Value & Honor
by Forte
(Forte1354@aol.com)

Please see Chapter 1 for rating, summary, disclaimer, etc.

All prior chapters of "Value & Honor" are available at my
website, http://www.thebasementoffice.com/, both individually
and in a single compiled file.  The site also includes a summary
of all chapters posted to date (excluding this one).

SPOILER ALERT:  Author's Notes at the end of this chapter
include a spoiler for the S8 ep "Medusa."


********************************************************************

- Chapter 15 -

********************************************************************

Logan International Airport
Boston, Massachusetts
Saturday, 10:15 p.m.


"Sir, perhaps you didn't hear the announcement I just made, but
you need to return to your seat and buckle --"

"I'm a Federal Agent," Mulder interrupted, pulling out his ID,
voice low as he stared down the flight attendant, "and I have an
announcement of my own.  My partner and I need to be the first
people off this plane."  He held the open ID close to his chest,
his back to the other passengers and his free hand pressed
against the wall as the rumbling plane taxied toward the gate.

The wide-eyed young man stared at Mulder, glanced down at the
FBI credentials, then lifted his head again and nodded.  "We
should, uh, be at the gate in about two minutes."

Mulder muttered, "It's about time," glancing over his shoulder
as he returned his ID to his pocket.  Scully had collected their
bags during his brief exchange with the flight attendant and was
making her way up the aisle, ignoring the glares of the other
passengers.

Fifteen minutes earlier, their frustrating day had only gotten
worse.  Jolted awake by the jarring landing of the plane, they'd
found themselves fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle:
her head on his shoulder, his leaning on hers.  Clearing her
throat, Scully had pushed away and stared out her window as
though world peace rested on her ability to determine their
distance from the terminal.  Mulder had retreated too, wondering
why the hell they had to have such moments.  He'd leaned back in
his seat, eyes shut, trying to re-focus on their upcoming
meeting with their informant, George, and only half-listened
while the gawky flight attendant explained their delay: there
was nowhere to park the plane.  After ten minutes the plane had
finally started to roll toward its gate.  Mulder had wasted no
time bolting toward the attendant and making known their need
for a speedy deplaning.

Mulder watched Scully drop her duffel and his garment bag, a
slight wince crossing her face when the straps slid off her left
shoulder.  As she straightened, the plane came to a shuddering
halt at the gate; he grasped her upper arm to steady her at the
same moment as she threw her right hand against the opposite
wall.  She looked up at him, and he gave her a sheepish grin,
releasing her.  To his surprise she gave him a hint of a smile
in return as she adjusted the strap of the laptop case over her
right shoulder.

As the flight attendant prepared to open the door, Scully looked
from her watch, to the door, and then back at Mulder.  She
didn't voice what they both knew: they had no chance of making
it to the Park Street "T" subway station for their 10:30
rendezvous with George.

"Ready for a dash to the taxi stand?" she asked.

"I'll race you," Mulder replied, stooping to grab the two bags. 
"Loser pays for the cab."

An eyebrow arched.  "I got the plane tickets.  You get the cab."

"Fair enough."  Mulder noticed that his partner didn't object to
his carrying one of her bags, as she hadn't when he'd originally
taken it from her to put it in the overhead compartment.  Before
he could comment, the plane's door opened and they pushed past
the flight attendant to sprint up the jetway.



Within minutes they were climbing into a creaky, dirt-streaked
cab, Scully leading and snapping out their destination to the
driver.  Their quick access to transportation was compliments of
a flash of Mulder's badge.  Both settled heavily into the
cracked vinyl back seat, their bags crammed at their feet.  They
had a few minutes of quiet while the taxi traveled out of the
airport and through the tollbooth at the entrance to the Sumner
Tunnel, leading to Boston's North End.

Scully heaved out a sigh, grabbing the crank for the window and
jerking the glass down several inches.  She pulled in a few long
breaths from the blowing air.  At Mulder's concerned look, she
muttered, "Last passenger must have been smoking."

Before her partner could respond, a muffled trilling rose from
her pocket.  She pulled out her cell phone and glanced at the
name on the display, her already tense brow drawing into a tight
frown.  "Agent Fowley," she said, thumbing the answer button
while shooting a glance at Mulder.  A hard edge of impatience
sharpened her greeting. "Scully."

Silence.  At the "No Service" message on the display, she shoved
the phone back in her pocket, turning back to Mulder. "Lost the
signal in the tunnel.  What do you think she wants?"

"I don't know.  Maybe she was going to try that apology on you."

"Or maybe she's looking for you."

He barked out a derisive laugh, turning to look out his side
window.  "God, I hope not."

After a beat, Scully responded, "I'll check my messages later. 
In case she calls again, where did you tell her you were going
this weekend?"

"I didn't.  I just said that I was going to see the lawyer about
my father's estate."

"Well, that certainly gives me plausible deniability regarding
your whereabouts," she deadpanned.

Mulder turned back toward her, trying to decipher the look on
her face.  Irritated or droll?  Before he could decide, both
partners were startled by a burst of honking from a nearby car;
Mulder caught the tiny flinch that passed over Scully's
features.

"Hey -- you okay?"  He reached over and laid a gentle hand on
her shoulder.

"I'm fi -- "  She stopped and sighed, apparently deciding that
"fine" was not the answer she wanted to give.  Glancing at her
watch, she finished with a simple, "We're late."

As Scully faced the window again, her unspoken avoidance putting
an end to the conversation, Mulder checked his own watch.  He
sighed and turned as well, just as the end of the tunnel came
into view.

********************************************************************

Park Street T Station
Boston, Massachusetts
Saturday, 10:38 p.m.


The Park Street T station looked unimposing at street level,
just a covered entranceway to stairs and escalators leading down
to the subway system.  A crossing point for the Red and Green
Lines, it was a popular station, as evidenced by the activity
nearby.  Saturday night revelers gathered on benches skirting
Boston Common, chatting and sipping their beverages of choice. 
At the corner, standing on a crate under the streetlight, a man
holding a Bible preached a sermon to fallen leaves swirling on
the ground in the breeze.  A nearby pedestrian mall supplied a
steady musical thumpthumpthump in the background and added a
gentle waft of coffee to the crisp autumn air.

All status quo for a Saturday night on The Common, but with
their attention on their meeting Mulder quickly zeroed in on
something odd.  A Boston police officer stood at the T entrance,
turning away everyone trying to enter the station.  Mulder stole
a glance at Scully, catching her concerned look back at him as
she quickened her pace to the station's entranceway.

"Sorry, this station is closed," the officer told them when they
approached.  Mulder and Scully both flipped out their ID's.  The
officer stiffly nodded his acknowledgment, eyes flicking to the
bags they carried, and they returned the ID's to their pockets.

"Why?" Scully asked.  "What's going on?"

"Looks like a homicide," the officer replied.  His eyes darted
from left to right, then past their shoulders, before he
re-established eye contact.  "Some guy waiting for a train. 
Apparently he was lured down to a deserted end of the platform
and attacked.  We had several calls to 911 about fifteen minutes
ago from people who heard him yell for help."

Mulder glanced at Scully, the turbulence in his stomach
definitely not a leftover from the bumpy landing of their plane.
By the tensing of her jaw, he knew she was thinking the same
thing.

George, their contact.

"Is the victim still down there?" Scully asked.  "Are there any
medical personnel on the scene yet?  I'm a doctor."

The officer shook his head.  "I haven't seen any, but they could
have gone in a different entrance."  He motioned over his
shoulder.  "If you want to go down and check, go ahead."

Mulder and Scully left the officer as he continued to turn away
annoyed tourists and locals.  They descended the stairs quickly,
bags slung from their shoulders, the dull thud of their feet on
the stairs sounding unnaturally loud in the near-empty station.

"Lured to a deserted end of the platform?  That makes no sense. 
Kurt wouldn't send someone that gullible to meet us," Mulder
asserted as they descended.

Scully nodded.  "If the victim is George, it's more likely that
he realized he was in danger, and was trying to find a way out. 
Or possibly he =didn't= know he was in danger, and was looking
for privacy for some reason.  Or a pay phone, maybe."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through an open
gate that bypassed the turnstiles -- obviously opened to
accommodate the gathered law enforcement officials -- and
continued down the cement platform about two hundred feet.  They
could see that something was lying on the ground, behind a thick
square cement pillar, but their view was obscured by the group
of officers standing around it.  In addition, two EMT's were
kneeling nearby, packing up some equipment.

"I'm a medical doctor," Scully repeated, showing her ID to the
group.  "Do you need any assistance?  The officer upstairs said
there had been a homicide."

A few of the officers turned toward them.  Mulder flipped open
his ID as well, and again they received unenthusiastic nods of
acknowledgment.

"Thanks, but we don't need it," one officer responded.  "Looks
like we've got another MIT or Harvard prank on our hands. 
They're always trying to pull =something=."  He shook his head,
muttering, "We don't have time for this crap."  Then he
addressed the EMT's.  "Sorry to have wasted your time, guys." 
They shrugged, picked up their equipment, and left, walking
towards a stairway in the opposite direction from where Mulder
and Scully had entered.

Mulder replaced his ID again, Scully mirroring his action.  "I'm
Agent Mulder.  This is my partner Agent Scully.  What happened?"
he asked, moving closer to the scene.

The officer squinted.  "Does the FBI have some interest in
this?"

"No, we just happened by and thought you might need my medical
services," Scully replied, flicking her eyes toward her partner
and back to the officer.

"You just happened by?"

Scully should really leave the lying to him, Mulder thought. 
"We're in town for a seminar.  We flew in a couple days early to
try to get in a little sightseeing."  He gave the man his best
disarming smile.  "Flights are cheaper with that Saturday night
stayover, you know."

"Yeah, yeah, OK."  The frazzled officer, as expected, waved away
Mulder's explanation, and continued disbursing the details of
the scene with fading interest.  "There were several calls to
911 about an attack -- big beefy guy dropping some smaller guy
to the ground -- and a security guard for the T swore he saw a
dead man lying on the ground here."  He shrugged.  "But when the
EMT's arrived, all they found was this."  The officer curled his
fingers to grant them permission to approach, and muttered
again. "Fuckin' chemistry students."

The partners moved around the group of officers, finally able to
see what the officers in blue considered a collegiate prank.

On the ground was green goo, still bubbling under clothing
sprawled out on the cement in the shape of what had once been --

=Not= George.  No need to voice the name; as Mulder caught
Scully's shocked stare, they both knew who this slick puddle of
slime was.  While virtually nothing remained of the body, both
Mulder and Scully recognized Kurt's raincoat and tufts of his
familiar hair.

"Shit."  Mulder leaned a fraction closer to his partner and
muttered into her ear.  "I guess he really was a 'good Kurt'." 
He straightened and addressed the officer.

"Did you find anything nearby, or in the clothes?  Wallet,
briefcase, cell phone, anything like that?"

The officer's eyebrows shot up.  "We checked, but no.  Why would
we?"

Mulder studied the green remains as though they were some sort
of reverse tea leaves, able to tell him events of the past.  Was
it the Bounty Hunter that attacked him, or someone else with the
right knowledge and the right tool?  Did he have his laptop with
him?  Is that what the killer really wanted?

Realizing he hadn't answered the police officer, Mulder forced
out a shrug and offered a nonchalant "Just wondering."

"Mulder, look at this."

Mulder turned his attention to his partner, who had knelt near
the remains and was studying the bottom of Kurt's shoes.  She
pointed to a pale orange substance embedded in a crack in one of
the heels.

He dropped the two bags he carried next to Scully's laptop and
crouched next to her to examine her find.

"It looks fairly fresh, not dry or cracked.  Smooth, but not
really the right color for mud or clay."  She bent and sniffed. 
"No detectable odor."  Before Mulder could share the fertilizer
comment that leapt into his mind, Scully looked up at to the
officer.  "Would you mind if I take a scraping of this to be
analyzed?"

The Boston man gawked at her for a moment, then shrugged. 
"Knock yourself out, Agent."

Mulder watched Scully reach into her duffel bag and remove a
clean plastic bag and a Swiss Army knife from the bag's pocket. 
She made short work of the evidence-gathering, her economical
scrape, tuck inside, and closing knot accomplished in less than
fifteen seconds.

By now most of the police officers had left, although the one
they had been speaking with remained.  Scully stood and caught
his eye.

"What are you going to do with..."  she hesitated, then finished
with, "the rest of this?"

The officer shrugged.  "I'm ready to leave -- this is the T's
problem now.  I figure they'll just toss the clothes and hose
down the cement to clean off this green crap."

Mulder noticed a pang of regret cross Scully's face, quickly
replaced by her professional mask.

"Thank you for your help," she told the officer, who returned
her comment with a disinterested wave.  Mulder gathered their
bags, handing Scully the laptop, and followed her back to the
cement stairway leading to the street.

At the top of the stairs, Mulder's unease about the whole
situation escalated, once he spied all the people still milling
about.  What if their contact was still here, or if the Bounty
Hunter lurked about?  No one seemed to be approaching them.  A
TV news van was unloading some yards away, attracting
on-lookers, and he started toward it, scanning the crowd.

"Mulder?  What are you doing?" Scully grabbed his arm, halting
his progress.  "We're not supposed to be here -- we can't afford
to wind up on Boston's eleven o'clock news.  What are you
looking for?"

"Not what, Scully, =who=.  If that's Kurt down there -- and I
have no reason to believe it isn't -- what happened to this
'George' character we were supposed to meet?"  He bit his lip.
"Something's not right here, Scully -- we're missing something,
and I can't figure out what it is."

Scully eyed the TV cameras with disdain as she steered her
partner toward the street, lifting a hand to hail a cab. 
"Mulder, the sample I took is bound to give us some clue.  For
all we know, that =was= George.  There's no reason that the
Kurts must all go by the same name, and just the raincoat
doesn't necessarily prove that it was the same Kurt who was at
your place last night.  There must be a thousand raincoats just
like that one in Boston."

"So you're saying," asked Mulder as a cab pulled up at the curb,
"that not only do they look identical, they share the same
horrible taste in clothes?"

"It's possible," she stated, giving him a glare as she entered
the back of the cab.

After he got in beside her, he craned his head one last time,
searching the dissipating crowd as they sped away.  No use, he
surmised.  No one had made a move in their direction, and even
if it was the Bounty Hunter at work, he could be anyone in the
crowd, if he was even still nearby. With a sigh, Mulder lolled
his head in Scully's direction.

"Think they share the same toothbrush, too?"

Before he could be the recipient of a full-fledged Scully huff,
the cab driver addressed them, his gaze capturing Mulder's in
the rearview mirror.  "Where to?"

"Any good, cheap motels around here?" Mulder replied.

"Depends on how long you plan to stay."

The man's tone was straightforward, but there was no mistaking
his implication.  Cutting off his partner's scathing response,
Mulder answered, "We're just tourists who can't afford $200 a
night, okay?  Just steer this thing towards a motel that won't
break the bank." The driver fell silent, turning at the next
intersection.  Leaning toward his partner, his voice low above
the din of the driver's talk radio show, Mulder said, "Unless
the idea of hourly rates appeals to you?"

He wasn't disappointed; her cheeks crinkled in the way they did
when she was trying to stifle a smile. "Mulder..."

"Professional reasons, I mean, since I'm sure the bacteria
counts must be at fascinating lev--"

"Mulder, shut up!"

Chuckling, he returned to the matter at hand, settling back in
the seat.  "I wasn't kidding back there, Scully," he said,
sobering.

Instantly, she picked up on his change of thought. "About
something not being right?"

"Was it the Bounty Hunter who did this, who knew that Kurt was
there?" Rapid-fire, his questions burst from him as he tried to
make sense of it all.  "Did this person know we were coming
here, too?  We should have been more careful -- we should know
by now that we're being monitored."

Scully's jaw tightened as if she hesitated to speak, but after a
moment she asked, "Could this have anything to do with that
e-mail Diana showed you?  We know that meant someone knew Kurt
had contacted us.  We didn't think it made sense that Kurt could
really be working with Dr. Scanlon, but maybe we should
reconsider that theory."

"Then why would he have been killed?  And why have us come to
Boston only to find that he'd been killed?"

Scully shook her head.  "I don't  know.  Maybe Kurt =was= on our
side.  Maybe it was this George character that killed him."

"But Kurt's message was for us to =meet= George.  So why was
Kurt here at all?  Did he discover that George was working for
Them, and tried to be here to warn us?  Unless you're right
about George being another one of the Kurt clones, just going by
another name.  And that puts us right back at square one."

Sighing, Scully glanced at her watch.  "It's after eleven, and
this discussion isn't getting us anywhere right now, Mulder. 
This scraping is the only piece of hard evidence we have, and we
need to find a lab to get it analyzed.  It's too late to get
anything overnighted to the Gunmen."

"I think I know where we can go," said Mulder.  "Remember those
Celtics playoff tickets I told you about earlier?"

"The ones you won in a raffle and gave to an agent in the Boston
office."

"One and the same."  He pulled out his cell phone, Scully
nodding her understanding of his idea.  "I think it's time for
me to call in that marker."  A quick call to Information
produced the phone number he needed.  The call to the Boston man
was answered on the second ring.

"John -- John Winston?  It's Fox Mulder."  He paused while the
other man spoke.  "Yeah, it's been a while.  I'm sorry I'm
calling so late, but this is an emergency.  Remember that favor
you owe me?"

********************************************************************

Winston Residence
Commonwealth Avenue, Boston
Saturday, 11:45 p.m.


"Good to see you again, Mulder."  John Winston clapped one hand
on Mulder's shoulder as he extended his other toward Scully. 
"And a pleasure meeting you, Dana.  I hope we get to run into
you again under more casual circumstances."  The burly
African-American man grinned over his shoulder at his wife, who
apparently was used to her husband's late-night FBI visitors. 
She gave their guests a warm smile without a hint of forced
politeness.

"Nice to meet you both," she said.  "Are you sure you don't want
to stay here tonight?  We've got plenty of extra room now that
the kids have gone back to college."

"Thank you, Julia, but we hate to impose.  I'm sure the hotel
you mentioned will be fine," Scully said, turning back to the
woman's husband.  "You're sure you can analyze this sample first
thing in the morning, John?"

"Not a problem," Winston replied.  "I'll give you a call when
I've got your answer."  He winked.  "And nobody will be the
wiser."

Scully gave him a small smile of gratitude as Mulder asked, "Is
this gonna cost me another pair of tickets, John?"

The other man chuckled.  "No, I'm glad to do it, to tell you the
truth.  I sure didn't mind the promotion to supervisor last
year, but I miss doing some of the dirty work, you know?"  He
followed them out to the landing of their condo's floor.  Dark
wood shone under the ancient building's quaint antique-looking
light fixtures.  "Stop by again if you have a chance before you
head back to Washington.  We're barbecuing tomorrow night, if
you're still in town."  He looked over his shoulder affectionately
at his wife, who now stood in the doorway.  "Julia refuses to
let go of summer until it actually snows."

"We'll keep that in mind.  Thank you," Scully said, giving their
hosts a small wave.  "Good night."  She started down the creaky
stairs, Mulder close behind.

"Oh, and Mulder?" Winston called.

Mulder turned, hand on the banister.

"The Red Sox are gonna kick the Yankees' ass next year."

Mulder grinned, giving his friend a thumbs-up goodbye.  "That'll
be when it snows in July, John."

********************************************************************

Hotel Excalibur
Newbury Street, Boston
Saturday, 11:56 p.m.


"We can accommodate you tonight," the clerk said, pushing two
registration cards toward them across the faux marble desktop,
"but I'm afraid we're sold out tomorrow night for a librarian's
convention."

Mulder suppressed a roll of his eyes, reminded of the annoying
librarian who had stood in line with them at the airport in
Washington.  God, he hoped they didn't run into him again.   He
signed his card "Michael Risheloo," the name on he'd chosen for
the ID's that Frohike had made them.  Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw Scully pen "Rosalind Franklin" in her impeccable
script.

He really had to remember to ask her about her choice of name,
he mused.

The clerk handed Mulder and Scully their room keys, pointing
toward the deserted elevator bank at the end of the lobby.  At
Mulder's inquiry, she gestured in the opposite direction toward
the Lariat car rental counter.  "It will re-open at 6 a.m.," she
assured them, her voice tired and her smile as phony as the
countertop beneath her hands.

When they entered the elevator, Scully dropped her bag to the
elevator floor, as did Mulder, though she kept hold of the
laptop.  He watched his partner crane her neck to and fro, an
exhausted sigh accompanying the pop of her joints.  She was not
normally given to fidgeting, but the rolling tap of her
fingertips on the laptop echoed his own uneasiness, that feeling
he'd had all day that something just wasn't right.  That
something was putting her in danger.  And the crease of her brow
hadn't smoothed at all, meaning her headache bothered her still.

As the elevator began its slow ascent, Mulder broke the silence.

"Headache still bad?"  It worried him; she should have had some
relief by now, considering all the analgesics she'd taken that
day.

"Mmm," she nodded, evidently too fatigued to answer.

He moved behind her, seizing the chance to touch her, to give
her some surcease on the long ride up.  She stiffened a moment
when he placed his hands on her shoulder, then relaxed into his
grip, her chin dropping at his gentle massage.

"Shit, Scully.  You're tighter than a drum.  No wonder you have
a headache."  He worked her neck and shoulders lightly, trying
to uncoil the bunched muscles without causing her more pain.  It
seemed to work, as she gradually relaxed under his
ministrations.  He took the opportunity to ask the question that
had been on his mind.

"I gotta ask, Scully: Rosalind Franklin?  How did you come up
with that name?"

Scully inhaled a long breath before answering, her chin still
tucked.  "She was a research scientist in England -- the first
person to take a useful X-ray of DNA.  Her work helped lead to
the discovery of the 'double helix' structure of DNA."

"I thought Watson and Crick discovered the double helix."

"Well, they were the ones who won the Nobel Prize.  But great
scientific breakthroughs are rarely made in a vacuum, Mulder." 
She blew out a long breath as Mulder continued his efforts. 
"Researchers often work in teams.  They also thrive on
competition.  The structure of DNA was one of the scientific
pots of gold through the '40's and '50's."  She grunted and
tensed as he pressed his thumbs harder between her shoulder
blades.  He let up a bit and was rewarded with her relaxing
again.

"But the big prize went to the men?"

Scully cleared her throat before answering, "It's, umm, been
suggested that Rosalind Franklin didn't get the acknowledgment
she was due because she was a woman."

Mulder nodded, slightly increasing the pressure on his partner's
knotted muscles.

"In any case," Scully continued, "she died before the Nobel
Prize was awarded to Watson and Crick."

She paused, looking down at her feet.

"Of cancer."

His hands stilled for a moment, then slowly tried to resume
their massage as he processed the fact.  It wasn't easy; he felt
like he was fumbling now.

Scully paused again, then glanced over her shoulder at her
partner.

"She was thirty-seven."

Dropping his hands to his sides, Mulder felt a plummeting
sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with their
elevator ride.  Before he could think of a coherent response, a
loud *ding* announced their arrival at their floor.

********************************************************************

- end Chapter 15 -

********************************************************************

Thanks for reading.  Feedback is cherished at Forte1354@aol.com
or bjm1352@aol.com.

Author's Notes for Chapter 15:

Rosalind Franklin was a physical chemist whose X-ray
crystallography helped James Watson and Francis Crick determine
the "double helix" structure of DNA.  She died in 1958 of
ovarian cancer at the age of 37.  Watson and Crick, along with
Maurice Wilkins, were awarded the Nobel Prize for Physiology and
Medicine in 1962 for the discovery of DNA's structure. 
Franklin, rather than Wilkins, might have shared in the Nobel
Prize had she lived.  For more information on the discovery of
the structure of DNA, read "The Double Helix," by James Watson. 
The information on Rosalind Franklin was summarized from the
following websites:

http://curie.che.virginia.edu/scientist/franklin.html,
http://www.thetech.org/exhibits_events/online/genome/DNA5b.html, and
http://www.suite101.com/article.cfm/womens_health/29778

Boston's subway/trolley system is known to locals as the T,
which is short for MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transportation
Authority: http://www.mbta.com).  The T has four color-coded
lines:  Red, Green, Blue, and Orange.  The Red and Green lines
cross at Park Street Station, at Boston Common.  If you saw the
S8 episode "Medusa," that took place in a fictional subway
station on the Red Line.

Newbury Street is the Boston version of Beverly Hills' Rodeo
Drive.  If you've got a lot of money to burn that's the place to
shop.  The Hotel Excalibur, however, is a figment of my
imagination (the better to go along with the fictitious Lariat
car rental agency *g*).

Big heaping beta thanks to Jintian Li, Diana Battis,
mountainphile, and especially Mish, who once again went *far*
above and beyond the call of duty on this chapter.

And thanks again to all you persistent stalkers -- you know who
you are.  I may be the world's slowest fic writer, but I'd be
even slower if it weren't for you guys!