ControlledSubstances.htmlControlled Substances 
By Kel 
ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
Date: Sunday, May 14, 2000 1:28 AM 
WEBSITE:  http://www.geocities.com/welltechkel/ConSubIndex.html 
                    Or visit my other fine creations at: 
                    http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Realm/9374 
ARCHIVE:  Yes, and congratulations on your excellent taste. 
FEEDBACK:  Operators are standing by. 
SPOILERS:  Everything through Season 7.  In particular, SR 819. 
RATING:  NC-17 
CLASSIFICATION:  X, H, MSR 
DISCLAIMER BY EXCLUSION:  I made Whittaker and Ippolito, plus Scully's 
neighbors and Mulder's janitor.  All the famous characters, and all the 
foods, drugs, songs, automobiles, and other pop culture references 
aren't mine. 
(to the tune of "We Didn't Start the Fire") 
Agent Mulder is divine 
But sad to say he isn't mine; 
Agent Scully really rocks, 
But she and Fox belong to FOX. 
If I owned Cook and Skinner, 
I would be some kind of winner, 
If I owned Alex Krycek, 
I would not have time for fanfic. 
I didn't get permission, 
No, I do not own them, 
No one said they'd loan them; 
I didn't get permission, 
So you mustn't pay me, 
Just be sure to praise me. 
Clarence Thomas, Louis Freeh, 
Virgil Cane, Emma Peel, 
Grateful Dead, Mountain Dew, 
Demerol and Spam, 
Mrs. Howell, Mary Ann, 
Shaq O'Neal, Uncle Sam, 
Larry Johnson, David Souter, 
Ginger or The Band, 
David Satcher, Ativan, 
Ford, Jeep, Narcan, 
John Steed, Chris McVie, 
Tina Turner or the Knicks; 
Allan Houston, Dr. Dre, 
Vince Carter, Cetacaine, 
Julia Child, Dr. Seuss, 
Britney Spears or Stevie Nicks. 
I didn't get permission, 
I just went and stole 
From Chris and Billy Joel; 
I didn't get permission, 
And I think I'm funny, 
But I got no money; 
I didn't get permission; 
But I'm poor and scrawny, 
Please go sue Trelawney. 
SUMMARY:  Those nanites have to go.  Skinner is willing to risk it all 
to be free of the microscopic parasites that Krycek uses to control him. 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:  Trelawney, what can I say?  Beta reader does not begin 
to cover your contributions to this story.  Midwife is more like it. 
Everybody, go to http://www.geocities.com/welltechkel/ and see the 
pretty pictures Trelawney made me. 
  
Erin and Linda, many thanks for the readings.  You're as crazy as I 
am-in a good way, of course. 
Scetti, thanks for lending me your dog. 
AUTHOR'S NOTES:  In this universe, Mulder and Scully have unambiguously 
consummated their relationship, some time after Millennium and before 
Theef. 
Cause they did, you know. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
= = = = 
PROLOGUE: 
Honey Bear Waffle Shoppe, 
Salisbury, Maryland 
1997 
"This is a nice restaurant," said Eric Whittaker.  "Do you think Mr. 
Krycek will be impressed?" 
"My mom likes it," said Edwin Ippolito.  "But we usually sit over 
there." 
Ippolito and Whittaker comprised the total assets of a start-up company 
called WellTech Laboratories.  Ippolito, a dumpling of a man, had 
trained as a doctor.   His career had proceeded predictably until he did 
a very bad thing.  Now, at thirty-eight, he was starting over. 
Ippolito was the president of WellTech. 
Whittaker was a little older.  Just shy of six feet, he was a narrow 
man, as pale as his companion.  His close-shaved head gave him a 
peculiar appearance, made him seem sad and wise. He had an unquenchable 
curiosity and a fastidious mind.  If he'd possessed even the tiniest 
ability to "play the game," he would have gone far as a researcher.  But 
he did not. 
Whittaker was the employee. 
They were waiting for their "angel," a man who was interested in 
financing their company and becoming their first client. 
Ippolito and Whittaker had seated themselves across from one another in 
a booth, and when Krycek joined them he sat down next to the slimmer 
man. 
"I invited Dr. Whittaker along," Ippolito explained. 
""I've heard a lot about you," Krycek said.  "Ned tells me you're a 
brilliant scientist." 
Whittaker seemed surprised. 
"That was nice of him," he said.  "He told me about you too, and about 
your project.  Microscopic automatons that live in the bloodstream as 
parasites.  That is fantastic." 
Whittaker had an odd speech pattern; Krycek thought he might be Swiss 
but didn't care enough to inquire. 
"Fantastic," Krycek agreed.  "Now, here's what I want to know from you. 
If you wanted to cure someone who had been infected with these 
microscopic parasites, how would you do it?" 
"Oh, that's very easy," said Whittaker.  "I would have to examine the 
environmental needs of the parasite against those of the host. 
Assuredly their needs are similar but not identical." 
"And then?" Krycek prompted him. 
Ippolito nodded encouragingly and Whittaker continued. 
"Once I identified those conditions that were lethal to the parasite but 
tolerable to the host, I would know how to kill the little bugs," he 
said. 
"Let's take the game a step further," said Krycek.  "What if you wanted 
to make sure that the parasites were not killed?" 
"Lots of ways to go with that," said Whittaker, who loved puzzles. 
"Maybe I would add a doomsday device." 
"What are you talking about, Eric?" Ippolito asked.  Whittaker's brain 
did not work the same as other people's and Ippolito did not want him 
messing up their big chance by babbling like a lunatic. 
"Well, suppose the robo-parasites were booby-trapped.  Kill them and you 
release a toxin, or maybe an organism.  They could contain spores, for 
example." Whittaker said. 
Krycek smiled. 
"You're an original thinker, Eric," he said.  "I think we'll enjoy 
working together." 
Whittaker smiled too. 
"All you need now are those microscopic robot parasites," he said.  Even 
Eric Whittaker didn't think something like that was really possible. 
"Good-bye, Eric, glad you could make it.  Ned, I'll be in touch." 
Krycek gave a little salute, and then he was gone. 
"What do you think?" Whittaker asked.  "Did we get the job?" 
"Tell you what, Eric.  Order anything on the menu," Ippolito said.  "And 
let's take that game one more step." 
Whittaker nodded, engrossed. 
"What if you wanted to disable the booby trap?  How would you get rid of 
the nanites after you gave them the doomsday device?" Ippolito asked. 
"It depends what we used for the booby trap.  You'd have to counteract 
the exact toxin or microbe," Whittaker said. 
"Hm.  Now, let's think of some microbes that can kill you if left 
untreated," Ippolito said.  "Something that'll make you good and sick." 
"We don't have to keep playing this," Whittaker said.  "He's not here 
anymore." 
"But it's fun, isn't it?" Ippolito said. 
"Sure," said Whittaker, but he didn't think it was that much fun.  Not 
as much fun as working on his list of prime numbers, for example, or his 
lint collection.  But Ippolito wasn't paying him to pursue his hobbies. 
"What organism would you use?" Ippolito asked again. 
"Well, I think I'd take something deadly but slow acting, and modify it 
for a rapid onset," Whittaker said.  "But I don't think Mr. Krycek wants 
us to find a cure, just a booby trap." 
"It's always good to have a back door, Eric.  You never know when you 
might need it." 
= = = = 
  
WellTech Laboratories 
Arlington, Virginia 
Three years later 
"Five years from now I hope to be using my training as a medical doctor 
as well as the skills and insights I developed as an investigator to 
further the research and corporate objectives of WellTech Laboratories," 
Dana Scully declared. 
Job interviews.  She wondered how Dante had failed to include them. 
"I have some very good news for you, Dr. Scully," the fresh-faced 
personnel director announced.  "The chairman will be able to see you 
today." 
"The chairman? I'm flattered," Scully said. 
This was her fifth interview at WellTech Laboratories.  Sixth, if you 
counted the time the chairman had left her waiting for an hour before 
sending word that he'd have to cancel that day. 
"Yes.  Dr. Ippolito's office is on the next floor.  You'll see it when 
you get off the elevator."  The interviewer leaned forward and dropped 
her voice conspiratorially.  "Good luck" 
"Thank you," said Scully.  "Thanks for everything." 
Riding up in the elevator, she checked her hair in the convex mirror and 
gave her skirt a corrective tug.  The doors opened onto a waiting area, 
and an aristocratic looking 
receptionist directed Scully through the heavy, oak-trimmed doors. 
She found herself in an office the size of her entire apartment.  At the 
far end of the room, a man was surveying his panoramic view of the city 
through a wall of glass.  His back was to her, and he did not turn 
around when she cleared her throat to announce her presence. 
"Dr. Ippolito?" she said. 
Slowly he turned.  He was a pale, pudgy man. 
"Hi, Dana," he said, drawing out the syllables, his "hi" sounding more 
like a "hoy." 
"I'm so pleased to meet you," Scully said, extending her hand. 
"Hi," he said again, taking her hand in his doughy clasp.   "Won't you 
sit down?" 
She took a seat by the bean-shaped desk and Ippolito sat across from 
her, stroking his chin. 
"I've been reading about WellTech's success in reversing cachexis in 
terminal patients," Scully said, after an awkward minute of silence. 
"Tip of the iceberg," Ippolito said.  "That's just a small fraction of 
what we're trying to achieve." 
"I'd like to be part of it," Scully said. 
Ippolito nodded knowingly. 
"Your credentials..." he said, resting his elbow on the desk's glossy 
surface.  "Rather shaky." 
Scully tried to respond without sounding defensive. 
"Dr. Ippolito, you've read my CV.   I'd be happy to address your 
specific concerns, if you'd care to share them," she said.  She knew her 
background was a strange mix, but it seemed unlikely that Ippolito would 
call her in just to reject her outright. 
"Do you date much?" he asked, stroking his chin. 
Scully rose to her feet. 
"This interview is over," she said. 
"Oh, Dana," he drawled at her.  "If you want me to judge you strictly by 
what you can show me on paper, well, you're just not qualified.  I'm 
trying to see beyond that, to the whole person." 
"My social life has no bearing on my professional abilities," Scully 
bristled. 
"You need this job.  You're washed up at the FBI, Dana, I've learned 
that much." 
Scully let her jaw drop in surprise. 
"Of course I know!" Ippolito practically crowed at her.  "I've taken an 
interest in you, 
Dana.  I want to help you." 
"Thank you, *Edwin,*" Scully said pointedly.  "As you observe, I need a 
job, but it doesn't have to be this one." 
"Let me tell you what makes this company unique," he said.  "WellTech 
Laboratories is willing to give people a fresh start.  We're willing to 
look beyond people's weaknesses or indiscretions to see their 
strengths." 
He pursed his lips and raised his eyes toward her.  His doughy face was 
still unappealing, but he seemed more harmless. 
"I think you'd fit right in," he said.  "Dana." 
= = = = = = = = 
"Miss Scully?  I will conduct you to your meeting.   And I can take you 
to your old office on the way out, if you wish to remove any personal 
effects." 
He was young, even for a new agent, and Scully didn't know him.  Better 
that way.  If she had to be escorted through the Hoover building by an 
armed officer, she would prefer that it be a stranger. 
Waiting by the public entrance, she hadn't crossed paths with any of her 
former colleagues, but now, walking through the familiar corridors with 
her own private guard, she was the object of many curious and 
sympathetic stares. 
"Exit interview," she explained, again and again, to answer the unspoken 
question. 
The young agent led her to a closed office door, and then stepped aside. 
"I'll wait here," he said.  He wondered about the circumstances of her 
abrupt resignation, but  information like that was kept confidential. 
He just hoped it wasn't something with her cancer. 
Scully nodded and walked in.  She closed the door behind her. 
"We've got half an hour before Skinner gets here," Mulder said.  "How 
about a quickie?" 
"Mulder!" she said in a loud, harsh whisper.  She was still wearing a 
wire. 
"You were so cold this morning," he said in a low, smoky voice.  "A man 
can't help but feel hurt." 
"Mulder, look at it from my point of view.  I'm drummed out of the FBI 
in disgrace and forced to grovel before the Pillsbury Doughboy," Scully 
said.  "Would that make you feel sexy?"  She slinked her way into his 
lap as she spoke. 
"The Pillsbury Doughboy?  Would that be Dr. Edwin Ippolito?" Mulder 
asked as he unbuttoned her blouse.  "Now I'm jealous." 
"Mulder, stop that," Scully said. 
"I'm just getting you unwired," he said.  "So that no one finds out 
we're having hot, passionate sex four times a day." 
"Four times a day?" Scully echoed.  She knew now that Mulder had shut 
down monitoring some time earlier, probably shortly after she'd left the 
WellTech Building.  "Except during basketball season." 
"Oh, come on, Scully," he mumbled, his face pressed against her breasts 
as his hand began to slide her bra aside.  "Would you rather have sex or 
watch Patrick Ewing?" 
Patrick Ewing did absolutely nothing for Scully.  Allan Houston, on the 
other hand... But Mulder didn't need to know that. 
Scully freed the surveillance wire from her clothing and took Mulder by 
the chin, guiding his mouth till his lips met hers. 
Her eyes closed and she let her head relax against his arm.  She 
untucked an edge of his shirttail, tugging out the shirt so that she 
could slide her hand underneath.  She rubbed flat circles over his ribs 
and back, but that wasn't really enough for her, and with one hand still 
on his head, she used the other to open a few of his buttons. 
"Feeling better?" Scully asked when they broke apart.  "Less rejected?" 
"It's a start," Mulder sighed, leaning in for another kiss, but Scully 
stopped him by touching her finger to his lips. 
"We've still got a lot of details to settle, Mulder.  We have to work 
out a way to communicate," Scully said, pulling back her hand when 
Mulder began to suck on her finger. 
"How about this?" Mulder asked, leaning closer and closer to her ear 
until she could feel the rustle of his whisper and the heat of his 
breath. 
"Hold it, hot pants," she said.  "When I'm under deep cover, learning 
the dark secrets of WellTech Laboratories, I'm not going to be able to 
drop in at the Hoover Building to sit on your lap and whisper in your 
ear." 
As she said this, she moved off of him and took a chair of her own. 
Mulder would probably get some smug satisfaction if Skinner were to walk 
in and witness their overt affection, but she would rather avoid that. 
"Wait a minute," Mulder said.  "This is our chance to flaunt it! 
WellTech doesn't care if we're seeing each other, and Skinner will think 
it's our front." 
"You're thinking with your gonads," Scully warned him.  "To get in tight 
with WellTech, I'm going to have to minimize any ties with the bureau, 
and that includes you.  Besides, what about our cover story?  I was 
forced out of the FBI after attempting to have you killed, remember?" 
"I guess I forgot to tell you," Mulder said.  "I started a different 
rumor.  We were caught 'in the act,' and you were forced to resign." 
"We were caught 'in the act'?" Scully exclaimed, suddenly remembering to 
button her blouse. "That's embarrassing.  And how come you didn't have 
to resign?" 
"That's what all of your female co-workers are saying," Mulder said. 
"If looks could kill, Scully... Last time I requisitioned a car, they gave 
me the Fiesta." 
"Mulder, I'm worried about something else.  It's Skinner," Scully said. 
"If I slip up, he's as good as dead." 
"Scully, he's worse than dead right now.  We've been through this a 
hundred times, looked at it from every angle, and this is our best 
shot.  Besides, you won't slip up," Mulder said. 
Skinner entered the room, using a side door rather than the main 
entrance now guarded by Scully's escort. 
"We've had our first slip up," he said grimly.  "The wire failed." 
"No, sir, it didn't fail," Mulder said.  "I terminated the transmission 
after Scully's meeting was over."  He buttoned his jacket, which bunched 
up awkwardly.  It was faster than stuffing his shirttail back in his 
pants. 
"Don't do that again, Mulder, I won't stand for it," Skinner said.  "She 
is to be monitored around the clock, do you understand?" 
"Sir, that's unacceptable," Scully said.  "I'm entitled to some 
privacy." 
Skinner advanced on Scully, ready to let her have it, but he stopped 
himself. 
"You're still babes in the woods, both of you," he said wearily.  "Let 
me clue you in." 
Skinner took his place at the head of the table, but he didn't sit 
down.  With his hands on the table, he leaned toward his agents, as if 
the advantage in height would translate into added authority. 
"I congratulate you on uncovering the link between WellTech Laboratories 
and the Consortium.  But when the Attorney General and the Director gave 
the authorization, they put me in charge," he said. 
"We're not questioning your authority," Mulder said.  "But we've been at 
this a long time now and we know what we're doing." 
"Mulder, I don't have to tell you how deep this thing goes," Skinner 
said.  "Or you, Agent Scully.  That's why I requested total secrecy for 
this operation.  Are you listening, Mulder?  You and I, we're her 
back-up.  You turn off that wire, you're leaving her in the cold." 
"Yeah, but..."  Mulder looked from Skinner to Scully. 
"Yeah," said Skinner, sitting down.  "Now let's get a plan." 
"If Agent Scully and I pretend to be engaging in a romantic 
relationship, we can meet at frequent intervals without arousing 
suspicions," Mulder said. 
"You're underestimating the opposition," Skinner said.  "And it's just 
not believable, not after this many years.  We need to establish times 
and places for meetings that will fit in with her normal routine." 
"But what about Ippolito?  He's going to be all over her if he thinks 
she's available," Mulder said. 
"I know how to play Ippolito.  That's how I got the job," Scully said. 
"He's a dirtbag, Agent Scully.  Don't forget that," Skinner said. 
"How could I forget it with Ned there to remind me?  But if you two 
don't think I could take him out with one hand behind my back, you 
haven't been paying attention." 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 2/14 
By Kel 
And so Dana Scully went to work at WellTech Laboratories. 
After an endless Monday of filling out forms and collecting handbooks 
and policy statements, she spent the remainder of her first week getting 
the hang of the WellTech information system and reviewing the older 
research.  She spent another week studying more current data and finally 
received an assignment of her own. 
As Scully's days at WellTech Laboratories stretched into weeks, Skinner 
found himself falling back into his ordinary routine.  He monitored 
Scully's wire transmissions sporadically, and mostly during working 
hours. 
Mulder listened faithfully.  The legend of Spooky Mulder was built on 
his most brazen activities, but despite his penchant for vaulting fences 
and leaping atop passenger trains, Mulder also had the patience of a 
condor.  His instincts and tenacity as an investigator had led them to 
WellTech, and now that he could only stand and wait, he did so with 
unexcelled vigilance. 
It was just as well that Skinner left the surveillance to his junior 
colleague.  Skinner's insistence on keeping Scully in constant radio 
contact was being ignored.  And Scully's resolve to keep her distance 
from all things FBI, including Mulder, had crumbled under the pressure 
of her isolation and his persistence. 
At the end of the third week, Ned Ippolito toddled over to Scully's 
cubicle and watched over her shoulder, rocking from one foot to the 
other. 
"Nice work, Dana," he said. 
"Thank you," she said. 
"Chloride ions.  You really make them come alive." 
Scully turned around and looked at him with undisguised irritation.  She 
could think of little as meaningless as the calculations she'd been 
asked to perform. 
"You'll see," Ippolito told her.  "Once you understand how it all fits 
together, then you'll see." 
"Ned, that's what I'm waiting for," she said.  "I want to see how it all 
fits together." 
"Oh, Dana.  Are you coming on to me?"  He laughed softly.  "I hate to 
disappoint you, but I have a hot date tonight." 
"Well, aren't you the tease?" she answered lightly.  She told herself 
she should be accustomed to this kind of banter, but it was different 
with Mulder.  Even before she fell in love with him, he didn't make her 
gag. 
"Don't worry.  It's my mom," he said.  "I'm taking her out for ice 
cream." 
Scully smiled.  Skinner's =dirtbag= was really more of a =doofus=. 
"Seriously, Ned," she said.  "If I could see the rest of the study, if I 
could do more than manipulate data and statistics, I'd have a much 
better chance of achieving some insight." 
"Easy, girl," Ippolito crooned at her.  "You're new here, remember?  All 
I want you to do is clock in on time, do your calculations, and go 
home.   Once we know each other a little better, well, who can tell?" 
"Who can tell?" she echoed.  "Have a good time with your mom." 
"Have a good weekend, Dana," he answered.  "See you Monday." 
Scully made a show of logging off and gathering her possessions, but 
after Ippolito's departure she made her way into a cubicle in the next 
row. 
Eric Whittaker was Scully's unit leader, but while he was responsible 
for her work assignment and her performance reviews, he made 
approximately the same salary and his cubicle was no larger.  He had an 
unusual speech pattern, almost a reverse lisp.  He pronounced "th" as an 
"s." 
Whittaker was playing solitaire when Scully walked into his space, but 
he looked at her without embarrassment. 
"I need to get Britney Spears," he said.  "For my daughter.  But what 
are they?" 
Whittaker was continually startling his co-workers with his unexpected 
questions and observations but Scully was learning to take him in 
stride. 
"Britney Spears is a singer," Scully explained.  "Try a record store." 
"Oh."  Whittaker nodded. 
"Eric, do you think you could send me the complete chemistries?" she 
asked. 
"Complete chemistries?  Why would you want that?" he asked. 
"It seems kind of silly for me to spend all this time on chloride," 
Scully said.  "I'd like to see all the data in place." 
"No," he said, shaking his head.  "This isn't the FBI anymore." 
"I know that," Scully said. 
"Maybe that's how you do things at the FBI," Whittaker continued. 
Scully imagined Mulder, at the other end of the wire, mugging along to 
Whittaker's accent, or whatever it was. 
=Zis isn't se FBI.  Zat's how you do sings at se FBI.= 
"I suppose you all work together.  Maybe the handwriting expert finds a 
fingerprint, so he calls in the fingerprint guy," Whittaker said. 
"Uh, sure," said Scully. 
"You know, you should probably give it to the fingerprint guy first," 
Whittaker mused.  "But what if it's a bomb?   You wouldn't want the 
fingerprint guy to blow it up...." 
Mulder was probably on the floor by now. 
"Eric, I'm really curious about the raw data on the study.  I'm willing 
to look at it on my own time-there can't be a problem with that," Scully 
said. 
Whittaker turned off his terminal and stood up. 
"It's not your data.  It's WellTech's.  It's not mine to give you, and 
it's not up to us to decide what to do with it.  Do your job, Dr. 
Scully, that's all you're getting paid for."  He looked very serious for 
a moment, but then his face melted into his usual expression of 
befuddlement. 
"A singer, then.  I thought it was something from the Norman Conquest." 
= = = = = 
"Get her back here.  Now." 
Krycek didn't need to explain what he was talking about, or whom, or 
that the order was in fact a threat.  Skinner knew all that. 
After learning that Alex Krycek could end his life with the twist of a 
dial, Walter Skinner discovered a greater horror.  The microscopic 
nanites that could kill him could also rob him of the refuge of death. 
Suicide was not within his power.  He could neither die nor live without 
Krycek's leave. 
"What makes you think I can do that?" Skinner asked.  "She won't listen 
to me, and the FBI wouldn't take her back anyway." 
"You talk to her," Krycek said.  "I'll take care of the FBI." 
"Why is it so important to you for her to be at the FBI?" Skinner 
asked.  He had only one aim now; to conceal from Krycek his knowledge 
that WellTech Laboratories was behind the technology of the nanites. 
"Get her back.  Send Mulder to talk to her, if you think that will 
work."  Krycek's boyish smile did not mask the menace of his parting 
words: 
"I bet she'd show up if you became seriously ill." 
Skinner pondered the increasing complexity of the web of deceit that 
enmeshed him.  Krycek's ultimatum served his purposes, in one way.  It 
gave him the opportunity to contact Scully. 
Skinner's phone buzzed, signaling him to lift the receiver. 
"Sir-I saw him!  Alex Krycek!  I've notified internal security." 
Skinner's assistant, returning from some errand, had crossed paths with 
Krycek.  Her call to building security would accomplish nothing, but 
Skinner responded with deliberate interest and surprise.  Then he asked 
her to find a phone number to reach Dana Scully at her new job. 
Skinner had the number, of course. 
"Walter," Kim Cook said, "I know it's not my place.  But you know her 
situation." 
Cook knew that Scully had resigned voluntarily rather than face an OPR 
hearing.  People were saying that she'd been leaking information to the 
press.  It was the kind of thing Scully would do, if she thought she was 
justified. 
Skinner felt a pang of guilt.  The one person in his life who was 
unfailingly and personally loyal to him was the one he had left in the 
dark.  His assistant did not want him tainted by Scully's disgrace. 
"I appreciate your concern, Kim," he said, "but I need to speak to her." 
"Then look it up yourself," she said. 
She had worked for him a long time.  When others were listening, she 
called him Sir, but when it was just the two of them is was usually 
"Walter."  They rarely saw each other outside of work but she cared 
about him too much to keep silent when she thought he was doing 
something foolish. 
= = = = = = 
Scully unlocked the door and listened.  Someone was in her apartment. 
"Mulder?" she called. 
"It's me," he confirmed. 
Mulder didn't often find himself home from work at five in the evening, 
but WellTech's hours were eight to four, and staying late was heavily 
discouraged.  Mulder had started keeping WellTech time, and besides, 
Scully's apartment was closer than his. 
Scully was not surprised to find him home so early, but he did manage to 
surprise her when he greeted her at the door with a martini. 
"I was going to wear an apron," Mulder said, "but you don't have one." 
He let her shut the door before he kissed her.  Even a perfunctory kiss 
was not something they should be performing in public, and even the 
kisses that began as perfunctory seldom stayed that way. 
A kiss was not just a kiss, not for Scully, not when she was kissing 
Mulder.  Each kiss started with a little jolt, a little thrill of wonder 
that this was actually happening.  And as their lips met, she still felt 
a second of hesitation, a moment of self doubt. 
But it was okay.  She'd had a Mentos in the car. 
She always closed her eyes.  She wanted nothing to distract her from the 
slow tide of sensations.  The warmth, the gentle pressures of his lips, 
of his hands as they stroked her back, her head. 
Mulder tried never to ask himself if arriving at this place in his life 
was worth the cost of the journey, especially since he was not the one 
who had borne all the sacrifices.  So many had died, so many had been 
hurt.  And here he stood, one hand holding a vodka martini, the other 
splayed to feel Scully's ear, her neck, her hair.  Not pondering the 
price, knowing only that he loved her. 
Then a knock at the door.  Not the tentative tap of a neighbor carrying 
a petition or searching for a corkscrew, but the insistent rap of 
authority. 
"Scully.  Open up." 
Skinner. 
Ignoring him was not an option.  It was unsafe to make him wait outside, 
and besides, he was faster than either of them with a picklock.  Scully 
opened the door. 
Skinner looked at Mulder without surprise.  Once he'd established that 
both his agents had left work for the day, he was sure he'd find them 
here.  Together.  Neither of them really knew anyone else. 
"Martini?" Mulder offered. 
Skinner downed it and handed the glass back to Mulder. 
"The plot thickens.  Alex Krycek paid me a visit just now," Skinner 
said. 
Skinner gave a verbatim recital of his exchange with Krycek, followed by 
Scully's reluctant account of her days at WellTech Laboratories. 
Reluctant because she felt as if she were getting nowhere. 
"You can't imagine anything duller or more pointless than the analyses 
I'm running," she said.  "It's like studying Hamlet by counting the 
letters.  And they won't even let me see the original text.  If they 
have the answers, they're keeping them under close guard." 
"You can't expect them to bring you into the inner circle right away," 
Skinner said.  "Have some patience." 
"I'm trying, but I'm beginning to wonder if an organization as 
incompetent as WellTech could have developed something as complex as the 
nanites.  If Krycek hadn't surfaced, I'd have serious doubts," Scully 
concluded. 
"Something's puzzling me about Krycek's involvement," Skinner said. 
"Why doesn't he just give the order to have you fired?" 
"Maybe he can't," Mulder said.  "Maybe Krycek doesn't carry enough 
weight within the Consortium." 
Scully's home was as safe a place as any to discuss the WellTech 
operation.  It had proven bug-free at the last three sweeps, and ever 
since the nightmare events surrounding Pfaster's death, Scully's 
neighbors had become fanatic about alerting her or the police to 
suspicious vehicles or activities. 
Mulder knew they had hours of brainstorming ahead of them. 
"Got anything to eat?" he asked Scully. 
"Why don't you see what you can find?" she answered.  Mulder had 
undoubtedly brought something for dinner, but she didn't know what it 
was. 
"Does this remind you of anything?" Skinner asked Scully while Mulder 
was doing his thing in the kitchen. 
Scully shook her head, sure that Skinner was remembering some domestic 
scene from his past. 
"No?  Well, you never worked organized crime.  We're 'going to the 
mattresses.'  Hiding out, keeping a low profile.  Greasy-thumb Mulder's 
in the kitchen stirring the sauce," Skinner said. 
"I've got a nice Chianti," Scully said. 
The strategy session continued over dinner. 
"You raised a crucial issue when you asked how much control Krycek has 
within the Consortium," Scully told Mulder.  "Maybe he's acting on his 
own here." 
"That's my impression," Skinner said.  "I'm his personal puppet and he 
can't reveal that without the risk of losing control." 
"That fits," Mulder said.  "You're his ace in the hole.  But he's given 
us a great opportunity by sending you to get Scully back." 
"Absolutely.  I couldn't be here now if he hadn't opened that door for 
us," Skinner agreed. 
"We can also get more aggressive about digging the dirt on WellTech 
Laboratories," Scully said. 
Mulder and Scully had walked a fine line as they tried to uncover the 
truth about the WellTech enterprise.  They had been constrained to limit 
their investigation to what they could learn without arousing 
suspicion.  Their only cover had been Scully's interest in working for 
the company. 
WellTech Labs was a community of misfits.  Some employees had closets 
full of skeletons while others were simply losers at the power game. 
Edwin Ippolito had a big, dirty secret, hidden away in some sealed 
documents.  He'd been chairman of the anesthesiology department at a 
prestigious midwestern medical center, and he'd left abruptly, never to 
practice medicine again. 
Ippolito's former institution, and perhaps his victims as well, were 
willing to keep his secret as the price for getting him out. 
"I know where I'm going to start," Skinner said.  "Dr. Ippolito.  I'm 
going to get legal affairs to press for the release of those papers." 
"But how are you going to do that?" Scully asked.  "I mean, Krycek will 
accept it as part of your campaign to get me back at the Bureau, but 
won't you need a rationale for the legal department?" 
"Scully, he's the AD," Mulder said.  "He doesn't need a rationale." 
"The all-powerful AD," Skinner said ironically.  "And for my next act, I 
will wash the dishes." 
Scully tried to discourage him but at last she relented and joined him 
in the kitchen, as he had hoped she would. 
Once they had the dishwasher humming and the water running in the sink 
to soak the pan, Skinner addressed her in a voice that was almost a 
whisper. 
"You remember what I told you," he said. 
"Of course I remember," she answered irritably.  "But it's way too soon 
to talk about that." 
"I would rather be dead than live like this, Scully.  And that may be 
the choice you have to make." 
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 3/14 
By Kel 
The next week began much like the last, but on Wednesday Scully was 
summoned to a meeting with Ippolito. 
He was lounging in his high-backed chair when she came into his office, 
and he greeted her with a big smile. 
"Hi, Dana," he said.  "Are you still chaffing at the bit, raring to get 
deeper into the vanguard of scientific research?" 
"Frankly, yes," she said. 
"Pure research," he said.  "Do you understand what that means?" 
"Research.  The pursuit of knowledge," Scully answered. 
"The pursuit of knowledge.  Not goodness, not justice.  Just knowledge," 
he confirmed. 
"I'm ready," she said, leaning forward toward him, trying to match his 
intensity with her own. 
"I've got a little bedtime story to tell you.  Do you like bedtime 
stories?  Do you like science fiction?" Ippolito asked. 
Back in the basement of the Hoover Building, Mulder promised himself 
that some day soon he'd stuff the Pillsbury Doughboy into a 350 degree 
oven. 
 "You're going to tell me a bedtime story?   That is science fiction," 
said Scully. 
Skinner had advised her to be more diffident toward Ippolito, who was, 
after all, her boss, but Scully had disagreed. 
She'd explained:  "He likes it better this way.  He gets off on knowing 
that I can't stand him but I have to put up with him." 
"Alex Krycek.  Don't bother pretending you don't know who he is," 
Ippolito said.  "And he sure as hell knows you." 
"Alex Krycek is a traitor and a murderer," said Scully.  "Friend of 
yours?" 
"He's given me millions of dollars.  And he gave me something even 
better," said Ippolito.  "I think you know what it was." 
Scully thought before she answered.  It seemed useless to pretend that 
she didn't know. 
"The nanites," she said.  "He gave you the nanites.  But why?" 
"The nanites are fragile creatures, Dana.  They can't survive the death 
of their host and they're pitifully easy to kill," he said. 
"You modified them? To make them stronger?" Scully asked.  She knew that 
the nanites could survive in a test tube for about twenty-four hours. 
"Let's just say I modified them.  And then he took them back," he said. 
"But I think you know where they are." 
"Is that why you hired me?"  Scully asked. 
"I thought you could help me.  You have training in medicine and in 
investigation.  And you're from the FBI-Krycek used to work there," 
Ippolito said. 
"I'll find them.  First I need to know more about them," Scully said. 
"Oh, you =know= where they are.  I didn't realize that right away.  Not 
until Alex Krycek ordered me to give you the sack," he said. 
"Is this where I'm supposed to beg you not to fire me?" Scully asked. 
"Dana, I'd love to hear you beg.  But not for that," Ippolito said in a 
low purr. 
"You fucking worm," said Mulder, who had to force himself not to tear 
off his headset and throw it against the wall.  But of course no one 
heard him. 
"What do you want, Ned?  What is this about, really?" Scully asked. 
"There's a guinea pig out there, with my nanites inside him.  Bring me 
the guinea pig, and I'll let you see the data." 
= = = = 
Mulder was still monitoring the wire when Skinner stopped by his 
office.  Focused on his surveillance, Mulder barely gave the AD a glance 
until Skinner spoke. 
"Date rape," he said. 
"What?"  Mulder snapped to attention.  Skinner took a chair and dragged 
it into place by the desk. 
"Edwin Ippolito.  That was the incident leading to his separation from 
the Mercy Medical Center," Skinner said. 
"I want the documents," Mulder said.  Skinner hadn't brought any papers, 
and that made Mulder suspect that Ippolito's misdeed was particularly 
appalling. 
"Still sealed," Skinner said.  "But that's the gist of it, from what 
we've gathered." 
Mulder already found Ippolito repugnant, so he responded with relief. 
He did not think there was a chance that WellTech's chairman could 
physically overpower Scully. 
"This might be over sooner than we thought.  Ippolito's starting to 
spill," Mulder said. 
"Good," said Skinner. 
Mulder nodded, and then he heard something on the headphones that 
riveted him back to the scratchy transmissions from Scully's wire. 
= = = = 
As eager as Scully was to discuss Ippolito's disclosures with Mulder and 
Skinner, she wanted to take some time to think things through alone. 
She was quite capable of standing up to Mulder's impulsiveness and 
Skinner's forcefulness, but she preferred, when possible, to first let 
the facts speak to her undisturbed by input from others. 
She found a good parking space, for once, and was deep in thought as she 
approached the door of her building. 
"Dana.  There's a man in your apartment." 
The warning came from Mr. Corwin, an elderly neighbor who was walking a 
little black and white dog. 
"Oh.  Thank you, Lesley.  Who is it?" she asked. 
"I didn't see him.  Sheila Burke told me.  Nice-looking young man, 
that's all she said.  I'll go in with you," Corwin offered. 
Scully smiled.  Lesley Corwin was a sweet old fellow, but he was 
probably ninety years old and he weighed about ninety pounds.  Scully 
leaned down to pet the dog. 
"What's his name?" she asked.  Corwin was part of an animal-rescue group 
and he frequently had a dog or cat in his temporary care. 
"Cute, isn't he?" Corwin said.  "What would you call him?" 
"Oh, no you don't," Scully laughed.  "You know I'm too busy to keep a 
pet." 
"Good protection.  Think about it," Corwin said. 
Corwin and Scully had developed a friendship years ago.  During 
Queequeg's brief tenure, Corwin had even had a key to Scully's 
apartment.   Lately Corwin had become especially concerned and 
protective, and he'd rallied the rest of the building into some kind of 
informal neighborhood watch. 
Definitely a mixed blessing, Scully thought.  She wasn't thrilled that 
Mrs. Burke was keeping tabs on her visitors. 
She thought about shocking Mulder by flashing him as she walked in the 
door or maybe announcing her presence with some audacious sexual demand, 
but there was still the possibility that Skinner was listening in. 
"Hi, honey, I'm home," she called as she entered.  That was as audacious 
as she dared. 
"And how was your day?" asked the dark-haired man who sprawled on her 
sofa. 
Scully tensed. 
"Krycek.  What do you want?" she asked, acutely aware that she was 
unarmed.  "And get your goddamn boots off my coffee table." 
She grabbed the table and jerked it away from the sofa, and Krycek's 
feet dropped to the floor with a thud. 
Krycek's insolent stare hardened, and one of his leather-gloved hands 
tightened into a fist. 
"I want you to go back into the basement to chase aliens.  Otherwise 
someone will get hurt," he said. 
= = = = 
Krycek was long gone when Mulder came bursting through the door.  He 
found Scully in the kitchen eating an orange and reading a magazine, and 
he stormed into the room and reached down her blouse to disable the 
listening device. 
"Here's the way it's going to be," he announced.  "You are quitting 
WellTech Laboratories immediately and coming back to the FBI.  You can 
work out of Quantico until we have Krycek in custody." 
"Want some orange?" Scully asked. 
"And you're moving," Mulder continued.  "You can stay at your mother's 
until we find you a safe apartment." 
"Mulder, you're crazy," she said.  "He was threatening Skinner, not me. 
And I don't order you to move in with my mother every time someone 
breaks into your apartment." 
"Scully, you can't stay at my place, it's even less secure than here. 
Maybe you can move in with the gunmen temporarily-no, forget that.  I'll 
move in with you.  But I'm going to have the boys set up some better 
security here, and we're going to need twenty-four hour surveillance." 
Even as Mulder jabbered, he realized he wasn't making sense.  Scully had 
been in danger before. 
"What's gotten into you?" Scully asked.  "Why does this have you so 
rattled?" 
She'd been touched by his concern at first, but now he was ranting. 
"I heard everything, Scully," Mulder said.  "You had your guard 
down-because of me.  You didn't have a weapon-because of me.  You're not 
safe in your own home, and I can't stand that." 
"You're right, Mulder, I was careless.  That won't happen again.  I 
didn't have a weapon because I'm undercover, and if you think that's all 
because of you, then you don't give me enough credit." 
She gave him an encouraging smile and she wanted to give him a kiss, but 
he was still too distracted. 
"I'm going to canvass the building," he said.  "Stay here and don't open 
the door for anyone." 
"Mulder," she implored him, but off he went to harass her neighbors and 
Scully turned back to The New Yorker. 
She was reading an article that was surprisingly interesting when she 
heard the knock at the door. 
Mulder must have locked himself out.   She'd have some fun with 
that-after all, he told her not to open the door for anyone. 
"Who's there?" she called in a saccharine voice. 
"Scully, open up." 
It was Skinner.  She knew him from his voice, but she checked through 
the viewer before she let him in. 
He closed the door behind him and stood there panting. 
"That damn wire.  It failed again," Skinner said.  He'd raced to her 
apartment as soon as he lost the transmission. 
"I'm fine," she assured him. 
He looked her over suspiciously and then settled himself on her couch. 
"Where's Mulder?" he asked. "He left half an hour before me." 
"He's... checking around," she said.  It sounded better than "He's 
harassing my neighbors." 
"I hoped that Krycek would stay in the shadows.  This changes 
everything," Skinner said. 
"Krycek was always a player," Scully answered.  "Whether he was in the 
shadows or out in the open.  And Ippolito is eager to deal.  Krycek may 
not have foreseen that." 
"Ippolito's a dangerous man himself," Skinner said. 
Scully couldn't help smirking. 
"He's sort of creepy, but I'd hardly call him dangerous," she said. 
"He's an accused rapist, Scully.  Watch your step," Skinner warned her. 
"The Pillsbury Doughboy?" Scully asked incredulously. 
"Date rape.  I don't have the specifics.  He resigned from Mercy Medical 
Center as part of the settlement." 
Scully might have questioned him further but for the sound of a key in 
the door; Mulder hadn't locked himself out after all.  He stood in the 
doorway as if he weren't sure if he was allowed in.  He nodded at 
Skinner but addressed himself to Scully. 
"I was an ass, wasn't I?" he asked.  "I overreacted." 
"Well, you were a little overbearing," Scully agreed. 
"Overbearing.  Right.  I was trying to run your life," he said. 
Scully did her double shoulder-shrug. 
"Scully, I know you can take care of yourself.  I have complete 
confidence in you," Mulder said. 
"Mulder, where are you going with this?"  Scully asked suspiciously. 
Skinner was wondering the same thing. 
"I'm just saying that you are intelligent and sensible and you will take 
all reasonable precautions to maintain security," Mulder said. 
"Well, of course," Scully replied. 
"Okay," said Mulder.  "I got you a dog."  And then he entered the 
apartment and the little black and white dog came snuffling in behind 
him. 
"That's actually a good idea," Skinner said, although nobody had asked 
him.  "At least until this case is over." 
"I don't want a dog," Scully said. 
"Added protection," Skinner observed.  "You'll know if you have an 
intruder." 
"You can call it Queequeg," Mulder suggested. 
"Idiotic name for a dog," said Skinner.  "Call it Ishmael." 
"It's slobbering," said Scully. 
"Sit!" Mulder told the dog, who obeyed.  "See? It's a good dog." 
"Why don't you keep it, Mulder?  It will fit in your fish tank." Scully 
said. 
"Boston Terrier," Skinner said.  "Bright dogs, easy to train." 
"Sir, do you want a dog?" Scully asked, glaring at him. 
"How about Bruin?  Boston Bruin," said Mulder.  He dropped to his knees 
to address the dog directly.  "Is that your name?  Or Celtic?  Nice 
Irish name." 
The little dog whined responsively. 
"I've never seen a dog drool so much," Scully commented.  The dog turned 
its worried little face toward Scully, its big brown eyes moist and 
shiny. 
"Just Boston.  That's a better name," said Skinner.  "Here, Boston! 
We'll need to get some dog food, Mulder.  Some bowls, and possibly a 
bed." 
"A pooper scooper.  And carpet cleaner," Mulder added.  "Scully, should 
we pick up some take-out or do you want to make dinner?" 
Scully gave both of them a long-suffering look. 
"Good night, gentlemen.  So nice of you to drop by."  She was calm and 
composed as she said it-classic Scully. 
Skinner tried to salvage the situation. 
"Good night, Agent Scully.  Perhaps you'd like me to drop off some 
supplies for the dog?" 
"I haven't decided to keep him," Scully said.  "Good night, AD Skinner." 
"Scully-" Mulder started.  He was still on the floor, with the dog 
sitting next to him.  Four dewy eyes looked up at Scully, but at least 
Mulder wasn't drooling. 
"Door's that way, Mulder," she said.  With a sigh, Mulder got to his 
feet and shuffled out the door. 
"I'm an idiot," he told Skinner as they left. 
"Yes," said Skinner. 
Scully threw the deadbolt and fastened the chain behind them, and then 
she sat down on the floor next to the dog. 
"So you're going to protect me," she said to the little terrier, who was 
still looking at her hopefully. 
Lesley Corwin went to bed at eight o'clock.  Scully would have to keep 
the dog overnight. 
"If Krycek comes back you'll launch a saliva attack," Scully said.  The 
dog wagged its stubby tail. 
"Maybe you'd like to go live with Uncle Walter, hmm?" Scully asked, 
scratching the dog behind the ears. 
"Or Uncle Fox?  The fox and the hound?" 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 4/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
"A sound strategy poorly executed." 
That was Skinner's assessment of Mulder's attempt to bring a dog into 
Scully's life.  They were sitting in Mulder's car stakeout-style. 
"I'm going to let her cool off for an hour and then I'll phone her," 
Skinner said.  "I want that wire reactivated.   You maintain a watch on 
the building." 
"I'll be right here," Mulder said. 
"If I can get her under electronic surveillance I'll give you a call and 
you can go home.  If she won't agree to that, I'll be here to relieve 
you at oh-two-hundred," Skinner continued. 
"That's not necessary," Mulder said.  "I can take the whole watch." 
"Two o'clock," Skinner said. 
"You're the last person who should be sitting out here, sir," Mulder 
said. 
Skinner felt tired and impatient. 
"I know that, Mulder.  But I have to.  She's putting her life on the 
line for me." 
"Our lives are always on the line.  You told me that," Mulder said. 
"But you're the one on remote control." 
Skinner left without answering. 
Mulder sat in his car for a couple of hours without getting a call.  At 
ten o'clock he phoned Scully. 
"I have to go to the bathroom," he said. 
"Okay," she said. 
Mulder left his jacket in the car and pushed his sleeves up to his 
elbows.  Scully had a thing for him in shirtsleeves.  He even uncombed 
his hair, but when he went in for his pit stop, Scully was less than 
receptive. 
She was watching TV in her living room with the dog curled up on the 
floor by the couch. 
"I could make popcorn," he offered.  "Or we could take Boston out for a 
walk." 
"His name is Pavlov," Scully told him. 
"Pavlov?  You named the dog after a behaviorist?" Mulder asked. 
"Look at him salivate," Scully said. 
"But Scully, a behaviorist?" 
"Would you prefer Skinner?" Scully asked. 
"How about that popcorn?" Mulder asked hopefully. 
"Pavlov, kill," Scully ordered. 
So Mulder went back to his car for another hour, until Scully's window 
went dark and he decided to try his luck again. 
Scully was lying in bed negotiating for space with Pavlov, who, it 
turned out, could snore as well as drool.  Then the little dog sprang 
awake, yapping and stamping its feet. 
Scully hadn't heard the key in the lock, but she heard the apartment 
door open. 
One hundred percent sure it was Mulder, she nonetheless reached for her 
weapon.  Let Mulder see that she was vigilant. 
"Scully, it's me," Mulder called before he came into the bedroom.  By 
the beam of his flashlight he saw the gun in her hand, and the little 
dog was growling at him.  Scully put down the weapon and turned on the 
light. 
Mulder wanted to point out that the dog had proved its worth, but he 
knew better. 
"Skinner wants you under watch until you turn the wire on again," he 
said. 
"That seems excessive," Scully said, although she knew that if she 
weren't the one in the fishbowl she'd agree that it was appropriate. 
"Can I watch from here?" Mulder asked, making a face very much like a 
Boston Terrier's. 
She was still angry over Mulder's "gift." Whether she returned the dog 
to Lesley Corwin or gave in and let the little beast win her over, what 
Mulder did was wrong. But pursuing the WellTech Laboratories 
investigation with a staff of only three was taxing enough without 
making Mulder spend the night in his car. 
"You can sleep on the couch," she said. 
"Thank you," said Mulder humbly.  He cast his puppy-eyed glance at the 
dog, and his meaning was clear.  =Why can't I sleep here too?= 
"Pavlov cries if I don't let him sleep with me," Scully explained. 
Mulder looked even more downcast.  He began to sniff. 
"Damn it, Mulder, don't think you're going to charm your way out of 
this.  You've got a lot of nerve.  You don't just present someone with a 
live animal.  And I don't appreciate having you and Skinner in my face 
twenty-four and seven." 
Scully surprised herself with this outburst.  Mulder sat down on the 
bed. 
"I know.  I know it, Scully, you're right.  It's just that I'm finding 
this very difficult.  I don't like working this way.  I don't like 
having to pretend that you screwed up at the Bureau.  I don't like you 
spending all day with those weird nerds," he said. 
"But Mulder, it's working.  We're going to get what we need.  And most 
of the people are decent enough," Scully said. 
"Edwin Ippolito is a rapist," Mulder said. 
"An =accused= rapist," Scully corrected him.  "And it's 'date 
rape'-that's always going to be he-said, she-said." 
"You're defending him," Mulder said. 
"I'm not-I'm just saying that we don't have the facts.  And I wasn't 
planning to date him anyway," Scully said. 
"About the dog...  I was canvassing door-to-door, thinking about was how 
Krycek could just walk in here whenever he wanted.  And then this skinny 
little old guy offered me a dog.  And it all clicked, that you needed a 
dog," Mulder said. 
"And that it was up to you to get me one, on the spot," Scully said 
tartly. 
"Then you're going to give him back?" Mulder asked, watching the dog 
stretch and yawn. 
"I haven't made up my mind," she said. 
"Maybe I'll keep him," Mulder said.  "He's really a good dog, Scully." 
"Good," Scully said.  "And you can get up early to walk him, too." 
She was relieved to have it settled.  She could feel herself growing 
attached to Pavlov, but she honestly didn't want the obligation of 
ownership. 
"I'd better get some sleep then," said Mulder, who sensed that Scully 
was thawing, and when she moved over to make room for him he didn't miss 
the message. 
Mulder let his pants drop to the floor before slipping into the bed, 
reminding Scully of one of the many reasons they could never live 
together.  But when she felt the chill of his cool skin, she moved 
closer to warm him. 
He reciprocated by slipping his arm around her, and then she had to turn 
to take the pressure off her neck, and he had to shift so that the 
weight of her head wasn't directly on his shoulder. 
Scully traced her nails lightly down his back, and then up again. 
"You sleepy, Scully?" he asked. 
"Not particularly," she said, running her palm down his flank and over 
his hip. 
He smiled contentedly and cupped his hand over her buttock, kneading 
gently.  She took his hand to direct it under the elastic waistband of 
her silk pajamas, so skin could touch skin. 
Scully turned toward him and brought her mouth to his, her hand on the 
back of his head as their lips touched. 
Scully could feel his erection against her belly, and his teeth against 
her lips, and then he reached for her hand. 
Mulder's fingers on hers.  Two fingers running from her hand down to her 
fingertips, and then thumb and forefinger gently massaging the base of 
her thumb.  And then between the fingers. 
Scully marveled at what Mulder could do to her just by touching her 
hands, and she wondered where and how he had discovered this technique. 
His mouth, and the feel of his hard cock, and his electrical fingers, 
all of it was making her tingle with readiness. The waistband was down 
to mid-thigh now and she kicked one leg free of the pants. 
Scully reached for his erection, spiraling her hand around him and 
sliding down his length and then around to travel under his scrotum. 
Mulder moved from Scully's side to above her, supporting his weight on 
his knees.  He buried his face between her breasts, then took a nipple 
in his mouth, tonguing and sucking it. 
She grabbed his ass as he lowered himself, easing his hard member into 
her vagina and holding him as she pushed against him, holding him to 
limit his thrusts to better suit her anatomy. 
Mulder released her nipple, his head back as he huffed for breath, and 
Scully locked her thighs around him, slamming back at him as he pumped. 
"Oh!  Oh!  Oh, Mulder!" 
Before she met Mulder, there were many so things that Scully did not 
believe.  She did not believe in extraterrestrials, she did not believe 
in ghosts, and she didn't believe that an orgasm could be powerful 
enough to make you cry out. 
But now she understood.  Sometimes you want to cry out. 
And she let loose, spurring Mulder on to his own pleasure. 
"Oh my God!  Oh, God!  Oh, Mulder!" 
Mulder climaxed with a shudder and Scully pulled him down on top of her. 
She liked to feel his weight, if only for a minute.  She was still 
moaning, and Mulder pressed his mouth to hers, hard, and she couldn't 
get enough. 
Mulder felt Scully's tongue, jousting with his, probing his mouth 
urgently.  She wasn't moaning any more. 
But someone was growling in his ear. 
Pavlov.  Growling and drooling.  And then yapping as he ran from one end 
of the bed to the other, pausing to stand over Mulder and growl some 
more. 
Scully was ignoring him, or maybe she really didn't notice. 
Mulder slid himself from atop Scully, pulling her into his arms. 
Pavlov couldn't stand for that.  He began to bark in earnest. 
"Bad dog," Mulder mumbled. 
"No, don't scold him," Scully said.  "He's trying to protect me." 
"Good dog," Mulder said, pushing him away. 
Pavlov felt discouraged.  His new owner had made so much progress that 
first day, but now, when he needed her to back him up and throw the 
interloper out of the bed, she was siding against him. 
He walked around on the bed, trying to find a cozy spot for himself.  He 
couldn't find room between the two big humans, so he lay down next to 
Scully, licked her face, and went to sleep. 
Scully awoke with a start.  What was that?  It sounded like someone was 
breaking cement with a jackhammer. 
"Oh, Pavlov.  You're snoring in my ear," she said.  "Come on, boy." 
Very gently she placed him on the floor.  "You sleep here." 
Scully got back into bed, flipped the dog-drenched pillow over to find a 
dry spot, and went back to sleep. 
Pavlov whined sadly.   Disconsolate and lonely, he snuffled around the 
room until he found something comforting he could chew on.  Mulder's 
cellular. 
= = = = 
Pavlov was not the only one having trouble falling asleep. 
Skinner went to bed early with a bottle of Heineken and a book by Salman 
Rushdie, but he felt restless and awake.  He channel-surfed awhile and 
he did finally manage to doze off, but when he woke up the clock showed 
it was midnight. 
Pointless to try to sleep now, he decided.  Might as well get up and 
relieve Mulder ahead of schedule. 
Driving up Scully's street, Skinner found a suitable parking space.  He 
could watch the door and he could even see Scully's window.  He walked 
over to Mulder's car to tell him he could take off for the night. 
But Mulder wasn't there. 
Skinner pulled out his phone and punched in Mulder's number. =Out of 
service.= 
Several scenarios suggested themselves, so there was no reason to jump 
to conclusions.  On the other hand, something might be seriously wrong 
here.  Skinner ran into Scully's building and knocked on her door. 
His light tap was answered with a blast of furious barking.  He was 
going to wait for some sound of human activity before he knocked again, 
but then he heard a loud crash. 
He drew his weapon and kicked in the door. 
The noise was coming from what he presumed to be the bedroom.  He burst 
through the door, shouting his warning: 
"Federal agent, drop your weapon!" 
It came out in three-part harmony, because on the other side of the 
door, Mulder and Scully had made the same announcement. 
Pavlov had upset and shattered a floor lamp, and he stood among the 
shards, growling and barking.  Someone-probably Scully-had turned on the 
table lamp, and Skinner was able to see that nobody here required his 
assistance. 
All three weapons were lowered. 
"Your phone's out of service, Mulder," Skinner said.  Then he left. 
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 5/14 
By Kel 
"We've got to establish a set of ground rules," Mulder said. 
"Conflicts are inevitable, but we can anticipate some of them and 
achieve resolutions that avoid undue acrimony.  And like it or not, I'm 
the senior party in this relationship.  I outrank you." 
Just keep scratching, buddy, Pavlov thought as Mulder rubbed his tummy. 
Stretched out on his back, wriggling with pleasure, Pavlov was pleased 
that the big human was starting to learn his place. 
Mulder had lifted the little dog onto the couch to keep him company 
while he waited for someone to fix Scully's door. 
Mulder looked at his watch again.  The locksmith had said he'd be around 
before ten, but it was ten o'clock now.  Mulder could have called 
someone from the FBI to take care of it last night, but Scully wouldn't 
hear of it.  She'd also forbidden him from submitting the expense to the 
bureau for reimbursement, even though the FBI had a whole department for 
settling up with people after they broke down their doors. 
The metro police had arrived last night about ten minutes after 
Skinner.  Good to know that Scully's neighbors were on the ball.  At 
least Mulder had his shorts on by then. 
The DC cops had enjoyed a good laugh, once they'd made their phone calls 
and confirmed Mulder's FBI status and the story that both agents 
related. 
Mulder was sure that one day he and Scully would look back at this and 
laugh.  Maybe shortly after they learned to find the humor in Eugene 
Tooms. 
Mulder had his headset on, but Scully was apparently alone in her 
cubicle, clicking away on her keyboard.  He moved it off his ears to 
answer the phone. 
"Mulder.  We got the documents released."  It was Skinner.  "Ippolito 
used drugs on that woman.  He put her to sleep first." 
"GBH? Roofies?" Mulder asked. 
"No, legitimate medical drugs.  He anesthetized her," Skinner said. 
"That son of a bitch," Mulder said. 
When he replaced his headset, Scully was talking to someone. 
= = = = 
"Looks like you're moving up in the world," Eric Whittaker said, tossing 
a diskette on Scully's desk. 
"More data?" Scully asked him.  The diskette was unlabeled. 
"I am not privy," Whittaker said.  "I was told to give this to you." 
Scully tried to think of a sympathetic response that wouldn't sound 
condescending.  Whittaker had been working here since start-up, after 
all. 
"Eric," she began. 
"Don't misunderstand," Whittaker said.  "I don't want to be privy.  You 
might want to think twice about it yourself."  For a moment it seemed he 
was going to say something else, but then he walked away. 
Scully slipped the disk in the slot. 
More data, indeed, but not only chemistries.  She was looking at 
complete case histories. 
It wasn't hard to find a common thread.  All of these patients were 
critically ill.  They'd arrived at their current state of ill-health 
through various pathways, but as presented, each was dependent on 
continuous medical intervention to maintain their lives. 
These patients were Ippolito's test subjects. 
That was standard procedure, after all.  The initial test subjects in 
trials for new medications and treatments were always terminal 
patients.  Initial tests were conducted to calculate dosages. 
People who agreed to participate in this type of trial had one of two 
possible motives. 
Some were pure altruists.  At the end of their lives they found comfort 
in helping others.  With nothing left to give, they offered up their 
lives in the interest of advancing scientific and medical knowledge. 
The others were the desperate optimists.  They understood that they were 
testing medications that could not be expected to help them.  They had 
been told that the experimental agents might kill them, and that the 
object of this test was only to learn the maximum tolerable dose.  But 
they hoped for a miracle. 
Scully was not surprised to find that the disk was copy protected, and 
she was quite sure that someone would come by to retrieve it before she 
was allowed to leave the building. 
She started transcribing some of the data from the screen, but with the 
level of security practiced at WellTech Laboratories, she might not even 
be able to retain her own notes. 
So as she wrote, she talked to herself. 
"Roberta Kaplan, forty-eight, multiple trauma..." 
Where were these patients? Scully wondered.  These people were still 
alive, still undergoing treatment.  She continued reading out loud; with 
their names, addresses, and other identifying information, Mulder should 
be able to locate them. 
If she could find them, she might be able to learn the secret of the 
nanites without any more help from Ippolito. 
"August Edwards, eighty-seven, aortic aneurysm dissection..." 
Scully's phone rang.  Ippolito's secretary was conveying a message from 
the boss.  Dr. Ippolito wanted to discuss the data with Scully.  He was 
inviting her for lunch in his private dining room. 
"Lovely," said Scully.  "I can't wait." 
= = = = 
"Sir, it's Agent Mulder on the phone," Kim Cook told him on the 
intercom, and of course, Skinner took the call right away. 
She liked Mulder and most of the time she trusted him, but she also knew 
that he was a loose cannon and that her boss had become a bit of a 
maverick himself in the course of overseeing and protecting him. 
The FBI was not kind to mavericks.  When Cook had started working for 
Skinner, she'd seen him as the rising star destined to make at least 
deputy director.  That was never going to happen now. 
But Cook stayed with Skinner out of personal loyalty and friendship. 
And she sensed that Mulder felt the same way about him. 
Agent Scully was another matter.  Cook had long felt that she was 
willing to use Skinner and that her trust of him was always 
conditional.  And now that Scully was totally discredited, some of her 
disgrace reflected on Skinner. 
The AD hadn't slept last night, Cook was sure of it.  He looked sharp 
and fresh as always, but she could tell that he'd been in the office 
since early morning. 
His office door opened, then closed behind him. 
"Kim, I'm going out for a while.  Cancel my lunch and reschedule the 
two-o'clock for Friday," Skinner said as he strode past her. 
He looked as he always did:  purposeful, impatient, a little edgy.  But 
today she was worried about him. 
"If you need something while I'm gone-" Skinner began. 
"I know, sir.  I'll take it to AD Kersh," Cook said. 
"No, Kim.  I want you to go to the Director." 
= = = = 
  
Ippolito's private dining room at WellTech Laboratories was too opulent, 
too overdone to be called tasteful, but Scully could appreciate the 
individual touches. 
"I loved anesthesiology.  I still miss it," Ippolito said. 
She nodded politely, and he continued. 
"The feeling of power-someone's life in your hand.  I adjust the drugs 
that control your blood pressure, your heart rate.  I pump painkiller 
into your veins or your spine.  I paralyze your muscles."  He leaned 
forward, his words rumbling in her ear.  "I breathe for you." 
Scully managed a tight smile. 
"I loved my patients, Dana.  They were mine and I owned them," Ippolito 
said.  "And they loved me too.  A dependence like that is a kind of 
love." 
A waiter in formal attire approached the table to serve them, his face 
an impassive mask. 
"I hope you like pancakes," Ippolito said.  "Banana nut pancakes-my 
favorite." 
"Yummy," said Scully. 
"Not what you were expecting, was it?" he asked.  "But this is my 
company, my dining room.  And I like pancakes." 
"It's good to be king," Scully said, and Ippolito laughed 
appreciatively. 
He started in on his stack of hotcakes, spearing big mouthfuls and 
breathing heavily as he ate. 
"I've been reviewing the data you sent me," Scully said.  "But I don't 
understand where the nanites fit in." 
"Patience, Dana," Ippolito said. 
"You said you'd tell me the treatment," Scully reminded him. 
"And =you= said you'd give me the guinea pig," Ippolito said. 
"Not the guinea pig-just the nanites.    And I will," she told him. 
"Slow down, girl.  You haven't been paying attention.  To rid the host 
of the nanites without killing him-that's tricky business.  Let's just 
say it requires extensive monitoring and support," Ippolito said. 
"Ned, I am a doctor," Scully said. 
"Bring him here.  We'll cure him together," he said firmly. 
"You haven't given me all the data," Scully said.  "That was our 
agreement." 
"Eat," Ippolito said.  "We can argue later.  And where's that smile?" 
= = = = 
Skinner had to show some ID before he could drive into the WellTech 
Laboratories parking lot, but he was prepared for that. 
"Valuation Technology Systems," said the guard in the booth, reading the 
business card.  "What the hell do you do, anyway?" 
"Consulting," Skinner said.  "Hey, I brought way too much food for my 
presentation--why don't you take a couple of sandwiches?" 
Skinner wasn't planning to storm the building.  He sat in his car, 
headset on, in case Scully did need backup.  Mulder had wanted to race 
over here himself and they'd exchanged sharp words in the course of 
arguing over it. 
Skinner was still concerned that Mulder might come barreling in to 
rescue his... partner.  He keyed in Scully's home number.  Mulder's phone 
still wasn't working. 
"Scully residence," said the man who answered the phone. 
"Who is this?" Skinner demanded.  "Where's Mulder?" 
"I'm the dog-sitter," the man answered.  It was Lesley Corwin; Mulder 
had recruited the old gent to stay at Scully's and wait for the 
locksmith.  "And don't you go threatening Miss Scully because I'm a 
professional bouncer and I have mob connections." 
"Thanks for the warning," said Skinner as he hung up. 
Skinner hadn't expected Mulder to stay put.  If this operation was 
larger, less covert, Skinner would have removed Mulder from the action, 
whatever it took.  But with just the three of them, he didn't have that 
option. 
Mulder had implied that the AD was benching him as punishment for what 
happened between the sheets, but that was nonsense.  Mulder and Scully 
had been totally devoted to each other for years.  They had risked 
everything for one another-life, health, family, career-long before they 
made the startling discovery that one of them was a boy and the other 
one was a girl. 
Skinner himself would abort this investigation if he had to; if 
Ippolito's little innuendos and fantasies turned to reality, the game 
was over.  But for now he had to sit here and do nothing while Edwin 
Ippolito crooned at Scully and played her like a mouse in a maze.  And 
that would be much easier for him than for Mulder. 
Not that it was easy for Skinner.  Ippolito was one sick puppy.  He was 
discoursing again on his favorite topic. 
"I'm very gentle," Skinner heard him tell Scully.  "I would use some 
inhalant first, and then I'd insert the tube.  You'd be an easy 
intubation, Dana.  Do you have any loose caps or bridgework?" 
Scully sounded more disgusted than frightened when she answered. 
"Why do you work so hard at being a creep, Ned?" she asked him. 
Scully was cool, but Skinner was starting to sweat.  Because he knew 
what Scully did not: That Ippolito really had used the tools of his 
trade to commit a rape. 
"You don't like me, do you, Dana?" Ippolito said.  "I'd have to use some 
extra amnesic on you.  Something so that you'd relax and forget." 
Get out, Scully! Skinner said out loud. 
Scully stood up and tossed her linen napkin on top of the plate of 
pancakes. 
"Thank you for a lovely lunch," she said sarcastically. 
"Be nice!  I'd hate to have to fire you," Ippolito smirked. 
= = = = 
If Hell for Scully was a job interview, Hell for Mulder was life without 
a cell phone. 
Skinner had taken over the Scully-protection detail and ordered Mulder 
to sit on his hands.  Scully's fate was in Skinner's hands, but Mulder's 
hands were on the wheel. 
He was on the trail of Scully's lost souls, the test subjects from 
Ippolito's experiments.  His inquiries into the fate and location of 
these people had turned up an address: 
A half-vacant strip mall not far from the WellTech Laboratories 
complex.  Mulder knew it was a fake, but it gave him an excuse to drive 
to Arlington without disobeying Skinner's direct order. 
He wanted to touch base with Skinner and make sure the AD was on the 
scene at WellTech Laboratories, ready to move in if Scully needed his 
help.  But he couldn't call-he didn't have a phone. 
It had sickened Mulder to hear Ippolito's mellow whine as he told Scully 
about his fetish, about the thrill he felt when someone was helpless in 
his care.  Scully had been nonchalant about Ippolito's crime, as if she 
couldn't acknowledge the threat without revealing her own vulnerability. 
He felt better now that Scully was back in her cubicle, again reading 
off the data from her terminal screen.  Mulder was repeating the names 
and numbers she read into a fist-sized cassette recorder-he didn't care 
to burden or trust his memory for this jumble of dates and lab results. 
Then Scully's recitation stopped abruptly and Mulder heard the voice of 
Eric Whittaker. 
"Give me the disk," Whittaker said flatly. 
"I'm not finished with it," Scully said.  And then:  "Here." 
"Get out, Dana."  But Whittaker said it without malice.  It was not a 
threat but a warning. 
Mulder braked his car into a skid that swung into a U-turn. 
"What's going on?" Scully demanded.  "Is he firing me?" 
"I don't know anything about that," Whittaker said.  "I don't know 
anything at all." 
"Then why are you telling me to leave?" she asked. 
"He doesn't need you any more.  He found what he's looking for," 
Whittaker said. 
"Did he ask you to kick me out?" Scully asked. 
"I don't know want to know what he's looking for," Whittaker whispered 
urgently.  "But you know.  And it's very near-near enough that the 
sensors have picked up the signature." 
Outside in the parking lot, Skinner started his engine. 
"Sensors?" Scully asked. 
"He has sensors, but their range is limited.  It must be very close," 
Whittaker said, turning his back. 
"Eric," she called after him. 
"I have work to do," he said, hurrying away. 
"I think I'll call it a day," Scully said out loud, ostensibly to 
nobody, but Mulder breathed a sigh of relief and Skinner mouthed the 
word "yes." 
Despite the challenging manner she'd displayed to her co-worker, Scully 
got the message and she wasted no time in clearing out.  A cluster of 
grim security guards was sweeping through the corridors with hand-held 
electronic devices, but they paid no attention to her. 
She was scrutinized more closely by the exit, with a security officer 
passing one of the hand-held gadgets around her like a metal detector, 
but she was allowed through into the parking lot. 
She walked to her car, right past Skinner's dark sedan. 
"Let's go," she said out loud as she turned the ignition. 
She drove toward the exit.  The guard stepped out of his booth to talk 
to her. 
"What's going on?" Scully asked him. 
"You must be new here," he said.  "It's probably just another drill, 
checking for stolen technology."  He walked around her car, turning the 
gadget this way and that, frowning at it from time to time. 
"Is there a problem?" Scully asked him. 
"I'm showing some activity, but this meter's been acting buggy since I 
turned it on.  Sorry, ma'am, you'll have to wait a minute here while I 
make a switch." 
Scully made a big show of tapping her foot and looking at her watch. 
Skinner had pulled up behind her, and it was probably his proximity that 
was exciting the nanite sensor. 
"I don't have time for this," Scully said loudly.  She got back in her 
car. 
"Hold it, lady, just give me a second for another sweep," the guard 
yelled, but Scully gunned the motor and crashed the car through the 
wooden barrier, with Skinner following right on her bumper. 
"Damn," said Scully as she sped down the twisting access road toward 
safety.  WellTech Laboratories was a "good neighbor" as well as a 
secretive one, with the building set back from the road and hidden by 
yards of uncleared growth.  At the end of the narrow road was a second 
barrier, a big steel gate that could slide shut to seal off the entire 
compound. 
"Talk to me, Scully," Skinner shouted, though he knew she couldn't hear 
him. 
As she neared the entranceway, Scully saw guards scurrying around, but 
the gate remained open.  Lucky these guys weren't armed. 
Damn.  Two of them were. 
It's not that easy to hit a moving car with a handgun, Scully told 
herself.  She kept her foot pressed to the floorboard. 
There was a snap of gunfire, and then another.  But it wasn't coming 
from the guards.  Startled, the armed men looked at each other, then 
back to the speeding cars that were bearing down on the gate.  But their 
timing and concentration were lost, and neither fired a shot. 
Scully hurled the car into a right turn, checking her rearview mirror. 
Skinner was still on her tailpipe.  Another car swung off of the grassy 
shoulder and onto the road, following Skinner but hanging back.  No one 
else appeared to be in tow. 
Scully slowed down to blend in with the flow of traffic, and the car 
trailing Skinner began to catch up, closing the gap. 
And then, with a rush of relief, she saw that it was Mulder. 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 6/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
Skinner had recognized Mulder's car from the first.  Mulder, he 
surmised, was responsible for the gunshots that had facilitated his 
escape and the sabotage that had kept the steel gate from closing. 
He pulled out his phone and tried Mulder's number, but the phone was 
still out of service.  Mulder should really get that taken care of, he 
thought, punching in the code for Scully's phone. 
"Nice work, Agent," he told her.  "I'm going back to my office to tend 
to some details, and I'll see you tonight at your apartment." 
"Sir, no," Scully told him.  "We have to bring you in-now." 
"I'm not ready, Scully, and from what I understand, you're not either," 
Skinner said. 
"The room is fully equipped, sir.  And we have no choice-they will find 
you, sir, unless we can hide you from their sensors," she said. 
"Very well.  Give me the location and I'll be there as soon as I can," 
Skinner said.  Just because he was out in the field playing secret agent 
with Mulder and Scully didn't mean he could neglect his other duties. 
And he'd better pull some strings in case the slugs from Mulder's gun 
were found-make sure the firearms division didn't turn up a match. 
"Sir-I understand if you're afraid," Scully said.  "There's still time 
to change your mind.  But if you want to go through with it, this is 
your only chance." 
"Agent Scully, you can spare me your reverse psychology.  I have looked 
death in the eye every day since I learned what I had inside me," 
Skinner said irritably. 
"I know you're not afraid of death," Scully said, but she didn't want to 
complete the thought with Mulder listening.  She signaled and turned off 
at the next exit ramp.  Skinner and Mulder followed. 
= = = = 
Skinner abandoned his car in the parking lot of the retail outlet center 
and climbed into Scully's.  She drove up and down the rows of cars for a 
while, as if trying to find the perfect space, and finally parked by a 
shoe store.  Mulder had been studying a rack of sneakers, but now he 
sauntered over and slid into the back seat. 
It wasn't ideal but it would serve. 
Scully would have liked to have more time, more information.  She had a 
general approach to use against the nanites, but no exact protocol.  She 
wasn't ready to "disappear" yet, nor was Skinner. 
But circumstance had forced their hand.  Ippolito had the means to 
locate the nanites.  And he knew now that his guinea pig was nearby. 
Ippolito's sensors were crude, apparently, with limited range. He did 
not possess the ability to activate and control the nanites, as Krycek 
could.  Scully's plan was to take Skinner underground-literally.  Beyond 
the reach of Ippolito's sensors and Krycek's remote control. 
Skinner felt numb.  He was speaking the truth when he told Scully that 
he was inured to the fear of death-what he hated was feeling like a 
pawn.  He was the object of Krycek's dirty plan, the object of 
Ippolito's search, and now the object of Scully's rescue mission. 
Mulder and Scully exchanged hurried, clipped fragments of conversation, 
not because they were trying to shut him out but because they had been 
over the details many times.  Heretofore Skinner had been kept ignorant 
because, as Mulder so gently phrased it, he was not his own man. 
I'm Krycek's man, Skinner thought bitterly, Krycek's puppet.  And not 
only Krycek's. To free himself of his techno-parasites, he would have to 
put himself under Scully's command. 
Dr. Scully's patient.  Why did that seem so totally loathsome, he asked 
himself.  He felt a terrible urge to rebel, and he wondered if that was 
the nanites' influence, if they were trying to make him bolt in order to 
insure their own survival. 
"Where are we going?" he asked Scully sharply. 
"It's okay, I'll take you," she answered, and he gave her a look that 
was bitter as bile. 
"Longstreet," Mulder answered quickly.  "Longstreet, Virginia.  A relic 
of the cold war.  It's a fall-out shelter for the deserving few." 
Skinner nodded, back in control of himself. 
"That's a long drive," he said. 
"Yeah.  And I have things to take care of.  I'll see you tonight," 
Mulder said. 
"Be careful," Scully said. 
Mulder and Scully gazed into one another's eyes. 
"Get going, Mulder," Skinner said impatiently. 
Scully looked at him with such pity and concern that he wanted to 
strangle her. 
"Sir, it's my show now.  Are you ready to go through with it?" she 
asked. 
"Yes, damn it," Skinner answered.  "What do you think this is all 
about?" 
"Good.  Give Mulder your gun," Scully said.  "And Mulder, I want you to 
come with us." 
= = = = 
Eric Whittaker always left work early on Fridays for Brownie meetings. 
He was a leader in his daughter's troop. Today he was grateful to have 
the excuse. He returned the diskette to Ippolito's secretary and then he 
went to check his voice mail.  Sometimes his wife wanted him to pick up 
milk or something on the way home. 
Nothing from his wife, but he had three messages that had been routed to 
him from their intended recipient, his newly terminated underling. 
"Dana.  Hi, there.  It's Kim... Cook.  Just wondered how you're doing. 
Oh, and, by the way, if you hear from AD Skinner, would you have him 
give me a call?" 
"This is Lesley.  The door's been repaired and I have your new key. 
Pavlov's fine, but I took the liberty of rearranging your bookcase. 
Everything from the bottom shelves is on your table." 
"Hi.  Sorry.  Kim again.  Even if you don't talk to Mr. Skinner, please 
call me.  I'm going to give you my home number..." 
Whittaker wrote down the number.  Whoever Kim was, she sounded upset, 
and he'd call to tell her not to use this number any more.  She'd never 
reach Scully here and she might attract some unfortunate attention. 
= = = = 
Skinner had heard of the secret facility at Longstreet, Virginia, but he 
had never actually seen it.  Scully drove them down an unpaved road past 
trees posted with signs that said, "No Trespassing," and "Brokers 
Protected."  Her destination was a flat-roofed, nondescript building 
that looked like a warehouse or factory.  She had to get out to open the 
big overhead door that let her and Mulder park their cars inside. 
Codenamed "Jurisprudence," the Longstreet center was an underground 
shelter designed to allow the designated elite to survive a nuclear 
attack. 
"This is it?" Skinner asked. 
"Not exactly.  Most of it is underground," Scully said. 
A large elevator took them down some hundred feet, and they stepped out 
into a narrow corridor of gray.  Charcoal carpeting covered the floor 
and joined with a lighter-hued material that encased the walls and 
ceiling. 
"I'll show you around," Mulder offered tentatively. 
"I don't need a tour guide, Agent Mulder.  I can look around on my own," 
Skinner barked. 
Mulder and Scully exchanged glances, and Skinner now wondered if this 
had been their plan all along.  Maybe they wanted to get rid of him so 
they would have more time to hatch their plot. 
He dismissed the thought at once.  It was probably just a touch of 
claustrophobia that was making him so irritable. 
"Sorry," he said.  "Guess I'm a little apprehensive after all." 
The agents nodded and smiled, trying to reassure him. 
"There's a kind of conference room/lounge area, second door on the 
left," Scully said.  "We'll be there." 
= = = = 
"I think I know what's going on," Scully said when they were alone. 
The Longstreet facility was furnished with an eye toward luxury but also 
toward saving space.  It was a warren of posh little rooms and suites. 
Mulder swung his feet up onto a teak coffee table. 
"Enlighten me," he said.  "Before I punch his lights out." 
"It's the nanites.  Even without Krycek's transmitter to control them, 
they must have some innate programming to influence Skinner's behavior," 
she explained. 
"They're making him act like a prick?" Mulder asked. 
"They're making him uncooperative. It may be a defensive tactic for 
them," she said. 
"Scully, we know so little about the nanites.  What if they're causing 
long-term damage, perhaps dementia?" Mulder asked. 
"That's another possibility," she agreed. 
"Can you cure him without the controller?" he asked grimly. 
"The controller device activates the nanites or makes them dormant, but 
it doesn't kill them.  There's only one controller, from what I learned, 
and Krycek has never let it out of his possession," Scully said. 
"You make it sound hopeless," Mulder said. 
"No.  I can kill them," Scully said.  "The nanites can't live in an 
alkalotic environment.  I just have to bring Skinner's blood pH up to 
seven-point-five." 
"Can you do that?  Can he survive it?" Mulder asked. 
"Yes, easily," she said.  "That's the good news." 
Mulder folded his arms and waited for her to continue. 
"The bad news is that Ippolito modified the nanites, he 'booby-trapped' 
them.  When they die they release deadly microbes and toxins," she said. 
"So when the nanites die, he dies too?" Mulder asked. 
"That was certainly Krycek's plan.  But Ippolito made himself a back 
door, so to speak.  After his people developed the 'booby-trap,' he 
continued his research.  He also developed a treatment regime to 
counteract the trap," Scully said. 
"Then you can cure Skinner," Mulder concluded. 
"I hope so, Mulder.  I had access to the preliminary work, not the final 
findings.  And I'll need specialized drugs.  The pharmacy here has most 
of them, but you'll have to go out for the rest.  If I can locate a 
source," she said. 
"Scully, I can't leave you alone with Skinner," Mulder said.  "He's 
unpredictable, possibly dangerous." 
The door wooshed open quietly, although Skinner had given it a good 
shove. 
"I expect to be included in any discussion about my prognosis and my 
treatment," he said.  "And before you threaten to punch my lights out, 
monster boy, you might want to remember that your girlfriend's wearing a 
wire." 
"Walter," said Scully, silencing both men with her use of the name. 
"I'm so sorry.  Of course you are to be included in all such 
discussions." 
Mulder let the unasked question hang in the air, but Skinner narrowed 
his eyes and gave it voice. 
"Walter?" he echoed. 
"You're my patient," she explained.  "Would you prefer 'Mr. Skinner'?" 
Skinner sat down and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. 
"You think the nanites are affecting my brain?  Making me irrational so 
that I won't let you kill them?" he asked. 
"I think that's possible, yes," Scully said. 
"Do you think I might become dangerous?" he asked her pointedly. 
"Sir-Walter-I can't rule that out," she said. 
"But you know how to kill those things?" he asked. 
"I don't have all the answers," she said.  "I know there are certain 
drug therapies that WellTech Laboratories was using on their test 
subjects.  I want to begin with those drugs." 
"But monster boy is afraid I'll attack you while he's off picking up my 
medicine," Skinner said. 
"Sir, don't make this ugly," said Mulder quietly. 
Skinner rubbed his eyes again. 
"I'm sorry.  Scully-Dana-whoever designed this facility foresaw the need 
for a lock-up.  I'll stay in seclusion while Mulder runs your errands," 
he said.  Then he removed a small revolver from an ankle holster and 
laid it on the coffee table. 
"Walter, there's something else you should know.  The drugs in question 
are not entirely benign," Scully said. 
"Say it in English, Dana.  What am I in for?" Skinner asked. 
"These are some of the nastiest drugs in the arsenal of modern medicine, 
in terms of side effects.  Normally they're used against the worst of 
the naturally occurring infections," Scully said. 
"What's going to happen to me?  I need to know," Skinner insisted. 
"There are protocols to reduce or even prevent the side effects," she 
began. 
Skinner gave her a look that said, "Get to the point!" 
"Severe tremors and high fever.  Headaches, nightmares, hallucinations, 
psychosis, paranoia.  Of course, you may not experience all of these 
symptoms," she said. 
"Now I know," said Skinner.  "Let's get on with it." 
"You've got a lot of guts," Mulder said with genuine admiration. 
"Hey.  Piece of cake," said Skinner.  "Dana, why don't you add a 
prescription for Rogaine, long as Mulder's taking a drive to the 
pharmacy for me?" 
= = = = 
The required medications were not readily available.  They were the last 
line of defense against a vicious, resistant bacillus, and their 
continued effectiveness, such as it was, required that their use be 
tightly controlled and supervised. 
Mulder's original thought was to ask the lone gunmen to get hold of the 
stuff for him, which had given Skinner a good laugh. 
"I have a novel suggestion for you, Mulder.  Why don't you go through 
the proper channels?" the AD had said. 
Mulder was loathe to trust anyone from the FBI other than the people 
currently occupying the Virginia bomb shelter, but, as Skinner reminded 
him, if they couldn't trust the Director, they were already in deep 
shit. 
The Director had made the arrangements for the use of the Longstreet 
facility.  If he was tainted by the Consortium, they were sunk before 
they began. 
Before Mulder left for DC, Skinner would have to be imprisoned.  He had 
so far managed to stay in control, but his hold had been tenuous at 
times and his behavior erratic. 
All of the private quarters in the underground bunker were equipped with 
external locks. 
"Figures," said Skinner.  "Frightened people crowded into an underground 
hole, with the trauma of nuclear devastation.  You have to be prepared. 
Someone's going to go nuts and need to be sequestered." 
"Or quarantined," Scully added. 
Skinner chose his accommodations.  Again he found himself fighting 
against his id.  He did not want to be locked up in this room, but it 
had to be done. 
"Take my phone," he told Mulder.  "See you later."  He slammed the door 
behind him and Mulder slid the bolts into place. 
While Skinner and Mulder had performed the needed tasks without speaking 
of them, Scully had been struggling to find the words to convey her 
sympathy and horror. 
Maybe there were some advantages to the male approach, she thought. 
Really, what could she have said? 
"Walk me to the elevator," Mulder said, putting his arm around her and 
drawing her to his side. 
She leaned against him as they walked. 
"Sir, I'm just turning off the wire to say good-bye to Mulder," she 
announced for Skinner's benefit. 
It was a brief good-bye, and wordless. 
A minute later she reactivated the device. 
"He's gone," she said. 
  
= = = = 
  
Controlled Substances 7/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
Mulder insisted on speaking to the Director personally, and, to the 
astonishment of the snide assistant who relayed the message, the 
Director excused himself from a meeting to talk to Mulder. 
Their exchange took all of two minutes.  The Director would have the 
drugs that Scully requested sent to Mulder's office as soon as possible. 
It was 6:00 PM.  Mulder decided to go the Scully's apartment to pick up 
the suitcase she always kept packed and to check on the repair to the 
door. 
If the Director hadn't seen him so quickly, or if their meeting had 
taken longer, Mulder would have taken the elevator down to the garage 
without running into Kim Cook. 
"Mulder," she said, grabbing his arm as if she knew he would try to 
evade her.  "AD Skinner never came back." 
"I'm sure he's all right," Mulder said lamely, and Cook let got of his 
arm. 
"Aren't you going to try to find him?" she demanded. 
"Did you try calling him at home?" Mulder asked.  Mulder knew he was 
busted-Kim Cook could figure out that he knew where the AD was. 
"Agent Scully is no longer employed at WellTech Laboratories," Cook 
said.  "I tried to reach her there and her supervisor told me she was 
gone.  And you've had your phone off all day." 
"Try not to worry," Mulder said, thinking that Cook should have been 
included in their plan.  He noticed that she referred to Scully as 
"Agent," and it seemed pointless and insulting to try to correct her. 
"AD Skinner has an overnight bag in his office," Cook said.  "Take it 
with you in case you run into him." 
= = = = 
Lesley Corwin had some harsh words when Mulder knocked on his door to 
ask for the key. 
"Do you know what time it is?" the old man asked.  "That little terrier 
has been alone all afternoon." 
Mulder wondered if Corwin had expected Scully to quit her job to stay 
home with the dog. 
Mulder said something placating and took the key. 
Pavlov barked and growled at the sound of the door opening, but when he 
recognized Mulder he started to whine and stomp. 
"Come on," Mulder said.  Better to walk the dog than to clean up after 
him. 
Once that chore was completed, Mulder used the next half an hour 
sweeping up broken bits of vases and flowerpots and then vacuuming away 
the soil.  Most of it came up. 
He decided to take Pavlov back to the bunker with him.  He would stop in 
at the Hoover building on the way, on the off chance that the 
medications were ready. 
= = = = 
Mulder said I had a lot of guts.  If he only knew, Skinner thought. 
Although Skinner's little prison was full of diversions, he could still 
feel the walls closing in on him.  There was a well-stocked liquor 
cabinet, but Skinner avoided it.  He needed his faculties sharp to 
resist the nanites. 
He picked out some CDs and loaded them into the player.  He looked 
through a surprisingly varied collection of books without finding 
anything appealing.  There were dozens of videocassettes, including many 
of the type favored by Mulder.  Skinner selected a couple of comedies 
that he might try to watch.  There was an exercise room in the facility; 
maybe he could use it later. 
In twenty-four hours, he reflected, he'd be pumped full of drugs, 
burning with fever and racked with pain.  He should use this time to 
rest his body and gather his resolve. 
He considered putting on the headset to see what Scully was up to; 
probably checking her supplies again, making sure the sick bay was set 
up the way she wanted it.  A few days ago she had complained about her 
lack of privacy, but now it was Skinner who had to surrender not only 
his privacy but his dignity as well. 
He wondered when Mulder would return.  They'd let him out then.  But 
what would happen at night?  They couldn't risk having him murder them 
in their sleep, could they?  They'd lock him up while they satisfied 
their lust with a night of debauchery. No doubt they were both 
screamers.   The insulated walls would spare him from hearing their 
cries of passion, but he would know. 
A night of debauchery?   What part of his brain was coming up with this 
stuff?  He could care less if they fucked like bunnies from dusk until 
dawn. 
He was pacing, he realized.  Back and forth like an animal in a cage. 
A chunky black wall phone rang-literally.  An old-fashioned ring, not 
the electronic tone of a newer phone. 
"Yes," Skinner answered it. 
"Do you have everything you need?" Scully asked. 
"I'm fine," Skinner said.  "When's Mulder coming back?" 
"I don't know.  Should I try to call him?"  Scully was searching for 
ways to give Skinner some sense of control. 
"Not yet," Skinner said.  "I see you figured out how to use the internal 
phone system." 
"There's a directory.  I'm on extension five-two-five," she said. 
"Funny, isn't it?  Everything else is state of the art, but the 
telephones are forty years old," he commented. 
"Walter, I've finished reading the diskette.  I know how to proceed," 
Scully said. 
"Then you know how to kill them?" Skinner asked. 
"That's the easy part," she said. 
"Good.  That's the part I was worried about," he said. 
"It turns out that a dead nanite is almost as bad as a live one.  It's 
like a doomsday device-they release a shower of biological agents," 
Scully said.  "That's why the treatment is so intense." 
"I'm ready," Skinner said. 
"You could survive the nanites and die from the drugs," she said. 
"I don't want to live like this, Dana.  I thought I had made myself 
clear." Skinner said. 
"Then let me be perfectly clear as well.   I can destroy the nanites.  I 
could do it right now.  But the aftermath of that destruction will put 
you at risk for death from infection and toxins.  And the treatment for 
the aftermath is potentially deadly as well," Scully said. 
"Understood." 
"I'm not finished!  You will be critically ill, sir.  You will need 
continuous support and intervention to survive.  I've never used these 
drugs.  I haven't placed an IV in five years.  I'm not a practicing 
physician!  You need an epidemiologist or an intensivist.  Walter, I 
can't do it," she said. 
"You can and you will!" Skinner said harshly.  "You're not a practicing 
physician, you're an FBI agent, and I am ordering you to do your job." 
Her barely audible "hmph" told him he'd hit his mark. 
"You're not an obstetrician and you delivered a big, healthy baby," he 
reminded her. 
"Walter, you didn't see the episiotomy," she said, and then she hung up, 
to let him ponder her message. 
= = = = 
Kim Cook was convinced that Mulder knew where Walter was. 
If he didn't know, he would have asked her more questions. 
Cook had dragged herself to the supermarket after work, and she arrived 
home too tired to cook and too hungry to wait.. 
That meant Wheaties for dinner again.  Supper of champions. 
Mulder knew where Walter was, she reflected as she munched on her 
cereal, and Mulder was worried. 
Cook had made a few inquiries, trying to locate her boss and reassure 
herself that he was all right.  She did not want to instigate a full 
investigation.  That might jeopardize his safety. 
Walter's car was discovered in Virginia at the outlet centers. 
The patrolman who spotted it reported it was locked and empty. The 
police official who relayed the news to Cook asked her if the car should 
be impounded. 
Just leave it, Cook had said. 
She'd made more than a few calls to WellTech Laboratories before 
learning that Scully no longer worked there. 
She'd tried repeatedly to phone Mulder without any success.  But when 
she saw him, she knew.  He was worried too, but not as worried as he'd 
be if he didn't know Walter's whereabouts. 
Cook's phone rang, but she didn't recognize the number on her Caller ID 
and she let the machine screen for her.  No sense in letting the 
Wheaties go soggy so she could talk to some telemarketer. 
"Hello, Kim, you don't know me," said a man's voice. 
Cook was so glad she hadn't picked up the phone. 
"My name is Eric Whittaker," he continued. 
He talks funny, she noticed. 
"You left some messages for Dana Scully," he said. 
Cook gulped down her mouthful of cereal so she could grab the phone. 
"I must get in touch with her," he said. 
"I'm here," she said. 
"I have to talk to Dr. Scully.  She took something I need," Whittaker 
said. 
Eric Whittaker was a decent man who wanted only to do his job and go 
home to his family at night. 
After completing medical school and a general residency, he had joined a 
pharmaceutical company in the research division.  He hadn't lasted long; 
the implications of his work and how it was to be used had disturbed him 
enough to make him quit. 
He lost his next job when an ambitious colleague stole his ideas and 
out-maneuvered him in the game of office politics. 
Whittaker found a niche for himself at WellTech Laboratories.  He had 
time for his family and time to pursue his myriad of odd hobbies. 
Whittaker didn't have to climb any ladders or attend any meetings. 
He liked his job.  He wanted to keep liking it. 
Above all, he did not want to know too much. 
Whittaker had gone out on a limb for Dana Scully, and she'd pulled a 
fast one on him. 
He had warned her to hit the road, and she'd repaid him by stealing the 
real diskette and slipping him a replacement.  Ippolito's secretary had 
called him to say that the diskette was blank, and he'd managed to stall 
her. 
But if Ippolito found out, Whittaker would be fired. 
Ippolito was preoccupied for the moment, pouting with frustration 
because the guinea pig-the test subject who carried the nanites-had 
eluded him. 
Ippolito wanted the guinea pig.  Dana Scully was his link to the guinea 
pig, and he'd want to find her too. 
Kim Cook had called four times in her effort to talk to Scully.  Now she 
was part of the chain. 
Cook to Scully to the unknown guinea pig. 
Ippolito would be looking for her. 
"I don't know where Dr. Scully is," Cook said.  "I can't help you." 
"There's someone else I need to find.  You have to help me," Whittaker 
said. 
"Who is it?" Cook asked. 
"I don't know," said Whittaker. 
Eric Whittaker was not the most articulate man, and the story he had to 
relate was almost unbelievable.  But Kim Cook was a good listener, and 
she'd heard some incredible tales in her time. 
After forty-five minutes, Cook had the basic facts, at least as much as 
Whittaker could tell her. 
"Oh, Walter," she said out loud at the end of the call. 
He was more than her boss and sometimes she thought he was her friend. 
But he never told her anything. 
  
= = = = 
  
  
  
Controlled Substances 8/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
When Pavlov grew tired of running from the front seat to the rear seat 
and back again, he settled himself down with his head in Mulder's lap 
and went to sleep. 
Skinner's medicine wouldn't be ready until tomorrow, but Mulder drove 
back to the bunker anyway.  He stopped a few miles from Longstreet to 
pick up some take-out.  =Athens Sea Food and Pizza= didn't sound very 
promising, but it was probably better than the provisions in the 
shelter. 
He got some funny looks from the locals there, and once he realized that 
his crotch was soaked with dog-drool, he understood why. 
Mulder's return brought considerable relief to Scully and especially 
Skinner, and the evening meal was almost festive.  They set out their 
food in a common room designed to serve as a mess hall as well as an 
entertainment center. 
"Scully locked me up once," Mulder said to Skinner over moussaka and 
Greek salad.  "She took my gun and locked me in a little room." 
"Mulder, does the phrase =Don't ask, don't tell= mean anything to you?" 
Skinner replied. 
"Sir!  It was nothing like that!" Scully interjected. 
Mulder had mentioned the incident to offer Skinner some emotional 
support but perhaps the moment of levity was equally welcome. 
Pavlov was begging at the table but he didn't care for feta cheese any 
more than the three human diners. 
"I forgot to get dog food," Mulder said.  "I hope they have some here." 
"You shouldn't be feeding him from the table, Mulder.   That's a bad 
habit to teach him," said Skinner. 
"He's Mulder's dog," said Scully emphatically.  "Mulder can train him 
any way he wants." 
"You would trust Mulder with a live animal?" Skinner asked. 
"He has fish, you know," said Scully. 
"Shit," said Mulder.  "Not any more."  He hadn't bought dog food and he 
hadn't fed his fish.  Skinner was right about him. 
"Hey.  You drove about two hundred fifty miles today.  Don't beat 
yourself up about the fish," Scully said. 
"It was just a joke," said Skinner.  "If they don't have dog food here 
we can improvise." 
Pavlov was worth his weight in gold that evening, diverting everyone 
from the grim ordeal that would soon unfold and giving them all a safe 
topic to discuss. 
The bunker was stocked with dog food, which seemed twisted to Mulder, 
when he considered the function of the place.  The powers that be had 
placed some dogs among the elect. 
Skinner and Mulder found several appealing diversions, making good use 
of an air hockey table and conducting experiments to determine whether 
dogs preferred Spam or beef jerky. 
"Do you know what happens to dogs who eat salty food around bedtime?" 
Scully asked them, looking up from the calculations she was reviewing. 
"What?" asked Mulder. 
"They drink lots of water," said Scully.  "You figure it out." 
Scully was tired and anxious.  She didn't feel competent to manage the 
round-the-clock care of any unstable patient, least of all one who was a 
friend.  Mulder and Skinner were enjoying some animated argument about 
something macho-sports, probably-and Scully could only think that Mulder 
had to get up early for the drive to DC and back. 
She didn't want to turn in for the night until Skinner was sequestered. 
She knew his behavior had been rational and cooperative all evening but 
that might not last.  Yet it seemed monstrous to deprive Skinner of 
these last lighthearted moments. 
Skinner himself called the evening to an end. 
"I'm ready to cop some z's," he announced. 
"Sir?" asked Scully. 
"Put me in the box, Warden.  I'm going to bed." 
Pavlov followed Skinner into his room and Mulder bolted the door behind 
them. 
"How about it, Scully?" Mulder asked on his return to the common room. 
"Ready to cop some z's?" 
The rooms in the bunker were alike in furnishing and most particulars, 
although the room Scully had chosen lacked the explicit videos Skinner 
had found and the reading matter tended mostly toward law books. 
Mulder and Scully settled into the full-sized bed-bigger than twin, 
smaller than queen-and as Mulder began his preliminary pawing, Scully 
found herself too distracted to respond. 
She had figured out a protocol for Skinner's treatment, written it out, 
and rehearsed it in her mind.  In the morning she would fill up her 
syringes and label them.  She had done everything she could do for now, 
yet she couldn't stop thinking about it. 
Mulder tried all the maneuvers that usually got Scully to purr for him, 
and when she didn't, he started trying the stuff that usually got her to 
elbow him with annoyance. No reaction.  He knew that Scully required an 
extravagant amount of sleep, so he sighed and resigned himself to a 
night of spooning and insomnia.   She made a superb teddy bear, at 
least. 
But he knew the feel of her body well enough to know that she wasn't 
asleep, wasn't even relaxed. 
"Scully?" he said. 
"Sorry," she whispered, and turned toward him, determined to minister to 
his needs so that at least one of them would be able to sleep. 
Her motives were selfless, but as she snuggled into him, nibbling on his 
neck and scratching his chest lightly with her nails, she was caught in 
her own snare.  In the months since they'd started the WellTech 
investigation, Scully reflected, Mulder had been her lifeline, her 
support.  He'd pampered her and kept her sane and she'd leaned on him 
without every acknowledging her appreciation. 
Desire seized her, as she teased his nipples with her tongue and played 
his inner thigh with her fingertips.  He was hot and sweet and it was 
totally fitting, totally inevitable, that she would want to bring joy to 
his body. 
She wanted his cock in her mouth. 
She swung herself around and lowered her mouth onto his penis, wrapping 
her arms around his hips and letting her breasts push against his belly. 
Mulder's surprise at finding himself ravished by his teddy bear was 
washed away by a torrent of lust and love.  He grabbed Scully's thighs 
and almost killed himself trying to bury his face in her pussy, but then 
he levered her to the side so that he could nibble and graze without 
fear of breaking his neck. 
Scully landed on the bed without losing her prey. 
"Ung ung ung ung," she said.  Mulder was... Mulder was... He was... And... 
Scully wasn't trying to play keep-away, but she was writhing 
frantically.  Her hands were circling Mulder from the base of his 
scrotum and around his penis, and she twisted her head back and forth as 
she rode her lips down Mulder's length. 
She had fastened her mouth to Mulder's cock, but her hips were wiggling 
and Mulder was gripping her thighs with mindless determination, sucking 
and tonguing her elusive clit. 
Mulder came first, but Scully kept working him until her own orgasm 
swept over her without warning.  She was fixated on her wild ride, 
rubbing lips, tongue, and even incisors up and down Mulder's shaft, 
rubbing on him and feeling the friction returned on her own nexus as she 
rubbed. 
And when she came, it was without the little mental "push" that she 
usually needed.  There was no room for intellect at all, and when she 
came, releasing his spent member, she did not shout his name, or God's, 
but only a wordless, primitive scream. 
"Oh, my," she said, when her senses returned.  She hugged his leg like a 
pillow and yawned with contentment. 
Scully felt infinitely loose and relaxed, but Mulder was tugging on her, 
trying to realign her into a more orthodox sleeping position, and she 
let him pull her into place, resisting only long enough to wipe her 
mouth on his belly to deposit a hair. 
She curled into him, drowsy and warm, and he stretched and shifted as 
they fitted themselves together. 
"Mulder," she said sleepily, "you know what might be fun?" 
"Hm?" he murmured, stroking her hair. 
She didn't answer.  She was asleep. 
= = = = 
Scully awoke to an empty bed.  She rose hurriedly to wash and 
dress-Skinner was an early riser and she didn't want to prolong his 
confinement. 
She assumed Mulder had gone running, but she found him in the common 
room in his boxers. 
"No run this morning?  Did I tire you out?" she asked. 
"I didn't have a chance to pack," he said.  "My suit will be rank enough 
even if I don't run in it." 
"Good, honest sweat," she said, kissing him. 
Mulder had solved the mysteries of the industrial-sized coffee maker and 
after he'd poured a couple of cups, Scully reminded him about Skinner. 
"Shouldn't we let him out of the box?" she asked. 
"Only if he pulls the right lever," Mulder said.  "Otherwise, we shock 
him." 
"I'm going to unlock the door," Scully said.  If Mulder wanted to be 
sitting here in his shorts when Skinner came in for breakfast, that was 
his business. 
Scully cracked open Skinner's door. 
"Sir?  Are you awake?" she called. 
Pavlov came galloping and yelping out of the room, wagging his tail and 
dancing impatiently. 
"I'm up.  Better take the dog out," Skinner called back in a hoarse 
croak. 
She retrieved the leash from the common room.  Mulder had rounded out 
his ensemble with a monogrammed terrycloth bathrobe about three sizes 
too small. 
"I'm walking the dog.  You and Skinner should be okay for a few 
minutes," she said. 
"Go ahead," Mulder said. 
Pavlov took care of business promptly, and it was only a few minutes 
later when Scully brought him back inside.  Nevertheless he greeted 
Mulder with great joy and enthusiasm. 
"Want some toast?" Mulder asked Scully.  "I figured out how this 
post-apocalyptic mega-toaster works." 
"Thanks, I'm not hungry," Scully said, sitting down next to him.. 
"Scully, I know you can do this," Mulder said. "Skinner trusts you too." 
"Because you don't understand what's involved.  And Skinner doesn't care 
if I kill him," Scully said, her voice quavering. 
"Then tell me," Mulder said.  "Explain it to me."  He pushed a plate of 
toast toward her. 
"I know how to kill the nanites.  It's simple.  But they're 
booby-trapped-they send out toxins and microbes that will kill him 
unless I give him the right drugs at the right time," Scully said. 
"But you have the drugs-except for the stuff I need to get from the 
Director," Mulder said. 
"These are awful drugs, Mulder.  They're going to make him sick," Scully 
said.  She tore a corner off a piece of the toast. 
"Skinner's not afraid," Mulder said. 
"The hell he isn't!"  Scully was astounded that Mulder could be so 
oblivious.  "But you still don't get it.  Skinner's ready to die, if 
that's what it takes.  He just wants the nanites gone." 
"But you don't seem to get it either, Scully.  Skinner's =going= to die 
without your help.  All you can do now is try.  That's all he's asking 
for." 
He tilted his head a little, and she looked into his eyes.  She knew he 
was waiting for a smile or some other sign of confidence, but she 
couldn't do it. 
"Mulder, go see what's taking him so long.  He may want to use the 
treadmill or something before he gets locked up for the day, and you 
need to leave soon," Scully said. 
"What if you give him the first treatment right away?" Mulder asked. 
"Then you won't need to confine him and I can still be back with the 
medicine in time." 
Scully had considered this option. 
The protocol she'd established had three parts.  First, the initial 
treatment, which would kill the nanites. 
Six hours later Skinner would need his first "rescue" medication. 
Scully had that one available.  It was an intravenous solution that 
might rack his body with fever and tremors.  She would give him other 
medications to fight those side effects and hope for the best. 
The worst part of Skinner's ordeal would begin ten hours after the 
nanites were killed.  At that time he had to begin a regimen of oral 
medications. 
"Pills?  No big deal," Skinner had said when Scully first explained it. 
The other treatments were intravenous or intramuscular injections, and 
Skinner had the normal aversion to needles.  Pills didn't frighten him. 
But these were no ordinary pills.  These pernicious drugs were used 
against resistant forms of tuberculosis and their use was tightly 
controlled. 
A patient who began the therapy but did not complete it would not be 
cured, and worse, would render the tuberculosis bacilli more deadly by 
increasing their resistance.  Patients found it hellishly difficult to 
stick with the medications because of their hideous side effects.  For 
that reason, the medications were highly regulated and only administered 
under close supervision.  Not something you could pick up at the corner 
drugstore along with your Rogaine. 
"I'll wait," Scully said.  "If he doesn't get those pills in time it 
will kill him.  Horribly." 
Scully tried to eat a piece of toast while Mulder went to roust Skinner, 
Pavlov trotting along behind him. 
"Scully!" 
It was Mulder's top-of-the-lungs strained shout and Scully wasted no 
time getting to Skinner's room. 
Skinner was lying on his bed clenched into a knot with his hands 
clutching his head. 
"Walter?" Scully said. 
"Headache," he uttered. 
Except for his obvious agony, he looked normal-no discoloration or 
prominent vasculature. 
"Mulder-get the wheelchair from sick bay and bring an oxygen tank," 
Scully instructed.  "Walter, hang on, I'm going to help you." 
Together they got Skinner settled into a bed in the treatment unit. 
"Do you think it's the nanites?" Mulder asked. 
"I don't have time to find out," Scully said.  "I'm just going to kill 
the bastards." 
"Hallelujah," said Skinner through gritted teeth. 
Scully needed to place an intravenous line but despite his eagerness to 
cooperate, Skinner couldn't force himself to let go of his head.  Mulder 
had to take him by the wrist and pin his arm to the bed. 
Once the angiocatheter was inserted, Scully used a large glass syringe 
to administer the solution. 
"Nothing's happening," said Mulder.  Skinner was still locked in his 
agonized grimace. 
"I'll give him some more," Scully said, and she slowly pushed in another 
large syringeful of liquid. 
Skinner began to relax.  His arms dropped to his side and he 
straightened in the bed. 
"You did it," he said in a sigh.  "Scully.  Thank you." 
"What is that stuff?" Mulder asked. 
"Sodium bicarbonate," she answered. 
"Baking soda?" Mulder asked. 
"Had a box in my fridge all along," Skinner quipped weakly.  "You might 
have told me." 
"Mulder, get going.  You've got a long drive, and we need that 
medication," Scully said. 
  
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 9/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
"You told me to fire her.  I did," said Ned Ippolito placidly.  Alex 
Krycek sat across the desk from him in a cold fury. 
Krycek slammed his fist on Ippolito's desk. 
"Then get her back!" he said grimly. 
"Fire her!  Get her back!  Make up your mind," Ippolito drawled. 
"Dana Scully can be useful to me.  Get her back on your payroll," Krycek 
said, choking back his impatience. 
"What's the matter, Mr. Krycek?  Lost something?" Ippolito asked. 
"Watch your step, Ippolito.  You have a lot to lose yourself," Krycek 
said, rising from his chair and starting to back toward the door. 
"We both want the same thing, Mr. Krycek.  If you didn't have to be such 
a bully, I'm sure there's enough to share," Ippolito said. 
"The nanites are mine.  You were well paid for the work you did," Krycek 
said. 
"You misplaced your test subject and I can help you find him," Ippolito 
said.  "Isn't that worth something?" 
"Just what do you want?" Krycek asked.  "And what can you do for me?" 
"Dana Scully still has ties to the FBI," Ippolito said. 
"What ties?" Krycek asked.  If Ippolito was going to tell him about 
Mulder or Skinner, he wasn't much interested. 
"There's a woman who keeps calling her.  Kim Cook," Ippolito said.  He 
had speculated that Kim Cook might in fact be the nanites-carrying test 
subject, and he studied Krycek's face to gauge his reaction. 
"How's this woman going to help me find what I need?" Krycek asked. 
"Slow down, fella," Ippolito said.  "Before I show you my cards I'd like 
to know what you're holding." 
Krycek didn't get where he was without a large share of self-control. 
He denied himself the gratification he would gain from killing Ippolito 
on the spot. 
"The test subject is named Walter Skinner.  Undoubtedly Dana Scully 
joined your organization to learn how to remove the nanites from him. 
Now both of them are unaccounted for," Krycek said. 
"Walter Skinner from the FBI?"  Ippolito had spoken to him twice in 
reviewing Scully's background for employment. 
"Yes," Krycek hissed. 
"Dr. Scully's going to need help, if she really wants to get her friend 
Walter cleaned up.  She's going to need some specialized drugs, and 
these aren't the kind of pills you can score in the back room at the 
Chameleon Club," Ippolito crooned. 
"I see," said Krycek. 
And he did.  That pudgy clown thought that Scully would have to get the 
drugs through the FBI, and that she'd use Kim Cook to get them for her. 
But Krycek knew better.  Of course it would be Mulder who would get her 
the drugs. 
Krycek had lost Mulder's trail, but now he knew where he could pick it 
up again.  Mulder was going to have to surface.  He would have to make 
contact with the FBI. 
"I'm willing to work with you, if you think you can play nice.  I can 
return Miss Cook's phone call," Ippolito said. 
"Do it," said Krycek roughly.  But he no longer cared what Ippolito 
did.  He had his own plan. 
= = = = 
Mulder had company for his long drive to DC.  This time he made Pavlov 
stay in his own seat. 
Skinner's cellular trilled repeatedly but Mulder let it ring.  Unless a 
call came from Scully or the Director himself, Mulder was not going to 
answer it. 
He made good time once he hit the main highway.  Traffic was light this 
early Saturday. 
Skinner might have died that morning.  Mulder had feared that the 
nanites were building a blockage in his brain, and Scully had confirmed 
the possibility. 
A blockage in the brain.  A cerebral infarct. 
Scully had eliminated the threat by giving Skinner the sodium 
bicarbonate.  Now it was up to Mulder to return with the tuberculosis 
medicines that would somehow counteract the "doomsday" device that the 
nanites carried. 
Mulder picked up Skinner's phone for the tenth time and put it back down 
when he failed to recognize the caller's number.  A lot of people were 
trying to reach Skinner this morning. 
Pavlov made another attempt to put his head on Mulder's lap and Mulder 
pushed him aside again.  Pavlov sniffed indignantly.  Fortunately Mulder 
glanced over when he heard the dog chewing on the cell phone and he 
grabbed it away in time. 
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. 
Pavlov hadn't destroyed the phone, but he'd succeeded in hitting the 
speed dial.  Mulder heard a woman's voice: 
"Who is this?  Where are you?" 
Mulder hurriedly shut the phone.  It trilled again and he let it ring. 
But the next call was from the Director: 
"Your office.  Twelve o'clock.  It will be there." 
The Director closed the call without waiting for comment. 
Mulder and Scully were almost unique in their disregard for the 
insecurity of cellular communication.  Everyone else in the bureau was 
paranoid about it. 
Twelve o'clock would do.  Mulder could get back to Longstreet in time 
and he'd also have a chance to stop by his apartment and pick up a 
change of clothes. 
In the passenger seat, Pavlov started to wheeze. 
"Are you okay, boy?" Mulder asked, and the little dog lurched toward him 
pathetically. 
Sensing sympathy, Pavlov put his head in Mulder's lap, and this time he 
got away with it. 
Smart dog!  After he threw up, he was able to retreat to his own, clean 
seat for a nap. 
= = = = 
Kim Cook sometimes said she lived for golf, but when her phone went off 
at the second hole she was elated by the interruption. 
It was Walter's number, from his cell phone.   Finally, some answers. 
"Walter?" she said, but instead of his voice she heard growling noises. 
"Walter?  Where are you?" she said. 
Then a man's voice, distant but clear: 
"Son of a bitch," he said. 
"Who is this?  Where are you?" she asked again, but the phone went dead. 
She knew that voice.  No question, that was Mulder. 
Cook left the golf course, ignoring the exasperated questions from the 
rest of the foursome.  She was going to get some answers. 
Her phone rang again as she got to her car, from a number she didn't 
recognize.  It was a Dr. Ned Ippolito.  He started by questioning her 
about Scully and finished by asking her for a date. 
Cook gave him an ambiguous answer and made a note of his number.   With 
no particular plan, she decided to check for activity at the Hoover.  If 
she didn't find Mulder there, she would try his apartment. 
= = = = 
Dougie had some wild stories to tell, since he took the maintenance job 
at Hegal Place.  Especially about the guy in number forty-two. 
Dougie had never even seen a dead body before he started working here. 
But since then-Jeez!   That black guy who died finger-painting in the 
hallway... the white guy with his face blown off... that old man with the 
nutty old wife...  Made Dougie kind of glad he could hardly see, even with 
these $300 glasses. 
Getting old sucks. 
The guy in forty-two had mob connections, had to be something like 
that.  He dressed classy and he could afford the $20,000 security 
deposit the landlord demanded from him.  Dougie himself had no problem 
with the guy.  For one thing, he paid him thirty bucks just for running 
the vacuum over his floors and wiping off the dust every week. 
The landlord didn't know about stuff like that.  He thought Dougie was 
getting by on his pension and his chickenshit salary.  Actually, the 
landlord didn't give a crap how Dougie was getting by. 
Dougie was buffing the floor by the elevator when the door slid open and 
Mulder got out with Pavlov. 
Landlord's going to have a cow, Dougie thought.  As if the waterbed 
wasn't enough. 
"Hiya, Jack," Dougie said.  He called everybody Jack.  "Don't worry, I 
don't see no dog." 
"Morning, Doug," Mulder said. 
"I fed the fish for you.  Yesterday, when I was cleaning the floor," 
Dougie said. 
"Hey!  Thank you!"  Overwhelmed with gratitude, Mulder reached in his 
pocket and handed him a twenty. 
"Much obliged," Dougie said.  "Anything else I can do for you?  Walk the 
dog?" 
"Maybe later," said Mulder.   He'd need help if he was really going to 
keep Pavlov, but right now all he wanted was to shower and change his 
clothes. 
Dougie shrugged and went back to his buffing.  He was working down at 
the end, just a few feet past the door to number forty-two, when he saw 
a woman get off the elevator and knock on the door.  Looked like the 
redhead he sometimes saw here. 
"Hiya," he said.  "Forgot your key?"  He gave her a wink and unlocked 
the door. 
"Thank you," she said, sounding a little surprised. 
Dougie hoped he hadn't made a blunder.  Maybe he wasn't supposed to know 
she was keeping company with the mob guy.  Finished with the floor, he 
decided to make himself scarce, just in case. 
= = = = 
Skinner's salvation left him energized and exuberant.  He spent the 
morning working out in the training room, ate a light breakfast, and 
then turned his attention to investigating the underground sanctuary. 
He avoided two areas, as he explored:  The sick bay and the common 
room.  In fact, he was avoiding Scully.  She found him anyway, in a 
supply room. 
"Walter, it's time," she said. 
"I feel perfectly all right," he told her.  "Are you sure this is 
necessary?" 
"Reasonably sure, but we can discuss it," she said gently as she led him 
down the hall.  "I'll run some labwork and see what we find." 
She needed baseline blood counts and chemistries. 
"What about lunch?" he asked. 
"Sure," she said.  "What should we have?"  They were still walking to 
the sick bay. 
"How about Valium?" he asked. 
"All you want," she assured him.  "Walter, I promise I will do 
everything I can to make this as tolerable as possible." 
Scully began to wonder if her soothing manner was only sapping his 
fortitude. 
"You said I'd have six hours before I'd need the 'rescue' treatment," 
Skinner said.  "It's not time yet." 
"I need time to set up the monitors, run the bloodwork, and place more 
lines," she said flatly. 
"Place more lines.  You mean shove more needles into me," Skinner said. 
"Exactly.  Are you ready?"  Her brusqueness strengthened him as her 
sympathy had not. 
"Let's do it," he said. 
= = = = 
"Pavlov!" 
Mulder stood dripping in the shower.  He'd slung a towel over the towel 
rack but it was gone now. 
"Damn." 
He left a trail of wet footprints from the bathroom to the linen closet 
and counted himself lucky when he found a clean bath towel hiding among 
the sheets. 
"Mulder." 
He spun around in surprise.  He didn't expect to see Skinner's assistant 
sitting in his living room. 
"Kim?" 
"Where is he, Mulder?" she asked in a steely tone. 
Holding the towel around his waist with one hand, he gestured with the 
other, indicating his wet and naked state. 
"Tell, me, Mulder.  Then you can get dressed," she said. 
Cook hadn't planned on taking such an adversarial stance but Mulder's 
condition suggested the tactic.  She picked up his gun from the coffee 
table. 
Pavlov rushed to Mulder's side, looked at him enquiringly, barked twice, 
and ran to Kim. 
"I know you're not going to shoot me," Mulder said. 
"I know about the nanites, Mulder.  Where is he?  What's going on?" Cook 
asked. 
"Kim, you're just going to have to trust me," Mulder said. 
Pavlov ran back to Mulder and grabbed a corner of the towel in his 
teeth. 
"He tried to call me," Cook told him.  "About two hours ago.  I heard 
your voice, Mulder, I know you were with him." 
She put down the gun.  She was frustrated and tense, but she was neither 
a maniac nor a fool. 
"Kim, if he had wanted you to know he would have told you.  I have to 
respect that," Mulder said, gripping the towel with one hand as he 
swatted at the dog. 
That was the wrong thing to say to Kim Cook.  Intensely protective of 
the AD, she was all too aware that Mulder frequently followed his own 
inclinations, often at the expense of Skinner's comfort and credibility. 
"You're going to take me with you, Mulder," she said.  "Otherwise I'm 
going to make things very difficult for you." 
"Kim, the best thing you can do for Skinner is to carry on with your 
normal routine," Mulder said, trying not to sound sanctimonious. 
Cook's jaw clenched.  Looking him right in the eye, she picked up the 
cell phone he had left on the table and dropped it in her purse.  Then 
his gun.  Then the key card to the FBI parking garage. 
"Can we discuss this =after= I get dressed?" Mulder asked. 
She picked up his car keys and shoved them in with everything else. 
"I'll be waiting right here," she said. 
= = = = 
Krycek sat in his car in the Hoover Building parking garage, eyeing each 
car as it entered the structure.   Watching, waiting, as patient as a 
python. 
The problem with Mulder, he thought, one of the many problems with 
Mulder, was that he lacked an indwelling tracking device. 
Skinner had his nanites, Scully had her chip, but the only way to follow 
Mulder was the old-fashioned way. 
Normally Krycek didn't hold much affection for traditional methods.   On 
the other hand, he had to admit, he'd never been an insider when it came 
to the use of Scully's technology, and Skinner's little parasites had 
been completely unreliable these past days. 
Come on, Mulder, he thought.  Come and get it. 
Another problem with Mulder was his car.  Whether it was his own 
vehicle, a bureau car, or a rental, Mulder always drove something 
typically FBI.  If Krycek ever got some mind-control going on Mulder, 
he'd have him buy a pink pick-up truck or an orange Corvette, something 
that would stand out. Fortunately, activity in the garage was light. 
Krycek scrutinized a white Taurus that drove in and a forest-green Crown 
Victoria that followed it. 
The next car was a red Jeep Cherokee.  Krycek sighed and settled his 
lifeless left arm on the window ledge, easing the pull on his shoulder. 
Come and get it, Mulder, he thought again.  I know what you want, and 
you're not going to find it on pharmacy.com. 
He ignored the red Jeep and concentrated instead on the entrance ramp, 
waiting for the next car. 
The Jeep nosed into a parking space, and two of the three occupants 
began to negotiate. 
"Wait here," Mulder said. 
"No, you stay here," said Cook, who had no intention of being ditched. 
"And keep the dog in your lap, unless you want to pay for new 
upholstery." 
She got out of the car to retrieve a package from Mulder's office.  She 
didn't know exactly what she was looking for, but then again, neither 
did he. 
= = = = 
"Thank you, Scully," Skinner said weakly. 
"You're welcome, sir," Scully answered. 
Neither of them had been able to get used to "Walter" and "Dana." 
In the beginning, Scully had explained the purpose of everything she was 
doing, but very soon Skinner had told her to "can the chatter." 
Skinner felt like a construction project, with all the wires and 
conduits Scully had placed.  Except a construction project wouldn't feel 
this sore and bruised. 
"I'm going to administer the premedications," Scully said.  "You may 
experience-" 
"Just do it," Skinner said. 
"-a feeling of euphoria or giddiness." 
"One can always hope," said Skinner. 
All the intravascular lines and the electrodes reminded Skinner of a 
house under construction, but to Scully they evoked a sailboat. 
If you're planning to take a boat out alone, or if your passengers are 
not inclined to crew for you, you can rig a small sailboat for 
single-handed operation. 
That's what Scully had done with Skinner. 
In addition to the IV line she'd placed on his arm that morning to 
administer the sodium bicarbonate, she now had a triple-lumen catheter 
in his neck, an arterial line in his wrist, EKG leads on his chest and a 
probe taped to his finger to measure his oxygen level. 
There were a couple of other tubes that would have made her job easier, 
but she couldn't justify the intrusion on that basis alone. 
"I probably won't have to stick you again," Scully said.  "These lines 
should be good for the whole treatment."  She finished injecting a clear 
viscous substance into an infusion port in the IV tubing. 
"Oh, baby," said Skinner.  "That's some good shit." 
He wasn't being arch; he was stoned. 
"Given through a large, central IV, the onset is very rapid," Scully 
said. 
"Cosmic," said Skinner. 
Scully had a few more goodies for him.  The purpose of these drugs was 
not to intoxicate him but to counteract the side-effects of the 
medication still to come.  Perhaps Scully had been too generous in her 
calculations, but this was a case where too much was better than too 
little. 
"I want you to swallow this," Scully said, giving him a couple of 
Tylenol.  He downed them while she suspended a bag of solution from a 
pole by the bed. 
"That's the real stuff?" Skinner asked. 
The real medicine couldn't be pushed in with a syringe but had to be 
infused slowly.  Scully was running it with an IV pump. 
"That's it," she confirmed. 
"It's ugly," he said.  "It's going to make me shiver and burn?" 
"Hopefully not," Scully tried to reassure him.  In fact it was one of 
her least favorite drugs. 
"Sizzle and fry," Skinner said.  "Like a strip of bacon."  He sounded 
detached and silly. 
"I'll be right here, sir.  It will be okay," she said, deciding to use 
less lorazepam next time. 
"Hey, you're a regular Julia Child!"  Skinner started to laugh. 
"Sir, I think that's the Ativan talking," Scully said. 
"No, really.  From slice-and-dice to shake-and-bake!" 
"Okay," said Scully agreeably. 
Skinner was feeling rather agreeable himself. 
"Got any Doors?" he asked. 
"Sure," she said.  "Plenty of doors.  Why don't you go to sleep?" 
"Cool," he said.  "Play some Doors.  And get me a blanket."  He was 
starting to feel distinctly chilly. 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 10/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
"Got it?" Mulder asked when Cook opened the car door. 
"Yes," she said.  "Move over, I'm driving."  She was carrying a gym 
bag.  It was an unexpectedly cold day, and she had stuffed Skinner's 
down jacket into his bag to take along. 
Mulder had put himself behind the wheel of her SUV, but she wasn't going 
for it.  He moved into the passenger seat and Cook climbed in behind the 
wheel. 
"Get that dog out of the back," she said. 
"It's a truck, Kim, he's supposed to ride in the back," Mulder said. 
"I will not have him slobbering on my golf clubs," Cook said. 
Pavlov obeyed when Mulder called him, to everyone's surprise, but Mulder 
had to hold on to him to keep him from running around. 
"Can I see the package from the Director?" Mulder asked. 
"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" Cook asked.  Mulder had 
directed her to take I-66, but she wanted their ultimate destination. 
What a bitch, Mulder thought. 
"I want to be see the medicine first," he said. 
She unzipped the gym bag and gave him a parcel wrapped in brown paper 
and sealed with thick tape. 
The wrapping was blank except for four letters written in black maker: 
DS, MD. 
Mulder tore open the paper.  Inside were three red capsules and three 
white tablets.  The bulk of the package was made of pages of 
instructions and warnings. 
DS, MD, Kim thought.  Poor Walter, he'd be better off with Dr. Seuss, or 
Dr. Dre. 
"Do you think Scully is qualified for this?" Cook asked. 
"Well, she beat out all the other volunteers," said Mulder.  "Unless you 
have someone in mind." 
"You don't have to get snotty.  It's a legitimate question," Cook said. 
"Damn it, Kim, Skinner planned this operation and got it approved.  Why 
are you trying to interfere?" Mulder asked. 
Cook resented being out of the loop but she couldn't legitimately blame 
Mulder for that.  It was an issue she'd have to address with Skinner. 
Maybe she was wrong to question Scully's competence or Mulder's loyalty 
but that was the way she felt. 
"You and Scully, the gruesome twosome.  You'd kill for each other or die 
for each other, and I damn well know you'd lie for each other," she 
said.  "There should be someone on his side." 
= = = = 
Scully had worried about her ability to take care of Skinner, to make 
the right decisions, but so far, that wasn't her biggest problem.  The 
problem was keeping up with everything she had to do. 
Despite the precautions she'd taken, Skinner had developed the shakes. 
He was sleeping through the tremors, but Scully was concerned and gave 
him a repeat dose of Demerol. 
No effect.  She readministered the other medications. 
The tremors continued and Skinner awoke. 
Scully had been witness to this reaction many times.  In a milder form 
it would be harmless, but Skinner was enduring a full-blown case of 
rigors. 
Rigors.  Scully had avoided using that word, but now it was the only 
accurate term. 
It seemed as if every muscle in his body was twitching, not only his 
arms and legs but also the muscles of his chest, the muscles involved in 
respiration.  Tremors this severe could cause problems by increasing his 
oxygen demand while interfering with effective breathing. 
"ABG and Chem seven, stat," Scully muttered.  But this wasn't "ER" and 
she had to get up to draw the blood and run the tests herself. 
She would correct whatever imbalances the labwork revealed and give 
Skinner more sedation, if needed. 
He was clammy, too.  She'd have to check his temperature again, towel 
him off, and maybe straighten out the bed, if she could do it without 
disturbing him.  A CBC with a differential would be nice, but she 
wouldn't have time to run one, at least not until Mulder returned. 
She had the blood drawn when Skinner woke up. 
"Shakes.  But I'm freezing."  His spastic breathing made the words stick 
in his throat. 
"I'll give you something for that," she promised as she hurried from his 
room. 
"Scully? Busy?" he asked.  He didn't want to be alone. 
"I'll be right back," she said.  She didn't want to leave him alone, but 
someone had to run these labs. 
= = = = 
Mulder and Cook drove the seventy-five miles from Washington, DC, to 
Longstreet, Virginia, in virtual silence. 
Mulder had resigned himself to Cook's company.  He'd never realized that 
she resented him or Scully but it really wasn't going to change his life 
now that he knew. 
Cook was a little surprised that she'd accomplished her goal as easily 
as she had.  Half-accomplished it, anyway.  She knew where Skinner was. 
She still had to see him, make sure he was getting what he needed. 
"Next exit," Mulder said.  "Then take a left." 
"How much further?" Cook asked. 
"Twenty miles," Mulder said.  He didn't offer to drive.  She'd refused 
him twice and if she wanted relief at the wheel she was going to have to 
ask. 
"Walter's going to be furious at me.  At least I hope so," Cook said. 
"You do?  You got a death wish, Kim?" Mulder asked, smiling for the 
first time. 
"You know that look he has, when he's really, really angry but he's 
being totally professional?" Kim asked. 
"Nah, I've never seen that look," Mulder said seriously. 
"No, of course not.  Well, if he gives me that look, I'll know he's all 
right," Cook said. 
"He'll probably be glad to see you," Mulder said.  "Doesn't mean he 
won't kick your ass, though." 
They were forced to stop once when Pavlov became suspiciously restless. 
Kim pulled off the road by a convenience store and left Mulder to do the 
honors while she went inside. 
Kim went in to see if they had Mountain Dew.  That improbably colored 
beverage was greatly favored by the AD, especially when he was sick. 
She also picked out some Cheez Doodles for him. 
She came out of the store to find Mulder holding court among a trio of 
teen-aged boys. 
"Mulder," she called, and she tossed him the car keys. 
"Later, fellas," Mulder told his new friends.  He lifted Pavlov up into 
the truck and then climbed in himself. 
"You dumb shit," one of the boys said to another.  "Trying to sell hydro 
to a total stranger." 
"That's how people get caught, Justin," a second boy agreed.  "He even 
looked like a narc." 
"I just needed another minute," Justin said.  "Too pussy-whipped to make 
a buy with his old lady watching.  He'll be back." 
= = = = 
Skinner was asleep.  Scully had given him two or three times the amount 
of sedation she expected to use because he had not responded to less. 
She had Narcan and Flumazenil available in case she had to reverse the 
drugs. 
She had darkened the room and moved her chair to the doorway.  She was 
using a little cassette recorder to document her treatment and she was 
whispering, to let him sleep. 
She heard the elevator moving down from the surface and hoped that 
Mulder and the dog wouldn't make too much noise.  Meanwhile, she 
finished her dictation: 
". . . sodium bicarbonate one hundred milligrams, repeated times two, 
also twenty milli-equivalents of potassium chloride.  Sedation as noted, 
see printouts for blood gas and chemistries.  T max one-oh-one, now 
ninety-nine-eight, normal sinus rhythm with occasional ventricular 
ectopy, resolved with correction of potassium deficit.  Blood pressure 
stable, sleeping at present.  Oh, and blood sugar two-twenty, don't know 
what that's about, will monitor." 
As she finished, Pavlov came scooting down the hall, panting with 
excitement, and then Mulder.  And someone behind Mulder.  Scully looked 
up. 
"Ms. Cook," she said. 
"Agent Scully," said Cook. 
Their mutual dislike was so palpable that Mulder was amazed he'd never 
noticed it before. 
"She was worried about him," Mulder said. 
"How is he?" Cook asked anxiously. 
"It was rough," Scully said.  "He's resting."  She folded her arms 
across her chest. 
"Can I see him?" Cook asked. 
"Don't wake him up," said Scully, moving aside reluctantly. 
Cook stood in the doorway for a minute, trying to take everything in. 
The monitors and pumps and tubes were overwhelming, dwarfing Skinner 
with their ominous presence. 
"He looks awful," she said at last. 
"I hope you're not planning to share that opinion with him," Scully said 
icily. 
"I'm telling you," Cook said just as coldly. 
Scully turned to Mulder, and he was sure she was going ask him why Cook 
was here or insist that he get her out. 
"Mulder, I need you to keep an eye on Skinner.  Call me if anything 
happens or if any of the alarms ring," she said.  He nodded and moved 
the chair into the room, glad to escape from whatever was going on 
between the two women. 
He stared at Skinner, stared at the monitors, stared directly ahead of 
him, but his ears were straining to hear what went on behind him. 
"We can talk in the common room," Scully said. 
Then he heard their footsteps, muffled in the carpeting, as they walked 
away. 
For ten minutes the only sounds were the regular beeps from the monitors 
and a hiss from the oxygen regulator.  Then he heard a little whimper as 
Pavlov came racing down the hall toward him, stopping to cower at his 
feet. 
"It's okay, boy, you can hide here with me," Mulder said. 
"Mulder?"  Skinner asked groggily. 
Mulder approached the bed. 
"I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mean to wake you," he said. 
"Water," Skinner said, and Mulder helped him get a drink. 
"Hot," Skinner said, tossing back a cotton blanket, and Mulder pulled it 
aside. 
"Go away," said Skinner as he fell back to sleep. 
= = = = 
When Skinner next awoke there was a woman sitting by his bed.  At first 
he assumed it was Scully, but even without his glasses he realized it 
was not. 
"Kim?" he asked. 
"Walter, how are you?" she asked, putting down the technical instruction 
manual she'd been studying. 
"What are you doing here?" he asked. 
"I'm the new laboratory technician.  Agent Scully has me reading up on 
how to operate the spinners and cookers and analyzers," she said. 
The medical lab in the bunker was supposed to be simple to use, 
practically self-explanatory.  If that was true, Cook reflected, the 
person who wrote the manual was either an illiterate or a sadist. 
"Mulder had no right to bring you here," Skinner said weakly.  "When I'm 
on my feet again I'm going to kick his ass." 
"I made him do it.  At gunpoint," Cook said. 
This side of Skinner's assistant was rarely revealed to others, but 
Skinner had seen it before. 
"I expect crap like this from Mulder.  I rely on you to respect my 
authority," he said. 
"Then maybe you should get a new assistant.  Someone who doesn't care 
what happens to you," Cook said. 
"I need you to hold down the fort," he explained, trying to soften his 
previous statement. 
"It's Saturday, and I gave up eighteen holes of golf for you," Cook 
said.  "Besides, I brought Mountain Dew." 
"Really?  Can I have some?" Skinner asked. 
Cook poured some into a cup then held it while Skinner turned onto his 
side, raising himself up on one elbow so that he could drink.  He sipped 
a few ounces and passed the cup back to her. 
A powerful bout of nausea seized him before he could thank her. 
"Walter, are you all right?" she asked. 
He nodded, even the slight movement intensifying his misery.  Cook raced 
to the door. 
"Agent Scully!" she called.  "We need help here!" 
= = = = 
"It's nothing serious, is it?" Mulder asked.  He was holding a plastic 
basin at the ready, but so far Skinner hadn't made use of it. 
"No, he's had a slew of medications and most of them can cause nausea or 
vomiting," Scully said. She had administered an injection of one 
antiemetic and completed the IV infusion of a second one. 
"Then he'll be okay," Mulder concluded. 
"It's almost time for the pills but I don't want to give them if he 
can't keep them down," Scully said.  "I may have to place a tube down 
his nose to decompress his stomach.  Or maybe this will work." 
She placed a damp washcloth on Skinner's forehead. 
"I thought you only did that for me," Mulder commented. 
"Stay with him," Scully said.  "I'm going to talk to... Kim."  She 
hesitated over the name, but "Ms. Cook" would sound ridiculous. 
"Mulder," Skinner groaned, when Scully was gone, "please shoot me." 
= = = = 
Cook was in the common room, trying to concentrate on the instruction 
manual.  She looked up when Scully entered. 
"How is he?" she asked. 
"It wasn't your fault.  You know that," Scully said. 
"I didn't do it on purpose, if that's what you mean," Cook said. 
"You didn't do it at all.  You just gave him something to drink," Scully 
said. 
"I should have given him water," Cook said.  Stupid, stupid, stupid, she 
told herself. 
"It wasn't the Mountain Dew.  It was probably one of the drugs that I 
gave him," Scully said. 
"The damn stuff looks like antifreeze.  But he likes it.  I thought it 
would make him feel better," Cook said. 
"I would have done the same thing," Scully said.  "Look, Kim, he's glad 
you're here.  And we need all the help we can get." 
= = = = 
Skinner's affliction grew worse.  Scully started a continuous IV 
infusion to maintain his electrolytes and prevent dehydration, but none 
of her interventions had any affect on the vomiting. 
Mulder felt ready for a basin of his own by the time Kim relieved him at 
the bedside.  He joined Scully in the common room. 
"I'm going to lose him," Scully said quietly.  =I=.  Despite the 
assistance of Mulder and now Cook, Scully felt very much alone in this 
matter. 
"We can't," Mulder said.  "There has to be a way." 
"There is no way," Scully said, her voice rising.  "The only way to give 
the next round of medication is orally and he is not going to be able to 
hold it down.  Time is against us, Mulder. The medicine won't work if we 
wait too long and I don't know what else to try." 
"Are you telling me that modern medicine has no effective treatment for 
vomiting?" Mulder asked. 
"Mulder, I tried everything I know.  And then I called the experts.  I 
spoke to oncologists, gastroenterologists, internists, and 
epidemiologists.  I called David Satcher," she said. 
"The Surgeon General?  Why him?" Mulder asked. 
"He got us the drugs.  I thought he'd have some ideas," Scully said. 
"Nada.  Nothing I hadn't already tried." 
"What about cannabis?" Mulder asked. 
"I tried it. Marinol.  He vomited it right back at me," she said. 
"Not Marinol, I mean the real thing," Mulder said. 
"Marijuana?  It might work, but the sentinels of freedom who designed 
this place didn't see fit to include it in the formulary." 
Mulder picked up the jacket he'd left hanging over the back of a chair. 
"Where are you going?" Scully asked. 
"Out," he said. 
"Remember to get papers," she said. 
= = = = 
If Mulder was surprised at Scully's receptiveness to his suggestion, 
Scully was astounded that Mulder was able to accomplish his mission so 
quickly. 
"Didn't think I'd score?" Mulder asked, setting a plastic bag and a book 
of papers on the table. 
"I didn't realize you had a source in Longstreet, Virginia," Scully 
said.   "I just hope Skinner agrees to this." 
"He'll do it.  He has too," Mulder said.  "Go on, Scully, roll him a 
nice, fat doobie."  Mulder pushed the paraphernalia in Scully's 
direction. 
"I want to talk to him.  Would you mind doing the honors?" Scully asked. 
"Maybe I should talk to him.  You've always been better with the 
paperwork," Mulder said. 
With a weary hoist of an eyebrow, Scully set to work. 
"Tah-dah," she said, holding the finished product aloft. 
"That's... good," said Mulder, wondering if Skinner would be able to smoke 
it before it fell apart. 
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mulder, why don't you roll one?" said Scully. 
"Sure," he said, but while his efforts looked more authentic, the result 
was equally unserviceable. 
"You can't roll a joint," said Scully with surprise.  "What did you do 
at Oxford?" 
"Studied?" Mulder suggested.  "I notice you can't do it either." 
"You're a guy." 
"Another stunning observation," said Mulder.  "I hate to disillusion 
you, but I am not nor have I ever been a pothead." 
"But you're so vocal about legalization," Scully said.  "You quote all 
those studies.  You knew where to make the buy." 
"I believe that marijuana should be decriminalized.  It's a relatively 
harmless drug that many people enjoy.  It's just that I'm not one of 
them," Mulder said. 
"You never tried it?" Scully asked.  "Maybe you should run for office." 
"I tried it a few times.  I even inhaled," Mulder said.  "It made me 
horny, hungry, and paranoid." 
"Coals to Newcastle," Scully said. 
"My point exactly.  I take it that your, uh, youthful experiments were 
more pleasant?" he inquired. 
"Well, yes-limited as they were, of course.  I found that marijuana 
enhanced certain experiences.  Music, for example.  Movies.  Food. 
Other things," she said. 
"You're blushing.  That's cute," said Mulder.  "Now all you need to do 
is get in touch with your inner wild-child so she can roll one for the 
AD." 
"I have a better idea," said Scully.  "The lab.  I've got glassware, 
tubing, connectors.  I'll make a pipe." 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 11/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
"Sir?  Walter?"  Scully's voice was soft and gentle. 
Skinner didn't dare open his eyes or move his head.  He raised his hand 
an inch off the bed to signal that he was awake. 
"There's something I want to try, and I want you to hear me out," she 
said. 
Cook had moved her chair out of the way to give Scully room at the 
bedside.  Mulder was standing by the foot of the bed. 
"No more tubes," Skinner said, barely moving his lips. 
"No more tubes," Scully agreed.  "Now, I know you won't like this, but 
it might help you." 
"Can't swallow," Skinner reminded her.  Even the word "swallow" made him 
gag. 
"No, sir.  You won't have to swallow this," she said. 
"Okay," he said. 
If he didn't have to swallow it and it didn't involve the insertion of 
tubes, Skinner was willing.  Even if Scully had suggested that she 
wanted to stick steel needles in his eyes, he was ready to give it a 
try. 
"Now, let me explain before you say No," Scully said. 
"Whatever.  Do it," he said. 
Scully was prepared to deliver fifteen minutes of exposition on the 
physiological and legal issues involved in medical marijuana and her 
mouth dropped at Skinner's easy acquiescence. 
"He said yes," Mulder prompted her.  "Give it to him." 
She turned off the flow of oxygen and removed the slender tube from 
around Skinner's face.  Mulder pulled out a book of matches. 
"Here, sir," she said, handing Skinner the pipe.  "It's marijuana. Smoke 
it." 
He handed it back to her, and until he spoke, she thought that he was 
refusing it after all. 
"Light it," he said. 
Now Scully looked around in confusion, as if he were asking her to jab a 
fork in a toaster. 
My God, that woman is dumber than dirt, thought Kim Cook. 
"Give it to me," Cook said.  "I never swore to uphold the law."  She had 
to take the pipe from Scully's hand.  Mulder lit a match and held it for 
her while she took a couple of drags to get the pipe glowing. 
Cook held the homemade pipe to Skinner's lips while he took his first 
toke, held it for him while he retained the smoke.  After he exhaled she 
offered him the pipe again, and when he'd expelled the second hit he 
felt well enough to hold it himself. 
"Works fast," he said.  He tried to give it to Scully. 
"Oh, no sir, I couldn't," she said. 
"You dumb shit," Skinner laughed.  "I just want someone to hold it a 
minute."  Mulder took the pipe from him so Skinner could sit up in the 
bed.  Then Mulder passed it back. 
"Have another toke," Mulder said. 
"Might as well," said Skinner.  He took another large toke and gave the 
pipe to Mulder. 
"Feeling better, sir?" Scully asked. 
"Oh, yeah," he said. 
"Do you think you can take these pills now?" she asked.  She poured them 
into her hand, one red capsule and one white tablet. 
"Red and white," Skinner said. 
Cook poured a cup of water, but Skinner shook his head. 
"Mountain Dew," he said emphatically. 
Cook stared defiantly at Scully while she poured some into a cup and 
Scully, who had never objected to the beverage in the first place, 
shrugged. 
Skinner downed the pills easily. 
"If you start feeling queasy you should smoke some more," Scully said. 
"No problem," Skinner said. 
"Are you ready for a break?" Scully asked Cook.  "I can stay with him 
now." 
"Tired, Kimmie?" Skinner asked.  "I'll be okay." 
"I'm fine, Walter."  She looked at Scully.  "Is there anything special I 
need to do for him?" 
"Check his electrolytes in about an hour," Scully told her. 
"Okay.  I'll bring you the results," Cook said. 
"How about some chow?" asked Skinner. 
"If you're feeling up to it," Scully said. 
Between the activity, the traveling, and the anorexia that Skinner's 
vomiting had induced in the others, no one had eaten all day. 
The bunker was stocked with a huge supply of food.  Mulder chose the 
simplest option, some pre-packaged microwave meals. 
They picnicked around Skinner's bed. 
"I wanted Spam, Spam, ham, and Spam," Skinner complained. 
"This is better.  Less Spam," Mulder told him. 
Even Pavlov joined in.  His dog food looked remarkably similar to what 
the others were eating. 
Skinner relit the pipe.  He wanted to make sure that the nausea didn't 
return and he was willing to enjoy the buzz.  Cook drew some blood, 
which was easily accomplished thanks to the arterial line in Skinner's 
wrist.  Scully was satisfied with the results and discontinued the 
intravenous hydration, now that Skinner was able to drink. 
"Can we bring a cot in here?" Cook asked, focusing on Scully.  "I'll 
wake up if the monitor alarms or if he calls me." 
"That's a good idea," said Scully, returning the eye contact. 
Even when they agreed, their interactions sizzled with hostility. 
"Hey!  You two!" Skinner said, and both women looked at him 
quizzically.  "Cut the crap.  Shake hands." 
After a bewildered pause, they obeyed rather stiffly. 
"You don't have to love each other but you do have to work together," he 
said. 
"We are," said Cook. 
"That's right," said Scully. 
"I think you should make them build a tower out of office furniture," 
Mulder said. 
Skinner looked at him with a twitch of annoyance. 
"Go find a cot," he said. 
Mulder stifled the urge to salute and went off in search of a cot, 
Pavlov trotting along to help. 
"Scully.  What's your problem?" Skinner asked. 
"I don't have a problem!" Scully objected.  "She's never liked me.  Ask 
her what the problem is." 
"You want to know what the problem is?  He spends half his time keeping 
you out of trouble and you treat him like the enemy.  You use him, Agent 
Scully.  You want him to trust you and you don't trust him," Cook said. 
"I'm doing this for him!" Scully exclaimed. 
Skinner held up a hand. 
"I see," he said.  "Scully, Kim Cook is my assistant and my friend.  I 
greatly appreciate her dedication and I'm only sorry I never made that 
clear to everyone." 
Scully started to say something but Skinner stopped her with another 
wave of the hand. 
"Kim, there has been ample cause for Agent Scully's suspicions.  I don't 
question her loyalty but I have never given you enough information to 
let you share my confidence," he said.  "I guess that's something I'll 
have to remedy." 
Mulder returned, wheeling in a folding bed, the mattress still wrapped 
in plastic. 
"And if that doesn't work, there's always that tower made of office 
furniture," Skinner concluded. 
"Or mud wrestling," Mulder said.  "That really brings women together." 
Mulder's comment passed without provoking so much as a grimace, since 
his intention to offer himself up as a common target was so transparent. 
"Do you want to look through my things, see if there's anything you need 
to borrow?" Scully asked Cook with forced brightness. 
"Thanks, Dana.  I think we're the same size," Cook said, smiling 
broadly. 
They left the room together and Mulder set to work unfolding the cot. 
"I can't help but notice, Mulder, that your partner is not at all 
comfortable about giving me the weed," Skinner said. 
The cot was easy enough to set up; the trick was to avoid getting your 
fingers amputated in the process. 
"She's kind of rigid about some things," Mulder agreed.  "I guess it's 
the legal aspect that's bothering her." 
"Personally, I'm not at all conflicted," Skinner said.  "Nothing else 
worked.  And feeling good is one side effect I'm willing to endure." 
= = = = 
"You don't really have to lend me anything, Dana," Cook said.  "I have 
the change of clothes I was going to wear after golf." 
Cook had made a show of accepting the offer for Skinner's sake but she 
didn't love the idea of sharing Scully's clothes. 
"Here, Kim," said Scully, handing her a pair of pajamas.  "Never been 
worn." 
Cook sighed. 
"I wasn't planning to undress, Dana.  We don't have that kind of 
relationship," she said. 
Scully's head was starting to hurt from the effort of being friendly to 
Cook. 
"The rooms are stocked with some basic items, too, Kim," Scully said. 
"Look at this." 
She showed Cook the monogrammed bathrobe that Mulder had appropriated. 
"DHS," Cook read the initials.  "Isn't that yours?" 
"No, it's not mine.  First of all, I'm DKS.  And second, I don't have a 
reserved room in a fallout shelter.  We found it here, and all the rooms 
have them," Scully said hotly. 
"Forgive me," said Cook.  "I will try to be more careful about 
remembering your middle initial." 
Two more days, thought Scully, and this will be over.  Skinner will be 
free and so will I. 
"Dana, I'm sorry," Cook said, the edge gone from her tone.  "It's been a 
long day and most of this has taken me by surprise." 
Scully nodded. 
"Just tell me what I need to know for tonight.  I don't have much 
experience with marijuana.  I don't want him to have too much or too 
little," Cook said. 
"Leave it up to him, I guess, he seems to be the expert," Scully said. 
"Mostly I'm concerned about the fire hazard." 
"Then I think we're all set," Cook said. 
"Kim, there's something else.  Those pills he took are very unpleasant," 
Scully said.  "They could give him vivid nightmares or even acute 
psychosis." 
"Did you warn him about that?" Cook asked, and Scully nodded. 
"Don't take this the wrong way, Dana," Cook said, "but I really hope you 
know what you're doing." 
"Me too," said Scully. 
= = = = 
"Kim!" he called in a low voice. 
"Walter?  What is it?"  She'd been in a light sleep but there was an 
urgency in his tone that snapped her awake. 
"Who told you to buy Mountain Dew?" he asked. 
"No one.  I knew you liked it," she said. 
"Mulder didn't suggest it?  Or Scully?" he asked.  "And when you opened 
it, was the seal intact?" 
"Nobody told me to buy it and nobody tampered with it," she said. 
"Okay," he said. 
She waited for more. 
"Mulder seems normal, don't you think?" he asked. 
"Normal for Mulder," Cook agreed. 
"Yes, that's what I meant." 
"Walter, what's going on?" Cook asked.  "What's wrong?" 
"I let her put all these needles in me, Kim.  Do you think it's really 
her?" he asked anxiously. 
"Do I think it's Scully?  Of course it is," Cook said. 
"She doesn't act like Scully," Skinner said.  "You saw her, Kim, she 
told me to smoke pot.  Does that sound like Scully?" 
"Walter, she was willing to try anything that might help.  And she acted 
just like Scully, she had to make it into some momentous drama," Cook 
said.  "She's probably crying to Mulder about it now, telling him how 
disappointed her daddy would be." 
"She's sleeping with him.  Think about it, Kim, why now, after all these 
years?" 
"I can't answer that.  Maybe she's hormonally challenged," Cook said. 
"Anyway, how do you know?   Did they send you an announcement?" 
"Never mind.  You're sure the Mountain Dew was your own idea?" 
"Absolutely, Walter," she said.  "I got it for you." 
"No Cheez Doodles?" he asked. 
"I got them too," she laughed. 
"You've been holding out on me," he said.  "Bring them on!" 
She got out of bed.  She had on Scully's brand new pajamas, but she was 
also wearing a terrycloth robe.  The extra layer made her feel less 
awkward. 
"What's the magic word?" she asked. 
"Please may I have some, please?" he asked.  She gave him the bag and he 
popped it open and began to munch. 
"I brought your Walkman, too.  Do you want it?" asked Cook. 
"Maybe later.  Right now I need to hear your voice," Skinner said. 
= = = = 
Scully didn't want to sleep with Mulder tonight.  Kim might have to wake 
her up for something and it would be unspeakably embarrassing if she was 
in bed with Mulder when that happened. 
Unspeakably embarrassing for her and Kim, anyway. 
"I understand, Scully.  Just go to bed," Mulder said.  "You can keep 
Souter's room." 
They had figured out the intended occupants of their underground 
shelter.  Mulder and Scully had been cohabiting in Justice David H. 
Souter's room, while Skinner had found himself in Justice Clarence 
Thomas's quarters. 
"I'll check on Skinner first," she said.  Scully was sitting on the 
floor in the common room, cleaning out Pavlov's ears with cotton balls 
and mineral oil.  Mulder was doing his best not to watch. 
"Again?" asked Mulder.  "He seemed perfectly happy when I was in there, 
with his tunes and his pipe and his Cheez Doodles.  He told me he was 
Uncle Sam and he'd been hiding out with a rock-n-roll band." 
"Last I checked he was eating beef jerky.  And Virgil Cane was his 
name," Scully said. 
Kim Cook tapped on the doorjamb before she entered the room, although 
the door was open.  The big white bathrobe was securely closed over the 
borrowed pajamas. 
"Let me guess," said Mulder.  "He needs more munchies." 
Cook was irritated by his flippancy, and not for the first time. 
"He wants to see you," she said.  "He's afraid you snuck off to turn him 
in to the DEA." 
Mulder's smirk vanished. 
"I know the feeling.  That's why I never liked the stuff," he said.  He 
and Cook went back to Skinner's room. 
"I knew you wouldn't do it," Skinner said when Mulder appeared.  "But 
once I thought of it I couldn't shake the idea." 
"Well, you've got quite a few chemicals on board, sir, and they're 
probably screwing with your head," Mulder said. 
"Yeah, that's what it was," Skinner agreed.  "Besides, Mulder, if you 
turn me in, I'll flip you like that."  He snapped his fingers.  "You 
made the buy." 
  
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 12/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
Skinner was the first to awaken the next morning, feeling rather dandy 
except for the urgent need to brush his teeth.  He started to disconnect 
himself from the monitoring equipment, causing various alarms to beep 
and ring. 
Cook woke up, looked at the monitor screen, and blanched with dread. 
Then she looked at the patient, who was about to slip out of bed. 
"Walter!  God damn it!" Cook shouted. 
"I'm okay," he said.  "Go back to sleep." 
"Where do you think you're going?  You're supposed to wake me if you 
need something," she said. 
"I have to get some fresh air," he told her.  "I've been cooped up here 
since Friday." 
"I'll check with Agent Scully," Cook said. 
"Come on, Kim.  Let's just take a walk," Skinner countered. 
She gave him a long, inscrutable look before she answered. 
"Okay," she said. 
Back in her room, Cook found herself dressing hurriedly, but couldn't 
honestly say if that was to make sure Skinner didn't slip out by himself 
or because she didn't want Scully to catch them. 
She and Skinner were defying Mulder and Scully.  The irony was too 
delicious. 
Skinner was waiting patiently for her in sick bay, and when she handed 
him his heavy down jacket, he put it on without an argument. 
They didn't speak as they walked down the hallway to the elevator, and 
the thick carpeting abetted their escape. 
But someone heard them. 
A pitiful torrent of yips and yaps greeted them from behind the closed 
door of the common room. 
"We'll have to take him along," Skinner whispered.  He opened the door 
and Pavlov came galloping out. 
"Oh, aren't they cute," said Cook, peering inside. 
"And me without a camera," said Skinner. 
Mulder and Scully were sprawled out on the couch in the common room, 
since neither of them had managed to get up and go to bed.  Mulder was 
slumped against the backrest, one hand still holding his place in the 
operator's manual to the misnamed "Simplista X-Ray Machine." 
Scully was on her back with her head in his lap, snoring and drooling, 
though not as loudly or as copiously as Pavlov would have. 
And since the dog's whining and barking hadn't woken the dormant duo, 
Skinner and Cook were confident that the elevator noises would also pass 
unnoticed. 
The weather on the surface was chilly and raw, but the bright sunshine 
was just what Skinner needed. 
"Bet you wish you had your clubs," he said. 
"I do.  Naturally," Cook told him. 
After a couple of brisk circuits around the warehouse building, Skinner 
reluctantly decided it was time to go in. 
"Let's give them something to think about," Cook said with an evil grin. 
While the FBI crackled with scuttlebutt, Cook and Skinner maintained a 
level of professionalism that had protected them from idle speculation. 
Perhaps if the timing had been different, they might have become more 
than friends.  He was married when she started to work for him, and she 
got married about a year later.  When she filed for divorce, he 
witnessed her signature and gave her the afternoon off.  He wanted to 
offer some support, but his own marriage was in trouble and he didn't 
feel up to it. 
He nodded his agreement. 
They were practically snickering as they rode the elevator down, and 
when the doors opened, Pavlov ran ahead.  It had been twenty minutes 
since he'd seen Mulder and Scully, and he wanted to celebrate the 
reunion with appropriate enthusiasm. 
Mulder was still on the couch, his head lolled against the backrest. 
Scully wasn't snoring anymore, since she had turned onto her stomach. 
"Quiet, Pavlov!" Skinner boomed, not to silence the dog but to blast the 
agents from their slumber. 
Mulder was on his feet with his gun in his hand almost before he was 
awake.  Scully, who toppled from his lap, woke before she hit the floor, 
and she had her gun drawn by the time she turned around. 
Skinner, Cook, jackets... Scully tried to put the pieces together in her 
sleep-fogged brain. 
"Huh?" she inquired. 
"Where were you?" Mulder demanded in a husky voice. 
"I wanted to go out for a walk.  Kim came with me," Skinner said calmly. 
"Walter needed some fresh air," Cook explained. 
It occurred to Scully that this was how most people spoke. "Kim." 
"Walter." She and Mulder must sound like a couple of jackasses, to 
normal people. 
And then Skinner gave Kim a hug.   A very big hug.  And they were both 
smiling. 
Scully's confusion was now complete. 
Mulder was blushing.  It wasn't visible, but he felt his face turn warm. 
"I'm glad you're feeling better," Scully stammered.  "Say, anyone 
hungry?  I think it's my turn to cook." 
"Starving," said Mulder very heartily.  "I could go for some Spam, ham, 
eggs, and Spam." 
"Sounds tasty," said Cook.  "But can we have powdered eggs?" 
"Mm-mm," said Skinner.  "And a big glass of Tang, please." 
= = = = 
After breakfast, Skinner and Mulder decided to continue their 
exploration of the bunker.  Now that they knew that the facility was 
earmarked for the Supreme Court, they were curious about what the rooms 
would reflect of their intended occupants. 
Cook was somewhat relieved by the revelation.  She'd been using a 
bathrobe monogrammed "AK" and she was glad that it belonged not to Alex 
Krycek but to Anthony Kennedy.  She didn't share his political 
philosophy but at least he wasn't a killer. 
"Walter looks great this morning," Cook commented.  She and Scully were 
still at the table. 
"He does.  But the next round begins at noon, with the IV medication. 
Then the pills again at six," Scully said. 
"It's the medicine that's making him sick," said Cook.  "Are you sure 
it's necessary?"  There was no accusing tone in the question. 
"As sure as I can be," Scully said.  "I don't have all the answers.  I 
can only hope that I learned enough at WellTech Laboratories to pull him 
through this." 
"I should have known that you were undercover.  There were so many 
rumors about why you had to leave the bureau, but none of them made 
sense.  Of course Old Stoneface never talked about it," Cook said. 
"Maybe he should have," Scully said.  "It's hard to follow someone 
blindly when you don't have all the information."  She smiled 
involuntarily.  "Of course it gets easier after a while." 
"Dana, I want to tell you about something.  I got a phone call from a 
man named Eric Whittaker, a researcher from WellTech.  He warned me not 
to try to call you anymore, and then he told me about the nanites," Cook 
said. 
"Eric?  That's a surprise.  He's a brilliant scientist but he tries to 
keep his head in the sand," Scully said. 
"Is he brilliant?  He sounded terribly odd."  Cook didn't mention that 
Whittaker had reminded her of Mulder.  Both were prone to outrageous 
assertions that defied logic. 
"Maybe that's not that word.  He's thorough, though, and obsessive about 
minutia," Scully said. 
"I think he could help here," Cook said.  "Help you take care of 
Walter." 
 "He wouldn't do it," Scully said flatly.  "He's perfectly comfortable 
where he is.  He's perfectly comfortable working for the devil, as long 
as he can close his eyes to the consequences." 
"He didn't sound comfortable to me," said Kim.  "I think you should call 
him.  There's no disgrace in asking for help." 
"Believe me, Kim, if I thought he would do it I'd call.  It's not a 
matter of ego, it's just that you don't know him the way I do," Scully 
said. 
For Scully, the matter was settled. 
Cook had her own ideas, and after finding Skinner to tell him she would 
be gone for a while, she left the bunker and turned her Jeep back toward 
Washington. 
= = = = 
As the morning progressed, Skinner found it impossible to ignore the 
unpleasant treatment that lay ahead.  Mulder was following him around 
the bunker cracking jokes and trying to distract him but succeeding 
mostly in irritating him. 
He ditched Mulder in the weight room and tracked Scully down to the sick 
bay, where she was filling and labeling syringes and IV bags. 
"Let's get this show on the road," he said. 
"Don't you want to wait for Kim?" she asked. 
"No, I can shake and bake and puke without her.  I know her; she'll be 
back before six," he said. 
He could lean on Scully or Mulder to get through the rigors, fever, and 
nausea of the intravenous treatment.  But when he had to swallow the 
pills that turned his own thoughts against him, he would want to have 
Kim Cook in his corner. 
"Okay, sir.  Why don't you light up first?" 
Scully suspected that Demerol was the cause of his retching but he'd 
need a heavy dose of it to quell the shakes.  She wanted him to start 
with the marijuana to prevent the nausea. 
"An ounce of prevention, eh?" Skinner asked. 
"Maybe not the whole ounce," she said. 
The afternoon went smoothly this time.  The premedications forestalled 
the side effects of the treatment, and the cannabis let Skinner tolerate 
the premedications. 
Without the vomiting Skinner's blood chemistry was more stable.  Scully 
checked it once but did not need to correct his electrolytes.  There 
were no rigors to increase his oxygen demand or interfere with his 
breathing, and he didn't need supplemental O2. 
Skinner dozed at times, but mostly he was awake, using headphones to 
listen to his CDs. 
"You're awfully quiet," Scully said.  He seemed so exhausted and glum 
that she put her hand over his.  Given their usual reserve, it had the 
impact of a bear hug. 
"I'm awfully mellow," he said,  "just thinking.  Scully, you know Mulder 
as well as anyone, wouldn't you say?" 
She answered with her face, one of her silly little eyebrow dances that 
was meant to be noncommittal. 
"Okay, how many times has he been injured?" Skinner asked. 
Scully had a binder for Mulder's medical history, but she would have had 
to flip through it to give Skinner an accurate tally.  Skinner didn't 
wait for her answer. 
"Well, let's see," he said.  "We've got the times he was detained by the 
military or the Consortium, but I suppose we don't really know what they 
did to him.  He took you into the forest and got infested with tree 
mites.  There was that cruise on the Norwegian death ship that turned 
you to salt." 
Scully had always gone to great lengths, in her reports to Skinner, to 
describe her activities and Mulder's with maximum dignity and minimum 
flamboyance.  She could see now that her efforts were in vain. 
"There was the attack of the giant mushroom.  And I think he was mauled 
by a gorilla once, wasn't he?  And a mothman and a beast woman, right?" 
"Sir, Agent Mulder has served with distinction-" Scully began. 
"But there was only one injury that he couldn't shake off the next day." 
Skinner was exaggerating, Scully thought.  Brain surgery had slowed 
Mulder down considerably.  And he'd been confined to the Air Force 
hospital for weeks. 
"Agent Mulder's weakness," Skinner said.  "I hope the consortium never 
finds out."  Skinner was wagging his little finger at her in a gesture 
that had to be obscene somewhere in the world. 
"Sir?" Scully said. 
"His pinky." 
= = = = 
On Sunday afternoons, Eric Whittaker liked to stay home and work on his 
hobbies.  He had the house to himself, unless it rained, and he could 
spend hours with forceps and microscopes, categorizing and studying his 
specimens. 
Today he was working on his dust collection.  He was collecting in the 
bathroom, where the moist environment had profound effects on the 
characteristic settling patterns. When the phone rang, he carefully 
slipped a tiny gossamer tangle into a container before he moved to 
answer it. 
"Dr. Whittaker, this is Kim Cook.  I need to speak to you.  Dr. Scully 
needs your help." 
"She does?  What kind of help does she need?" he asked.  He hoped she 
wanted to use him as a reference; that wouldn't be too bad. 
"She's trying to cure someone.  The test subject you told me about.  The 
man with the nanites," Cook said. 
But it's Sunday, Whittaker wanted to tell her.  Don't make me think 
about nanites on Sunday. 
"How's he doing?" Whittaker asked. 
"He's suffering," said Cook.  "He's very ill." 
"Oh," said Whittaker sadly.  "I don't know if I can help him." 
Defusing the biological booby-trap required a fairly precise regimen of 
drugs.  If Dr. Scully hadn't started her patient on the right 
medications, it might be too late. 
"But you'll try," Cook said.  It wasn't a question. 
"I'll try," Whittaker said. 
Cook began to give him the directions to the bunker, but he knew where 
to find it. 
"Longstreet, Virginia? There's a high priority government shelter in 
Longstreet.  I designed the infirmary," he said. 
Cook offered to drive him, but he preferred to take his own vehicle. 
She decided to head home and pick up some necessary items. 
She wanted to be back with Skinner before he had to take those horrible 
pills, but she found a message on her answering machine that made her 
change her plans. 
Ned Ippolito was asking her out.  He told her he had information for 
her, something that would help her friend, Walter Skinner. 
= = = = 
"You never dropped acid, did you, Mulder," Skinner said.  Something like 
that would have shown up in Mulder's pre-employment background check, 
and Skinner would have remembered. 
"No, sir.  The whole idea scared the shit out of me," Mulder answered. 
"You were smart," said Skinner.  "I would advise anyone to avoid 
mind-altering drugs." 
"I haven't exactly managed to avoid them, I just never took them 
voluntarily," Mulder said.  He would never know what drugs he'd been 
given against his will over the years. 
Skinner's one-man tea party was making him nostalgic and loquacious. 
Mulder was sitting by the bedside, letting Scully take a break. 
"I only tried LSD twice," Skinner said. 
"Yeah?  What was it like?" Mulder asked. 
"First time, that was sweet.  But the second time..." 
"Bad trip?" Mulder asked. 
"You might say that," Skinner said.  "It was at a Dead concert.  You 
never saw the Dead, did you, Mulder?" 
"I stayed in the same hotel as Jerry Garcia once," Mulder offered. 
"Lot of people would do acid when they went to see the Dead," Skinner 
explained.  "For a while it was beautiful.  I felt like I was playing 
the music, controlling the jam.  Very cool." 
Mulder nodded.  He was trying to imagine the scene, but he couldn't get 
the suit, tie, and wingtips out of the picture. 
"Then I saw something.  Nobody else was reacting, but there were these 
little men.  Or maybe not men.  More like children, but kind of 
featureless."  Skinner was punctuating his description with hand 
gestures. 
"From another planet, or maybe another dimension, or maybe the center of 
the earth or something.  But definitely not human," Skinner said. 
"What did they do?" Mulder asked. 
"Just walking around, maybe carrying stuff, I don't know.  I was trying 
to tell everyone," Skinner said. 
"Were you scared?" Mulder asked. 
"Not really.  I was surprised, trying to let people know they were 
there.  But they must have done something, cause all of a sudden my skin 
felt like it was crawling with bugs," Skinner said. 
Mulder would have asked him to stop, but he didn't want to upset him. 
"I had to get my clothes off," Skinner explained.  "I was stripping off 
my clothes, screaming like a maniac.  Lucky it was at a Dead concert, 
they had a place set up where you could do stuff like that, and someone 
there to try to talk you down." 
"No wonder you never tried it again," Mulder said with a shudder. 
"Yeah.  But the first  time, wow, that was beautiful.  I was with this 
girl, Heidi, and her sister, Jackie.  You never made it with two women, 
did you, Mulder?" 
"Not voluntarily," Mulder said. 
"This wasn't exactly voluntary either," Skinner explained.  "Heidi was 
afraid her sister would rat her out if she didn't share." 
"What did they look like?" Mulder asked, starting to get interested. 
Skinner snorted. 
"They looked... good.  Really, really good.  They both had these big-" 
Scully came through the door, gun drawn. 
"There's someone up in the warehouse," she said.  "I'm going to have a 
look." 
"Maybe it's Kim," Skinner suggested. 
"Maybe," said Mulder.  "Scully, you stay here, I'll check it out." 
She had to agree.  Until Skinner was out of the woods, Mulder was more 
dispensable than she was. 
= = = = 
Krycek didn't kill for pleasure, he killed for practical reasons. 
Still, he did enjoy it. 
He'd lost this round.  Big time.  He had to assume that the nanites were 
dead.  Skinner was probably alive, and if Scully was successful, he 
would stay that way. 
No big deal.  If Skinner had gotten that lucky, Krycek would let him 
live.  There was simply no reason to kill him. 
But Edwin Ippolito was dead meat. 
Krycek had channeled millions of dollars to him and he had nothing to 
show for it.  Ippolito had double-crossed him, had tried to play his own 
game with Krycek's money and his nanites. 
And now, Krycek would kill him.  It was small compensation, but at least 
it was something. 
He pulled on his leather gloves.  Then he adjusted his jacket to cover 
the form of his 9mm automatic. 
= = = = 
"I misjudged Eric Whittaker," Scully said.  "He's putting his job on the 
line to help us." 
The intruder in the warehouse had been none other than the lean 
scientist with the odd speech.  He had been unable to turn his back on 
Kim Cook's call for help. 
Cook herself had not returned, but Skinner had taken his frightening 
pills as scheduled.  Mulder and Scully were lounging in the common room, 
and it was Whittaker who attended at the bedside. 
Even though Whittaker was a stranger, Skinner found something grounding 
in his animated chatter.  Mulder and especially Scully still seemed to 
arouse his suspicion when he was in the throes of his medicinally 
produced psychosis. 
"Kim Cook can be very persuasive," Mulder said, patting himself to check 
for his weapon.  "Did Whittaker have any suggestions about the treatment 
for Skinner?" 
"He confirmed what I've done so far.  In fact, he wants to add marijuana 
'as needed' to the protocol.  He had some suggestions regarding the 
recovery phase, after the cure is complete," Scully said. 
They were sitting on the couch, and Scully had put her stocking feet in 
Mulder's lap.  Bright fellow that he was, he had taken his cue and 
started to rub.   Pavlov was in the sick bay; he would have demanded his 
fair share if he'd been in the room. 
"Why don't you take a nap?" Mulder suggested.  "You're beat, and 
Whittaker can handle the medical side for a while." 
"I've been cooped up all day.  What I need is some exercise," Scully 
said. 
"Great.  I'd love a run," Mulder said. 
Running with Mulder was not a good idea, Scully thought.  He was always 
offering to pace her or coaching her on how to improve her stride. 
"It's too dark," Scully said.  "Maybe I'll use the weights." 
"I'll spot you," said Mulder. 
Mulder was such a pushy spotter, Scully remembered.  Full of suggestions 
like, "If you'd make it heavier, you wouldn't have to do so many reps." 
Or:  "If you can do that many reps, you need to add some weight." 
"I think I'll go for a drive," Scully said.  "We're running low on 
Mountain Dew." 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 13/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
"You want to hear about hair?" Whittaker asked.  He had talked to 
Skinner for an hour about his observations on dust. 
"You collect hair too?" Skinner asked.  He was cross-legged on the bed, 
relighting his pipe. 
"I have a collection, but mostly I study it.  I can tell how long it's 
been detached-with human hair, anyway.  And I have some statistical 
calculations about hair migration," Whittaker said. 
"It migrates?" Skinner asked. 
"Uh-huh.  See, on Sunday I do my initial survey, and I tag them." 
"What?"  Skinner felt a flash of sorrow and a sudden recollection of 
Agent Pendrell, dropped by a bullet years ago. The awkward and intense 
Dr. Whittaker reminded him of the shy but brilliant agent. Pendrell was 
younger, but he'd shown the same quirky curiosity, the same 
inventiveness and attention to detail. 
"Food dye.  The hair in the bathroom, I tag it blue.  Red for the living 
room.  A different color for each room of origin," Whittaker said. 
"Then no vacuuming for a week." 
"How does your wife feel about that?" Skinner asked. 
"She doesn't let me study hair very often," Whittaker admitted.  "She 
liked the dust survey better.  I vacuumed every day for that one.  I'll 
tell you what really ticked her off." 
Skinner nodded.  He needed something to keep his raggedy thoughts in 
line, and Whittaker's narrative was working for him. 
"I was using a low-resistance sulfur light source-it's good for 
visualizing the structure in a dust-mote complex.  But it makes every 
smudge stand out.  Looked like the furniture, the walls, were covered in 
fingerprints.  Oh, she was mad!" Whittaker said. 
"I'll bet," said Skinner. 
"She had me scrubbing and scouring, but you could hardly wipe those 
things out.  Finally I just gave up on using that light, at least when 
she was around." 
"Ever try photographing the fingerprints?" Skinner asked. 
"Holy Hannah, why would I want to do that?" Whittaker asked. 
= = = = 
Ippolito wanted Kim Cook to meet him in his private dining room, at the 
WellTech Laboratories building. 
She countered with one suggestion after another but he stood his ground 
like a stubborn two-year-old. 
"It's my special place," he said poutily.  "I know you'll like it, Kim. 
It's very posh." 
And now she sat at a table with him, trying to pry from him the 
information he had promised without revealing too much of what she knew. 
Ippolito was indulging his fantasy that this was a real date.  Instead 
of a business suit, he had donned his "lucky" shirt.  He wanted to make 
the evening last, and he was in no hurry to tell Cook anything. 
"So, Kim.  Do you have any allergies?" he asked. 
Cook had had her share of very bad dates, but Ippolito's idea of small 
talk was one for the books. 
"Ned, you said you had some information that would help my friend," she 
reminded him. 
"Why don't we get to know each other first?  Then we can talk about your 
friend," Ippolito said.  He leaned toward her, the odor of his cigar 
making him even more repugnant.  "How are your teeth?  Do you have any 
removable bridgework?" 
Cook looked at her watch: eight o'clock.  Skinner might be sweating with 
panic by now or tearing his sheets with rage.  She was wasting her time. 
"I'm going to have to excuse myself," she said.  "I'm sorry it didn't 
work out." 
"Do I make you nervous?" Ippolito asked.   "Do you feel uncomfortable 
being alone with me?"  He was still in his chair but Cook was on her 
feet, towering over him. 
"Ned, I'm sure you're a nice guy," Cook lied.  "But I came here for a 
reason and I can see that you're not ready to tell me anything." 
"I'm a lonely man, Kim," Ippolito said, pursing his lips.  "Have a drink 
with me.  Then I'll tell you everything you need to know." 
Kim hesitated.  She'd already invested so much time in this worm, she 
should try to salvage something. 
"Okay.  One drink," she said. 
= = = = 
Skinner sat on the edge of the bed, his Clarence Thomas bathrobe open in 
the front to accommodate the EKG leads.  Whittaker was sitting on the 
cot and Mulder's chair was by the foot of the bed. 
Skinner was revealing a secret from his past:  the identify of the first 
woman who had ever seized his heart and his imagination. 
"Sometimes I'd put myself back in time, so I could be her navigator. 
We'd put down on a beautiful island and decide to stay. Other times 
she'd land her little Lockheed Electra in my backyard.  She'd gotten 
caught in a time anomaly," he explained, his red eyes glazed with 
desire. 
"Remarkable woman," said Mulder diplomatically.  "Very adventurous." 
"She had big feet, you know," Whittaker contributed.  "She wore ugly 
shoes." 
Skinner glared at him. 
After a minute of silence, Mulder spoke. 
"You know who got a bum rap?  Catherine the Great.  She really wasn't 
power hungry," he explained.  "She was in a situation that called out 
for competent leadership, and she provided it." 
Skinner's face nearly split with suppressed laughter. 
"So you admire her management style?" He barely managed to get the words 
out. 
"You're going to say she was ruthless," Mulder said.  "Well, she was a 
product of her times." 
"I was going to ask you how you felt about Shetland ponies," Skinner 
said. 
"That's a lie," Mulder said hotly.  "Totally apocryphal." 
"Did you ever see how they breed bulls?" Whittaker asked.  "I had a 
summer job in the artificial insemination plant-" 
Skinner decided to interrupt: 
"Here's the primordial question.  Ginger or Mary Ann?" 
"I'm thinking both," said Mulder.  "I mean, I used to think, sure, 
Stevie Nicks, but why can't I have Christine McVie too?" 
"Jesus, Mulder, she's older than Plato!" Skinner said. 
"That's a very narrow response," Mulder said.  "Tina Turner is older 
than God!" 
"Tina Turner is in a class by herself," Skinner said angrily, his face a 
mask of quiet menace. 
"I know!  That's what I'm trying to tell you," said Mulder defensively. 
"Like you'd know what to do with a woman like that!" Skinner said. 
"Older women can be very hot," Whittaker announced, nodding with 
conviction.  "Did you ever notice Mrs. Howell?  She had such slender 
ankles, and she walked like a lady." 
Skinner's face melted into laughter. 
Skinner was giggling. 
Whittaker blushed and made a show of studying the telemetry monitors. 
"Sir?" Mulder said a minute later, when Skinner was still giggling. 
"Hey, how about Vince Carter?  You think he'll freeze up when he gets to 
the play-offs?"  Mulder's nasal monotone cut through Skinner's helpless 
chortles. 
Whittaker looked bewildered and Skinner had tears in his eyes. 
"Larry Johnson.  He's healthy this year," Mulder plowed on.  "And 
Ewing." 
Skinner tried to say something but Mulder couldn't make it out through 
the laughter. 
"Shaquille O'Neal.  I think Scully's got a thing for him," Mulder 
stammered, feeling as stupid now as Whittaker. 
Skinner was nodding, and he finally managed to speak without choking: 
"Of course she does!  Look at the size of those sneakers!" 
= = = = 
Scully had copied Kim Cook's phone numbers from Skinner's cellular 
before leaving the bunker.  She found it odd that Cook wasn't back yet. 
Mulder speculated that once Cook had enlisted Whittaker's assistance, 
she didn't feel obligated to return.  Scully couldn't accept that 
explanation, but she didn't want to upset Skinner by asking for his 
opinion. 
She drove to the same convenience store where Cook had purchased 
Skinner's libation, and after she'd paid for an assortment of beverages 
and a bag of sunflower seeds, she sat in her car and attempted to 
contact Kim Cook. 
The answering machine picked up her call to the home number, so she 
keyed in the number for the cell phone. 
"Hello."  Cook's voice sounded small and shaky. 
"Kim, it's Dana," Scully said.  "Are you all right?" 
"Dana.  Maybe you can join us.  Wouldn't you like that, Ned?" 
Scully heard Ippolito in the background. 
"Hang up, Kim," he said in his menacing singsong. 
"Ned has a private dining room, Dana.  I'm a lucky girl, don't you 
think?" 
Cook sounded as if she were about to cry, and Scully wanted to cry too. 
"I have to hang up so I can call for help," Scully whispered into the 
phone.  "I'll try to call you again." 
"WellTech Laboratories building, in Arlington.  Dana-" 
The connection broke and Scully called the Arlington PD. 
"No problem, ma'am, we'll check it out," the desk sergeant told Scully. 
She thanked him but started to drive toward Arlington, almost an hour 
away. 
Scully dialed up Kim's number again, but this time the phone was turned 
off.  She was driving too fast for safety, and she'd seen morguefuls of 
people who used phones while they drove, but at that moment she didn't 
care. 
She called the FBI headquarters, again trying to summon law enforcement 
for Cook. 
"Don't put me on the spot, Dana," Danny told her.  "You're not an agent 
anymore.  I'm sorry if things aren't working out for you at WellTech 
Laboratories, but don't try to get the Bureau to fight your battles." 
"Put me through to the Director's office," Scully said. 
Danny forwarded the call, and Scully found herself exiled to the voice 
mail system. 
= = = = 
"Now, I need you to hop up on the table for me.  Do you think you can do 
that?" Ippolito asked. 
Kim Cook looked at him with horror and desperation.  She was tied to the 
high-backed chair, held in place with straps around her waist, legs, and 
arms.  Ippolito had been surprised when she was able reach her phone and 
take Scully's call, and he'd responded by restraining her wrists more 
securely. 
"I'll loosen these straps so you can climb up on the table.  Okay?" 
Ippolito asked. 
They were still in the WellTech executive dining room, but there was a 
new element to the furnishing.  A gurney.   Ippolito had wheeled it into 
the dining room when Cook had first lost consciousness. 
"Okay," she said, but he shook his head, smiling sadly. 
"I think you're lying to me.  You've been a very bad patient, Kim, even 
though you keep promising me you'll cooperate." 
When Cook had recovered from her chloral hydrate cocktail, she had 
screamed for help until Ippolito silenced her with a mask full of 
anesthetic inhalant. 
Now he brought the padded black mask over her mouth and nose and once 
again her screams were muffled and then extinguished. 
"That's a good girl," Ippolito said.  He released the Velcro straps and, 
grunting a little, lifted the limp body up onto the gurney.  He had to 
turn her, first right and then left, to remove her slacks, and he folded 
them carefully along the crease before placing them on a chair. 
"Oh, you are a good girl, you really are," he said joyously.  She was 
wearing white cotton underpants.  Good, sturdy pants, a little too 
high-cut, perhaps, but otherwise just right, just like his mom's. 
He fastened the straps across her, holding her in place, and then he 
draped her carefully with a thick, green sheet. 
"I love you, Kim," he said.  "You know that, don't you?" 
The inhalant was fast-acting, quick to work and quick to wear off.  She 
was starting to stir. 
"Don't scream, Kim," he begged her.  "You'll give yourself a sore 
throat." 
She probably had a sore throat already, he thought.  A little Cetacaine 
would help that.  He could spray some topical anesthetic on her throat. 
In fact, he could spray some right on her vocal cords. 
Cook awoke to the feel of cold metal against her teeth, a blunt metal 
blade that was quickly withdrawn before she could struggle against it. 
Then a bitter, bitter taste on her tongue. 
Ippolito was leaning over her, but he turned away.  A phone was 
ringing.  He was going to answer the phone. 
Cook marshaled her strength and her aching larynx to bellow for help. 
But she couldn't.  Her scream emerged as a voiceless whisper. 
Ippolito nodded knowingly. 
"There, now," he said.  "Doesn't that feel better?  Kim, I have to go 
handle something.  I think your friend Dr. Scully must have called the 
cops on us.  Some friend, huh?   You wait here, I'll take care of them." 
= = = = 
"God damn it!"  Scully swore.  She could not get through to the 
Director, and she could not get passed the hulking tanker truck that 
lumbered along ahead of her.  She leaned on the horn, and then she 
redialed the Arlington police department. 
"Lady, we checked it out," the desk sergeant told her. "There's nothing 
wrong at WellTech Laboratories.  Hell, there's nobody there except the 
company president, and he looked about as dangerous as the Stay Puft 
Marshmallow man." 
"You need to search the building," Scully shouted.  "Check the executive 
dining room!" 
"Sure, lady.  Right away." The officer hung up. 
Scully couldn't allow herself the luxury of despair.  It was a long 
shot, but she gave it a try. 
"This is Special Agent Dana Scully of the FBI," she told the jaded 
switchboard operator at the Department of Justice.  "I need to speak to 
the Attorney General." 
= = = = 
Back in Longstreet, the underground bull session continued.  Skinner and 
Whittaker discovered a mutual devotion to classic British television. 
Skinner was stoned, and Whittaker was... well, Whittaker.  Only Mulder had 
the sense to stay out of it.  Besides, he didn't know what they were 
talking about. 
"You're crazy," Whittaker said.  "She was married, after all.  And he 
was a gentleman. Besides, they were English." 
"What does that mean, they were English?" Skinner said.  "You think the 
English don't do it?" 
"I'm just saying they didn't do it," Whittaker said.  "And I saw every 
episode." 
"They did it between shows," Skinner explained.  "Obviously." 
"They were partners," Whittaker said.  "They worked together.  They 
socialized, too, but they definitely did not do it." 
"Whittaker, I'm a trained observer.  I'm telling you, they did it," 
Skinner said. 
"They could not have done it!" said Whittaker with uncharacteristic 
conviction.  "They didn't even call each other by their first names!" 
  
= = = = 
Controlled Substances 14/14 
By Kel, ckelll@hotmail.com 
  
Kim Cook's desperation had withered into resignation.  She was 
immobilized on the padded stretcher.  Ippolito could knock her 
unconscious, or leave her awake and paralyzed, or drug her into oblivion 
or confusion. Her fate was out of her hands. 
"You understand why I have to do this, don't you, Kim?"  Ippolito's face 
was so earnest, so sincere. He had changed from his lucky shirt into a 
scrub suit and gown. 
"You deserve to be loved, Ned," Cook recited in a shaky voice.  She 
strained her neck to watch Ippolito as he placed a green towel over a 
steel tray. 
"That's what my mom says," he agreed.  "I deserve to be loved.  I 
deserve the best.  My mom loves me, that's for sure."  He was putting 
things on top of the towel.  Scary things, like long needles and big 
syringes and ampules and tubes. 
"What's she like?" Cook asked.  She was trying to stay cool but her 
voice betrayed her terror. 
"She's given me everything.  She paid for my education.  She cuts my 
hair," he said. 
"It looks nice," said Cook. 
"No one else can do it like she does," Ippolito said proudly. 
"Ned, would you please untie me?" asked Cook.  "The straps are hurting 
me." 
"I wish I could, Kim, but I think you would run away."  He was fiddling 
with something at the foot of the gurney. 
Stirrups.  Cook gulped with terror, but then she found the strength to 
continue her ploy. 
"We'd have more fun if you'd loosen the straps," she said.  "I could 
undress for you." 
"I would like that very much," said Ippolito.  "But first I'd better 
give you more medicine."  He winked.  "To help you stay as sweet as you 
are." 
"Please, Ned, no more medicine."  She was fighting back the tears. 
"I'll be sweet, Ned, I promise." 
"Now, now, who's the doctor?" he clucked. 
Cook had fought him all she could, but nothing had worked.  Her only 
hope was Scully and her only defense was to try to buy more time. 
"Please don't hurt me," she said. 
"I'm very gentle," he said, as the steel needle slid into her arm. 
"Very, very gentle." 
Kim's vision clouded and she felt as if she were lost in a thick fog. 
Time stopped, but Ippolito was still talking. 
She couldn't make out his features any more.  He was a blur of sea-foam 
green in his gown and mask and hat.  He was crooning at her. 
"They're perfect, Kim.  So sensible, so white.  My mom buys them too. 
Three in a pack.  But now it's time for them to come off." 
Cook was beyond hoping for rescue.  She only hoped that she would pass 
out. 
"First I'm going to fix the stirrups for you.  I want you to relax.  You 
won't feel a thing," he said. 
She heard the metal clank as he made the adjustment. 
"There.  And now for those panties." 
His hands disappeared under the green drape.  She couldn't feel him 
touching her.  But maybe he was. 
Please, God, let me faint, she prayed. 
Then a phantom entered her field of vision.  Someone who would take 
pity?  Someone who would help her?  She strained to focus. 
No, no, no!  This was a demon, a sleek demon in black leather.  She had 
seen this man before and he frightened her. 
"Ned, is that any way to treat a lady?" Krycek asked. 
"Mr. Krycek!  I'm... I'm...." 
"I can see what you're doing, Ned.  You're a rapist as well as a 
double-crosser," Krycek said. 
"Rapist?  No, Mr. Krycek, she wants me. Don't you, honey?  Besides, I'm 
going to make her tell us where Skinner is!"  Ippolito's face was a 
caricature of fear. 
Krycek turned his attention to Cook. 
"Are you okay?" he asked.  She stared at him, trying to understand. 
"I thought you were Scully," he said.  "You look like her.  Has anyone 
ever told you that?" 
Cook shook her head, her mouth too dry to speak. 
"I've made that mistake before," Krycek said, mostly to himself.  Cook 
was too drugged to understand, and Ippolito would be dead soon.  "I 
don't make mistakes like that any more." 
Melissa Scully had been the last person he'd killed unintentionally.  He 
wasn't the one who had pulled the trigger, but in his own way and for 
his own reasons, he felt badly about it. 
"You're Skinner's assistant, aren't you?" he asked.  "Kim.  Your name is 
Kim." 
She nodded dumbly, trying to keep her eyes open.  Ippolito started 
backing to the door. 
"Sit down, Ned," said Krycek, drawing his gun.  "I'm not finished with 
you." 
Ippolito sat, his white face whiter than usual. 
"I'm not going to hurt you, Kim. Close your eyes," Krycek said. 
She'd been barely able to hold up her drooping eyelids, but now she had 
to force herself to close them. 
"Good night, Ned," Krycek said. 
Cook heard a muffled crack, and then a thud. 
Then nothing. 
Cook didn't know she had fallen asleep until the blare of sirens woke 
her up. 
Footsteps.  Voices. 
She had to fight against the lethargy and weakness just to open her 
eyes. 
She saw men in big raincoats, men with helmets. 
Firefighters. 
"Lady?  You okay?" one of them asked, releasing the straps. 
A shout:  "Jesus Christ, this guy's got no chest left!" 
"Get the EMTs in here!" 
And then the paramedics.  One team for Ippolito and another for Cook. 
"Do you know where you are?" they asked Cook. 
Ippolito's crew didn't touch him.  It was too late to help, and this was 
a crime scene. 
More voices. 
"What the hell's going on?" 
"What's taking the cops so long?" 
And then a woman's voice, familiar and pushy, arguing with the uniformed 
men, ordering them to let her through. 
"Special Agent Dana Scully.  I'm a doctor." 
"Dana!" Cook's throat burned as she called the name. 
"Kim!"  Scully was filled with relief. "Are you all right?  What 
happened?" 
Cook couldn't answer, couldn't sort the terror and the loathing into 
words.  She didn't know if she could trust her hazy, twisted memories. 
She didn't want to remember.  When she could maker herself speak, the 
words came out in a rush. 
"Alex Krycek.  He saved me." 
= = = = 
EPILOGUE 
FBI Headquarters 
Washington, DC 
Two months later 
  
Kim Cook pushed the pile of papers across the desk to Dana Scully. 
"I can't sign off on this until you finish the mileage log," she said. 
"Oops.  Sorry," Scully said, taking back the form and completing it. 
"Hey, are you free for lunch?  I was thinking we could take Eric 
Whittaker over to TJ's." 
Cook smiled. 
"We should have gotten a drink into him =before= his big interview with 
the head of the crime lab.  Loosen him up," she said. 
"He is, like, such a geek," said Scully in her best Valley girl 
imitation. 
"He is what he is.  Whatever that is," said Cook.  "I'll always be 
grateful to him, though.  And to you." 
"To me?  Kim, I left you in terrible danger.  I should have warned you 
about Ippolito.  I don't want to think about what almost happened," 
Scully said. 
"Someone should have warned me," Cook agreed.  "Let's face it, everyone 
treats me like a mushroom." 
"Keeps you in the dark and feeds you manure," Scully said.  "I know that 
feeling.  Looks like Skinner's putting an end to that."  She couldn't 
call him Walter; it just didn't work. 
"Dana, you're the only one who realized I was missing, and you're the 
one who managed to send help. Even if you did have to call the fire 
department," Cook said. 
"Technically known as a false alarm," Scully said. 
"Technically," Cook agreed.  "Say, I hope you aren't forced to resign in 
disgrace because of that." 
"Kim, it's no joke.  People are still talking about me!  Tom Colton's 
been telling everyone I =planted= that bomb in Dallas!" 
"He's a prick.  But no one knew you were undercover, and when you 
resigned so suddenly people made up their own explanations," Cook said. 
"How is it working out, with your new responsibilities?" Scully asked. 
This was the second time she'd had to go to Cook for approval of her 
expenses. 
"New?  Dana, I've been doing this for years. You don't think Walter has 
time to go through every line, do you?"  Cook shook her head in 
disbelief.  "I'd approve the straightforward stuff and alert him to all 
the questionable claims." 
"That was you?"  Scully laughed.  "Why, you eagle-eyed tightass!" 
"Thank you, thank you," said Cook.  "I aim to please. " 
"Kim, what have you heard about Eric's chances here?  I think he'd be a 
great examiner," Scully said. 
Kim didn't reply.  She hoped Scully would realize that she wasn't at 
liberty to answer that kind of question. 
"Hey, look who's here!"  Mulder had his arm around Whittaker as he led 
him over to Kim's desk, and his hearty tone contrasted with Whittaker's 
pale nervousness.  "Okay, Eric, why don't you say hello to Kim?" 
Eric nodded at her, and finally managed to say hi. 
"I'll tell AD Skinner you're here," Cook offered.  "I'm sure he'll be 
happy to see you." 
"Oh, Dana, I found Britney Spears," Whittaker told her.  "Just like you 
said, in a record store.  Now I need to buy her a sugar ray." 
Skinner came out of his office to greet the anxious applicant. 
"Eric.  Good to see you," he said.  "Kim's suggested lunch at TJ's. 
Everyone in?" 
"Scully, get me something to go, okay?" Mulder asked her, and she nodded 
sympathetically. 
"He has to go home and take the dog out," Scully explained. 
"Only because =you= won't let me take him to work," Mulder said.   Then 
he remembered Skinner's presence.  "Not that I would want to do that," 
he added. 
"He's a magnificent animal," Whittaker said wistfully.  "I wish I could 
afford a dog like that for my little girl." 
"You want a dog?" Mulder asked him with great interest. 
"The house seems kind of empty, since Schroedinger died," Whittaker 
said.  "And my dog-drool tests are at a standstill." 
"Eric, I don't think you'd like TJ's.  Too noisy," Mulder told him. 
"Why don't you ride out to Alexandria with me?" 
"You don't mind, do you?" Whittaker asked the others.  "At least I could 
get a couple of swabs of dog drool to take home." 
"No, they don't mind," Mulder said, turning him around and guiding him 
to the elevator.  "You know, Pavlov loves children.  And Skinner told me 
you like to vacuum..." 
= = = = 
end 
14/14 
Controlled Substances, by Kel 
ckelll@hotmail.com 
You've read the book, now enjoy the multi-media version at 
http://www.geocities.com/welltechkel/ConSubIndex.html 
Trelawney's outdone herself this time! 
See Scully try to roll a joint!  See Mulder hunt for a towel! 
Worth a trip from anywhere.