Summary: "Everything was base to her. Everywhere she looked. That was her main problem with tag." --Fox Mulder on Samantha

I remember neighborhood games of tag on the Vineyard. Sam and I always managed to squeeze them into our pickup baseball game playing, baloney sandwich eating, firefly catching, creek walking, stone skipping schedule. After so much time it's hard to remember childhood as anything but idyllic. Of course it wasn't, some of it was terrible and that's the best part of memory that it can eventually erase most of the bad patches. Like it was some sort of picky gourmet; only the choicest morsels remain.

As with most everything that happened in those salt-scented summers, the tag was impromptu. Something about being around the ocean made it impossible to plan things in any sort of structured way. We'd wake up in the morning, Sam and I, when the sun had risen high enough to crash against our window and slink in through the shade. Our days started sweaty in the concentrated glare of sunlight that seemed pale and cool even at the height of August.

We hurried into our suits and I had the advantage. Sam's bathing suit was a bright arrangement of pink and yellow stripes with a line of three yellow bows down the back. In her haste to beat me outdoors those bows were always getting twisted.

Sometimes I tried to help her. "Here," I'd say, "let me straighten your suit."

Then she'd smack my hand away, her nose scrunching. "I can do it myself, Fox ! I'm not a baby."

On days when I was too tired to tease her I'd leave it at that, but more often than not I'd reply, "Oh yeah?" and casually pick up one of her bright orange water wings and wave it under her nose. "Then what're these doing here?"

"You know mom makes me wear them!"

"Uh huh." I'd nod in insincere sympathy.

"I hate you!" she'd scream, shoving her small feet into her flip flops. Then she'd grab her bag of beach stuff (thoughtfully packed by mom the night before) and race out of the house in the direction of the shore.

"Fox, watch your sister!" mom would caution as the small brunette hurricane breezed past her.

"I know mo-om," I'd reply, the beginnings of teenage unrest already grumbling. If I ran after that, I could usually make it to the beach about the same time she did. One of the things that bothered Sam the most was the fact of her *smallness*. She was short for her age and she'd always be shorter than me so she wanted badly to be bigger in other ways. I didn't really understand that at the time, but I do now. When I knew my sister I hardly understood her and now, years later, unraveling those small mysteries that she kept inside is as natural as breathing.

Depending on what time it was when we finally made it to the beach we'd sometimes take a quick swim before the other kids got there. When we were all there the games would start. Freeze tag, T.V. tag, blob tag, shadow tag or quite often just plain ol' regular tag.

There were just about fifteen of us. More or less depending on who'd been grounded that day, who was off with their parents on another part of the Vineyard or who had just decided not to come. Sam and I were always there. Mom was a soft touch really, we never got grounded even though I'm pretty sure we deserved it at least four or five times a summer.

I've forgotten names, they were friends forged in the heat of a pale summer. Faces are easier: curly haired redheaded boy with a glint in his eyes that was strangely hard for his age, wispy girl with wispier blonde hair and a liberal sprinkling of freckles, she was so thin I thought she might drift away like milkweed, loud and fiercely funny dark-haired boy, beautiful girl the color of milk chocolate candy bars who I was almost in love with I think. The rest were less distinctive. Kids I knew once.

Sam always got into trouble when the game started. At once there'd be a dozen screaming children churning at the sand with their feet, dashing, falling occasionally, twisting and jumping and writhing in ways that would have made a contortionist squirm. In the middle of it all was Sam. She was one of the smallest and in a typically Darwinistic move, the kid who was 'it' would zero in on her. My trained ear could pick up her squeals over the shrieks of the others. She'd tear away from her pursuers, dervishes of sand flying from under her feet. Eventually she'd slow her run, taking choppy little steps and finally stop in front of a convenient rock or piece of driftwood.

"Base! Base! Base!" she'd scream to whomever was chasing her at the moment.

Of course it wasn't base.

"Is not!" the other kid would yell.

"Is too!"

"That's base." A pointing finger. The pursuer would turn to us for verification and we'd nod and Sam would be out.

Everything was base to her. Everywhere she looked. That was her main problem with tag.

This is a powerful memory, one I thought I'd forgotten, triggered by something I can't identify--a fleeting scent or a snatch of vision. I can almost smell the water and the sunscreen, almost taste the faintly gritty film that always coated my mouth after a morning of tag on the beach. Gingerly I prod at my ribs, just to make sure they're still attached I guess. I can feel the stiff tape under my cotton dress shirt.

Lucky, I was lucky this time. Pushed down a long flight of stairs by a suspect who managed to take me by surprise. I got off with a few bruised ribs.

"You're lucky you didn't break your neck," Scully reminds me from the passenger seat. It's the first time either one of us has spoken but she has seen me worrying the bandages and can't seem to pass up the opportunity to gloat a little. She's right of course but I'm not giving her the satisfaction. "Seriously, Mulder, what were you thinking? Pursuing a suspect into a condemned building, *at night*, no backup..."

"I don't know. I thought I could catch him, I guess." I examine the backs of my hands carefully. The knuckles are a little scraped from my trip down the stairs but otherwise everything seems normal.

She sighs, not a martyred sigh or an exasperated one--after so many years together I've become adept at reading Scully's sighs--there is both resignation and acceptance in it. Probably as close to an apology for her previous waspishness as I'm going to get. More than I deserve. Scully's as soft a touch as my mom was.

We are silent for a while longer, both watching the dark building in front of us. "We're lucky they came back," she finally says.

"They've got to get their equipment," I return with a downward twist of my lips. The couple we are currently hunting apparently has designs of joining the ranks of Fred and Rosemary West. They'd set up a little chamber of horrors in this condemned house. Taking turns luring people there under pretense of employment. Getting their sexual jollies out of death and dismemberment. Nothing supernatural. This is our good deed for the VCS.

"We should check in with the other agents," Scully says, half out loud. She shakes the hair away from her ear and raises the walkie talkie near her mouth. "This is position three checking in. Nothing yet guys, sorry." A bit of hair falls across her ear as she waits for acknowledgment from the other positions. Unthinkingly I brush it away, tucking it back behind her ear. She gives me a startled look, her eyes large and questioning, a single furrow appears between her eyebrows.

"Wouldn't want you to look unprofessional, Scully," I say lightly, reinforcing my words with a grin.

The walkie talkie crackles. Positions one, two and four copy in quick succession. Nothing going on on their ends either. Another fabulously boring stakeout. Then again, I stretch and wince slightly, maybe I'm not quite ready for any more action. I yawn and run both hands through my hair before returning them to the steering wheel.

It's a few moments before I feel Scully's deft fingers on my scalp. Now it's my turn to question.

"Wouldn't want you to look unprofessional, Mulder," she explains with perfect seriousness. We look at each other for a long time, each wondering who'll crack first.

In our own way we're as perverse as the couple who occupy the dark building in front of us. We get our sexual jollies out of pulling the tension tighter, tighter, tighter just to see how far we can go before it snaps and completely destroys everything.

Scully's tongue flicks over her lips for the briefest of instants. My hands are a little less steady than they should be. If I had any sense at all I'd pull her across the seat right now and end our misery by kissing her.

"Scully...I..." My mouth works up and down but nothing comes out. The air is pretty delicious though. Her uneasiness tastes like licorice.

"Mulder." That's it. My name is a complete thought for her. I can't decide whether she's asking a question or answering one. Her lips curl up and she raises both eyebrows in the briefest of facial shrugs.

The sudden rude squawking of the walkie talkie startles both of us."They're moving."

In one fluid motion we exit the car and head across the street, the kevlar both proclaiming our employer and erasing our identities. Just another coupla fibbies.

It goes off perfectly. Like clockwork I guess. We're the second pair of agents in the front door and there they are. Unarmed, their arms laden with objects I don't like to think about, stained with fluids I hate to see. Humans are so delicate.

The first pair of agents cover the woman. Relieving her of her gruesome load. She is on the floor being read her Miranda rights almost before I can register what's happening. Scully has approached the man, her gun trained unwaveringly. He drops his load without warning and she jumps to his right to avoid it.

"Get the cuffs, Mulder," she suggests. "He's not going anywhere."

Then there's something in his hand, cold in the dim light. He grabs Scully lightly, almost as if he were some acquaintance at a cocktail party who wanted her attention. And the cold thing disappears for a minute. Her eyes widen in shock, her hands fly up and her gun goes off, the bullet nestling into the ceiling.

Finally, finally my stupid, sluggish mind seems to process what has just happened and my own gun goes off, the bullet catching the guy in the shoulder. He's down and so is Scully. I practically fall at her side as one of the agents cuffs the man.

"What was that?" I ask, one hand against her face. The other agent wraps his hand in an evidence bag and holds up a wicked stiletto. So much the better for getting around the kevlar. I look down at Scully, almost afraid to. She is drawn.

Three marks. Such tiny holes. Not much blood. I am strangely relieved though I know I shouldn't be. "How do you feel?" I ask her, my voice rough.

She can't answer. Her eyes close.

"Don't do this, Scully. Scully?" I shake her chin a little and her eyes reopen, unfocused and glassy. I look at the other agents. "Did one of you call 911?"

They nod grimly. I no longer trust my voice. I can't do anything but cup the side of her soft face in my hand, absently rubbing my thumb along her upper lip.

Oh no. Nonononononono.

Her skin is warm. God, so warm. Don't let her die, please God. Pleasepleasepleaseplease. I can't feel anything but her skin. Warm and smooth like still water. There're so many things I never did.

I must look pretty bad. "Paramedics're on their way, Agent Mulder," one of the other agents murmurs reassuringly.

I never walked in on her "accidentally" while she was taking a bath. Never got to see her breasts under a blanket layer of bubbles with her knees and calves and feet rising out of the water like strange islands, her (painted?) toes curled over the edge of the tub. How would she react? I can hear her outraged exclamation, mixed with interest.

Her eyelids flutter, eyelashes brushing against my fingers. "Stay awake, Scully. The ambulance is coming." My voice is shaky.

I never had the nerve to come into any of the millions of hotel rooms late at night when I heard her masking sniffles through the thin walls. I never asked her why she was crying. Maybe I didn't care enough why she was.

"Mulder." She sounds pained.

"What?"

Never got to kiss her--really kiss her.

Her hand finds mine. I wonder what she's thinking about. In the distance, a siren screams closer. Closer. Closer. Closer.

I will them to drive faster. Don't they know she's hurt?

"What?" I repeat, trying to keep her talking. "What, Scully?"

Her mouth opens, her lips are dry. "You need...slow the bleeding...'m bleeding too fast."

That small effort has exhausted her and I feel like a colossal ass. One of the other agents hands me a clean handkerchief and I gingerly apply it to Scully's side, wincing as she does. Then her other hand covers mine, urging me to increase the pressure.

The paramedics pull up outside. Then she's on the gurney and into the ambulence and yeah I can ride along just as long as I stay out of the way.

I try not to think but the ride takes so long: please don't die. please don't die. please don't die.

Never eaten a baloney sandwich with Scully. Not that I think she'd eat baloney at all. But the look on her face would be worth the offering.

She watches me through the whole ride while they're working on her. Her eyes are slitted like a cat's and like a cat, nothing escapes her.

Oh God and then I see the hospital up ahead. "We're almost there, Scully."

She smiles weakly, streetlights flash against her pale, pale skin.

We're there. Oh move faster, can't you see she's hurt? The emergancy room is like dozens of others I've seen: less white than the rest of the hospital. We're there.

Base! Base! Base!

The End