but nothing going the other direction."

"What about the backpack," Scully inquired.

Stark opened the file he'd pulled out when they'd arrived. "Here." He handed her a typed form listing all the physical evidence gathered from the scene. "She left behind her car, her wallet, her dinner, and her flight reservation. It seems to me that she'd have taken at least some of those items with her if she had planned on disappearing."

"Were you able to discern her activity prior to her trip to the lake that day?"

Stark nodded. "She had a light meal here in Glencoe at the Hotel, about 11:00, purchased with a traveler's cheque. We know she spent about two hours at the Visitor Centre, where she purchased a series of postcards and a roll of film. The sales clerk there remembered her. As near as we can guess, she left the Visitor Centre at about 13:00 and drove over to the Moor. Our estimate is she'd have reached Loch Gnathaigh by 15:00. That's all we know."

Scully frowned. "You say she bought film? I don't see either film or a camera listed here among the items recovered from the Loch."

"Aye," Stark confirmed. "We never found the camera or the film. I'd guess they're with her, wherever she is. Maybe she got a photo of the suspect and he made sure we wouldn't find it."

"Would it be all right if we spoke to Mrs. McNeil?"

The Constable leaned back with another squeak. "I've no problem with it. She'll tell you everything you want to know and more besides." Then he parted his lips slightly, revealing pearly teeth in remarkably good condition. It was not exactly a smile. "And I'll wish you God-speed. You'll need it. Mrs. McNeil's theory of the crime is rather ... unorthodox, to say the least."