DISCLAIMER:  For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Warning:  Adult language and situations. 

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes place
within the same universe.  You will find notable discrepancies
between this piece and 12 Degrees as I have incorporated third
season story developments into the canon of the 12 Degrees
Universe.  

A special thank you to Kathy Nahill for her medical expertise--
if you see something wrong with the medical terminology, etc.
it's MY fault, not hers. :)

Now...on to the show....

12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#1:  "Reevaluation" 
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

Part a:


January 20th, 1998
Chevron Food Mart
Washington, D.C.
7:22 p.m.

He cradled her body tightly to his as they lay side by side
on the floor.  Gently supporting her neck in the crook of
one arm, he pressed his other hand hard against her
thigh, trying to stanch the flow of blood.  

"I can hear the sirens now," he murmured into her hair,
hardly recognizing his own voice.

"I'm c-cold...."

He tucked her more firmly against his body, trying to
envelope her in his own heat.  "Just a little longer,
Scully--almost there--"

Fox Mulder was barely aware of the other people in the
convenience store.  He was barely aware of anything at all
beyond the slow, shallow rise and fall of Dana Scully's
chest, the hot, wet feel of her life seeping out between his
fingers.  

Where the hell were the paramedics?

"Here."  A man crouched next to him, holding out a rough
woolen blanket.  Mulder spared him a grateful glance and a
nod, and the man put the blanket over Scully's shivering
body, tucking it tightly around her.

Mulder touched his lips to the curve of her ear.  "Better?"

She didn't answer.

"Scully?"

He didn't feel her shivers anymore.  And with the blanket
over her, he couldn't tell if her chest continued to rise
and fall.  

Fear as primal and shattering as anything he'd ever known
shot through him.  "Scully?" 

She stirred slightly, and he sucked in a long, shuddery
breath. 

"Come on, Scully, you know the drill.  Gotta stay focused,
okay?"

"Mulder...."  Her voice was faint and thready.

"Just a few more seconds, Scully--help's coming."  He
pressed his fist harder into her leg and she moaned. 
But he didn't release the pressure.  It was the only thing
keeping her alive.  "I know, I know, Scully--you hate when I
try to play doctor."  He ventured a chuckle, but it was a
wretched, watery sound.

"Mulder...I don't think I can...."

He clutched her to him more tightly.  "Damn it, Scully, I
won't put up with this bullshit!  You hear me?  I won't put
up with it."  He whispered the words into her hair, his lips
brushing her temple.  "I won't."

Her hand fluttered under the blanket, finding where his fist
crushed the make-shift compress against her spurting gunshot
wound.  She lay her palm over the back of his hand, her
touch frail, her fingers cold.  "I'm sorry, Mulder...."

"No, Scully!"  He looked around wildly, gaze barely skimming
across the crowd of on-lookers, the toppled candy display,
the broken bottles of soda still fizzing quietly across the
dirty tile floor of the food mart.  "Where the hell are the
EMTs?" His hoarse shout broke through the low, excited buzz
from the crowd surrounding him.  "What's taking so long?"  
He'd been hearing sirens for what seemed like hours but the 
EMTs were no closer to arrival.  

Damn it, Scully, he thought, turning his attention back to
his dying partner, why did you do it?  

Why'd you take my bullet?

The kid had aimed the .22 at him, not Scully.  The bullet
had his name, his fate, his shit-for-karma written all over
it.  She could've gone for her gun instead of diving into
the line of fire.  Hell, knowing Scully, she probably could
have apprehended the shooter AND saved his own life without
breaking a sweat.

"Why did you do it, Scully?"  He didn't realize he'd
spoken aloud until he heard her soft, raspy wheeze.  

"I had to...."  She tightened her hand over his
convulsively, and he realized she was in the throes of great
pain.  His own body spasmed in empathy.  "My....job...."

He pressed his lips into the soft hair at her temple, loving
her in that instant with a power that blazed from him like 
pure energy.  "Bad call, Scully."  His voice caught, choking
him.  "Gotta learn to prioritize better.  Cover your own ass
first--it's the better ass."

She made a soft, strangled sound that he could swear was an
attempted laugh.  A coughing fit seized her immediately, and
her tiny body racked, her breath coming in horrible,
wheezing gasps.  

The sirens he heard grew exponentially louder and louder,
and he lifted his head toward the sound, excitement surging
through his tense body as he realized he could see the
flashing strobe of the paramedic van's revolving red bubble
light.  "Here's the cavalry, Scully.  Must be your lucky
day."

A pair of Emergency Medical Technicians crouched beside him,
equipment and supplies in hand.  "Whadda we got?" the female
queried, lifting the blanket. 

"Gunshot wound, upper thigh--I think it nicked an artery.  .22 
caliber semi-automatic--"  Mulder recited the words like he was 
reading a script, while a huge, relentless part of him shrieked
with mindless, wordless terror.

God oh God she's dying and I can't stop it and what if they
can't stop it either oh God don't let anything happen to her
take me instead take me and leave her oh God if you're
listening listen now I can't lose her I can't can't can't
can't....

The male E.M.T. pushed Mulder's rigid hand away from the
bullet wound.  The paramedic whistled softly through his
teeth as a gout of blood spurted from the wound, his face
almost expressionless as he glanced at his partner and shook
his head slightly, even as he went to work controlling the
blood flow.  

Mulder had the inexplicable urge to knock the paramedic's
teeth down his throat.  Didn't he know what he was so
blithely implying--what he was seeing as Dana Scully's
lifeblood gushed away heartbeat by heartbeat?  

Didn't he know he was watching the whole world come to an
end?


*  *  *  *  *

N.E. Georgetown Medical Center
8:38 p.m.


Margaret Scully burst through the front door of the
Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, her air somewhere
between purposeful and panic-stricken.  She ignored the
information desk and headed toward the corridor leading to a
bank of elevators.  Eyes darting from side to side, she
looked for someone--anyone--who looked like he knew what was
going on.

She caught sight of a dark-haired young woman in a white
coat turning the corner.  She took a couple of steps toward
her, oblivious to the nearest elevator sliding open or the
tall, powerfully built man emerging.  

Only his voice, tight and commanding, stayed her from her
intended course.  "Mrs. Scully."

She stopped, her head whipping around to look at him.  She
recognized the strong, handsome features behind wire-rimmed
glasses, the impressive width of his shoulders and imposing
bulk.  Dana's boss, Mr. Skinner.  "Where is she?"

"In surgery."  He put a hand under her elbow and gently drew
her back toward the elevator he'd just vacated.

Her stomach flip-flopped, and she could barely draw a
breath.  "What's her condition?"

"We don't know yet.  She's lost a good bit of blood."

She pulled away from him, sagging against the wall of the
elevator as he pushed the button for the fifth floor.  She'd
felt a tight, scared feeling all afternoon, just as she had
at other times when her family was threatened.  The frantic
dream that had awakened her in time to hear her husband's
gasping goodbye the night he died.  The horrible dream that
had eventually led her to Dana's apartment in time to see a
stunned Fox Mulder standing amid the broken glass and
detritus of a life interrupted.

The horror that preceded her vigil at Melissa's deathbed....

"What happened?  An accident?  A...."  She swallowed
convulsively, unwilling to voice her fear, her certainty
that what had happened to her daughter had been no accident.

She told herself she was inured to the dangers her daughter
and Fox Mulder faced daily, but the truth was, she'd never
get used to it.  

She wasn't SUPPOSED to get used to it.

Walter Skinner stood across the elevator from her, studying
her through slightly narrowed eyes.  "Your daughter and
Agent Mulder walked in on an attempted robbery of a gas
station, Mrs. Scully.  Dana was shot in the upper thigh.  I'm
sorry--I don't know much beyond that."

She looked up at him, sensing there was something more he
wasn't saying.  "How did she get shot?  What happened?  Did
she try to take the robber into custody?"

He sighed.  "Details are sketchy--"

"She took a bullet for Fox, didn't she?"  A faint, curling
sensation rippled through her stomach.  She didn't need to
see the confirmation in Walter Skinner's dark eyes. 
Instinctively she knew the truth.

"I"m sure he wouldn't--"

She waved off his attempted defense of Fox Mulder.  "I know
he'd never have put her in danger willingly."  

The elevator reached the fifth floor with a muted "ding." 
The doors swished open and Mr. Skinner glanced at her,
obviously waiting for her step through the doors first.  She
put out her hand, clutching his thick forearm.  "Wait...."

He looked down at her, his expression a mingling of
expectancy and wariness.

"How is Fox?"

He stared at her a second, his lips parting slightly in
surprise.  "Not good," he said finally.

She closed her eyes for a second, sucking in a deep breath. 
Then she stepped out of the elevator.  She let Walter
Skinner lead her toward the surgical floor waiting room.  On
a Tuesday evening, the place was almost deserted--a young
couple sat huddled together at one end of the room, while an
older woman and two middle-aged men sat together on the
bench by the picture window overlooking a small courtyard
garden.

And in the middle of the room, with an edgy energy that was
exhausting to behold, Fox Mulder paced back and forth in a
tight half-circle.

He stopped immediately when he caught sight of them.  His
gaze met hers, haunted eyes glittering like smoky jewels for
one taut moment before he looked away, shame and fear
wrestling for dominance over his features.

She closed her eyes for a second, interrupting her silent,
unceasing prayer for her daughter's safety long enough to
lift a prayer for this dear, haunted man who loved her
daughter so.  Opening her eyes, she abandoned Skinner's side
and went to Fox Mulder, stilling his renewed pacing with a
gentle hand on his arm.  "Fox."

He couldn't meet her gaze.  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully--I'm so
sorry--"

She squeezed his forearm.  "Mr. Skinner told me most of what
happened."

He shook his head, his features like stone.  His mouth
worked silently as if he were trying to find words to utter
something that burned like fire inside him.  But in the end,
he simply shook his head again and looked down at the
rust-colored spatters staining the dark brown leather of his
shoes.

She resisted the urge to pull him into her arms.  He wasn't
ready for her forgiveness, much less her comfort.  And he 
was in no condition to offer her any comfort of her own. 
Everything was too fresh, too raw.  She looked him over,
taking in the rumpled, stained shirt and dusty trousers, the
redness that covered his right hand from fingertips to mid-
forearm.

Dana's blood on his hands--

She pushed away the unbidden thought as quickly as it had
arisen.  None of this was Fox Mulder's fault.  He'd have 
given his life a hundred times over to prevent even one
of the events that had plagued her family over the past few
years.  He loved her daughter, even if he and Dana wouldn't 
see it, wouldn't admit it.  They were connected, integrated
halves of a dynamic whole.  She knew that if her daughter 
died, Fox Mulder wouldn't survive the year.  

Fate and maybe something more divine had brought them
together, set them on a path that had led them to a truth
more profound than any they sought.  Margaret wouldn't allow
herself to contemplate the idea that her daughter might not
live to recognize this truth.  

"I'm so sorry." Fox's voice was broken and breathy like a
child's.  

She touched him again, not offended by his instinctive
flinch.  She tried to relax, tried to let the right words
come into her heart and mind so that she would know how to
comfort the young man.  But before she could speak, the
doors to the waiting room swung open and a handsome black 
man in pale green surgical scrubs entered.  

All heads rose to greet the doctor.  After a second, the
other two clusters of people sharing the waiting room looked
away, obviously not recognizing the young surgeon.  He
didn't spare them a glance as he closed the distance between
himself and Fox Mulder.

Fox stared at the doctor, his eyes wide and panic-stricken
in a face that was as cold and expressionless as stone. 
"How is she?"

The doctor waited until Margaret and Walter Skinner closed
the circle.  "The bullet was small.  It didn't hit a bone and
didn't do much damage beyond the entry wound and the nicked 
artery.   She lost a lot of blood prior to her arrival--the
artery was
pretty compromised and it was touch and go, trying to repair it
before she bled out."

Fox's lips tightened with impatience.  "Is she going to be
all right?"

The doctor met his wild-eyed gaze with admirable calm.  "We
were able to repair the damage and replenish Agent Scully's
blood supply with relatively little difficulty.  She's going
to be very weak and very sore for a couple of weeks, but
barring any complications, she should be all right.  I'll
send someone to get you as soon as she's out of recovery and
into the intensive care unit."

Margaret expelled a watery sigh, weak with relief.  To her
left, Mulder sagged, groping for the back of a waiting room
chair to steady his balance.  He closed his eyes and lifted
his face toward the ceiling as if offering up a benediction.

The surgeon started to leave, then turned back to Fox.  "You
were the one on the scene, weren't you?  You administered
first aid."  The surgeon's dark eyes took in Fox's
disheveled appearance, saw the blood staining his clothes
and skin.  Though Margaret could tell the doctor was
well-schooled in maintaining professional detachment, she
couldn't mistake the compassion in his voice. 

Fox nodded slowly.

"You saved her life."  The surgeon gave a little nod, the
briefest of smiles, then turned and walked out the waiting
room door.

Fox stared at the doorway for a long moment, his expression
void.  Then he closed his eyes and slumped into the nearest
chair, sagging forward as if every nerve in his body had gone 
suddenly, blessedly numb.

Margaret's eyes stung with the tears she'd been fighting
since she'd gotten the call to come to the hospital.  She
sat in the chair next to him, sliding her arm around his
shoulder.  He didn't resist when she gently drew his head
against the curve of her neck, stroking his hair with gentle
fingers.  "Thank you for taking care of my baby girl."

A soft, hitching sound escaped his throat.  

Margaret rocked him gently, murmuring sounds that
communicated nothing but comfort and love.  Out of the
corner of her eye she saw Walter Skinner cross to the bank
of payphones in the corner, moving with an air of confidence
and power that was intriguing and comforting at the same
time.  Margaret added his name to the prayers she continued
to lift to her God, grateful for Walter Skinner's concern
for her daughter--and for Fox. 

After a few moments, Fox drew away from her, taking a deep
breath as if to compose himself.  Margaret left her hand
against his back, soothing him with the same gentle caress
she'd used to calm her children when they were babies. 
"Maybe you should go home for a little while, get cleaned
up.  Dana probably won't be out of recovery for another
hour--"

He shook his head with a violent side-to-side motion.  "I'm
not leaving 'til I see her."

She rubbed his back.  "At least you need to clean up a bit."

He stared down at his right hand, where Dana's blood had
begun to dry and darken on his skin.  His eyes narrowed with
a slight twitch, as if he could hardly bear the sight.  

Unbidden, a memory sliced into Margaret's mind--Fox Mulder
with his hand outstretched to her, blood glistening on his
fingertips as she stood, stunned and terrified, in the chaos
of her daughter's wrecked apartment.  She drew a sharp,
shaky breath, reliving the horror of that first, fateful
meeting with Fox Mulder.

At the sound, Fox turned to look at her, his hazel-gray eyes
haunted.  Without words, they shared that moment again,
understanding the import of what had happened the night
Duane Barry kidnapped Dana, what truths it had revealed to
them both.

Fox looked away first, his gaze returning to his
bloodstained hand.  "I'll see if I can borrow some scrubs or
something, get myself washed up.  I don't want her to see me
like this."  He rose, his movements slow and stiff, and
wandered over to the courtesy desk, where an older lady in a
pink uniform sat.  The woman lifted compassionate eyes to
him, smiling and nodding at his murmured query.  

Margaret closed her eyes, trusting the attendant to help
Fox.  Adrenaline seeped away, enervating her, turning her
limbs to jelly and her mind to fog.  She felt the warmth of
another person's body next to hers, heard the soft scrape of
the chair against the wall as he sat, but she didn't open
her eyes.

"Are you all right, Mrs. Scully?"  Walter Skinner's low
voice tingled down her spine.

She forced her eyes open, turning to meet his concerned
gaze.  "Yes.  Just a little shaky." She sighed.  "I can't
tell you how sick I am of hospitals."

An expression of pain flitted across his craggy face,
tightening his jaw and darkening his eyes.  Margaret felt a
quick rush of embarrassment and regret, remembering that Mr.
Skinner had lost his wife barely a year ago.  A brain
aneurysm, Dana had said--a complication from a severe head
injury Mrs. Skinner had suffered in a car accident several
months before her death.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner--I should
have--"

He shook his head quickly, his expression already back to
normal.  "I'm going to check on Agent Mulder--maybe I can go
get him a change of clothes.  Will you be okay?"  He spoke
in the same gentle, concerned voice he'd used almost three
years earlier when he'd stood with her in another hospital,
at another bedside. 

She closed her eyes against the fresh surge of pain from the
old wound, then opened them again, meeting his gaze.  "I'll
be fine.  Take care of Fox for me."

A smile almost made it to his mouth before evaporating.
"I'll do that."

Margaret watched him leave the room, his broad shoulders and
purposeful stride reminding her of another strong,
complicated man she'd known, a man she'd loved since she was
seventeen years old.  She closed her eyes again, thinking of
William, knowing with utter certainty that he was watching
over their baby girl, keeping her safe for another night.


*  *  *  *  *


January 21, 1998
Northeast Georgetown Hospital
4:13 a.m.


Fox Mulder slipped back into the intensive care unit after a
quick bathroom break, ignoring the disapproving glare of the
night duty nurse.  He'd shamelessly used his credentials to
bypass hospital rules and stay at his partner's side through
the night.  Scully had awakened only briefly since her
surgery, long enough for the doctors to ascertain that she
was lucid and not suffering any complications from her
surgery.  But mostly, she slept, aided by the Demerol and
the shock her body had suffered through.

As for Mulder, he contented himself to watch her sleep,
heartened by the color slowly returning to her ashen cheeks,
the steady sussuration of her breathing, the even beeps of
her EKG monitor.  Dr. Ramsey, the surgeon, had dropped by
several times during the night to check on her, confessing
his satisfaction with her rapid and steady improvement.   

Night swallowed the ICU, purple-black shadows relieved only
by the soft glow of light over each bed in the unit.  Mulder
pulled the chair closer to Scully's bed and took her hand in
his.  He lifted her knuckles to his cheek, taking courage in
the increasing warmth of her flesh.  He was gentle, careful
not to awaken her.  It was enough to know that in the
morning, she WOULD awaken and look at him with those
startling blue eyes.  Scold him, perhaps, for the circles
under his eyes and the day's growth of beard.  Order him to
go home and go to bed.

He relished the argument to come.

Matter of fact, he relished the thought of having a future
to spend with her, listening to her low, modulated tones as
she debunked all his theories with passion and conviction,
watching her fight laughter in the face of his best jokes. 
The sheer joy of knowing that tomorrow or the next day he
would hear the familiar words, "I'm fine, Mulder."

Men his age often claimed disatisfaction with the
predictabilitiy of their lives, but Mulder longed for
predictability.  Stability.  Knowing that there was a
constant in the world, something that never changed, no
matter what. 

For him, Scully was that constant.  Fierce, loyal, honest,
brave, compassionate--she was the whole foundation of his
life now.  She held him steady, prevented his collapse,
protected him from the shifting sands surrounding them. 
Being without her was inconceivable.

He gently brushed her knuckles against his cheek, careful
not to let his beard stubble scratch her skin.  "You scared
the shit out of me last night, Scully."

Her chest rose in slow, steady rhythm, soothing his still-
frazzled nerves. 

"I'm the one who's supposed to wake up in the hospital,
atoning for my foolhardy ways.  I don't know how to act on
this side of the bed."  He lifted her fingers to his lips,
kissing her knuckles with the lightest of touches.  "Don't
make a habit of this."

He closed his eyes, weariness finally beginning to catch up
with the adrenaline that had seen him through the ordeal to
this point.  He bent forward, resting his head on the bed
next to her hip.  He held onto her hand, needing even that
simple touch of her skin against his.

He was so tired.  Tired of holding her at arm's length,
tired of putting his life--their lives--on hold while he
searched for his sister and the truth.  He'd always counted
the costs of his quest and found them worth the possible
rewards--but not this time.  Not this cost.  When he'd lain
on that dirty convenience store floor and watched Scully's
life draining away in front of him, he'd felt the full
weight of his sacrifice.  So much he would never know--the
warmth of her lips against his own, the taste of her, the
mysteries that made her Dana Scully--all the things he'd 
never let himself consider consciously for fear that he'd lose 
himself in her and never find his way back.

But right now, losing himself in her was all he wanted.

Over the past few hours, he'd reevaluated his life, taken
stock, weighed the goals against the sacrifices.  And
nothing was worth what he'd almost lost tonight.  Not even
the truth.

Not even Samantha.

*  *  *  *  *

Dana Scully awoke to a faint buzz of pain in her right thigh.
She shifted slightly and froze as the pain blossomed, 
ratcheting through her whole body.

When she was able to draw another breath, she opened her
eyes and processed her surroundings.  A hospital room, she
recognized immediately.  IV's, EKG monitor, soft sounds of
voices, antiseptic smells.  Her right hand stung where the
IV needle pierced her vein; she felt the unaccustomed tug of
adhesive on the flesh of her inner thigh. 

Her mind was fuzzy, a bit off center--Demerol, she thought. 
Maybe the after-effects of anesthesia.  Maybe both.  She
breathed carefully, acutely aware of the looming pain in her
leg.  Cautiously, she turned her head to her left.

And saw Fox Mulder's face.

He was hunched over the side of her bed, his head butted up
against her hip, his face soft and boyish in sleep.  His
right hand curled around her left hand, his fingers loosely
intertwined with hers.  His jawline was blue with a day's
growth of beard, and his hair was spiked in a dozen
different directions.  Gently disentangling her fingers from
his, she reached down and smoothed his hair, indulging
herself in the luxury of touching him without consequence or
question.

Memory seeped back into her mind, sounds and sensations.  A
gunshot, impossibly loud for such a small weapon.  A ripping
pain in her leg.  Mulder holding her, twisting his tie around
her upper leg, pressing his hand to her thigh to stop the flow of
blood.  Her growing certainty that the paramedics would
never reach her in time.  The hard ache of sorrow at leaving
Mulder behind, the burgeoning fear for him, for what her
death would do to him.

She remembered the touch of his mouth against her hair, the
soft, desperate words uttered like a prayer.  

Just a few more minutes, Scully.  Help's coming.  

He'd saved her life.  Without a doubt.  And not for the
first time. 

She stroked his hair gently, tears pricking her eyes.  What
he was to her was so much more complicated--and simple--than
just a colleague, just a friend.  He'd taught her to believe
that there were greater truths in life than what the eyes
could see or the ears could hear.  He'd helped her open
herself to extreme possibilities--sometimes kicking and
screaming all the way.

She loved him utterly, mindlessly.  What use was there in
trying to categorize or compartmentalize those feelings?

He stirred.  She lowered her hand to the bed as his eyes
blinked open and met her gentle gaze.  A smile broke over
his face, full and beautiful, and she could hardly catch her
breath.

He sat up, wincing a little as his limbs apparently
protested the movement.  He waggled three fingers in front
of her.  "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She bit back a chuckle.  "What are fingers?"

"Ha ha."  He caught her hand in his.  "How're you feeling?"

"Like I got shot in the leg."

"What a coincidence."

"How long have I been out?"

He glanced at his watch.  "Off and on for about seven
hours."

"The shooter?"

"Cooling his heels in the city jail."  A grim expression
darkened Mulder's face. 

Scully tightened her grip on his hand.  "Did I see my
mother?  I vaguely remember--"

"She's catching some sleep in the waiting lounge.  I
promised to look after you."

"You're not supposed to be in the intensive care, Mulder. 
I'm pretty sure these aren't normal visiting hours."

He grinned, unrepentant.  "Creds will get you anywhere,
Scully."

"Roast beefed 'em, did you?"  She tried to look stern. 
After all, it was against Bureau policy for an agent to use
his badge to brook favors.  But she had no room to scold
him--she'd done the same thing herself more than once when
he was in trouble.

He cradled her hand between his own and lifted it to his
lips.  Lightly, he touched his mouth to her knuckles.  The
open caress surprised her--but not as much as the look of
bold determination in his eyes as his gaze met hers.  "I'd
break any rule for you, Scully.  You know that."

Her heart thudded wildly, making her feel a little dizzy. 
What had come over her partner, the man who hid even the
mildest of compliments behind a mask of humor?  The man who,
when she'd returned to the living after three lost months,
bypassed flowers and gave her "Superstars of the Superbowl"
as a get-well present?

Secretly, she'd dreamed of having this man look at her this
way, his heart in his eyes, in his voice.

But now, was she ready?  Could she really face the risks of
stepping outside the comfortable bounds they'd set for
themselves from the beginning?  The rewards--God, the
rewards could be incredible.  

But there was also so much to lose--

Fortunately, she was granted a reprieve by the arrival of a
slender black man in a white coat.  He smiled at her, nodded
at her partner, and flipped open the chart at the bottom of
her bed.  "Good morning, Agent Scully.  I'm Dr. Ramsey.  I
was the vascular surgeon assigned to your case when you 
arrived last night, and I'll have to say, you're making me look 
like a genius."  He smiled at her again.  Scully liked him
immediately.

"So, what exactly did you do to my leg, Dr. Ramsey?"

He explained the surgery, the repairs to her artery and the
surprisingly slight amount of collateral damage.  "You're a
lucky woman, Agent Scully.  Lucky that the wound wasn't as
bad as it could have been--and that you had somebody looking
out for you on scene."  He glanced at Mulder.

Scully looked at her partner, not hiding her affection for
once.  "Yeah, well, I taught him everything he knows."

Mulder looked up, meeting her teasing look with a little
chuckle. 

"Your vitals are excellent, considering the condition you
were in when you arrived.  If they remain constant over the
next few hours, I'll see about getting you in a private room
around lunch time."  The doctor smiled.  "Deal?"

She nodded.  "Any idea on recovery time?"

Dr. Ramsey shrugged.  "You're in good health.  The damage
wasn't as bad as it might have been--maybe a month?"

A month?  She frowned, thinking about how much damage Mulder
could do to the office on his own for a month.  "How quickly
could I return to office work?"

"Scully--" Mulder began.

She cut him off with a look.  "Well?" she asked the doctor.

"You're going to be here for at least two or three more
days, and you'll be sore for two weeks minimum.  The blood
loss you suffered compromised your body's ability to fight
infection, so you may well have to fight off a bug or two. 
I'd suggest you take the whole four week recovery period and
not try to rush things."  He gave her a stern, doctorly look
before he left the ICU.

Standard doctor answer.  Which meant that if she was lucky--
or good--she might be back at work in three weeks.  And she
could probably access the Bureau's mainframe from her home
computer, so she could be back in business in a week--unless
she could talk a techie into helping her figure out how to
use the hospital phone lines to hook up her lap top.  Maybe
Pendrell--

"There's nothing we have going on that's worth risking your
health, Scully."  Mulder's voice gently broke into her
thoughts.  

"The Fiedler case--"

"--can wait," he insisted.  "It's not like Fiedler can get
any more dead, Scully.  And besides, you said there was
probably nothing paranormal about the man losing his head in
a time-locked bank vault, even though we couldn't find the head
anywhere."  His eyes twinkled.

Bastard, she thought affectionately, he had a lot of nerve,
turning her words on her.  But at least the doctor's visit
had distracted him from his earlier, uncharacteristic
display of unpartnerlike affection.  She needed more time to
process things, to figure out what she really wanted--and
more importantly, what would really be best for her and
Mulder in the long run.

Like any person in the world, she longed to have it all--
friendship, love, passion, affection.  And if there was a
man in the world who could give her all of that, surely it
was Mulder.  But what they already had was so good--better
than anything she'd ever known before.  They were connected
on levels she hadn't even known existed.  They shared a
devotion that was singular, intense, exclusive.  No other
man in the world would do for her--that much she knew.  

But what if they were being greedy, wanting more even though
they already shared so much more than any two humans had a
right to hope for?  What if the punishment for that greed
was the loss of everything they already had?

She closed her eyes, suddenly bone tired.  She didn't want
to think about this anymore.  She didn't want to think at
all.  She simply wanted to lie here in this bed, with Fox
Mulder by her side, holding her hand, and drift back into
dreams unmuddied by doubts or questions.

She felt his hand move lightly over her cheek, caressing
her, soothing her.  His touch was gentle, undemanding.  

"You want me to leave so you can get some sleep?"  His voice
was close to her ear; she felt his breath stir the hair of
her temple. 

She shook her head.  "Stay until I get to sleep, okay?"

"Okay."

"But promise me that you'll go home after that and get some
rest," she added.

He chuckled.  "Yes, ma'am."

With his fingers playing lightly in her hair, she drifted
off to sleep.


*  *  *  *  *


January 24th, 1998
Dana Scully's Apartment
12:23 p.m.


While Fox Mulder and Margaret Scully brought Dana's
belongings inside the apartment, Scully sat gingerly in her
desk chair and pushed the power button of her computer.  As
it booted up, she glanced through the stack of mail that had
accumulated during her four day stay at N.E. Georgetown
Medical Center.  

"Where the hell did THIS come from?"  Mulder's voice sounded
a little strained, and she turned carefully to see him
carrying a huge potted peace lily into her apartment.

"Alan Pendrell."  She hid a smile as Mulder's dark eyebrows
twitched slightly upward.

He set the plant next to the sofa.  "The techno-puppy
doesn't know the meaning of the word 'subtle,'" he muttered.

She turned back to the computer, allowing herself to grin
now that he couldn't see her do it.  

"Honey, do you want cheese on your sandwich?" Margaret asked
from the kitchen.

Scully glanced at Mulder, amusement glittering in her eyes
as her mother's question took her back about thirty years.
"No cheese, Mom."

Mulder grinned and picked up a gift basket he'd brought up
from the car.  "I see the Allentown MUFON women sent you a
gift, too."

Scully nodded.  "Yes, they did.  Wasn't that nice of them?"

"Well, hell, Scully, you're their pin-up girl, you know."

She thought about frowning at him, but what would be the
point?  She knew his opinion about what had happened to her
while she was missing.  She didn't happen to concur, but the
truth was--NOBODY knew what really happened to her except
her mysterious captors.  And there was a distinct
possibility she'd never learn the truth.

A tiny "ding" sounded behind her, and a soft computerized
voice announced, "You have mail."

She turned and watched as the flashmail session downloaded
messages into her e-mail file.  There were a couple of
suggestive subject titles that had "Frohike" written all
over them, a couple of interoffice memos that automatically
went out to any computers linked to the Bureau mainframe,
and one in all caps--Sarah Chandler, Scully thought with a
half-smile.  Her quirky e-mail friend refused to bow to
cyberspace convention.  She wrote everything in all-caps,
even though she knew full well that it was the cyberspace
equivalent of shouting.  "I'M A SUCKY TYPIST AS IT IS,"
Sarah had written once.  "WHY MAKE IT HARDER?"

"Anything interesting?" Mulder asked.  

She looked over at him.  He sat on her couch, fiddling with
the spiky leaves of a small agave plant that Skinner's
assistant, Eleanore, had sent.  She liked the way he looked
at home here.  It gave her an odd sense of security.  "Not
really."  

She bypassed Frohike's notes, not trusting herself to read
them without bursting into hysterical laughter as she was
prone to do.  She glanced over the Bureau memos to make sure
they weren't important, then opened Sarah Chandler's note.

{{{DANA}}}

PENNY TOLD ME YOU WERE SHOT!!!  SAID YOU'D BE OKAY, BUT GOD!
SHOT???!!!  AND YOU SAID YOUR JOB WAS NOTHING BUT GLORIFIED
PAPER WORK.  GUESS THIS GIVES NEW MEANING TO THE PHRASE
PAPER CUT! <G>

IT'S SO FRUSTRATING, SITTING HERE AND NOT KNOWING ANYTHING
ABOUT YOU BUT YOUR E-MAIL ADDY AND WHAT YOU'VE TOLD ME.  I
CAN'T ASK PENNY--I WOULDN'T INVADE YOUR PRIVACY THAT WAY,
BUT IT'S SO HARD SITTING HERE, KNOWING MY FRIEND IS HURT AND
NOT BEING ABLE TO SO MUCH AS GIVE YOU A PHONE CALL! :(

I'M PLANNING A TRIP TO D.C. SOON TO CHECK OUT THE GEORGETOWN
LIBRARY FOR SOME RESEARCH ON MY DISSERTATION.  I KNOW THIS
IS PROBABLY ASKING TOO MUCH, BUT I'D REALLY LIKE TO MEET
YOU.  I'LL BE IN TOWN ON FEBRUARY 9TH--DO YOU THINK WE COULD
MEET SOMEWHERE, MAYBE LET ME TAKE YOU LUNCH?  OR WILL YOU BE
FEELING WELL ENOUGH TO GET OUT?

***PLEASE*** WRITE BACK!  JUST TO LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY!

SARAH C.  

Scully opened a mail form and quickly composed a note
reassuring Sarah that she was okay, feeling very well
considering, and would love to meet her face to face when
she came to town.  She sent the mail through and shut down
the computer.

"How about you, Fox?  Do you want cheese on your sandwich?" 
Margaret asked from the kitchen.

"Yes ma'am."  Mulder winked at Scully, then rose swiftly as
she carefully pushed herself up from her desk chair.  He was
at her side before she'd taken a step, his hand curling
around her elbow.  

As pleasant as she found his touch, she didn't want him to
feel like he had to baby her.  She gently removed his hand
from her arm, softening the rejection with a smile.  "I
won't break, Mulder."

"I will."

His intense gaze sent an involuntary shiver down her back.
She swallowed with difficulty and forced herself to look
away.  "So, how'd you manage to drag yourself away from the
office today, Mulder?  I'd have thought four days without me
keeping the paper work at bay would've snowed you under."

He stepped back, allowing her the space for which she
silently asked.  "I requested a clerk.  Guess who I got?"

She quirked an eyebrow.  "Who?"

"Holly Flanders."

Scully cocked her head.  "The one Modell--"

"The one who whipped Skinner's ass with pepper spray and
size seven heels," Mulder answered with a wicked grin. 
"Needless to say, Skinner hasn't bothered me all week."

Scully chuckled.

"Of course, I've steered clear of her all week myself," he
added with a wry chuckle.  "I just say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no
ma'am' and 'whatever you want, ma'am.'"

"Any progress on the Fiedler case?"

He shook his head.  "But you're not supposed to be worrying
about work, Scully.  Dr. Ramsey gave me orders--keep you out
of the office for at least three weeks.  I still don't know
why you didn't go stay with your mom for a couple of weeks--
make a vacation out of it."

"I tried to talk her into it, believe me."  Margaret came
out of the kitchen, carrying a couple of plates.  

Mulder met her quickly and took the food from her, setting
the plates on the low coffee table in front of the couch. 
"You haven't taken a real vacation in years, Scully--"

She held up her hand to silence him.  "I need to be here in
my own place.  I need to reconnect with my life as quickly
as possible."

She realized that she was echoing the very words she'd said
to him just over three years ago, when she'd been released
from the hospital after nearly dying of unknown causes. 
She'd lost weeks out of her life, weeks she would probably
never get back, and it had been essential to reestablish
herself as Dana Katherine Scully, who lived in Apartment 402
and worked for the F.B.I. and liked chocolate chip ice cream
and Truman Capote novels and yellow roses.

Though this time her time away had been three days instead
of three months, she still wanted to get back to her life,
to the stability and familiarity of it.

She could tell by the look in Mulder's eyes that he
understood her need.  He touched her cheek with his
forefinger, the caress light and undemanding.  "Okay."

Scully sat on her sofa, surrounded by the trappings of her
life and the two people she loved most in the world, and
smiled.  She was a lucky woman.


*  *  *  *  *


February 9, 1998
Water's Cafe
Washington D.C.
1:36 p.m.

Dana Scully glanced at her watch, a frown creasing her
forehead.  Sarah Chandler was over an hour late.

Had she gotten lost?  Stuck at the Georgetown Library?  

Maybe she was just a flake, Scully thought, frowning at the
glass of watery iced tea in front of her.  You couldn't
really get to know a person by e-mail and the occasional
chat, after all.

She knew some essentials--or at least, what essentials Sarah
had told her.  Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, was
finishing the first year of her PhD candidacy at Yale. 
Astrophysics, a field that had briefly interested Scully
herself until she'd decided to attend medical school
instead.

She and Sarah had been corresponding by e-mail for five
months, ever since Penny Northern had put Sarah in touch
with Scully.  Sarah was trying to find out something about
the first twelve years of her life--she'd been found
unconscious on a Charleston, South Carolina back street at
the age of twelve.  She had no conscious memory of her life
before that time, although she'd been haunted by brief,
fragmented flashbacks for most of her life.  A year ago,
Sarah had taken part in a Harvard University psychology
study utilizing hypnotic regression therapy.  It was this
experience that had led Sarah to the Mutual U.F.O. Network
and Penny Northern.  And Penny had led Sarah to Scully.

Think about it, Dana, Scully told herself as she rattled the
slivers of ice still left in her glass of tea.  The woman
thinks she was abducted by aliens, and you're surprised that
she blew off a lunch?

She waited another ten minutes before giving up and ordering
a couple of sandwiches and cups of tea to go.  


*  *  *  *  *

Fox Mulder's Office
2:03 p.m.

"Hungry?"

Fox Mulder looked up from the file he was perusing,
startled, then jumped to his feet.  "What the hell are you
doing here, Scully?  We had an agreement."

Scully handed him the bags she was carrying and gave him one
of her more irritated looks.  "I'm not even limping anymore,
Mulder.  Frankly, this forced exile is getting really old."

"You can't wait one more week?"

She followed him to his desk.  "No, I can't. I'm fine,
Mulder."

He grinned.  He couldn't help it.  "What am I going to do
with you?"

"Have lunch with me, for starters."  She reached for one of
the bags.  "My lunch date stood me up, and I figured, why
let a trip to Water's go to waste?  Have you eaten?"


He shook his head.  "I got involved in writing up the final
report on the Fiedler case and lost track of time."

She gave him a look that told him she'd suspected as much. 
She knew him better than he knew himself.

Funny what a sense of comfort that knowledge offered, for
he'd always loved being the enigma, the man of mystery.  It
was like he was keeping a secret from the whole world--who
is this mysterious Fox Mulder and what exactly is he up to?

Only Scully had effortlessly stripped away all his layers of
protection and touched the real man inside.  From the very
first.  He'd tried to push her away, frighten her, befuddle
her--but Scully was nothing if not tenacious.  She'd calmly
sliced through his protective armor and laid him bare and
vulnerable. 

She had the power to destroy him--but chose to guard him
instead, shielding his weakness with her own strength.  If
for no other reason, he would always love her for justifying
his trust.

She handed him a turkey club sandwich.  "So, exactly how DID
you explain how Fiedler's secretary managed to enter the
bank vault--timed lock still engaged--rip off his head with
her bare hands and then remove herself AND the head from the
vault--time lock still engaged--without a single
surveillance camera catching her?"  She unwrapped her own
sandwich and looked at him with bright-eyed amusement.

"Scully, I don't have to prove HOW she did it.  We found the
head in her refrigerator."  Mulder took a bite of the
sandwich.

She arched one eyebrow and bit into her own sandwich, chewed
and swallowed.  "How did you figure it out, then?  What made
you think, 'hey, that anorexic little blond secretary of
Fieldler's must have done it'?"

He chuckled.  "Well, I was asking her a few questions one
day and apparently hit on a subject she didn't like.  She
gave me a look that just said, 'Mess with me, asshole, and
I'll rip your head off.'  And it just got me to
thinking...."

Scully chuckled, a rare, delightful sound that reminded
Mulder of bright summer mornings full of wonder and
possibility.  The bite of sandwich he'd just swallowed stuck
in his throat for a second as he fought a moment of sheer,
raw emotion.  Even though weeks had passed since that
frantic night he'd held her shivering, dying body on the
floor of a gas station food mart, every day he relived the
terror, the images burned like a brand in his memory.

He was going to have to approach her about the decision he'd
made by her bedside that first night in the hospital.  But
now that time had eased the frantic need for resolution, he
wasn't sure what to say--or if she'd even be responsive.

Did she want to explore the possibilities that lay between
them? 

The office wasn't the place to broach the question, he knew
instinctively.  No matter what kind of relationship he and
Scully decided to explore, the office would have to be off
limits.  This place was sacred in its own right.  She loved
her work, loved the challenge of righting wrongs, of seeking
and finding justice.  And he loved working with her.  This
was not a part of his life he could imagine sacrificing, no
matter how much more he wanted from Scully.

He took a sip of iced tea and debated how best to handle
things.  He could drop by her apartment--he did that all the
time anyway.  Maybe talk her into going out and grabbing a
bite to eat--somewhere nice, for once.  Hell, maybe even
dress up for it--he hadn't done that in a long time.  

God, he thought with wry amusement, my palms are sweating. 
Maybe he should just go ahead and ask her now.  "Scully--"

A soft rap on the door interrupted him.  The door opened and
Walter Skinner walked through.  His stern expression
softened with a slight smile as he caught sight of Scully. 
"I heard you were in the building, Agent Scully. How are you
feeling?"

Scully stood.  "Fine, sir.  Ready to come back to work
bright and early next Monday morning."

"What, no passionate plea for me to let you come back
early?"

She smiled slightly.  "I would, sir, but my brother's ship
is going to be coming into port in Norfolk tonight, and I'm
headed there with my mother for a couple of days."

Mulder felt a twinge of disappointment.  So much for a night
on the town.

"I'll be back on Thursday, though--if you want to bump me up
a day or so...."

"We'll stick with Monday."  He gave a little wave.  "You and
your mother have a good time."  Skinner left the office,
shutting the door behind him.

Scully sat again, reaching for her sandwich.  "Were you
about to say something when Skinner came in?"

He shook his head.  It could wait.    


End of #1







DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this story belong to
CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.  The character of Trent Madison is my own 
invention and should not be used without my permission.

This is chapter two of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of
Separation.  The events in this story precede the events in
12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. 

Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#2:  "Release"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Feb. 12, 1998
4:47 p.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters
Washington D.C.


Fox Mulder picked up the framed photo that had sat on his 
desk for as long as he could remember.  The small, smiling 
face that stared back at him was as familiar as his own, 
as familiar as Scully's.  Wavy dark hair, a dusting of
freckles, a gaptoothed grin that haunted him asleep or
awake.  It's strange, he thought, that I never really
understood how much I loved her until she was gone.  

Before, she'd been a pest, a kid sister whose constant ploys
for attention had bugged the hell out of him.  He'd always
assumed she was his father's favorite--whatever Samantha
wanted, Samantha got, while he himself had never seemed to
be able to do anything to please his father.

Strange that when it came time to make a choice, his father
had chosen to let the bastards take Samantha....

He shook his head, lowering the photograph gently to the
desk, as if he were holding the precious and fragile essence
of his lost sister in his hands.  She'd been gone for
twenty-four years--three times the number of years that he'd
known her.  Like an ancient creature preserved in amber,
Samantha lived in this photograph, captured in time,
unaltered by the intervening years.

When he was younger, he took comfort in that thought--he
held onto the photo, memorized it, learned everything he
could about who she had been--what she had loved, what she
had dreamed about, what she had hated.  He'd searched his
memories, hounded his parents and Samantha's friends for
stories, searched through her room and her books and even
the little girl's diary he'd found hidden under her mattress
in the old house in Chilmark.  He made her more real to him
in absence than she had ever been before, and he'd clung to
that picture of her, imprinted it on his heart and his mind
against the day when she came back.  

He'd thought it would be a matter of days, maybe weeks.  Not
months.  Not years.

Not decades.

He put on his reading glasses and picked up the fax that
Trent Madison had sent a few minutes ago.  It was a proposal
for putting the house in Chilmark on the market.  Property
taxes in Massachussetts were slated to go up at the
beginning of the next fiscal year, and, according to his
father's estate lawyer, the house in Chilmark would quickly
become a drain on the estate.  

"It's sitting there, unused and unvisited, Fox," Madison had
said over the phone a few minutes ago.  "It's time to put it
on the market, get some return out of it.  Your mother won't
listen to me about this, Fox, but I think she'll listen to
you."

He shook his head again, barely restraining the urge to
crumple the fax and throw it across the room.  He knew that
the house was just a house--wood and bricks and sheetrock,
inanimate and of no real value beyond its function as a
home.  It could burn to the ground tomorrow and the world
would keep revolving, the sun would keep shining, the clocks
would keep ticking.

But in his heart, he knew that something essential would
die.  Maybe something as essential as hope.  As long as the
Chilmark house was there, he could pretend that any day now,
Samantha would be coming home.  He'd find her and take her
back to the house in Chilmark and everything would finally
be okay again.  His adult mind recognized the foolishness of
those thoughts, but there was a part of Fox Mulder that
would forever be 12 years old, scared and longing for his
sister's return.

And that was the part of him that knew the phone call he was
about to make would change his life forever.  He took a deep
breath and picked up the telephone.  

Three rings later, his mother's voice greeted him.  "Hello?"

"Hi, mom.  I need to see you.  Can I come up tonight?"


*  *  *  *  *


4:47 p.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters
Records and Information Division


Dana Scully frowned at the computer operator.  "A week
ago?"

Gail Coen nodded.  "Her roommate at Yale reported her
missing on February 6th.  Her parents flew up from somewhere
down South--"

"Charleston," Scully supplied softly, staring at the
impersonal lines of information scrolling slowly down the
computer screen.  Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, hair
brown, eyes green, 5'6" and 116 pounds, finishing the first
year of her PhD candidacy at Yale.  Most of the information
on the screen she knew already.  It was what she DIDN'T know
that worried her.

She slowly circled Gail Coen's chair, pinching her lower lip
between her thumb and forefinger.  "Do the New Haven police
have any leads on her disappearance?"

Gail shook her head.  "Not that we know of."

Scully sighed.  "Thanks, Gail.  Can you print me out a copy
of everything you have there?"

"Sure."  As Gail went to work, Scully picked up the phone on
the desk nearby and punched in Mulder's extension.  It was
busy.  

Scully frowned at the receiver for a second, then hung up
the phone and turned back to Gail, who passed her a file
folder.  

"There you go."

Scully took the file and tucked it under her arm, murmuring
her thanks to the records clerk, and headed for the
elevators.  As she was waiting for the elevator, she
switched on her cellular phone and punched in a New Haven,
Connecticut number.  After three rings, a warm, masculine
voice answered.  "Dr. Crane."

"Hi, Benton, it's Dana."

Benton's voice hugged her through the airwaves.  "Dana,
honey!  Long time, no hear!"

"Listen, I have a favor to ask...." 

The elevator reached her floor as she was turning off her
phone.  She slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and
stepped into the elevator.  She pressed the button for the
basement and flipped open the folder.

The photograph that the New Haven Police had scanned and
faxed to the FBI was about three years old and, according to
the accompanying note, not completely accurate.  The woman
in the photo wore her hair short and apparently colored, for
in the black and white photo she looked more blonde than
brunette.  The memo jotted by the detective in charge of the
missing persons case noted that Sarah's hair was now a few
inches past shoulder length and back to her natural chestnut
brown.  

Scully held up the photo and tried to visualize the woman
with darker, longer hair.  It was strange, she thought. 
She'd been corresponding with Sarah for months--had even
chatted with her in I.R.C. a couple of times--and considered
her a friend, even a close friend.  Was that why she looked
at this photograph of an unfamiliar face and felt a deep
sense of--what?  Recognition?  Familiarity?

"So you're Sarah," she murmured to the photograph.

The woman in the photo stared back, her eyes shadowed and
mysterious.  I've got a secret, the eyes told Scully.  Can
you figure it out?

She studied the photograph until the elevator car reached
the basement with a soft "ding."  The doors glided open and
Scully exited, slipping the photograph back inside the
folder.  She tucked the file back under her arm and walked
down the hall to the office she shared with Fox Mulder.

He sat bent forward over his semi-cluttered desk, looking at
a sheaf of papers in front of him, his eyes intent behind
his wire-rimmed glasses.  Scully felt a now-familiar surge
of attraction, intensified when his gaze lifted to meet
hers.  She waited for the little half-smile with which he
normally graced her, but today his lips didn't even twitch. 

"What's wrong?" she asked, immediately aware that all was
not well.

Mulder shook his head.  "Nothing.  Did you have a nice visit
with your mom and your brother?"

Something WAS wrong--and now she was about to head out of
town and abandon him.  "Mulder, I was planning to drive up
to Connecticut to visit a friend this weekend, but if--"

He interrupted her.  "Really?  I'm headed to Connecticut
myself."

"To see your mom?"

"Yeah." 

His expression was outwardly placid, but Scully had been
working with him for almost six years.  She knew when
something was messing with his head.  "What's wrong, Mulder?
Is your mother okay?  She hasn't had a relapse--"

"No."  He met her concerned gaze.  "It's a long story,
Scully.  Long and ancient and not worth talking about.  So,
you're visiting a friend?"

She spared him a small smile.  "I DO have friends, you
know."

He smiled back, his expression a cross between affectionate
and rueful.  "When do you leave?"

"I thought I'd leave tonight. How about you?"

"Same thing."

Scully sat in the chair in front of his desk, wondering if
she should tell him the rest of her reason for going to
Connecticut.  They didn't keep secrets from each other--not
anymore, not since they'd almost let secrets and fears drive
them apart a couple of years ago.  But Scully also didn't
want to drag Mulder into another dead-end missing woman
case, especially one that involved a woman who had come to
believe that she might have experienced alien abductions--a
woman who was roughly the age of Mulder's lost sister
Samantha.

That would be cruel, and Scully would NOT do that to him. 
Not until she knew more about the case.

"Driving up?" he asked.

She drew her mind away from Sarah Chandler and looked at her
partner, noting the sadness etching small lines in his lean
face.  Her stomach coiled into a little knot of empathy.  In
her years with Mulder, she'd learned to take his pain into
herself, make it hers, absorb it, wrestle with it, share it
with him so he didn't have to be so horribly alone.  "Yeah,
I thought I'd take the car.  You fishing for a ride up?" 
She gave him a little smile.

"Is that an offer?"

Her smile faded a bit, his words catching her by surprise.
"Sure."

He nodded.  "I wouldn't mind the company.  And my mother's
been asking how you are.  You wouldn't have to stay and
visit, but maybe you could pop in, say hello for a minute."

Scully's stomach tightened further.  Something must really
be wrong, she thought as she studied her partner's
expressionless face, looking for clues.  Mulder the loner
never asked for company, and he sure as hell had never asked
her to "pop in" and say hello to his mother.  "Mulder,
what's going on?  Why are you going to visit your mother all
of a sudden?"

He didn't answer but reached out and touched the picture on
his desk, his long fingers tracing the shape of his lost
sister.  Scully felt an old, familiar ache that had first
taken root in her heart almost six years ago in a hotel room
in Oregon, when she'd watched a grown man turn back into a
scared, wounded twelve-year-old.  For six long years she'd
watched this man search for his sister--and for his lost
childhood--with a ferocity and a fanaticism greater than any
she'd ever known. 

So his next words came as a complete shock.

"Scully, Samantha's dead."


*  *  *  *  *


Scully stared at Mulder, certain she had misunderstood his
low, hoarse statement.  "What?"

"It's been too long, Scully.  My God, I'm an F.B.I. agent, I
know the statistics.  Most of the time, you don't find an
abductee alive after 25 DAYS, much less after 25 years." 
Mulder set his glasses on the desk in front of him and
rubbed his temples.  "Samantha isn't going to be found
alive.  It's well past time I faced it."

"But the tissue sample you found in her file--in the tunnels
at the mine in West Virginia--Mulder, it was a recent tissue
sample!"  Scully's stomach clenched at the dead expression
she saw in Mulder's eyes.  He couldn't lose hope.  She
couldn't let him.  Even if she knew, deep down, that he was
probably right, that Samantha was probably dead, she
couldn't bear to see his faith ripped away from him.  She
wanted to believe that Samantha was still alive, that she
was out there, that she could be found.  She NEEDED to
believe. 

He shook his head.  "It's okay, Scully."  He met her worried
gaze, his expression almost gentle, as if he were trying to
comfort her.  "This  hasn't been all about Samantha for a
long time.  She's not coming back--but the truth is STILL
out there.  I still need to know what my father was involved
in--why Samantha was sacrificed."  His eyes darkened
slightly.  "What happened to you...."

Tears pricked Scully's eyes as she realized how much he was
trying to be strong.  He's doing it for me, she thought. So
I won't worry about him.  She crossed and crouched next to
his chair, ignoring the twinge of prostest from her injured
leg.  She looked up into his pale face, seeing beyond the
expressionless mask to the anguish and despair beneath. 
With great determination, she quelled the soft, helpless
moan that rose in her throat. Mulder couldn't bear to know
that she was hurting for him.  She took a swift, steadying
breath through her nose and curled her fingers around his
arm.  "Mulder, don't give up."

He looked down at her, a faint smile playing across his
beautiful mouth for a microsecond before it disappeared.  "I
thought you saved your inspirational speeches for hotel
parking garages."

A half-smile twitched the corners of her lips as she
remembered a clandestine meeting in the darkened parking
garage of the Watergate Hotel.  He'd been close to giving
up, and she'd talked him into continuing, into keeping the
faith.

What would have happened if I'd stayed silent? she wondered.
Where would I be?  What would I be doing?

Would Melissa still be alive?

She looked away, tears burning her eyes.

"Scully."  Sorrow and regret suffused his voice.  He knew
her so well, he could practically read her mind.  "Maybe
this time it's time to give up this fantasy, Scully.  Before
anyone else gets hurt."

She looked up at him again.  "Don't do this."

He cupped her cheek with his palm, his thumb playing lightly
over her chin.  "I have to do this, Scully.  I can't go on
with my life until I do this."

His touch burned her skin, seared her to her core.  He'd
always been able to make her feel more than anyone else
she'd ever known.  But that included pain as well as
pleasure, and right now, she ached.  Her grief for Mulder's
loss was almost as intense as her grief for her own sister's
death.  "What can I do to help you?" she whispered.

He shook his head.  "Nothing."  He dropped his hand from her
face and gently moved her hands from his arm.  "If we're
going to Connecticut tonight, I'd better clear some things
out of my in-boxes."

She stood, not hurt by his withdrawal.  Of all the people in
the world, she understood what he was feeling.  She brushed
her fingers through his hair in an unconscious echo of a
night almost five years ago.  "Why don't I meet you at your 
apartment around six?"

He nodded, not meeting her gaze.

Scully grabbed her purse and left the office without another 
word, recognizing that right now words were neither 
necessary nor desirable.   

She almost made it home before the tears fell.


*  *  *  *  * 

Mulder packed a picture of Samantha as he always did
whenever he was planning to be away from his apartment for
any length of time.  He didn't know what the photograph was
supposed to signify to him--a reminder of his quest?  He
needed no physical reminder; he bore the demands and
consequences of his search for Samantha and the truth like
scars on his soul.  Maybe he carried the photograph for the
same reason he slept with the television on--it was a habit
he was terrified to break for fear that his whole life would
spin out of control if he didn't stick to the comforting
familiarity of the routine.

He heard Scully's footsteps approaching his door just as he
was zipping his overnight bag.  He'd know that sound
anywhere, he thought, allowing a small smile to break
through the relentless gloom that had hounded him since the
call from his father's estate lawyer.  After almost six
years, Scully was as familiar to him as his own reflection
in the mirror.  He hadn't had this long-term a relationship
in--hell, he'd NEVER had such a long-term relationship. 
That was why he had to do this, had to remove the last thing
that stood between them.

He anticipated her knock and opened the door.  She looked up
at him, a little twitch of her cinnamon eyebrows betraying
her surprise.  "Ready to go?" she asked.

He slid his arm through the nylon handles of his overnight
bag and nodded.  "I told Mom to expect us around 11:00."  

The drive to Greenwich, Connecticut from Washington D.C.
passed in almost complete silence.  He was glad for it--and
grateful that he had Scully, who knew what he needed without
having to be told.  Six years together had given them the
familiarity of a married couple--without the sex, he amended
with dark amusement.  The amusement faded into something
like regret.  

Soon, he thought.  Someday soon he and Scully would deal
with all the what-ifs they never seemed to face.  But he
couldn't think about the future until he'd first dealt with
the past.

They reached Greenwich by 10:45.  Scully parked her car in
front of Caroline Mulder's cottage-style house and turned to
look at him.  "I probably shouldn't stay and visit, Mulder. 
I have another hour or so of driving to do and it's late."

He nodded, knowing she was right.  But right now, the last
thing in the world he wanted to do was go into that house
alone to tell his mother that it was time to give up hope of
Samantha ever coming back to them.

Scully's gaze softened, tenderness suffusing her expression.
She reached for his hand and squeezed gently.  "I could come
in a for a little while--"

He shook his head, turning his hand so that his palm
flattened against hers.  He twined his fingers through hers,
resisting the urge to lift her hand to his lips and taste
the warm flesh of her palm.  He settled for rubbing his
thumb over hers.  "No.  You'd better go.  Will you call and
let me know you've arrived safely?"

She nodded, her eyes large and luminous in the moonlight
that flowed through the windshield, bathing her pale face
with an ethereal blue light.  Unbidden, he heard words from
the distant past.

I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you....

The urge to take her in his arms and never let go was as
strong at that moment as it had ever been.  Though he wasn't
fool enough to discount his very real attraction to Dana
Scully, he realized that what he was feeling wasn't about
sex.  It was about a bond more powerful and significant than
he'd ever known.  She was in his blood, in his brain, in the
fibers that held him together.  

She made a soft sighing sound.  "You'd better go."

He didn't want to go.  But he nodded and tore his gaze away
from hers.  He didn't allow himself to look at her again
until he was outside the car, overnight bag in hand.  She
had stepped out of the car and was looking at him over the
sedan's roof. 

"Thanks for the ride."

A ghost of a smile flitted across her face.  "Any time.  Say
hi to your mom for me."

"I will."  He made himself turn away and walk down the
cobblestone path to his mother's door.  Behind him, he heard
the car's engine growl and the soft hiss-pop of pebbles as
she pulled out of the drive.  He closed his eyes for a
moment, disconcerted by the almost physical ache of
separation.  

When had she become indispensable?

He shook his head at the ridiculous question.  When had she
NOT been indispensable?

His mother answered his soft knock, her world-weary face
brightening at the sight of him.  He smiled in return,
giving her the hug he'd denied himself with Scully. "How're
you feeling?"

She took his hand and led him into the living room.  "Better
everyday, Fox."  She sat in the arm chair across from  where
he sat on the sofa.  "Ms. Scully couldn't come in?"

So formal, he thought with an inner chuckle.  Of course,
considering he called her Scully himself-- "She had another
hour's drive.  She's visiting a friend in New Haven."  That
was really all he knew, he realized.  She hadn't told him
anything else about her trip--not the name of her friend or
where she'd be staying.  "She said to tell you hello."

His mother nodded, and an uncomfortable silence fell over
them for a moment.  Mulder finally took a deep breath and
plunged ahead.  "I talked to Trent Madison today."

His mother's lips tightened into a thin line.  "No, Fox--"

"The property is going to become a drain on your assets,
Mom--"

"I'm not selling the house, Fox.  Not when there's still a
chance--"

"There's not."

She looked up at him, stricken.  

Tears stung his eyes and he drew a shuddery breath.  "Mom,
she's not coming back.  It's been too long.  Twenty-five
years too long."

"No."

He closed his eyes, fighting for the strength to utter the
next words.  Tears squeezed between his clenched eyelids.
"Mom, Samantha is dead.  It's time we faced that.  It's time
to mourn her and then let her go."  He forced his eyes open
to look at her.

"No!"  She pushed herself to her feet, her movements a bit
ungainly, the lingering after-effect of the massive stroke
she'd suffered two years earlier.  He rose to his feet,
hands outstretched toward her, but she backed away.  "No,
Fox--she's all that's left for me now!  I won't let YOU take
her from me, too!"

He flinched, reeling as if she'd struck him.  Her eyes
widened, her mouth curved into an "O" of horror, and a
thick, terrible hush descended over them.

His soft, hoarse voice broke the heavy silence.  "I'm not
him, Mom."

Her face crumpled and she drew a swift, sobbing breath.  She
turned and stumbled toward the back of the house.  He took a
couple of faltering steps toward her as if to follow before
he stopped and sagged against the wall, pressing his face
against the cool plaster.  He heard a door snap shut down
the hall and the soft, muffled sounds of weeping.

His back against the wall, he slid down to the floor in a
crouch, his head lowered between his bent knees, and wept as
well.


*  *  *  *  *


Benton Crane's Apartment
New Haven, CT
February 12, 1998
11:59 p.m.


"And now she's missing."  Dana Scully wrapped her hands
around the mug of hot chocolate Benton had made for her while
she was showering and changing for bed.  Wrapped in her
favorite terrycloth robe and sipping the hot, sweet milk,
she felt ten years old again--which is how old she'd been
when she first laid eyes on Benton Crane.

He sat across the table from her, his impossibly handsome
face etched with gentle concern.  "And you're up here, less
than a month since you almost died of a gunshot wound, just
because this woman you've never even met has gone missing?"

"I know, it sounds crazy, but--"

"But she claims to be an abductee, and you need to know what
happened to her,"  Benton finished for her.  "Because of
what happened to you three years ago."

Scully looked down at the creamy brown cocoa in her cup. 
"What if they've taken her like they took me?"

"They?"  Benton's voice was deceptively neutral, but she
could tell by the undertone that he wanted her to admit her
fears to him.

"Whoever took me did tests on me, Benton.  I may never know
the purpose or extent of those tests, but I have to try to
find out.  For myself and for Sarah."

"And for Mulder."

She bit her lip.  "He told me today that he believes his
sister is dead."

Benton's eyebrows rose.  "I'm surprised."  

"I don't think I can bear it, Benton."  She stirred the
cocoa with a red plastic coffee straw, watching the mini-
marshmallows swirl and dance, leaving little white trails
like comets in a chocolate sky.  "Mulder's whole life is
wrapped up in his quest for his sister.  If he loses that
hope, what will he have left?"

"You."

She looked up at him.  "What if I'm not enough?"

Benton smiled at her, affection suffusing his boyish face. 
"Stupid question, Dana.  You're more than enough for any
man."

She smiled.  "You're prejudiced."

"Yes, I am."  He reached out and covered her hand with his. 
"But I'm also right.  Look, I know you haven't told me half
of everything you and Mulder have been through together, but
what I've heard is enough to know that what you've got is
rare and worth fighting for.  Now, my opinion of your
partner isn't exactly as high as yours, but I don't think
he's a big enough fool that he doesn't know what a treasure
you are."

She squeezed his hand.  "I knew there was a reason I came to
see you."

"That and the free room and board for the weekend?"  He
grinned at her. 

She grinned back.  "And the hot chocolate."

"So you're not going to tell Mulder about your investigation
into Sarah's disappearance?"

She shook her head.  "Not with all that's going on.  Sarah's
somewhere around Samantha's age, give or take a year or two.
I think it would just rip open all the old wounds he's
trying to heal, and I can't do that to him."

"I don't like the idea of your investigating alone, Dana. 
There's a reason cops have partners, you know."

"It's not like I'm going to be hunting down a crazed killer,
Benton.  I'm just going to follow up behind the New Haven
P.D., make sure they're not missing anything.  It's
perfectly safe."

"Well, promise me that if it gets the slightest bit hairy
out there, you'll call for back up, okay?"

"Okay."   She took another sip of the cocoa, letting the hot
liquid warm her.  She glanced at her wrist and realized that
she'd left her watch in the bedroom.  "What time is it?"

"A little after midnight."

She frowned.  She hadn't called Mulder to tell him she was
safe.  She hated to call him this late, especially since he
was at his mother's house, but she also knew him well enough
to know he'd never get to sleep until she called.  

She stood, downing the last of the chocolate milk.  "I'm
going to call it a night, Benton.  See you in the morning."

He grabbed her hand as she passed, winking.  "Say hi to
Mulder for me."

She chuckled, squeezed his hand, and headed for the spare
bedroom.


*  *  *  *  *

Mulder lay on the sofa, staring at the exposed beams of the
cottage ceiling, surrounded by the heavy blanket of silence
that had fallen over the night.  His mother had stopped
crying fifteen minutes ago.  He'd run out of tears not long
after that.  But the pain lingered, fresh and sharp and
twisting in his heart.

Am I my father's son?  Am I any less obsessed, any less
willing to sacrifice anything and everyone to my quest?  Is
there really any difference?  Perpetuating lies or
uncovering truths--the goals were different, but did that
really matter if his methods were similarly ruthless and
dangerous?

His cell phone rang, shattering the silence like a klaxon. 
He answered it. "Mulder."

"Hey, it's me."

Her voice brought tears stinging to his eyes again.  He
cleared his throat.  "Hey.  You made it safe?"

"Yeah."  Her voice was dark with concern.  "Mulder, are you
okay?"

He closed his eyes, tears squeezing from the corners.  "I'm
fine, Scully."

Her soft sigh whispered into his ear.  "No, you're not. 
What happened?"

"I told my mother that I believe Samantha's dead."

Scully was silent for a second, but he could feel her
concern filling the quiet space between them.  

"She didn't take it well, " he added, grimly amused at the
understatement.

"What can I do?  Do you want me to come get you?"

God, yes, he thought, come get me and take me home with you.
He chewed his lower lip and forced himself to answer.  "No,
I'm going to let Mom have time to process everything and
then I'll talk to her again in the morning."

"I'm going to be busy most of tomorrow, but I'll have my
cell phone with me, so don't hesitate to call me if you need
me.  Nothing I'm doing here is so important that I can't
drop it and be in Greenwich in an hour if you need me."

He shook his head, tears filling his eyes again.  God, I
don't deserve her.  "I'm a big boy, Scully--I can handle
this."

"I know you can."  Her voice sounded a bit thick--was she
crying?

Crying for him?

"I just don't want you to think you have to hide things from
me, Mulder."

"Isn't that my line?" he asked, forcing a watery chuckle.

"You get all the best lines," she returned.  "Listen, let me
give you this address--it's where I'm staying if you can't
get through to me on the phone."  

He listened to her recite an address on Ponce Street, not
far from the Yale campus.  "Got it.  So, are you and your
friend having a good time?"

"Yeah, it's been nice catching up.  We don't get to see
enough of each other." 

He was glad.  Working with him had cut Scully off from so
many of her friends because of the strange hours and
numerous out of town cases.  He was glad she was getting a
chance to catch up with one of her girlfriends, make a
weekend out of it.  It would be good for her.  "Have fun,
Scully, and don't think about me."

"Sure, Mulder, I'll do just that."  The gentle sarcasm in
her voice brought a smile to his face.  "Night."

"Night."  He switched off his phone and tucked it into his
pocket again.  He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about
Scully and Samantha, wishing he didn't have to give up one
to have the other.

But he could thank his father for that.  For that fateful,
long-ago choice that was now forcing him to make a choice of
his own.  

Was it this hard for you, Dad?  Did it tear you into pieces? 

Why did you choose to sacrifice her? 

Why not me?

Why?

*  *  *  *  *

New Haven Police Dept.
February 13, 1998
10:14 a.m.


Scully flipped through the file Det. Hanson of the New Haven
Police Department had provided after a few moments of
persuasion.  He watched her from behind his desk in the
communal detectives' office, his gray eyes wary.  After
eight years with the FBI--and six years with Mulder--Scully
was used to being regarded with a combination of fascination
and suspicion.  Like always, she ignored it and concentrated
on the case.

"So the last person to see her, as far as we know, was her
roommate Anne Milliken?"

"Far as we know."  Hanson leaned forward.  "I'm still not a
hundred percent sure we can really term this a missing
person's case, Agent Scully.  I mean, technically it is, of
course, but this Chandler woman was a little flaky, you
know?"

Scully pressed her lips together, fighting annoyance--as much at
herself as at Det. Hanson.  If she were sitting on the other
side of the desk, listening to Mulder talking about the
Sarah Chandler case, wouldn't she be saying the same exact
thing?  The woman believes she was abducted by aliens,
Mulder--who's to say she didn't just wander off somewhere in
search of a cosmic experience?

She didn't like herself very much right then.

"Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah was going when
she left the apartment the morning of the sixth?"

Hanson frowned.  "I'm sure that's in my field notes
somewhere."

Meaning that even if Ms. Milliken had given him a lead, he
hadn't bothered to check it out.  Her annoyance grew,
directed more toward Hanson this time--she KNEW she wouldn't
ignore a lead, no matter how fruitless she thought the
search might prove to be.  She flipped through the papers in
the file until she came to Anne Milliken's statement.  "Ms.
Milliken stated that Sarah had made plans to meet someone
for lunch.  Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah might
have gone for lunch?"

"Doesn't it say so in the notes?"

Scully glanced over the statement again. "No."

"Then she must not have said."

Or Hanson hadn't asked, Scully added silently.  "May I have
a copy of this file?"

"Are you making an official inquiry?"

"Do you have an objection?"  She arched one brow at him.

He shook his head.  "No--if you want to chase this wild
goose, be my guest."  He nodded toward the anteroom.  "Get
Sgt. Talbott to make you copies."

Scully took the file to the heavy-set uniformed sergeant who
manned the inquiry desk, showed her credentials and sat in
one of the two battered steel-and-vinyl chairs in the
anteroom to wait.  While Talbott was running the copies for
her, she switched on her cell phone and dialled Mulder's
number.  After four rings, she got the standard message
telling her he was away from his phone.

She opened her notebook and found the number she'd jotted
down while looking over Sarah Chandler's missing person
report.  She dialled the number, hoping Anne Milliken wasn't
in class. 

A soft, musical contralto answered.  "Hello?"

"Anne Milliken, please."

"This is Anne."

"Ms. Milliken, my name is Dana Scully.  I'm a special agent
with the FBI--"

"You're Sarah's e-mail friend, aren't you?"  Anne's voice
rose slightly with excitement.  "Oh, God, Ms. Scully, did
you know Sarah's missing?"

"Yes, I do.  I'm here in New Haven checking into things
myself.  Do you think we could talk?"

"Of course.  Maybe you'll take things more seriously than
the cops are.  I have a class in ten minutes, but I'll be 
through by 1:30 or so.  Do you have my address?  Or would you
rather meet me somewhere else?"

"I'll come there," Scully answered.  She wanted to see where
her friend had lived, how she'd lived, what she'd collected
and cherished and obsessed over.  She needed to reconstruct
Sarah Chandler's life piece by piece.  Then, maybe, she
could figure out what had happened to her.

End of #2









DISCLAIMER:  For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Warning:  Adult language and situations, warranting a PG-13
rating.  

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within the same universe.  


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#3:  "Remembrance"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Caroline Mulder's Home
Greenwich, CT
February 13, 1998
9:38 a.m.

Fox Mulder let go of the wicker breakfast tray with one hand
to tap on the door of his mother's bedroom.  "Mom?"

"Come in, Fox."  Her voice was muffled, tired.

He steadied the tray against his chest and opened the door. 
His mother sat upright in bed, her hair only slightly mussed
and the blankets tucked neatly around her.  He smiled,
amazed that a woman who could look so neat and composed
after such a hellish night could have possibly given birth
to someone as perpetually rumpled as he.  "I made breakfast
for us."  He flipped open the legs of the tray and settled
it over her lap, then perched on the edge of the bed next to
her.

Her eyes filled with tears.  "I'm so sorry for what I said
to you, Fox."

He shook his head.  "Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."  She reached out and closed her hand over
his, squeezing firmly.  "Too many things have been said that
can never be unsaid, Fox.  Too many hurtful, dreadful
things."

"I know how much all of this has hurt you, Mom."

"I'm not the only one.  I've just been ACTING as if I were
the only one affected by what happened to our family all
those years ago.  I've been a very selfish woman, Fox."

He shook his head, not wanting to hear her talk this way
about herself.  "Dad created this mess, Mom, not you.  You
can't blame--"

"He created it, but I perpetuated it, Fox.  I let you suffer
through so much--"  Tears trickled down her cheeks.  "My
God, how you must hate me."

A soft little sob broke through the tightness in his throat.
"No, Mom--"

"It was never your fault, Fox.  Not any single piece of it. 
I know your father treated you as if you'd failed him, but
that was his evil, not yours."

"I should've protected her--"  Pain rose in his chest, burst
behind his eyes, squeezed his throat.  He couldn't look at
his mother, shame and misery fighting for control of his
emotions.  "I let them take her because I was a scared
little shit who couldn't even get up off the floor--"

"Fox, it wasn't your place to protect her.  It was mine.  And 
your father's.  We're the ones who failed her, not you.  God
knows you tried."  She clutched his hand, tears streaming
down her face, her voice thick with anguish.  "You tried so
hard, and you were so broken when it was over, I despaired
of ever getting you back."

He met her gaze then, needing to know the truth he'd avoided
for years now.  "I don't remember anything about the days
following Samantha's abduction, Mom.  I don't remember
almost a whole month."

She nodded slowly, dabbing her eyes with the snowy linen
napkin from the breakfast tray.  "You were in the hospital."

He closed his eyes, chilled but not surprised by the
admission.  He'd suspected as much.  His conscious memory of
his life after Samantha's abduction began somewhere around
Christmas of 1973, the first Christmas without her.  It had
been bleak and painful--his mother cried the entire day; his
father drank his way through a bottle of Scotch and then
went back for more.  Mulder had opened his gifts--a sweater, a
basketball, baseball cards and a watch--and realized that he
couldn't remember when the family had set up the Christmas
tree or had gone Christmas shopping or had watched MIRACLE
ON 34TH STREET like they usually did every Christmas season.

It was a blank--and he was glad.  He hadn't wanted to
remember.

It also explained why he'd spent almost a year on Thorazine,
his mind numbed by the drug to the point that he'd almost
been kept back in school that year.

"How long?"

"Almost the whole month.  Your father talked the doctors
into letting you come home for Christmas, even though you
weren't yet responsive."

He frowned, another shiver sliding over him.  "Not yet
responsive?"

"You called your father and me the night she disappeared,
hysterical, screaming.  We raced home to find you in the
middle of a hallucination of some sort.  Screaming about a
bright light and a voice.  Screaming your sister's name over
and over and over--"  His mother closed her eyes, pain
etching deep lines in her soft face.  "Then, suddenly, you
stopped screaming.  You stopped talking.  You--shut down."

Catatonia, he thought with clinical detachment.  The mind's
last resort against horrors it was too afraid to face. 

"And I was catatonic for the whole month?"

She shook her head.  "Once or twice you almost came out of
it.  But every time the doctors would start to examine you,
you snapped.  You became hysterical, violent even--screaming
at them not to touch you, kicking, hitting, scratching--then
you'd shut down again."

He shook his head, trying to picture what she was
describing.  He couldn't reconcile her words with his own
memories of himself.  He had never been violent, never been
quick-tempered or hysterical. 

"What finally happened?  How did I come back?"

His mother's eyes softened, grew infinitely sad.  "We
brought you home at your father's insistence.  You were
still catatonic, but you didn't resist us.  We got you
settled in your room, hoping that maybe being among your
belongings might bring you back."

"And did it?"

She smiled slightly.  "Christmas morning, I went into your
room and found it empty.  I was terrified, until I heard
sounds coming from your sister's room.  I went through the
connecting door and found you sitting in the middle of her
bed, holding her rabbit and crying.  You told me you'd lost
her and that you were so sorry."   She reached out and
caressed his cheek, her hand warm and trembling.  "You were
back.  You didn't remember anything but the fact that your
sister had disappeared, and we never tried to push you to
remember more."  

Her voice tightened.  "Your father said it would do no good
for you to remember.  That's when I finally realized what he
had done.  When I finally understood why he'd asked me which
child I would choose if could save only one."

Mulder lowered his head, sorrow bending him almost double. 
God, what he'd put his mother through.  No wonder she'd
never wanted to talk about what happened.  No wonder she'd
avoided his questions later.  "I'm sorry, Mom.  I'm so sorry
I put you through that."

She caught his face in her hands, her touch strong and
insistent.  She forced him to look up at her, her thumbs
stroking his cheeks.  "I don't ever want to hear an apology
from you again, Fox.  You did nothing wrong.  Nothing.  Your
father and I were to blame for everything.  Every bit of it,
from beginning to end."  She released his face, and looked
down at the tray that sat, forgotten, over her lap.  She
dabbed her tears again, her struggle for composure evident
in her face.  "I've let the cereal get soggy."

"I'll pour you some more."  He made a move to rise, but she
put her hand on his arm.  

"I'm not really hungry right now."  She let go of his arm
and picked up the tray, moving it off the bed onto the
floor.  That done, she looked back at him and patted the
empty space next to her.

Feeling like a kid again, Mulder scooted up to the head
board and sat next to her, his shoulder pressed against
hers.  "You used to sit next to me like this and read me
stories in bed," he said, resting his head against hers.

"You always liked THE CAT IN THE HAT."  

He chuckled.  "No, Mom, YOU liked that one.  I wanted to
hear Grimm's Fairytales--all that lovely blood and gore."

"Samantha's favorite was GREEN EGGS AND HAM," his mother
murmured.

"'Would you eat them with a Fox....'" His lower lip trembled
at the memory of her childish voice screaming the line at
the top of her lungs, knowing how to torment him even at
such a young age. 

"She loved you so much, Fox."

"I was so awful to her."

"You were her big brother.  It was your job."

"I was yelling at her the night--"  His vision blurred as
tears filled his eyes again.  "That was the last thing she
heard from me.  I called her mean names and practically made
her cry."

His mother remained silent, as if she knew there was no way
to respond.

"I loved her, Mom.  I never knew how much I loved her until
she wasn't there anymore."

"I know."

"I don't want to let her go, but it's time."

His mother drew a trembling breath.  "Why now?"

He looked down at his hands, wondering if he could make her
understand.  "Because three weeks ago, my partner took a
bullet for me and almost died in my arms.  And I realized
that I'd let my obsession with finding Samantha put barriers
between Scully and me that have no business being there." 
He fingered the soft cream colored bedsheets, trying to say
the right thing.  "I have to make a choice, Mom.  I don't
want to, but I have to.  And I choose Scully."

His mother sat quietly for a long moment, her hands folded
and still.  Venturing a sideways glance at her, he saw
silent tears rolling down her cheeks as she stared at some
invisible point on the far bedroom wall.  He closed his
eyes, his throat aching with tears he was too drained to
shed.  "I'm sorry, Mom."

Silence hung between them a few moments longer.  Then
finally, his mother took a long, shaky breath and asked,
"Are you in love with your partner?"

It was the last question he'd expected.  He licked his dry
lips and wondered how he could explain what he felt for
Scully.  "I don't know," he said finally, realizing it was
the only honest answer.  "I love her without a doubt, but
I've never allowed myself to be IN love with her.  I didn't
dare.  I didn't want to risk the relationship we had--and I
couldn't be what she deserved, not when my whole life was
wrapped up in a quest that might never be resolved."

"But now you have to know?"

He nodded, surprised but grateful at the understanding he
heard in her voice.  "If I don't do this--if I don't find
out what possibilities there are for Scully and me, I'll
regret it the rest of my life.  And I've got enough regrets
for two lifetimes already."

"I like her, you know.  She came to me when you were missing
and we thought you were dead.  She told me that she had a
strong feeling you were alive, and she made me believe it." 
His mother smiled, wiping away her tears with her
fingertips.  "She's a lovely young woman, Fox.  And I can
see already that she's good for you."

He turned and clutched her hands between his, making her
look at him.  "Mom, please believe me when I say that I
don't want to give up on Samantha.  And I don't want you to
ever blame Scully, either--she doesn't want me to give up. 
She's put her own life on the line time after time to help
me find the truth."

"I know that."  She dabbed at her eyes again.  "It's just--I
don't want to say goodbye to my baby.  I've never really been
able to give up on her.  I'm not sure I know how."

He nodded.  He'd been thinking a lot about how he could find
some closure about his sister when he'd never had a body to
bury or a gravestone to visit.  And last night, after Scully
had called, he'd stayed awake for hours, trying to figure
out the best way to say goodbye.  Finally, as exhaustion
began to overcome grief, he'd realized that before he could
release his sister to the past, he had to face the past,
remember it, relive it.  "I think I know a way."    

She turned, a quizzical look on her face.

He squeezed her hands gently.  "We have to go back to
Chilmark."


*  *  *  *  *



Feb. 13, 1998
New Haven, CT
1:39 p.m.


The apartment that Sarah Chandler had shared with Anne
Milliken was neat but homey, decorated in a quirky, eclectic
combination of themes and colors.  Unobtrusively, Scully
took in as many details as she could manage, wishing Mulder
were along for this--he was the better observer of the two,
with his photographic memory and eye for detail.

"The police act as if Sarah's some kind of nutcase, and
she's not."  Anne Milliken's hazel green eyes flashed with a
combination of anger and worry.  "She's a PhD candidate, for
heaven's sake!  She's worked herself half to death in order
to finish up this phase of her degree so she can tack on one
more thing--she's ambitious and brilliant and imaginative,
but she's NOT crazy!"

"I know that," Scully said gently, putting on her most
soothing expression.  

The other woman calmed a bit and ventured a half-smile. 
"I'm sorry--it's been a rough week."  She raked her fingers
through her short, dark hair and gestured toward the pale
tan camel-back sofa.  Scully took a seat, and Anne curled up
in the matching armchair across the coffee table from her. 
"Sarah really liked you, you know.  I think maybe the MUFON
folks kinda intimidated her--Sarah's not the type to believe
in little green men."

"Gray," Scully murmured.

"Excuse me?"

Scully shook her head.  "Sarah wrote that she's not sure
what her recovered memories mean but that what she recalled
DOES seem to fit the pattern of the classic alien abduction
experience."

"But you don't believe in that kind of thing."

"Let's say I have not been persuaded of its validity."

Anne chuckled.  "You DO work for the government, don't you!"
Her smile faded.  "Your partner's a bit more open-minded,
isn't he?"

Scully frowned.  "My partner?"  She'd never spoken to Sarah
about Mulder. 

"Sarah's friend from MUFON, Penny Northern, sent her an
article she clipped from the NORTHEAST SKYWATCHER NEWS." 
Anne shot Scully a wry grin.  "I know, I know--but
apparently you and your partner are some sort of celebrities
among the UFO crowd.  Wait a second--I'll get it for you." 
Anne uncurled from her seat and disappeared into the back of
the apartment.

Scully took the opportunity to look around, taking in the
richly colored, minimalist folk paintings on the wall, the
handwoven Navajo rug that covered most of the hardwood
floor, the white-washed walls that gave the room an almost
rustic appeal, even though the apartment was a typical, boxy
kind of place one could find in any city in the country. 
There was a lovely antique display case against one wall;
Scully rose and looked inside.  Sprinkled amid the
expectable clutter of porcelain figurines and wood carvings
were a handful of trophies--academic awards belonging mostly
to Sarah Chandler, a couple of soccer all star trophies
belonging to Anne Milliken.  A pretty sterling silver cup
proclaiming Sarah Chandler the Valedictorian of her senior
class at Bradley High School in Charleston, South Carolina.

Anne Milliken came into the room, carrying a narrow
scrapbook.  She gave a little nod toward the display case. 
"Sarah's quite the over-achiever."

"How long have you known her?"  Scully returned to the sofa
and sat.  

Anne sat down next to her and lay the scrapbook on the low
pinewood coffee tabled in front of them.  "Only a year.  But
Sarah's one of those people you meet once and feel like
you've known forever."  Her eyes filled with tears as she
looked up at Scully.  "Tell me the truth, Agent Scully--do
you think that Sarah's still alive?"

Scully nibbled the inside of her jaw for a second, wondering
how to answer.  Unbidden, Mulder's words from the day before
returned..."Most of the time, you don't find an abductee
alive after 25 DAYS...."  

She looked down at the scrapbook and avoided the question,
knowing that neither she nor Anne really wanted to hear the
truth spoken aloud.  "Is this Sarah's?"

Anne nodded.  "The psychology researcher who took Sarah
through hypnotic regression therapy suggested that Sarah
keep a journal of everything pertaining to her recovered
memories.  Newspaper clippings that caught Sarah's eye, any
thoughts or dreams, things like that."  She picked up the
scrapbook and flipped it open to a page near the middle. 
"This is the clipping Penny sent Sarah."

Scully took the scrapbook and glanced over the article from
the NORTHEAST SKYWATCHER NEWS.  The photograph was grainy
and not terribly flattering to her--although Mulder, the
lucky bastard, looked marvelous as usual.  They were
crouching in a field--

Oh, God, she thought with a grimace.  Comity, New Hampshire.

She barely held back a shudder, remembering that horrible
nightmare of a weekend.  She and Mulder had been at each
other's throats--no wonder she looked like hell and he
looked so great!  He'd been thinking of tall, blonde and
busty Detective Angela White, no doubt--while she'd been
thinking of murdering them both and using all her FBI know-
how to get away with it.

"Sarah wondered if you'd be mad that she had this.  Like
you'd think she was some kind of crazy stalker."

The thought had crossed Scully's mind, briefly.  But a quick
flip through the scrapbook eased her mind--there were
numerous clippings and handscrawled observations that
indicated a woman trying to come to terms with memories and
sensations she couldn't make sense of.  "You told Detective
Hanson of the New Haven PD that Sarah had made plans for
lunch the day you disappeared.  That was the last time you
saw her?"

Anne nodded.  "She got a call early that morning.  Her only
class of the day was over by 10:30, and she'd planned to
meet this person for lunch."

"You don't know who she was meeting?"

"She just said that he was someone who'd been involved in
the Harvard study.  She said she'd met him briefly up there,
and he'd come across some information about a new memory
recovery technique that was offering good results in
clinical tests."  Anne frowned.  "I asked her if she thought
it was smart to go meet this guy alone for lunch, but Sarah
just laughed.  She said he was an older gentleman--very
proper, very courteous--nothing to worry about."

"Did she tell you his name?"

"No.  She never said."

Scully jotted another note.  "Did Sarah say where she was
going?"

Anne shook her head.  "No.  I wish I'd pushed her now...."

"Maybe she mentioned something in the conversation that
could give you a clue.  Maybe hinted what area of town she
was headed to?"

Anne chewed her bottom lip, her brow wrinkling.  "All I
remember is Sarah saying that the lunch could turn out to be
just the break she was looking for.  She really wants to
remember her past--who she is, how she ended up unconscious
on a back street in Charleston.  It really bugs her, not
knowing."

Scully could imagine.  "Did she mention what she was
planning 
to eat for lunch?"

Anne started to shake her head again, the stopped, her mouth
dropping open slightly and her eyes widening.  "Wait a
second!  I remember, Sarah said that even if she was chasing
a wild goose with this lunch date, at least she'd get a free
falafel out of it."

"So she was going to a Middle Eastern restaurant of some
sort?"

"Not just some Middle Eastern restaurant.  She was going to
Garnem's.  It's her favorite place to eat--a little Lebanese
place on Pritchard Street next to a used bookstore.  She
refuses to eat falafels from anywhere else--'why mess with
perfection?' she always said."

Scully spelled the name aloud to make sure she had it right,
jotting it in her notebook.  "Anne, do you have a more up-
to-date picture of Sarah than this one?"  She pulled the
faxed photo from the case folder she'd brought along with
her.

Anne looked at the photo.  "No--Sarah's not much one for
having her picture taken.  She thinks she's got a big nose,
although I tell her on her, it looks great."

"Maybe something older--that looks more like she does now?"

"I'll have to look through some of her things."  Anne's
expression indicated how reluctant she was to rifle through
her missing friend's things.  Maybe, Scully thought, Anne
felt like she herself had felt the time she finally found
the 
courage to help her mother sort though Melissa's things.  
If Missy were still alive, she'd hate for Scully and her
mother 
to be going through her things, invading her privacy.  But 
death had a way of making privacy a moot point.

Once Scully had started sorting through her sister's
belongings, she'd felt the full impact of her sister's
death, the irrevocability of it all, expressed in that one
short afternoon of sorting through the detritus of a life
cut short.

"I'm going to see if Sarah ever arrived at Garnem's.  I'll
try to use this picture and the updated description of
Sarah.  Does this look enough like her that someone could
recognize her?"

Anne looked at it again.  "Yeah--just be sure to tell them
her hair's long and darker now.  Shoulder-length, maybe
longer."

Scully flipped her notebook shut and pulled out a business
card.  "This is my cellular phone number--if you think of
anything, no matter how insignificant you may think it is,
call it in."

Anne fingered the card.  "Okay, I'll definitely do that." 
She walked Scully to the front door.

Scully turned and held out her hand.  "Thank you for all
your help, Ms. Milliken."

Anne shook Scully's hand, venturing a smile.  "It's good of
you to come here and try to help Sarah.  I think if anyone
can find her and bring her back safely, Agent Scully, it's
you."

Scully hoped that Anne was right.  But she was beginning to
have serious doubts.

Her cellular phone burred softly in her pocket as she was
unlocking her car door.  Pulling the phone out of her pocket
with one hand, she opened the car door with the other. 
"Scully."

"Hi, it's me."

She felt a little niggle of relief at the sound of his
voice.  It was almost as if she'd been waiting to hear from
him before she felt like she could really relax.  "How're
you doing?"

"Better.  Mom and I had a good talk, cleared the air a bit."

"You sound better."  Scully tucked the phone between her
chin and shoulder and buckled herself in.

"Talking to you last night helped.  Thanks for remembering
to call and let me know you made it to your friend's place
safely.  Anyway, there's actually a point to my call."

She cranked the car.  "You?  With a point?"

He chuckled, the all-too-rare sound sending a warm, electric
sensation pulsing down her spine.  "Yes, I have a point.  I
wanted to let you know that Mom and I are currently on the
road to the Vineyard."

"The Vineyard."  She paused with her hand on the gearshift,
surprised.

"We wanted to take one more look at the place in Chilmark
before we make the decision to put the property on the
market."

And take one more chance to visit the past before letting it
go, Scully thought.  She closed her eyes, unexpectedly
overwhelmed by sadness.  Even though her innate pragmatism
had never let her fully believe that Samantha was still out
there somewhere, alive and reachable, she'd found herself
willing to suspend that disbelief over the years, maybe
because she knew that finding Samantha alive would make
Mulder happy.  And she longed for Mulder to find a way to be
happy.

"How long are you going to be there?" she asked.

"Just for the day.  We'll probably head back to Greenwich
tonight.  I'll wave out the window as we pass through New
Haven."

She smiled.  "I'll wave back."

Silence fell between them for a moment, thick with unspoken
thoughts, yet oddly comfortable.  

Mulder finally broke the silence.  "Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"Just putting up with me, I guess."  His voice softened.  "I
know you go way above and beyond the call of duty to do
that, sometimes--a lot more often than I deserve.  I just
thought it was about time to say thanks."

Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away, scolding
herself silently for being so susceptible to her partner's
unaccustomed sweet-talk.  For heaven's sake, Scully, he just
said "thank you," not "I love you."

But a part of her realized that was EXACTLY what he'd just
said.


*  *  *  *  *



Feb. 13, 1998
12:45 p.m.
Chilmark, MA


Fox Mulder walked ahead of his mother into the small bedroom
that had once been his sister's domain, air whooshing from
his lungs in a dizzying rush.  How long had it been since
he'd come to this house, seen this place?

The window by the bed was hidden behind faded yellow and
white curtains; Mulder crossed the room and opened the
window, letting the afternoon sunlight pour through the
dusty panes.  Outside, the side yard was patchy bare, the
winter cold having killed back the grass.  He could still
remember playing in the snow right outside the window,
tossing wet snowballs at Samantha's window and hearing her
muffled shout of little girl indignation.

Behind him, he heard his mother's soft, shuddery sigh.
Without turning away from the window, he murmured, "Dad
never changed anything all this time?"

She didn't answer.  He turned and looked at her, realizing
how small and frail she looked, standing in the middle of
that room where her daughter had lived for 8 short years of
life and almost 25 years of memory.

He walked around the room, remembering Samantha here, the
sound of her voice, the way she'd smelled like baby powder
and Ivory soap.  He fingered a pale blue ribbon hanging over
the edge of the dresser mirror--blue had been her favorite
color.  She'd gone through a stage where she wore nothing
BUT blue--Samantha's blue period, their father had called
it, smiling with slightly befuddled fatherly affection.

His dad had adored Samantha.  Doted on her.  

To this day, Mulder couldn't understand why, when the time
came to make a choice, his dad had let the bastards take his
sister instead of him.

He opened his mouth to ask his mother if she knew, but the
shattered expression on her face stopped him.  He hurried to
her side, worry twisting his gut.  "Mom, are you all right?"

She turned and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying
her face against his chest.  "I don't know if I can bear
this, Fox."

He stroked her hair gently, soothing her as she began to
shake with sobs.  "It's okay."

"I tell myself I have to let go, but--when that woman came
back, saying she was your sister, I let myself believe we
could really find her again.  I haven't been able to let it
go."  

He thought about the other time, how the woman claiming to
be Samantha had convinced them all--even his father.  He
remembered how he'd hesistated, just for a moment, when the
alien bounty hunter had demanded a trade--Samantha for
Scully.  He'd been shocked to realize that he was willing to
do anything to save Scully--even risking the life of the
woman he believed to be his sister.

And yet, he'd never meant for it to be a trade, Samantha for
Scully.  He'd tried to save them both, unwilling to give up
either of them.  But sometimes, making a choice was all that
was left to a man.  And having almost lost Scully again, he
knew his time had come.  

He had to say goodbye to his sister and move on with his
life.  

He closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the memories of Samantha
this room evoked, the smells, the sounds, the sights, the
way her soft skin had felt beneath his fingers on the rare
occasions he'd deigned to touch her.  From the day she was
born, he'd seen her as a pest, an interloper, the fly in his
porridge.  His dad's obvious adoration of Samantha hadn't
helped matters.

How much of this quest has been about guilt? he wondered,
tears pricking his eyes.  If I'd treated her better, if I'd
loved her more while she was here, could I have let her go a
long time ago?

He didn't know the answer.


*  *  *  *  *


Garnem's Pita Cafe
New Haven, CT
4:49 p.m.


"Sure, I know her.  That's Sarah--comes in here pretty
regularly."  The slim, attractive Lebanese girl behind the
cashier's desk nodded when Scully showed her the picture of
Sarah Chandler.  

Scully glanced at the name badge pinned to the woman's dark
maroon blouse.  "Teresa, can you remember seeing her here on
February 6th?"

Teresa frowned.  "What day would that have been--Wednesday?"

"Thursday."

"Well, I work Thursdays, so if she was here, probably so. 
But that was a week ago--"  She looked uncertain.

"She might have been with an older man.  A well-mannered
gentleman--"  As soon as she said the words, a little niggle
of recognition shot through her.  A well-mannered older
gentleman....

"Wait--I think I DO remember that."  Teresa's eyes widened
slightly.  "I guess because he was a lot older than Sarah--
and he had an accent--British or something."

Excitement battled with dread as Scully searched her mind
for a mental picture of the man she suspected had met Sarah
Chandler for lunch on February 6th.  "Was he about 6 feet
tall, iron gray hair, with a long thin face and a thin
nose?"

Teresa nodded.  "Yeah--sounds like him.  Very polite, had a
habit of arching his eyebrows--reminded me of some old movie
actor or something."

Scully's stomach rolled.  "Did Sarah leave with him?"

"I think so--they went out the back way because there's
parking in the alley."  

"Did you see Sarah again after that?"

"Not that I remember?"

"How about the man?"

"No--I'm sure about that."

"Did he pay for the meal or did Sarah?"

"He did--gave me a fifty and told me to keep the change."

"Do you by any chance still have the fifty?"  It was a long
shot, Scully knew, but it wasn't likely that anyone would
pay in big enough denominations to get a fifty back as
change.  Maybe, if the fifty was still in the cash box, she
could see if Agent Pendrell could lift any prints--

"No, we took that to the bank that afternoon."  Teresa shook
her head, quashing Scully's hopes.  "We don't like to keep
big denominations sitting around like that."

Scully sighed and pulled her business card from her pocket. 
"I can be reached on that cell phone number at any time.  If
you remember anything, no matter how insignificant it might
seem, call me."  She started for the front door, where her
car was parked on the curb, but stopped.  She turned back to
the cashier.  "How do you get out to the back parking lot?"

Teresa nodded toward a narrow, dimly lit corridor back
toward the kitchen.  "That way."

Scully thanked her and headed out the back.

*  *  *  *  *


I-95
15 miles east of New Haven, CT
5:28 p.m.


The closure Mulder had hoped for hadn't happened, for
himself or for his mother.  She had insisted that they leave
not long after their arrival, as if being in that house was
a physical ache, something she could not bear.  She had
fallen silent somewhere around Providence, RI, responding to
his occasional queries with soft, weary monosyllables.

As they neared New Haven, his mother broke the silence. 
"I'd like to stop in Momauguin."

He glanced at her.  She stared ahead through the windshield
of the car as if the passing scenery were the most
interesting thing she'd ever seen.  But he knew she wasn't
seeing any of it.  "Okay."

"My cousin Kay has been after me to visit for months.  I
think maybe I'll surprise her."

He arched his eyebrows. "Don't you think it might be better
to call ahead and make sure she'd there?"

His mother turned her head to look at him.  He, blinked,
surprised by the twinkle in her eyes, so at odds with her
earlier grief.  "Kay has less of a life than I do, Fox. 
She'll be thrilled for a break in the routine."

He stared.  "If you're sure."

"I am.  I think it'll be good to listen to someone else's
troubles for a change--and Lord knows Kay has some of
those."  His mother laughed softly, the sound spreading over
him like a soft, warm blanket.

He eyed her warily, wondering at her complete 180 degree
turn.

She caught his odd look and her laughter faded to a faint
smile.  "I'm tired of being sad, Fox.  I'm tired of crying
and wishing my life were different."

He nodded.  "I was hoping the visit to Chilmark might help,
but--"

"I don't think we'll ever really have closure, Fox.  Not
without a body to bury.  I just don't think it's possible. 
But I can't go on like this.  I'm so tired of grieving.  I
just want to smile for a little while.  Remember who I used
to be before everything went wrong."  She looked at him, a
little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.  "I'll bet
you didn't know I once wanted to be a Rockette."

He laughed aloud.  "You're kidding."

"I was quite the dancer in my youth.  But then I met your
father, and--"

The pain in her voice wrenched his heart.  "He wasn't always
the way he was...toward the end...?"

"No, he wasn't."  Her voice softened, grew wistful.  "He was
a good man when we married, Fox.  Idealistic and full of
enthusiasm.  He thought he was going to change the whole
world--we were all young and foolish back then.  We didn't
know that it's always the world that changes us."

"Did you love him?"

"Yes."  The certainty in her voice surprised him, for he
knew how much she'd grown to hate him in the end.  "But
then--"

"He changed."

She nodded.  

He thought about himself and Scully, about all they had been
through, all the pain and anger and frustration as well as
the love and the trust.  Somehow they'd survived, come out
of it all stronger and closer than ever.  But coming from a
family that had ripped at the seams when he was only 12
years old, he didn't trust the seas ahead to be calm.  

He exited the interstate and headed for Momauguin and his
mother's cousin's place.  "It'll be nice to see Kay--I don't
think I've seen her since I graduated from high school."

His mother shook her head.  "You're not staying, Fox.  I
think you have someone to see in New Haven."

He looked over at her again, his lips curving slightly at
the humor in her expression.  "Mom, are you meddling?"

"I most certainly am."

He looked back at the road, laughing softly.  "Well, I'd
better see if Scully's gonna want her party crashed--she and
her friend might not want me around while they're catching
up on girl talk."

"I've never seen a hen party that didn't have room for a
cock."

He gaped.  "Mom!'

Her eyes widened as she realized what she'd said.  "I'm
talking about a rooster, Fox!" she exclaimed, making him
laugh harder.  Suddenly they were both howling with
laughter, giving into the heady rush of emotional release. 

They subsided finally, his mother settling back against the
passenger seat, her face still creased with a slight smile. 
As they turned down the road to Kay Radford's house near
Momauguin Beach, his mother said, "No matter what we decide,
Fox--I'm glad we did this.  I'm glad you came here this
weekend."

He reached over and squeezed her hand.  "Me, too."  

Following his mother's directions, he pulled into the
driveway of his cousin's house and parked behind her
Cadillac Seville.  Somehow, he'd remembered the house being
bigger.  Of course, everything looks bigger when you're
young, he thought. 

"While I tell Kay I'm spending the night, why don't you call
your partner and see if there's room for you in her slumber
party?"  his mother suggested as they got out of the car and
started walking up the stone walk to Kay's house.

He glanced at her again and saw that this time, she was well
aware of what she was insinuating.  Flashing her a broad
grin of appreciation, he paused at the bottom of the
weathered redwood porch, pulled his cellular phone from his
pocket and dialed Scully's number.

She answered on the third ring.  "Scully."

"Hi, it's me."

"Hey." Her voice was a little faint, ambient noise creating 
a filter effect."

"Are you outside?"

"Yeah--can you hold a second?"

"Sure."

He heard soft sounds through the phone--the faint tapping of
footsteps on pavement, car engine noises, a car horn beeping
somewhere far away.  The, suddenly, he heard a sharp gasp of
pain and a clattering noise.

"Scully?"

The line went dead.


End of 3













DISCLAIMER:  For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.  The characters of Clyde Tremaine, Benton Crane, Dick Hanson, Anne Milliken and Raven belong to me and should not be used without my permission.

Warning:  Adult language and situations, warranting a PG-13
rating.  

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within the same universe. 


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#4:  "Realization"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



New Haven Police Department
February 13, 1998
6:46 p.m.


"Listen to me, you son of a bitch, I'm telling you that a
special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation is
missing and you'd better damned well get off your lazy ass
and find out what the hell happened to her!"  Fox Mulder
leaned over the desk of New Haven Police Detective Clyde
Tremaine, shoving his badge in the man's startled face.

Tremaine put up his hands, lowering his voice to a soothing
baritone. "No one else has reported her missing--"

"I'M reporting her missing, damn it!"  

"But you weren't even--"

"I was on the phone with her.  I heard a sound of pain and
I heard the phone clatter to the ground.  Now I know she was
here in New Haven--"

"Have you checked with that friend you said she came here to
visit?"

Mulder glared at the detective.  Do I look stupid? he
wondered.  "I went by the address Scully gave me, but her
friend didn't answer the door.  I have no idea what her name
is, and I have no idea whether she and Scully were together
when I was talking to her--I don't KNOW!"  He raked his
fingers through his hair, panic churning in his gut like
piranhas in a frenzy.

Tremaine stood and put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, urging
him toward the chair in front of the desk.  "Agent Mulder,
let me run the address you have through the system, see if I
can at least find a name for you."

Mulder sank into the chair and bent forward, breathing
deeply in an effort to calm himself and focus on the task at
hand.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd reacted like
this--check that.  He could remember quite well.  November,
1994, the day he'd gotten the call to come to Northeast
Georgetown Hospital because his missing partner had
returned.  The sight of her, lying so pale and still in that
ICU bed, a breathing tube down her throat, her eyes taped
shut--

He'd lost it.  He hadn't cared that Scully's mother was
there, her fear for her daughter making her look decades
older than she was.  He hadn't cared about the other
patients in the ICU or the doctors and nurses trying to do
their jobs.  All he cared about was the fact that after
three long months of hell, the bastards had sent her back to
him at the edge of death, denying him even a single lead to
follow--and he'd exploded in rage and fear and grief.

"Think I have it."  Tremaine interrupted his dark memories. 
"Benton Crane, 404 C Ponce Street."

Benton?  

"Here's his number--want me to try him?"

Mulder nodded, swallowing with difficulty.  He pulled out
his notebook and jotted down the number Tremaine dialed. 
Tremaine engaged the speakerphone and sat back, waiting
expectantly as the phone rang at the other end.  After three
rings, a breathless male voice answered, "Dana?"

Mulder lurched forward, grabbing the telephone receiver and
lifting it to his ear.  "Benton Crane?"

"Who's this?"

"My name is Fox Mulder.  I'm Dana Scully's partner--"

"Where's Dana?"  The man sounded frantic.  Mulder's heart
sank.

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he replied.  "I was on
the telephone with her earlier and we got cut off, but it
sounded as if she might have been in trouble."

"My God," Benton said, his voice breathless.  "Where are
you?"

"I'm here in New Haven, at the police station.  Do you have
any idea where she might have been around 5:45 this evening?"

Benton didn't answer right away, and Mulder's stomach coiled
into a tight, angry knot.  He surged to his feet.  "What do
you know, Crane?  Where is she?"

"I...I'm not sure--"

"Tell me where she is!"

"She was looking into the disappearance of a graduate
student at the university.  A woman named Sarah Chandler. 
Apparently she and Dana had met over the Internet and now
the woman's missing."

Mulder sank back into his chair, stunned.  "She was
following a case alone?"

"I told her she was crazy to go in without backup--"

Tremaine frowned at Mulder, obviously not happy about being
left out of the conversation.  Mulder sighed and reached for
the button that engaged the speakerphone.  "Crane, I'm
putting you on speakerphone so that Detective Tremaine can
hear what you say."  He punched the button and put the
receiver back in its cradle.  "Did Dana tell you who she was
planning to speak to today?"

"She called around 3:30, saying she was going to canvas 
Sarah Chandler's apartment complex, then check out some
restaurant that the girl supposedly went to the day she
disappeared--"

"What restaurant?"

"She didn't say."

Damn it!  Mulder bit back a growl.  "Did she make contact
with your department, Detective Tremaine?" he asked the
dark-haired policeman.

Tremaine shrugged.  "If she did, it was probably somebody
from the day shift."

"Who's assigned to the Sarah Chandler case?  I assume she's
been reported missing."

Tremaine nodded.  "Yeah--I think it's Dick Hanson.  I'll get
him on the horn."  He crossed to a nearby desk and picked up
the phone. 

"Mulder?"  Even distorted by the speakerphone, Benton
Crane's voice was unmistakably wary.

Mulder pressed his lips together in annoyance, unutterably
angry with the man on the other end of the line.  "Yeah?"

"You said you got cut off and you thought she might be in
trouble--what did you hear?"

Before Mulder could answer, Tremaine called his name,
gesturing wildly.  "I think we've got something, Crane. 
I'll call back in a minute."  He hung up the phone on
Tremaine's desk and crossed to the other desk.

"Hanson said your partner came in around ten this morning
wanting to look into the Chandler case herself.  Dick had
somebody make her a copy of the case file, but he said she
seemed real interested in talking to Chandler's roommate, an
Anne Milliken."  Tremaine held out a piece of paper. 
"Here's her address."

Mulder took the slip of paper and nodded his thanks.  

"Want me to come with you?"

He shook his head, realizing that if he couldn't have Scully
covering his ass, he didn't want anyone else doing it for
her.  "I'll check with Ms. Milliken.  You go call Crane
again, tell him what's going on--tell him I'll be back in
touch." 

Nerves tight as drums, he hurried out to his mother's car
and headed for Anne Milliken's apartment near the Yale
University campus.

*  *  *  *  *


Scully was bound, gagged and blindfolded, and the back of
her head hurt like hell.  She'd never lost consciousness
after the knock upside the head, so she was fairly sure she
wasn't suffering from a concussion.  But the throbbing pain
in her skull wasn't exactly helping her slice through the
confusing whirlwind of events that had filled the last hour 
or so of her life.

She was in the back of a van; of that much she was certain. 
She was not alone, for she could hear the soft sound of
another person's respiration.  Female, she thought,
listening, gauging the pitch of the breathing, smelling the
faintest hint of lavender soap.  Someone different from the
one who had grabbed her up off the pavement after the blow
to her head--that had been a man.  Before she could so much
as turn her head, a hood had been thrown over her head, her
hands cuffed behind her back, and her captor had lifted her
like a sack of potatoes and tossed her across a bench seat
in the back of the van where she now sat.  

A blindfold had quickly replaced the hood, barely giving her
the chance to take in the dark, nondescript interior of the
vehicle.  Seconds later, the cuffs had been replaced by
softer but just as restrictive cloth bindings.  Then, for
the next half hour or so, her captors had left her alone to 
bounce and slide in an effort to keep her balance with
every movement of the van.  During those endless minutes,
she'd relived every horror she'd ever been through--Duane
Barry, Donnie Pfaster, the townfolk of Dudley, Arkansas--and
between paralyzing bouts of sheer panic, she'd scolded
herself for going out on her own without back up.

She knew better.  Hell, how many times had she given MULDER
that lecture--don't ditch me, Mulder, you know you need me
covering your ass.  Two heads are better than one.  Two GUNS
are better than one.  

She was distracted from her self-scolding by the sound of
movement.  She felt the slight heat of another body near
hers--definitely a woman, Scully thought as the scent of
lavender grew stronger.  She felt hands at the back of her
head, brushing against the painful lump at the base of her
skull.  Seconds later, the gag loosened and fell away;  she
pushed the balled up hankerchief out of her mouth and took
the first full breath she'd taken in an hour.  "Who the hell
are you and what do you want?"

A soft, feminine chuckle to her right made her turn her head 
even though she could see nothing with the blindfold in
place.  "You're tougher than you look, Agent Scully."  The
voice was higher pitched than she'd expected--a clear, soft
soprano.  Delicate and almost ethereal.  "I hope your head
isn't hurting too badly."

"Nice of you to care--although you could have saved yourself
the worry if you'd kept your blackjack to yourself."

"We had nothing to do with that, Agent Scully."

Scully arched an eyebrow, then realized her captor couldn't
see the gesture beneath the blindfold.  "Then who hit me?"

"We're not sure exactly for whom your assailant was working.
The matter is of no importance, anyway--he's no longer
working for anyone."

A shudder of understanding rippled through Scully.  "Who do
YOU work for?"

"That's debatable."  The woman made a soft sound that could
have been a chuckle, although Scully detected no humor in the
sound.  "But for now, I'm here to give you information."

Scully took a swift breath through her nose, anger quickly
eclipsing fear as she realized that her captors had no
intention of killing her--at least, not yet.  "I'm not
interested."

"I think you will be."

"You have me mistaken with my partner.  He's the one with
the mysterious double-crossing informants.   It's one of his
little foibles--I've been trying to work on breaking him of
the habit of listening to shadows."

"Your partner isn't the one looking into Sarah Chandler's
disappearance."

Scully sighed.  "So this was your idea of a subtle warning--
'stay away from the case, Agent Scully, or you won't live
long enough to regret it?'"

"On the contrary.  Your assailant was sent to kill you--no
warnings issued.  But we find it more useful to keep you
alive."

Scully bit back a surge of rage, knowing that staying in
control was her only hope of dealing with these people and
emerging alive.  When she spoke, her voice dripped cool
sarcasm.  "I'm touched."  

"I don't care what you think of me, Agent Scully.  Your kind
regard isn't part of my agenda."

"Then what is?  And who the hell are you?"

"Call me Raven."

Scully laughed aloud.  "Isn't that a bit melodramatic?"

"It suits me," her captor said simply.

"Nice," Scully murmured, "a carrion eater, preying on the
dead.  I've come across too many of your sort in my
business."

Raven ignored the soft taunt and came to the point.  "Do you
want to find Sarah Chandler, Agent Scully?"

Scully pressed her lips together tightly, annoyed at the
simple question.  She didn't want to be rational and
pragmatic right now.  She wanted to be angry as hell, the
yell and scream and claw and hit.  

Was this how Mulder felt when Deep Throat jacked him around? 
When X had played his dirty little head games?  She suddenly
had a clearer understanding of what drove her partner to
meet with shadow puppets in parking garages and dank alleys
and behind bushes and in darkened cars.  He surely didn't
like it any more than she did--she KNEW he didn't like it. 
He chafed at the secrecy, the enforced subterfuge, just as
she did now.

But he couldn't turn his back on the secrets that lay in the
shadows.  And neither could she. "Talk," she rasped.

"At this very moment, Sarah Chandler is being reprogrammed."

"Reprogrammed?"

"Do you think she forgot the first eleven years of her life
on her own?"

"What are you suggesting, she was brainwashed into amnesia?"

"Do you doubt the technology exists?"

"Why would they?  What could she possibly remember that
could be worth wiping eleven years of memory?"

"Maybe some of the deepest, darkest secrets the universe
holds."  Raven's voice darkened slightly.  "Secrets that
were never to be told."

"Cut the crap," Scully spat, irritated by the woman's
deliberate ambiguity.  "What does Sarah know?  And why is it
imperative that I find her?"

"Because Sarah Chandler is the first domino--find her before
the reprogramming is finished, and you may start a whole chain
reaction that'll bring all the secrets to light."

"What secrets?"

"What happened to you while you were missing.  Who the big
players are.  What their agenda entails."  Raven's next words
were no more than a whisper, breathed in to Scully's ear.  "What
happened to Samantha Mulder."


*  *  *  *  *


Garnem's Pita Cafe
8:12 p.m.


The slender, dark-haired Lebanese girl behind the cashier's
desk stared up at Mulder in concern.  "Missing?"

He nodded.  "You said that she asked you questions about
Sarah Chandler's disappearance--" he glanced at her name
tag--"Teresa."

Teresa nodded.  "I told her about the man Sarah had eaten
lunch with the day she disappeared."

"What about the man?"

"Just that he was older, and had a British accent."

Mulder barely covered his surprise.  "Tall, thin, with a
long face and slightly sagging jowls?"

She nodded, her eyes widening.  "Agent Scully asked the same
question.  Do you know him?"

Better than I want to, he thought, but not nearly well
enough.  "What did Agent Scully do after you told her about
the British gentleman?"

"She asked how to get out to the parking area behind the
restaurant.  I guess she wanted to see it because that's the
way Sarah and her friend left that day."  Teresa nodded
toward a short, dimly lit corridor not far from the
cashier's desk.  "She went out that way and that's the last
I saw of her."

"Do many people go in and out that way?"

Teresa shook her head.  "Most of the time, yes, but we're
having it repaved, so it's blocked off right now."

"Has anyone been out back at all this evening?"

She shrugged.  "Maybe to the dumpster, but probably not--the
kitchen staff usually waits until a half-hour or so before
closing time to go out there--especially at this time of
year when it's so cold."

Mulder's stomach coiled as he glanced down the darkened
hallway, feeling as if he were staring at the doorway to
hell.  What if she was back there, lying hurt--or worse?  

He took a deep breath.  "Thanks for your help."  Steeling
himself, he walked through the passageway to the back door.


*  *  *  *  *


Somewhere in New Haven
8:25 p.m.


The bindings on Scully's wrists were beginning to chafe, but
not nearly as much as her captor's irritating game of cat
and mouse.  "What could Sarah Chandler know about what
happened to Samantha Mulder?"

Raven shifted, the warmth of her body moving away from
Scully.  "It's not important what Sarah Chandler knows. 
Your first priority is to find her--with whatever means are
at your disposal.  You can deal with the consequences
later."

Scully strained against her bindings, anger surging through
her aching body, giving her renewed strength.  "I'm tired of
your little conundrums, Raven."  She spat out the name like
something bitter on her tongue.  "I don't like games.  If
you have information about Sarah Chandler or Samantha Mulder
or what happened to me, then tell me.  If you don't, then
either kill me or let me go."

"Don't worry, Dana.  I'll let you go soon.  I need you to
find Sarah Chandler before they're finished with her--and
you're losing precious time playing twenty questions with
me."

"Then tell me what you know."

"That's just it, Dana.  I know very little more than you do.
 I don't know exactly who has her, though I have my
suspicions.  I don't know where they're keeping her.  I
don't know how long they'll keep her or what they'll do to
her if their reprogramming efforts fail."

Scully's stomach lurched.  "Do you think they'll kill her?"

"It's always an alternative," Raven replied, her voice
expressionless.

"Then what DO you know?"

"I know that you can no longer keep your partner out of your
investigation.  He must be brought into the search for Sarah
Chandler."

"Why, so you can screw with his head like you're trying to
screw with mine?"

"His past is essential to uncovering the secrets you seek--
as is your own."

"My own?"

"Your memories of your time away are still locked in your
head.  You may be surprised to find what secrets your own
mind may reveal to you."

Scully closed her eyes behind the blindfold, blinking back
tears of sheer terror.  The gaping hole in her memory
frightened her--but not as much as the nebulous horrors she
might find locked away in that part of her mind that had
gone dormant almost four years ago.  She'd tried once to
remember and she'd left the counselor's office in a panic,
her heart racing and her palms sweating.  

Could she face that again, even for her friend?

Even if it could uncover the truth about what had happened
to Mulder's sister?


*  *  *  *  *


Alley behind Garnem's Pita Cafe
8:25 p.m.


Mulder found the cellular phone first.  It lay half-hidden
behind a dumpster in the alley behind the restaurant. 

He crouched by the small phone, his heart in his throat. 
The plastic casing was cracked, probably from hitting the
pavement.  He pulled out a pen and prodded the phone,
turning it over.  No blood that he could see--he tried to
calm himself with that observation, but the mere presence of
the discarded phone was enough to make his blood run cold. 
If it was Scully's--

But maybe it wasn't.  

There was one quick way to find out.  He pushed the memory
dial button and pressed *1.  In the dim streetlight, he
could barely make out the phone number of his own cellular
unit.

He closed his eyes for a second, fighting a wave of nausea.
Then he stood slowly and walked around the dumpster.  The
sliding door to the dumpster was shut firmly, but the smell
of rotting food and garbage stung his nostrils.  He reached
into his pocket and pulled out the pair of latex gloves he
never left home without.  Taking a deep breath, he donned
the gloves and reached for the handle.

The door slid open with a soft, rusty moan.  He pulled a
small pen flashlight from his hip pocket and shone it around
the interior of the garbage bin.  A handful of plastic bags
full of garbage lined the bottom of the dumpster, but it
didn't take long for Mulder to ascertain that the bin wasn't
hiding his partner's body.  

He slammed the door shut and stumbled to the back wall of
the restaurant. Leaning his forehead against the chilly
bricks, he gulped in cold, relatively fresh air, wishing he
could clear his mind as easily as his lungs.

After a moment, he pulled out his own cellular phone and
called the number of the New Haven Police Department.  When
Tremaine answered the phone, he didn't bother with preamble. 
"It's Mulder.  I need a crime scene unit at Garnem's Pita
Cafe."  He rattled off the address.

"Is she--?"  Tremaine's voice was wary.

Mulder closed his eyes again. "I don't know."

He waited by the dumpster, his stomach churning, not moving
from his spot by the back wall of the restaurant for fear of
further compromising the potential crime scene.  Tremaine
arrived within ten minutes, followed by a couple of crime
scene investigators.  Tremaine crossed the alley to Mulder's
side.  "Whaddya got?"

Mulder waved his hand at the cellular phone by the dumpster. 
"It's Scully's."

Tremaine spared him a quick, sympathetic glance before he
gestured for the technicians to come over.  He pointed out
hte phone and the techies went to work.  Tremaine grabbed
Mulder's arm and pulled him to the side.  "If there's
anything to find, these guys will find it, Agent Mulder. 
But maybe you'd better go handle your partner's boyfriend--
he's been calling every ten minutes, looking for answers. 
He could probably use someone to talk to--and he might be
able to shed more light on what happened.  You know it's SOP
to question the significant other--maybe he knows something
he's not telling."

Mulder stared at the detective.  

"Is that a problem?" Tremaine asked.  "I could send one of
my guys--"

Mulder shook his head quickly.  "No.  I'll go."

He walked back to his mother's car, his head spinning.  He
didn't know what to feel--terror?  Anger?  Jealousy?  Hurt?
He was too numb to feel anything at all.  Numb and stunned. 

Functioning on auto-pilot, he made the twenty-minute drive
to Benton Crane's Ponce Street apartment in just under
fifteen minutes.  He took the stairs two at a time,
concentrating on the way his heartrate increased and his
breath exploded in his lungs.  He reached the fourth floor
landing in seconds, jogged to #404 C, and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and Mulder found himself
face to face with one of the most handsome men he'd ever
seen--something straight out of a movie, he thought, taking
in the man's perfectly chiseled features, light blue eyes
and thick, dark hair.  He was as tall as Mulder himself--
maybe an inch taller.  He was broad shouldered, narrow-
hipped and the jeans and t-shirt he wore couldn't have
camouflaged an ounce of fat--had there been an ounce of
excess fat on that body, which there wasn't.

Mulder hated him on sight.

"You're Mulder," the man said.  He even had a good voice--
low, slightly musical. 

"Crane."

Benton Crane's eyes narrowed, raking over Mulder
appraisingly.  "What's happened?  Do you know anything about
what happened to Dana?"

"We found her cellular phone behind a restaurant where she'd
conducted some interviews concerning Sarah Chandler's
disappearance."

"How do you know it's her phone?"

"My number was programmed on the memory dial."

"God knows why," Crane muttered.

Mulder narrowed his eyes, his shoulders aching with the tension
that was building and coiling in his muscles.  "I AM her
partner."

Crane cocked his head.  "Yeah, so she says."  His tone of
voice left Mulder with no illusions about Crane's opinion of
him.

Mulder gritted his teeth and glared at the man.  "Think I could
come in and ask you a few questions, Mr. Crane?"

Crane stepped back slowly and gestured toward the interior
of the apartment.  "What do you want to know?

Mulder had a million questions, but he started with the most
important one.  "Do you know anything about Scully's
disappearance that you haven't told us?"

Crane met his glare with a hard, cold expression. "If I
knew anything, I'd have told the police."

"But not me."

Crane didn't answer.

Mulder sucked in a deep breath.  "Then maybe you can tell me
this, Mr. Crane.  Why would my partner come here to
investigate this case without even telling me what she was
doing, much less asking me to back her up?"

Crane shook his head slowly, a wry smile curving his too-
perfect mouth.  "You really are more clueless than even I
imagined."

Mulder took a couple of steps toward Crane, closing in,
invading his space. "She never should've gone out there
without back up."

Crane didn't back away even an inch, meeting Mulder's
intense glare without so much as flinching.  "I know that. 
I told her that, but you know Dana."

"Yes, I do." Mulder's fists clinched at his sides.  "I know
her very well."

Crane merely smiled.  "Obviously not as well as you think."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe that if you knew Dana so well, you'd know that she
doesn't take kindly to being ditched like a bad date every
time you get the urge to go play chase the alien."

Mulder backed away from Crane, afraid of the blood-red haze
of fury coloring his vision.  Had Scully said that to this
man?  Had they talked about him behind his back?

His gut twisted, and he had to swallow the lump that rose in
his throat.  "Mr. Crane, where were you this afternoon
around 5:45 p.m.?"

For the first time, Crane's composure failed him.  His mouth
dropped open and he stared at Mulder.  "What are you
implying?"

"It's a simple question, Crane.  Where were you at 5:45
p.m.?"

"I had an afternoon class at the university."

"I assume you can confirm that--you have witnesses who can
place you at the university at that time?"

Crane nodded, anger blazing behind his blue eyes.

"And how long were you at the university after that?"

"I left at 6:30--Dana and I were planning to have dinner
together.  But she wasn't waiting for me when I got here."

"Scully has a key to your apartment?"

"Yeah--I made a copy for her the last time she came to
visit." 

Mulder couldn't allow himself to think about the
implications of that.  "Did Scully mention any other leads
she wanted to follow?  Besides the restaurant?"

Crane shook his head.  "She didn't even mention the
restaurant.  She didn't tell me all that much---"

The rattle of keys outside the door stopped Crane in mid-
sentence.  He glanced at Mulder.  They heard the dead bolt
lock disengage, and Mulder pulled his gun from his hip
holster.  

The doorknob turned.  

The door swung open.

Mulder lowered the gun, a whoosh of air escaping his lungs.

There, in the open doorway, hair disheveled and a scrape on
her chin, stood Dana Scully.


*  *  *  *  *


Scully dragged through the front door of Benton's apartment,
a weary half-grin on her face.  "Hi, honey, I'm ho--"  She
stopped in mid-sentence as she looked beyond Benton's
worried gaze and met the stormcloud eyes of her partner.

Before she could say another word, Benton enfolded her in
his embrace.  She winced as his strong arms crushed her
bruised, scraped up body.  "Dana, my God, are you okay?  

"I'm fine, Benton."

She heard a soft huffing sound from Mulder's direction, and
she gently extricated herself from Benton's bear hug to get
a better look at her partner.  Mulder's teeth were bared in
a grimace of a smile, but his eyes were void of humor.  She
sighed.

"What happened to you?" Benton asked.

"Long story."  She looked back at Benton, reading the
tension in the lines of his face.  "I'll tell you in a
minute."  She forced herself to look back at Mulder,
quailing slightly at the fierce anger thinly veiled behind
his stony mask.  "Hi."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Mulder asked, his voice
tight and slightly hoarse.

"Explanations can wait, Mulder."  Benton put his arm around
Scully, drawing her protectively against him.  

Mulder's lips pressed into a thin line.  "Mind your own
business, Crane."

"This is my business."

Scully pulled away from Benton.  "I can handle this myself,
Benton.  But you can do me a favor."

He looked at her, his gaze warm and understanding. 
"Anything."

"I could use a nice, hot bath--will you run me one?  Please?
I need to talk to Mulder."

Benton's eyes narrowed slightly.  "You sure?"

She nodded.  

He shot another glare at Mulder and walked down the hall to
the bathroom.  Scully waited until she heard water running
before she looked up at Mulder.

"I'm sorry.  I guess you're probably up to speed on what's
going on by now."

He nodded slowly, his expression still taut.  "You should
have known better than to go off on your own like this.  I
expected better judgment from you."

Her jaw dropped, and for a moment she could only stare at
him.  Then she found her voice.  "You have the gall to talk
to ME about good judgment?"

"Scully--"

"Look, maybe I should have told you about Sarah Chandler,
but the fact is, you had enough to deal with this weekend. 
I didn't want to add to your worries."

"Like hearing you MUGGED over the phone didn't add to my
worries?  Damn it, Scully, once in a lifetime was enough!"
He pushed his fingers through his hair, spiking the dark
strands.  "I sure as hell didn't need to relive that
nightmare!"

She swallowed with difficulty.  Duane Barry, she realized.
She'd been leaving a message on Mulder's answering machine
the night Duane Barry--she closed her eyes, wondering why
she hadn't made the connection.  "Mulder--"

"And then to get here and find out that you also failed to
tell me about your new boyfriend--"

She pressed her lips together in annoyance.  "Mulder, I'm
too tired to get into this now.  And it's really none of
your business--"

"The hell it's not!  What do you know about this guy?"

"He's an old friend--we've known each other for years."

"You've never told me about him."

"You don't exactly give me a catalog of your associates,
Mulder.  There are lots of things and people you don't think
I need to know about."

They glared at each other, tension buzzing between them. 
Scully's body ached from her ordeal already; standing here
facing off with her partner wasn't helping a bit.  She
looked away.  "Now if you'll excuse me--"  

He caught her arm as she tried to pass, pulling her hard
against him.  The heat of his body spread across her skin
everywhere their bodies touched.  "I don't excuse you,
Scully. You owe me more than disdain."

She stared at him, wishing she could deny his words.  But it
was true.  She DID owe him.  He'd saved her life, more that
once--and as recently as three weeks ago.  But she also knew
that she wasn't the only one in debt.  "What about what you
owe me, Mulder?  Like trust?"

He let go of her so suddenly that she almost lost her
balance.  "Trust is earned."

She went cold from head to toe.  "And I haven't earned your
trust?"

His lower lip trembled open, his hard, steady gaze
faltering.  "Scully--"

She was too tired to deal with him anymore.  Shutting her
eyes to the sight of him, she lurched toward the hallway.
She'd taken no more than a couple of steps when she bumped
into the library table behind the sofa.  The sharp corner
hit her half-healed bullet wound dead on, drawing a muffled
cry of pain from her throat.  "Damn it!"

Before she could draw a deep breath, Mulder's was by her
side, sweeping her off her injured leg and into his arms. 
Weakened by pain and the dizzying sensation of being cradled
in Mulder's embrace, Scully clung to him, pressing her face
against the hot skin of his throat, breathing in the warm,
masculine smell of him.  

He put her down on the sofa, crouching in front of her.  He
wore a stricken expression on his face, his eyes dark with
concern.  "Are you okay?"

"Just great, Mulder."  She winced slightly as his hand moved
over her injured leg.  

"You're bleeding."  Mulder stared down at the small patch of
red seeping through the dun-colored fabric of her pantsuit
trousers.  

"I guess it opened up the wound--it's not too bad." 

He looked up at her, his eyes haunted.  "It was too damned
soon, Scully."  His voice was hoarse and unsteady.  "I can't
take it."

She knew he was talking about the shooting.  She knew what
he'd gone through, trying to keep her alive with his own
hands, watching her drifting away.  She'd experienced the
same thing once in a tiny hospital in Alaska, when all that
stood between Mulder and death were two electro-shock
paddles and her dogged refusal to give up on him.

He reached up and gently brushed back a strand of hair that
had fallen forward into her eyes.  He tucked it behind her
ear, his fingers lingering there, tracing the curve of
delicate flesh and cartilage.  The power of even that light,
almost imperceptible touch stunned her--she felt utterly
aware of him, from head to toe, even though he touched only
the outer edge of her ear.  "Did they hurt you tonight? 
Should I take you to a hospital, let someone check you out?"

The tender concern in his voice washed over her, soothing
her.  Her earlier anger seemed to dissipate, leaving only a
fierce, sweet ache for him that never seemed to die, no
matter how angry he made her.  "I'm fine, Mulder."  

His lips curved in the faintest of smiles.  Like steel to a
magnet, she moved inexorably closer to him, unable to resist
his pull.  His eyes locked with hers, darkening, his lips
parting, expelling a warm breath that danced across her lips
like a kiss. 

Benton's voice sliced through the exquisite tension between
them.  "Your bath awaits."

Mulder drew back from her and rose.

Scully closed her eyes and drew a long, shaky breath,
pushing herself off the couch.  She took a step away from
the couch and almost fell as her injured leg buckled for a
moment.  But Mulder grabbed her immediately, steadying her
with a strong arm around her waist.  He gave her a look that
brooked no further argument and supported her down the
hallway to the bathroom.

A warm, fragrant cloud of sandalwood scent enveloped them in
the bathroom doorway.  Mulder released her and Scully
hobbled into the bathroom, delighting in the wonderful smell
of the bubble bath.  She crossed to the large tub and dipped
her fingers into the bubbles, testing the temperature of the
water.  It was nice and hot, and she almost shivered in
anticipation of stripping off her soiled clothes and
stepping into the bath.

"Need my help getting into the tub?"

She turned to look at Mulder.  He wore a sly grin that she
immediately recognized for what it really was--his tacit
apology for his earlier behavior.  She forgave him with her
own gesture, an arch of her eyebrow and a dry retort.  "In
your dreams."

His smile widened slightly as he correctly interpreted her
acceptance of his overture.   "More often than you know,
Scully."  He backed out of the bathroom, closing the door
behind him.

She allowed herself a little smile as she began stripping
off her clothing, knowing that she had probably let him off
way too easily but not really caring.  She knew Mulder was a
complicated, contradictory creature--it was part of what
made him the man she loved so dearly.  He could be an ass,
but he could also make her feel like the most cherished
woman in the world.  Maybe it was as simple as the fact that
of all the women in the world, SHE was the one to whom he'd
opened his guarded heart. 

After ascertaining that her reinjured leg had already
stopped bleeding, she sank into the tub and completely
immersed herself from head to toe before rising up and
slicking her wet hair back from her face.  The hot soap and
water stung her cuts and scrapes, but the pain faded
quickly, leaving her with a marvelous feeling of luxuriant
well-being.

She lazily scrubbed away the grime of the long, bizarre day.
She tried to mull over everything that had happened to her
since that morning, but her mind kept drawing her back to
Mulder and the effect his slightest touch had on her.

She knew his anger and tension hadn't been completely the
result of professional territorialism.  He was jealous of
Benton.  Jealous in a very human, male way.  She remembered
back to the hazy morning three weeks ago when she'd awakened
to find him at her bedside.  The fierce determination she'd
seen in his face had startled her--it was the same 
determination that he normally saved for his obsession with
their cases, only this time SHE was the object of his
attention.  She had sensed then that he'd come to some sort
of decision about their relationship, but after that one
morning he'd never really approached the subject, and she'd
begun to think she'd imagined things.

But after tonight, she knew that she and Mulder stood at a
crossroads, and it terrified her.  She was afraid of the
risks they would face if they took a step toward a deeper
relationship--but she was also very tempted by the potential
rewards.  

To be loved utterly, completely by Fox Mulder--she closed
her eyes, shivering despite the heat of the bath.  She could
imagine nothing more powerful, more significant in her life.
But there was always the risk that she could be sacrificing
the most satisfying relationship she'd ever had--or could
ever hope to have.

Besides, with everything facing them--the mystery of Sarah's
disappearance, all of Raven's hints about deep, dark secrets
and lies--now was not the time to explore the possibilities
that lay between her and Mulder.

But what if this was the ONLY chance they ever got?  What if
they solved all the mysteries in front of them, answered all
the questions, found the truth--only to discover that their
time had passed and what might have been could never be
again?  Could she really live with that?

She sank deeper into the tub, the answer eluding her.


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder took a deep breath and walked into the living room,
where Crane was pacing in a tight circle.  He stopped and
looked up at Mulder, his blue eyes dark with anger.  

Mulder held up his hands.  "Look, I know--"

"You are such an ass."

Mulder lowered his hands, his fists clenching by his side.

"I don't know why Dana lets you get away with the way you
treat her."

"You don't know anything about Scully and me--"

"Bullshit, Mulder.  I know all that I need to know.  I know
you ditch her and you dismiss her and you treat her like
shit and expect her to keep tagging along like a good little
partner."

Mulder swallowed convulsively.  "Scully told you that?"

"She didn't have to tell me that.  I can see what's right in
front of me."

"Scully's a big girl, Crane.  If she wanted out, she'd get
out.  I know she wouldn't appreciate her boyfriend meddling
in her job."

"You don't know anything about Dana and me, Mulder, so how
can you know what Dana would or wouldn't appreciate?" Crane
slowly closed the buffer zone between them. 

The hairs on the back of Mulder's neck rose in response to
his opponent's aggressive stance.  "Then enlighten me."

"How long have you known Dana, Mulder--six years?"

"About."

"I've known her twenty-four.  So don't try to out do me,
Mulder.  You want to compare Dana stories?  I've got a
million of them.  I gave her her first kiss.  I was the one
who held her hand and let her cry on my shoulder when her
puppy came down with Parvo and had to be put to sleep." 
Crane took another step closer to Mulder, closing the
distance to less than a foot.  "When you blew off her
theories in that stigmata case a couple of years ago, I was
the one she called to talk it through, to work through her
doubts and beliefs because YOU couldn't handle it."

Mulder felt the world shift just a bit beneath his feet, and
he grabbed the back of a nearby chair to steady himself. 
"Scully told you about that case?"

A slight smile spread over Crane's face.  "Dana tells me a
lot of things.  Like her fears about that implant she found
in the back of her neck.  Of course, she couldn't come to
you about it--you told her not to freak out about it, and
she was too afraid of appearing like a fool in your eyes to
tell you how her fears kept her awake at night until her
test results turned up negative."

Mulder felt a rumble of nausea building in his gut.  Scully
had told Crane about her fears because she was too ashamed
to come to him?  He looked away, horrified at the thought.  

"God forbid, Dana might get in the way of you and a UFO!
You'd run her down so fast, she wouldn't know what hit her. 
You take from her constantly.  When are you going to be
there for her?  Maybe it's time you took a long, hard look
at yourself, Mulder, and figure out why somebody as great as
Dana bothers to put up with your crazy, psychotic ass--"

The rattle of keys outside the door stopped Crane in mid-
sentence.  He took a step toward the door, while Mulder
found himself instinctively reaching for his holster.

The door swung open and a small, pretty woman walked into
the apartment, her chin-length, sun-streaked hair bouncing
gently with each energetic step.  Her face lit up when her
eyes fell on Crane.  "Sweetheart, if I had to sit through
ONE MORE dry tax law lecture, I think I'd have slit my
wrists!"  She wrapped her arms around him.  "Did you miss
me?"  She kissed him hard and long.

Mulder's mouth fell open, at first with indignation at
Crane's blatant infidelity to Scully, then with dawning
realization that he'd made a bigger fool of himself than
he'd originally thought.

The woman gave Crane one more long, thorough kiss, then 
looked over at Mulder as if she'd just that moment realized 
there was a stranger in her living room.  

She cocked her head  and gave him a look that reminded 
him for all the world of Scully in her most skeptical mode. 

"And you are?"

Mulder blinked at the woman in Crane's arms, surprised by
both her sudden arrival and her query.  When he didn't
answer right away, her other eyebrow arched.  "Well?" 

Crane turned to look at Mulder, sliding his arm possessively
around the woman's shoulders.  The look on his face left
Mulder with no doubt that Scully's "old friend" had
purposefully led Mulder astray about the nature of the
relationship between them.  "Mulder, this is my fiance,
Lorna Youngs.  Lorna, that's Fox Mulder."

Lorna smiled, although there was a little gleam in her eyes
that looked less than friendly.  "Dana's Mulder?"  Her blue
eyes swept over him, head to foot.  "Funny, I always got the
impression you were bigger and better looking."

She continued to smile, so he wasn't sure if she was joking
or not.  He ventured a half smile of his own.  "How kind of
you to say so."

"Doone?"  

Mulder turned at the sound of his partner's voice behind
him, and his breath caught in his throat.  Scully wore a
pale lavender silk robe that emphasized every dip and curve
of her body, and her hair lay in dark red tangles around her
pale face.  Her eyes were bright with happiness and a huge
smile lit up her face as she limped across the room toward
them.  Mulder felt a keen twinge of disappointment when she
walked past him to fling herself in the outstretched arms of
Lorna Youngs. 

Just once, he thought, I want to make her smile like that.  

"Doone, I thought you were in Boston!"  

Lorna gave Scully a playful shove.  "Look at you, coming to 
town to put the moves on my man while I was away!  Starbuck,
you ignorant slut!"

Scully chuckled.  "Unh-unh, Doone--Huck's all yours.  Big
guy like that's too expensive to clothe and feed!"

Lorna tipped Scully's chin up, frowning at the little scrape
she saw there.  "What happened to you?"

"Zigged when I should've zagged."

"Knowing Dana, this is probably a long story," Crane said.

"Which we can hear later," Lorna wrapped her arm around 
Crane's waist as if she couldn't bear to be separated from
him for a moment.  "Since your place is occupado for the
night--what say we go to my apartment and...catch up?"  She
looked up at her fiance, an almost predatory gleam in her
eyes.

Crane dragged his eyes away from his fiance long enough to 
pin Mulder with a meaningful glare.  "I don't know, Lorna--
Mulder here's been acting like a real ass."

Lorna shrugged.  "Like that's something new?"

Mulder pressed his lips together in annoyance, feeling like
the butt of a joke.  Just how much HAD Scully told these
people about him?  He shot his partner a glare, which she
returned with a placid Mona Lisa half-smile, obviously amused 
by his discomfort.

Crane looked uncertain.  "I don't know--"

"Dana can whip his ass," Lorna murmured, just loud enough to
be certain that Mulder could hear her.  She looked over her
shoulder, her deep blue eyes bright with wicked amusement.  
"Lovely meeting you...Fox."

"It's been real for me, too."  Mulder waggled his fingers at
her. 

Lorna chuckled and stood on tiptoes to whisper something in
Crane's ear.  His eyes widened slightly, and he grabbed his
keys from the table by the door.  "There's food in the
fridge, videos in the cabinet, and you know where the
bathroom is.  See you around."  

Lorna laughed and opened the door for him.  Seconds later,
the door closed behind them, and silence swallowed the
apartment.

Mulder broke the quiet with a long sigh.  "Hurricane Lorna,"
he murmured.

"She IS a little larger than life," Scully agreed.  

He looked at her, noting the dark circles under her eyes and
the tender bruising that was beginning to show around her
mouth, and his earlier irritation melted away.  He crossed to
her, touching the corner of her mouth with the tip of his 
finger.  "Gag?"

Her eyes glowed like sapphires as she looked up at him.  She
nodded.

He put one finger beneath her chin and lifted her face so he
could get a better look at the scrape on her chin.  "When
you fell the first time?"

"Yes."

Sliding his hands over her shoulders, he gently turned her
around so that her back was to him.  He felt a little shiver
run through her, and his body tightened in response.  He
forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly as he lifted her
hair and ran his fingertips over the back of her skull,
tracing the lump he found there.  "Blackjack?"

"That's my guess."

He closed his eyes, his whole being protesting the treatment
she'd suffered.  "Are you sure they didn't hurt you
otherwise, Scully?  They didn't--?"

The unspoken question hung between them for a second.  Then
Scully turned around quickly, her body close to his.  He
opened his eyes to meet her reasuring gaze.  "They didn't
touch me that way."

He took a ragged breath.  "How did you get away?"

"They let me go."

He arched one eyebrow, surprised.  

She stepped away from him, nodding slightly toward the sofa.
He followed and sat next to her, close enough that their
legs and shoulders touched. She shifted, leaning against
him, and instinctively he lifted his arm around her
shoulder, drawing her into a comforting embrace.  She rested
her head against his cheek.  "I'm pretty sure that two
different groups with two different agendas were involved."

"Two?"

She told him what had happened to her, from the initial blow
to the back of her skull to the bizarre ride in the van with
the mysterious Raven to the moment when the van stopped and
she was left at the side of the road to free herself of her
bindings.  To her surprise, she'd found her car parked
nearby--her captors had apparently brought it along with
them to make sure she had a way home after her ordeal. 

When she was through, Mulder sat in stunned silence for a
moment, letting all that she'd told him sink in.  Then he
said, "Did she give you any indication how Sarah Chandler
might be able to lead us to the truth about Samantha?"

Scully shook her head, her damp hair tickling his chin.  "We
don't know that any of it is true, Mulder."  She drew away
from him, leaning forward to pick up the file folder that
lay on the coffee table.  It was the information she'd
obtained from the New Haven police concerning Sarah
Chandler's disappearance. "I guess you've been through this
file?"

He nodded.  "How much do you know about the missing years of
your friend's life?"

"Not much.  Sarah herself didn't really remember much, only
bits and pieces--snippets of conversation, fragments of
memories--"  Scully flipped open the folder, absently
pushing back a tangle of hair that fell into her face.  "She
didn't tell me much--Anne Milliken let me look at a
scrapbook she kept, but even that was more about her
impressions than what she actually remembered--or thought
she remembered."

Mulder shook his head slightly, amazed at Scully's endless
capacity for skepticism, even in the face of overwhelming
evidence.  "You think her recovered memories may be nothing
more than confabulation?"

"It's a possibility, Mulder.  Research has shown--"

He held up his hand.  "I know."

She glanced at him.  "I think we're asking the wrong
questions here, anyway."

"And what would the right question be?"

"Why did Sarah Chandler meet with our British friend?"


*  *  *  *  *


After almost an hour of going rounds with all the evidence
they had to date, Scully's head was beginning to hurt.  She
lifted a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers against
the burgeoning ache.

Mulder sat back from his hunched position over the file
folder and looked at her, concern in his hazel gray eyes. 
"Headache?"

She nodded.  "Long day."

"Why don't you go to bed--get some sleep.  I'm going to go
over this file one more time--"

"No, I'm okay.  I'm too wired to sleep right now.  I'll see
if Benton has some aspirin."  She went into the kitchen and
searched the cabinets until she found a bottle of
acetaminophen.  She downed a couple of tablets with a glass
of water, then crossed to the refrigerator, realizing that
her stomach was growling.  "Did you have any supper?" she
called to Mulder.

"No--I was too busy trying to find you." 

She took some sliced turkey and a jar of brown mustard and
started making a couple of sandwiches for her and Mulder. 
While she was spreading mustard on the bread, Mulder
shuffled into the kitchen.  He'd kicked off his shoes and
was down to a plain white t-shirt and jeans--a good look for
him, she thought, watching him surreptitiously while he
poured them a couple of glasses of tea.  

"So, you and this guy Crane go way back?" he asked.

"Lorna, too.  We're all Navy brats."

He nodded as if that explained everything.  She held back a
smile, reading his body language and the vaguely mortified
expression on his face.  He was embarrassed by his actions
tonight--as well he should be.  He'd assumed things about
her and Benton that he now knew to be utterly false--but not
before he'd made a fool of himself.

But she didn't really have room to judge.  She had wrestled
with her own demons concerning Mulder and his catnip
effect on women, and more than once she'd come out looking
like an idiot, too.  

The bottom line was, no matter how you tried to define it,
their relationship was intense and exclusive.  There was no
room for other women or other men.  Unfortunately, the
situation also spawned an incredible amount of sexual
frustration.

She sighed and slapped the second sandwich together with a
little more force than necessary.  Mulder's head turned and
he pinned her with a questioning gaze.

She squirmed slightly under his scrutiny.  "Lorna, Benton
and I met when I was ten and they were both twelve.  We were
in San Diego then, and both Benton and Lorna were new to the
base. I met Benton first--fishing.  He was the only one
catching any fish that day.  I was SO jealous."  She smiled
at the memory.  "Benton showed me his secret--it was all in
how you hooked the worm."

Mulder's eyebrows rose slightly.  "I could've told you
that."

She shot him a look that made him chuckle.  "Benton started
taking me fishing whenever possible.  He didn't seem to mind
doing boy things with me like my brothers and the other boys
seemed to.  He didn't make fun of me or call me 'Freckles'
or anything that used to give the other brats such joy."  

She glanced at Mulder, realizing something for the first
time.  One of the reasons she'd grown so attached to Mulder
so quickly was that he, like Benton, had never treated her
as if she didn't have a right to be there by his side.  He'd
treated her like an equal partner, even during his bout with
over-protectiveness right after she'd returned to the X-
Files after Duane Barry had abducted her.  

"When Lorna's family moved on base, she was subjected to the
same teasing I had gone through--only it was maybe worse for
her, because believe me, red hair and freckles don't have a
THING on looking like Patty Duke!"

Mulder chuckled softly.  "She does sort of look like Patty
Duke, doesn't she?"

Scully nodded.  "Some of the kids followed her around,
singing that awful song from the Patty Duke Show--you know,
'Cousins...identical cousins...'"

Mulder laughed aloud.  "Oh, God, poor Lorna!"

"She never let them get to her, though."  Scully smiled,
remembering how her tough-as-nails friend had always found a
way to turn the table on her tormenters.  "She made a point
of memorizing the whole theme song, and the next time they
did that, she sang the rest for them until they realized
they'd been trumped and slinked away like the little rats
they were."

"So, she and Crane have been sweethearts since childhood?"

Scully shook her head.  "No, they were always just friends,
although I always thought they were made for each other. 
They stayed friends even after their families were
transferred away from each other.  They kept in touch
through college, through starting their careers--Lorna saw
Benton through a bad bout with depression after his mother
died, and Benton helped Lorna when her fiance jilted her the
day before her wedding.  But always just as friends."

"So what happened--one day they woke up and realized they
were in love?"  Mulder took the sandwich she handed him and
passed her a glass of tea in return.  

She took her sandwich and tea to the kitchen table and sat. 
"A year ago, Lorna was involved in a horrible car accident. 
She had a massive skull fracture and the doctors weren't
sure she'd live."

"So that was the friend you were so worried about."  Mulder
sat across from her and took a bite of his sandwich.

Scully nodded.  "She was in a coma for almost a week, and
Benton never left her side.  He said he realized then, when
he was so close to losing her, that all those years they had
been looking past each other for the perfect soul mate who
was actually right in front of them.  When she came out of
her coma, he didn't waste any more time."  She smiled. 
"They're getting married in August."

She waited for Mulder to make the expectable smart-alecky
remark.  But he just took a sip of tea and looked at her
over the rim of his glass.  "Friends make the best lovers,
they say."

She stared back at him, well aware of the implications of
the words he'd just uttered.  Tension coiled between them,
hot and sweet.  Seconds passed into moments as their eyes
locked, dared, pleaded....

Aching with regret, Scully broke their gaze, looking down at
the half eaten sandwich in front of her.  No matter how
delicious the temptation to explore the possibilities of
loving Fox Mulder, she knew that finding Sarah and
uncovering a lifetime of lies and secrets had to come first.

"Maybe we should go over the casefile one more time--there
could be something we missed, some connection to the man
Sarah met at Garnem's."

"I've been thinking about that."  Mulder washed down the
last bite of sandwich with his tea and carried his plate to
the sink.  He turned on the water and rinsed the plate.  "We
know that Mr. Manners is tied in with Cancerman and his
cronies.  And they were all involved with my father during
his days at the State Department."

"Mulder, we still don't really know how much of a
connection--"

"I know, Scully."  Mulder put the plate in the drain rack
and turned to look at her.  "I think that maybe my mother
knows more than she's ever told me.  I think you and I
should go see my mother tomorrow."

Scully frowned.  "Are you sure you want her involved?  She's
been through so much."

"I know, but I think this would be something that would give
her a chance to atone for some of her past mistakes." 
Mulder smiled slightly.  "Mom and I had a good talk today. 
I think she's ready to face the past."

Scully carried her own plate to the sink.  Mulder shifted
slightly to let her dump the remains of her dinner down the
garbage disposal and rinse her plate.  

He leaned in slightly, his breath disturbing the hair that
curled at her temple.  "Are YOU ready to face the past,
Scully?"

She looked up, met his intense gaze.

"You told me that Raven said you have to unlock your
memories of the time you were away.  Can you do that?  Can
you face it?"

She felt the overwhelming urge to fling herself into his
arms and let him hold her, shield her from her fears and her
doubts.  But instead, she lifted her chin a fraction and let
the gentle strength of his gaze bolster her.  "I can face
anything if it means we can find the answers we're looking
for, Mulder."

He smiled slightly, cupping her cheek for a moment before he
dropped his hand to his side and stepped away.  "Let's take
one more look at the file," he suggested.

She followed him back into the living room.

End of #4. 






















DISCLAIMER:  For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

Warning:  Adult language and situations, warranting a PG-13
rating. 

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within the same universe.


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#5:  "Reunion"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Dana Scully walked slowly up the footpath to Caroline
Mulder's Greenwich bungalow, wary of what she would find
when she knocked on the door.  While Mulder picked up his
mother and headed back for Greenwich, she'd stayed behind in
New Haven for a couple of hours to give her statement about
her abduction to the police and to have her car examined by
the evidence technicians on the off chance that her
abductors had left prints or fibers.  But it had been clean,
of course, and she'd left New Haven about an hour ago after
stopping to say goodbye to Lorna and Benton.

When she had called Mulder halfway through the drive to
Greenwich, he'd been tense and brief, promising he'd catch
her up on everything as soon as she got there.  She didn't
know if he'd have good news or bad news, but she'd find
out soon.

She knocked on the door.

Mulder answered.  He smiled slightly, reaching out to draw
her inside, his hand on her shoulder.  "How'd things go?"

"The car was clean, as we expected."

He nodded.

"Where's your mom?"

"She's in her bedroom.  She had some phone calls to make."
Mulder led her into the living room, his hand warm against
the small of her back.  "This isn't going to be easy for
her--Mom would prefer to forget the past thirty years ever
happened."

Understandable, Scully thought.  "Did you ask her about the
man Sarah had lunch with?  The man who was at your father's
funeral?"

He nodded and gestured toward a pair of camelback armchairs
in front of a cold hearth.  He glanced at the fireplace, a
little frown on his face.  "I guess I should start a fire--"

"I'll do it," she offered, knowing how fire still had the
power to make him cringe, even after he'd managed to conquer
the paralyzing effects of his phobia all those years ago
during the Cecil L'Ively case.  She pulled a long match from
the small brass cannister by the hearth, struck the flint
and touched the small flame to the gas log.  When the fire
was well lit, she stepped back, turning to meet Mulder's
grateful smile.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."  She sat in the chair next to his, holding her
cold hands out toward the flame.  "So tell me what your mom
said."

"Mostly she doesn't remember.  I know she was kept out of
the loop for most of it, and what she DID know about, I
think she's deliberately put out of her head because it's
too painful to think about."

Scully looked down at her hands, thinking about her own
cowardice when it came to remembering.  "Did she know who
you were talking about when you mentioned the British man?"

He nodded.  "She says she knew him as Carter Christopher,
though she's pretty sure that's not his real name."

Carter Christopher, she thought, letting the name roll
silently over her tongue.  It sounded like a master
manipulator, one who took great joy in messing with people's
minds.  Very fitting.

"Does she know how we can find him?"

"Those are the phone calls she's making."  He lay his cheek
against the back of the chair, his eyes meeting hers. 
"Maybe we'll have a lead by lunch time."

She nodded, looking away after a long moment.  Things
between her and Mulder were still a little tense, but she
could feel the small rift already beginning to heal.  After
that short but horrible period they'd been through a couple
of years ago when they were practically at each other's
throats, they'd learned to keep personal tensions strictly
separate from work.  And they'd worked equally hard on
resolving their personal tensions, learning lessons about
trust and forgiveness and commitment that had brought them
to the brink of something far more powerful than partnership
or friendship.

She wanted to believe they could handle more.  She wanted to
believe they could have EVERYTHING--passion and love and
companionship as well as respect and admiration.  But it
would take so much work, so much dedication--and was there
room for that in either of their lives?

Not right now.  Not with all that was going on.  Resolutely,
she looked away and stared into the dancing blue flame of
the fire.

They sat in silence for a long time, comfortable with the
quiet, comfortable, even, with the knowledge that unspoken
feelings lay between them.  It had been that way from the
beginning, after all.  So many things unsaid, things that
couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't be spoken--and yet they knew
that what they shared was special and unique and worth
fighting for.  Scully closed her eyes, a faint smile on her
lips, thinking about the long ago and far away time when
their partnership had been new.  So many possibilities--who
was this mysterious, mercurial Fox Mulder her superiors had
sent her to rein in?  Would he be resentful, suspicious,
hard to deal with?

Yes, yes, and oh my, yes.

And it had been exciting.  Challenging.  Energizing.
She had never felt more alive in her life than she had in
those early days with Mulder, testing the bounds of their
partnership, learning his ways and his thoughts and his
habits and actions.  She had revealed her own personality
with a sort of coy reticence, as if she understood even then
that once she committed herself to Fox Mulder and his quest,
there would be no turning back.

And, as relationships do, it had soon changed--darkened,
deepened, taking on a texture of trust that hadn't been
present at the beginning.  But with the trust had come the
realization that trust was fragile--easily shattered and
difficult to rebuild.

Mulder didn't trust easily, to say the least.  And these
days, neither did she.

The soft sound of slow, halting footsteps approaching the
living room roused her from her drowsy contemplations.   She
stirred, turning to watch Caroline Mulder enter the room. 
She was elegantly dressed, Scully noted, in a black silk
pantsuit that complemented her immaculately styled silver
hair.  Her left hand curled around the intricately carved
knob of a walking cane fashioned of teakwood.  She smiled at
her son before turning her hazel gaze to meet Scully's. 
"Dana, it's so lovely to see you again."

Scully rose and crossed to her, holding out her hand.  "How
are you, Mrs. Mulder?  You look wonderful."

Caroline smiled gently, though her eyes remained a bit wary.
"I've done very well.  I've been remiss, however--I should
have thanked you long ago for your kindness during my
illness and recovery.  Fox has told me what a comfort you
were to him.  And I knew you were there, too.  I felt your
concern as well."

Scully gently squeezed her hand, then let it go.  "I was
glad to be able to do whatever I could to help."

Caroline gently steered Scully back toward the chair she had
just vacated.  She smiled at her son, who had stood at her
entrance.  "I suppose you may both be interested in what
I've found out."  She sat on the sofa next to Mulder's
chair.  

Scully turned her own chair to face Mrs. Mulder.  "I hope
you'll be able to help me find my friend."

"I hope so, too.  I believe I have located the man you're
looking for."

Scully felt a surge of excitement; force of habit made her
turn to look at her partner.  His hazel eyes met hers,
glittering with anticipation.  When Scully dragged her gaze
back to Mrs. Mulder, she found her partner's mother smiling
slightly, observing their unspoken interchange.  

"I'm sure Fox told you that I knew him by the name Carter
Christopher.  I don't believe that is his real name,
however.  And the only address I ever had for him is now a
parking lot in Manhattan."

"You said you've located him?" Mulder asked.

Caroline nodded.  "At least, I know where you can find him
tonight.  He's going to be at a party celebrating the 
engagement of his godson, Paul Leone.  I have it on good
authority that several of the men who spent time at our home
all those years ago will be there as well."

Mulder's eyes widened slightly.  "How did you find this
out?"

"I've  kept some contacts from the past, Fox."  Her
expression darkened slightly, furrows creasing her forehead.
"Very few--but good ones.  People who have stayed in the
loop."

"Where is the party?" Scully asked.

"In New York City, at the Waldorf-Astoria.  Tonight at eight
o'clock.  It's formal, as these things generally are, but I
have procured invitations for you both."

"How'd you manage that?" Mulder asked, admiration apparent
in his expression.  Scully hid a smile, glad that for once
his own family was coming through for him.  His mother's
willingness to help would go a long way toward healing some
very old wounds, she knew.

"Like I said, I've kept some contacts.  But we don't have
much time."

"No, we don't," Scully agreed.  "For one thing, I have
nothing to wear."

Mulder chuckled.  "Women!"

She shot him a little glare.  "I'll need to find a formal
wear shop somewhere and hope I can find something
affordable."

"There's a lovely boutique right here in Greenwich that has
reasonable prices--The Shop on Carraway," Caroline assured
her.  "And just down the block is a men's shop that rents
tuxedos as well."

Mulder grimaced.  "Damn."

"Men," Scully murmured, darting a glance at him.  He looked
back at her, amusement glinting in his eyes.  

"Fox, you and Dana go find something to wear tonight.  I'm
going to have lunch with my friend, get all the particulars
on the party and whatever you might need to know."  Caroline
looked at her son, a bemused expression on her face.  "I
would enjoy the cloak and dagger flavor of this adventure a
lot more if I didn't know how dangerous these men are.  You
two MUST promise me that you'll be very careful."

"We'll watch each other's backs, Mrs. Mulder.  We've gotten
very good at it," Scully assured her.

She nodded.  "I know.  I can't tell you what comfort I find
in knowing that you're watching out for my son, Dana."

Dana blinked back unexpected tears, touched by Mrs. Mulder's
words.  She looked down at her hands, hiding her emotional
reaction from both mother and son.

"I should be back here by two o'clock at the latest,"
Caroline continued, quickly filling the silence that had
fallen after her previous statement.  "I'll fill you in on
whatever I find out."  She stood, gesturing toward them. 
"We'd better hurry--not much time now."

Scully followed Mulder and his mother outside to their cars.
She handed her car keys to Mulder.  "You know Greenwich
better than I do."

The drive into town was pleasant--an upscale bedroom
community of New York City, Greenwich was old money and
elegant charm.  Carraway Street was just off the beaten
path, nestled in the heart of a slightly newer, slightly
less tony area of town.  Mulder parked the car on the street
in front of the dress shop.

"Tux shop is down at the end of the block, if memory serves
me."  He glanced at the window display of the dress shop,
his eyes widening slightly.

Scully followed his gaze. There were two mannequins in the
window, wearing two distinctly different sorts of gowns.  
One was a lovely cranberry velvet with a silver print 
brocade bodice and a gorgeous gold accent that draped over 
the shoulder, reminding Scully of something she'd seen in a
renaissance painting.  The other was a stunning navy 
strapless sheath that hugged the mannequin's svelte figure 
like a glove.  She was pretty sure she knew which dress had
caught Mulder's eye. 

"Do I get a vote?" he murmured.

"Go rent a tux, Mulder."  She gave him a little shove.

He grinned at her and gave a little wave as he turned and
walked away.

She entered the dress shop, heralded by a discreet tinkle of
a bell over the door.  Moments later, a woman emerged from
the back of the shop to greet her.  She exuded class, from
her oh-so-perfectly tinted and styled ash blond hair to her
immaculate, not too long, buffed-but-not-polished
fingernails.  Scully felt acutely aware of her own less than
stylish appearance--how long since my last haircut? she
wondered as the woman approached.  But she stuck her chin
out, reminding herself that after six years of dealing with
serial killers, mutants and government conspirators,
managing one upper crust shop matron should be a breeze.

"May I help you?"

Scully nodded.  "I'm a friend of Caroline Mulder.  She
highly recommended this shop to me.  I have a formal affair
to attend in the city and need a dress."

*  *  *  *  *

Mulder unlocked Scully's car and carefully hung his
newly-rented tuxedo on one of the garment hooks over the
back windows.  He turned and looked through the shop
windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his partner, maybe
modeling her new gown--

The door of the shop opened and Scully emerged, gold plastic
garment bag in hand.  Her auburn eyebrows rose quizzically
as he took a startled step back.  "Never seen the inside of
a dress shop before, Mulder?"

He pasted on a nonchalant grin, wishing he could see through
the opaque garment bag to see what kind of dress she'd
chosen.  "Millions of times," he assured her.  He unlocked
the door for her, then circled the car to the driver's side
as she stashed her dress safely in the back seat.  As he was
opening his own door, he glanced up at the shop window and
noticed that the dress that had caught his eye was now
conspicuously absent from the display. His grin broadened.  

Could be quite an interesting night.


*  *  *  *  *


Caroline Mulder looked up at her son, a little thrill of
pride rippling through her as she realized what a fine,
handsome man he'd turned out to be, in spite of everything
he'd been through.  He looked down his nose at her, smiling
a bit as she deftly tied his bowtie.  "I can do this myself,
Mom."

She looked up at him with mock sternness.  "Stand still,
Fox, and quit complaining."

"I want to check and see if Scully's ready."

She arched her eyebrows.  "If she needs your help dressing,
Fox, I'm sure she'll ask."

He chuckled.  "I got her something, Mom.  I'm just not sure
I should give it to her."

Caroline patted down his tie, straightening it.  "Why not?"

"I don't know if it's appropriate."

"I thought you weren't worried about what was appropriate
anymore."

He crossed to the dresser and picked up a hairbrush,
absently smoothing the hair at his temples, even though his
hair was unusually neat already.  "Timing is everything."

"And you think the timing is bad now?"

"Horrible, actually."

"There's no such thing as the perfect time, Fox."

"But there is such thing as the WRONG time, and this is it."

"Are you sure you're not just avoiding the issue?"

He turned and met her questioning gaze, a hint of impatience
in his expression.  She could almost read his mind, and what
she read there hurt.  

Who was she to talk about avoidance?

She looked away, crossing to the tall oak wardrobe in the
corner of her bedroom.  "I told Dana she could borrow my
satin evening cloak to cover her dress.  It's going to be a
cold night."  She stole a glance at him.  "Have you seen her
dress?"

"Only on a mannequin."

"I'm sure it looks much lovelier on her."

"No doubt."  He looked up at her, a smile curving his lips. 
"Want to see what I bought for her?  I had some time to kill
after I rented the tux so I went to the antique store next
door--thought I might find some old baseball cards for a
steal--but as soon as I saw this, I grabbed it.  I could see
it on her--"  He crossed to the bed and picked up the tan
windbreaker he'd been wearing on the quick trip into
Greenwich.  He pulled a small sack from the pocket and
upended it into his hand. Caroline stepped closer, looking
at what he held in his outstretched palm.  

It was an old fashioned gold hair comb, delicate and lovely,
studded with smooth, carbuncle-style garnets.  "It's
exquisite."

"Is it too much?"  He looked wary.

"I think she'll love it."

"So I should give it to her?"

"Yes, you should."

He frowned slightly.  "What if she refuses it?"

Caroline considered the question, realizing that it was more
than just an idle query.  Dana Scully might well refuse her
son's gift.  She might not share his desire for a deeper
relationship, or even if she shared his feelings, she might
not be willing to take the risk of acting on them.

But loving another person was always a risk.  In her own
case, it had led to personal tragedies that would color the
rest of her life.  But somehow, through it all, she had
begun to hope that her son might one day find the happiness
that she had been denied.  

Maybe it had started with meeting Dana Scully at the Garden
of Reflection the day Bill had been buried.  Something about
the young woman had struck her, heartened her.  Maybe it was
the certainty with which Dana had told her that Fox was
going to return to them.  Maybe it was the gentle, abiding
love for her son that had shone in the woman's eyes.

"Do you trust Dana with your life, Fox?"

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

"Then why not trust her with your heart?"

She felt a sliver of pain at the sight of his indecision. 
She could almost hear the battle taking place between his
head and his heart, and she recognized that her own failures
had left her son with scars as well.

She reached out and took his hand, closing his fingers over
the comb.  "Give it to her.  Give her a chance to prove
herself worthy of your trust."

He looked down at the gold trinket clutched in his hand,
then nodded slowly.  He lifted his other hand to stroke her
cheek, his gaze gentle and so full of love that tears filled
Caroline's eyes.  He lowered his hand and walked to the
bedroom door.  She blinked away her tears, watching him
pause in the open doorway as if to gird himself for battle. 
Then he walked out of the room, headed down the hall toward
the spare bedroom where Dana Scully was dressing.

She watched the empty doorway for another moment, then went
to her dresser and opened a square leather case.  Inside,
she found a few pieces of jewelry she had kept after the
divorce.  She'd sold or given away most of the things that
Bill had brought for her, unwilling to face those reminders
every time she opened a drawer.  But she'd kept a couple of
things, Kenwood family heirlooms her mother had given her
before her marriage.  One of these treasures was a necklace
and earring set--diamonds accented with garnets in a gold
setting.  The diamonds were tiny and delicate, the garnets
blood red and cabochon style rather than faceted.  Dana,
with her milky white skin and fiery hair, would look radiant
in these jewels.

And they'd be lovely with the antique hair comb her son had
bought for the woman who'd stolen his heart.

Take his gift, Dana, she willed silently.  Recognize that
he's giving you his heart and don't let him down.


*  *  *  *  *


Dana Scully's hair was not cooperating.  Aware of the
minutes ticking inexorably away, she'd dried it faster than
usual, not taking enough time to shape the sometimes flyaway
ends with her brush.  Now her hair was unruly, charged with
static electricity, and about to be the cause of a cursing
fit that would shock a sailor.

Of course, that would be the moment Fox Mulder chose to
knock on the bedroom door and ask to come in.  She growled
her assent, and he entered.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, an odd
expression on his face.  She looked down at herself, a
heated blush stealing over her as she realized how low the
scoop necked brocade bodice plunged.  Mulder was getting an
eyeful of flesh he probably hadn't seen since their first
case together, when she'd stripped to her underwear in his
hotel room to let him look at some bumps on her back.

Nervously, she walked back to the dresser and picked up the
hair brush she'd abandoned a few minutes ago.  "I can't get
my hair to behave," she murmured.

She heard the door close, then Mulder's voice, hoarse and
oddly unsteady.  "Funny you should mention that.  I think I
have something that might help."  

She turned around, surprised by his strange tone of voice. 
He was still staring at her, his eyes dark and almost wary.
"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, really--just a trinket I ran across.  Thought you
might like it."  He took a couple of steps toward her and
held out his hand.  Nestled in his palm was a delicate gold
hair comb, encrusted with small cabachon garnets and tiny
faux diamonds.  

It was unusual and breathtakingly lovely.  She looked up at
him, surprised.  "For me?"

He nodded, his expression taut, as if he expected her to
throw the gift back in his face.  
 
She took the comb from his hand, feeling its heft and
realizing that it wasn't goldplated as she'd originally
thought.  She couldn't imagine how much money this trinket
had cost him, and her first instinct was to insist that she
couldn't possibly accept it.

But when she met his gaze, preparing a gentle refusal, the
fear in his eyes stopped her before she could utter a word. 
He EXPECTED her rejection, she realized.  Was awaiting it
with almost fervent certainty.

When she spoke, her words were simple and sincere.  "Thank
you."

He almost wilted with relief for a moment but quickly caught
himself, pasting an expression of world-weary boredom on his
face to mask his pleasure.  She didn't know why he even
bothered to hide his feelings from her anymore--most of the
time, she could read him like a book.  "Lucky for you I
found it, huh?"  He waved his hand at her hair, a teasing
light in his eyes.

She sighed and turned back to the dresser mirror, not very
hopeful that even this lovely comb could salvage her hair. 
But when she coiled her hair in a French twist at the back
of her head and anchored the roll with the comb, she
realized that her hair had gone from flyaway to elegant in a
matter of seconds.  

Mulder appeared in the mirror, standing right behind her. 
She met his dark gaze in the glass.  "The thing must be
magic," she murmured.  

He took a step closer, his gaze still locked with hers in
the mirror.  "You never wear your hair up."

She swallowed with difficulty as he lifted his hand to her
neck and coiled a loose tendril of hair around his finger.

"It's not usually practical."

"You wore it up for your pals in the VCS.  Playing cool,
professional Agent Scully."  He leaned a little closer, his
breath warm against her ear.  "Tom Colton looked SO
surprised when you turned down his offer to break you out of
your basement prison.  To this day, I still wonder why you
didn't take him up on it when you had a chance."

Her pulse hammered in her ears--whether more from fear or
from arousal, she couldn't say.  She knew every argument
against letting her feelings distract her from her work. 
She and Mulder needed to be clear-headed, focused when they
bearded Carter Christopher and his associates in their den. 
But right now, with his fingers lightly brushing her flesh,
his eyes devouring her--

A knock on the door startled her, breaking through the fiery
haze of longing that had enveloped her.  She drew away from
Mulder and crossed to the door, her hand trembling slightly
on the door knob.

Caroline Mulder greeted her with a smile.  "You look lovely,
Dana.  What an unusual gown."

Scully looked down at the cranberry velvet dress, trying to
see it from the other woman's perspective.  Did she think
the neckline plunged too low?  Were the velvet sleeves too
long for her arms; was the skirt too full?  She realized
with surprise that she didn't want to appear gauche or dowdy
in front of Mulder's mother.  She wanted the woman to like
her, to admire her, even though she herself still had many
reservations about Caroline Mulder had let her son down over
the years.

Scully lifted her hand to her bare throat.  "It didn't look
quite this decollete on the mannequin," she said wryly.

"I'm certain it didn't look nearly as beautiful on the
mannequin, either."  Caroline touched Scully's elbow,
guiding her into the room.  "But it needs something."  She
held out her hand, unconsciously mimicking her son's earlier
palm-up offering.  

Scully stared at the exquisite earring and pendant set Mrs.
Mulder held out to her.  Small clusters of diamonds were
offset by cabochon garnets in the fine gold settings.  "How
beautiful."

"I thought you might like to borrow them."

Scully met Caroline's gaze and saw, to her surprise, the
same fear of rejection she'd seen earlier in the wary gaze
of the son.  As before, she was powerless to refuse the
offer.  "Thank you."

Caroline smiled and placed one hand on Scully's shoulder,
turning her gently to face the bed, where Mulder slouched, 
propped up by his elbows, managing to look absolutely
gorgeous even with his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned and his tie
slightly askew.  He made a little face at her as his mother
fastened the necklace around her neck.  Overcome by an
uncharacteristically childish impulse, she stuck out her
tongue at him and was rewarded by his soft, surprised
laughter.

"There."  Caroline turned her back around to get a look at
the necklace.  "Perfect."  She caught Scully's hand and
place the small diamond and garnet studs in her palm.  "I'll
leave you two alone to plan your strategy for the evening." 
The almost happy expression on her face faded as she turned
her gaze to her son.  "Whatever you decide to do, please be
careful.  These people were dangerous enough decades ago.  I
imagine age has only honed their evil."

Scully looked over her shoulder at Mulder.  He was no longer
laughing, his eyes dark and serious as he met her gaze. 
After his mother had left the room, he pushed himself off
the bed and crossed to Scully.  "Are you sure this is how
you want to handle this?  We don't have any idea what we're
walking into."

She lifted her chin.  "Carter Christopher knows something
about what happened to Sarah Chandler.  And I suspect he
knows about what happened to me during the months I was
missing.  I'm certain he knows what secrets his consortium
considered so volatile that they found cold blooded murder
justifiable."  She met his eyes.  "And maybe, he knows what
happened to your sister."


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder parked the car at a public parking garage, and he and
Scully walked a block to the Waldorf-Astoria, their pace
quickened by the chilly February night.  He was scared,
excited, angry--all those wild emotions that gripped him
whenever he was close to uncovering another facet of the
truth.  He felt like he was going to fly apart.

Then he felt her fingers slip into his own.

He stopped mid-stride and looked down at her.

Scully looked up at him, her eyes dark and fathomless in the
light from the street lamps.  He felt the tension roiling
through her body as well but knew she wouldn't give into it.
She was the archor of this partnership--it was her job to
keep him from careening off into heedless danger, and she
was damned good at it..

He studied her, let the sweet, familiar sight of her calm
him, give him strength and peace.  She looked lovely, her
hair pulled back from her face, accenting her Roman goddess
features and gentle blue eyes.  His mother's satin cloak
covered her from neck to toe, but he'd seen her before, in
the bedroom, her body lovingly sheathed in rich cranberry
velvet, the milky white flesh of her throat bared to him,
tempting him to taste the sweetness.  

The neckline of the dress plunged dangerously near the
shadowy cleft between her small, round breasts, giving him a
glimpse of secret, forbidden territory.  A call to
adventure.  A quest of a different kind.

Resisting her beauty had never been easy.  But time should
have tempered the effect on him, familiarity taking the edge
from his natural attraction to her charms.  Friendship
should have conquered desire, for indeed, she was his friend
in every sense that word conveyed--confidante, sounding
board, companion, voice of reason.  But with Scully,
friendship merely deepened desire, gave it a richer color. 
Distilled his need to a purity he'd never experienced. 
Looking down into her uplifted face, he felt as if his
entire being was on fire.

But then something happened.  Something so ephemeral that he
couldn't put a name to it.  He could only acknowledge the
result, the sudden sense of peace that washed over him as
she met his intensity with a steady calm.  He relaxed
beneath her touch, his explosive energy ebbing until he felt
more in control. He tightened his fingers around hers for a
second in silent gratitude, then loosened his grip, giving
her permission to let go. 

But she didn't release his hand.

For a  moment,  tension returned, hot and electric, and he
felt another slight tightening of his groin.  But then that,
too, ebbed away as he recognized the need to put the task at
hand foremost in their minds.  It was what Scully expected--
what she wanted.  And he couldn't deny her anything she
wanted.

Hands still clasped, they entered the hotel.

The Waldorf was as imposing on the inside as on the outside.
Gray marble, gold fixtures, huge flower arrangements, muted
lighting, marble floors with red carpeting.  The enormous
lobby and the corridors leading in and out housed a variety
of exclusive shops, drawing crowds of shoppers to the hotel.
Mulder and Scully ignored the flow of tourists and headed
straight for the elevator that would take them up to the
Rockefeller Ballroom.

A large, muscular man in an immaculately cut tuxedo stood at
the door to the ballroom, clipboard in hand.  "You are?"

"Scott and Tina Chappelear," Mulder replied, giving the man
the names his mother had used to procure invitations to the
party for them.

The man glanced up and down the list, a frown on his face. 
Mulder's stomach tightened, wondering if his mother's
contact had been less than trustworthy.

But a moment later, the man's expression relaxed and he
moved aside from the doorway, letting them enter.

Scully released a small, pent up breath as they entered the
crowded ballroom.  She looked around the room from her
somewhat limited vantage point, and Mulder realized that her
two-inch black pumps didn't give her nearly enough height to
scan the crowd.  He looked around in her stead, more than
willing to be her point man.

He caught sight of a familiar face. "There's Christopher,"
he murmured.

She followed his gaze, her eyebrows twitching slightly as
she caught sight of the thin, silver-haired man in the
corner near the bar.  He wore his tuxedo with the casual air
of one used to such trappings; his aquiline features were
unexpectedly animated as he talked to a tall woman standing
by his side.  Scully looked up at Mulder.  "What now?"

He shook his head slightly.  "I don't want to try to talk to
him in the middle of this crowd."

Scully looked back at Christopher, a little frown creasing
her forehead.  As they watched, another man approached
Christopher and his companion, and Mulder heard the air
whoosh from Scully's lungs.

He tightened his hand over hers, his nerves jangling with a
rush of adrenaline.  "What?"

"The man with Christopher--"  

He looked at the large, dark-haired man who leaned in close
to Christopher, murmuring something in his ear.  His face
was round, jowly and dark, his eyes like twin chips of
obsidian.  

"He's the one who showed me the train car like the one where
I was--"

His stomach tightened, twisted, and rage shot through him. 
He tugged her hand gently, making her look at him. "He's one
of them?"

She nodded.

Mulder's nostrils flared for a second, as if he'd smelled
something foul.  Which maybe he had.  "This place is
probably crawling with the bastards.  And even though we
don't know who they are, I'll bet they know who we are."

She nodded again.

"Then we can't really afford to waste time.  Maybe we should
just try the straightforward approach."

"No," she disagreed.  "I think YOU should talk to
Christopher.  I want to talk to his associate."

"No."

She withdrew her hand from his grip, lifting her chin as she
met his worried gaze.  "Yes.  I need to talk to him again. 
He knows more than he ever told me, and I let him get away 
without answering any of my questions."

"I don't like the idea of our getting separated."

"A crowd like this is the height of safety with these
people, Mulder.  These guys do their dirty deeds in the
shadows, not in in the middle of crowds.  They won't risk
hurting either of us in the middle of all this chaos."  She
put her hand on his arm, squeezing gently to as if to
reassure him.  "I'll be fine.  You go talk to Christopher--
find out why he met with Sarah."

Reluctantly, Mulder nodded, realizing that she was right. 
They had to separate for the moment.  But he didn't move for
a long moment, watching her pick her way through the crowd.

*  *  *  *  *

Scully tracked the dark-haired man, who had left
Christopher's side and begun to traverse the room, talking
with people as he went.  She slipped through the crowd,
grimacing with frustration as she had to circle small clumps
of party-goers engaged in small talk.  

She was almost there when someone called her name.  "Dana
Scully?"

She froze, her heart thudding wildly in her breast.

A dark-haired man about her age emerged from one of the
anonymous clumps of conversationalists.  He was a couple of
inches shorter than Mulder, with a stocky build and a round,
boyish face.  His hazel-brown eyes crinkled at the corners
as he smiled broadly.  "It IS you, isn't it?"

He did look familiar, she realized, although she couldn't
place him. 

"We had some physics courses together at Maryland,
remember?"  He cocked his head, looking her over with
harmless admiration.  "God, you look wonderful!  You look
like you just stepped out of college yesterday, not twelve
years ago."

Her memory finally clicked into place.  Her eyes widened.
"Finn?" 

He grinned broadly.  "Bet you never thought you'd see old
Finn all decked out in a monkey suit."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"It's my party, hon.  Which begs the question, what are YOU
doing here?"

Her heart rate, which had eased back to normal at
recognizing her old college buddy, suddenly sped up again. 
Oh, my God, she realized, Finn's last name WAS Leone.  "I
was in town and was in the mood to crash a posh New York
soiree?" she ventured, hoping her old friend was in the mood
to let things slide.

But his eyebrows rose slightly.  "Saint Dana, crashing a
party?"

"Twelve years can change a girl, Finn."  She darted a glance
around the room, trying to relocate her prey.  She found him
near the band stand, talking to a slight, balding man.  On
impulse, Scully touched Paul's arm.  "Finn, who's that man
in the corner?  The dark-haired man with the heavy-set
build?"

Paul glanced over his shoulder.  "Oh--you mean Dad?"

Scully's heart skipped a beat.

*  *  *  *  *


Mulder made it to within ten feet of Christopher before the
man turned his head and caught sight of him.  Christopher's
eyes widened--surprise or fear? Mulder wondered.

He hoped it was fear.

He hoped to God the bastard was squirming.

"Mr. Mulder, what a surprise to see YOU here.  I don't
recall seeing your name on the guest list."

Mulder pasted a smile on his taut face.  "You didn't."

"And yet here you are."

Mulder's smile stretched his tense facial muscles.  "Nice
little soiree you've got going here.  But a little hint--the
cheese doodles are a tad stale."

The woman next to Christopher made a soft, chuckling sound. 
Mulder looked at her for the first time, a quick appraisal,
taking in the honey-brown hair worn in a straight, chin-
length bob, the clear slate-blue eyes, the full pink lips
and straight, pert nose.  She was tall, voluptuous--wide
hips and full breasts, a walking wet dream.  Yet there was
something about her that just screamed, "Look but don't
touch."

He jerked his attention back to Carter Christopher.  "I'd
like a word with you--alone."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but I have obligations here."

Mulder closed the space between them, grabbing the older
man's elbow in a crushing grip.  "I think you have previous
obligations, Mr. Christopher."

Christopher's eyes widened a bit at the use of his name,
Mulder noted with satisfaction.  He pushed the man
backwards, propelling him toward the wall.  But before he'd
gotten more than a couple of steps, a hand closed over his
arm, the grip like steel, causing intense pain.

He looked up in surprise and met the cold gaze of
Christopher's female companion.


*   *   *   *   *


"Your father?"  Scully hoped her voice didn't betray the ice
forming in her veins.

Paul nodded.  "Ray Leone.  Why do you ask?"

"I thought he looked familiar," Scully lied, suddenly
wanting to be as far away from Paul Leone as possible.  The
walls of the room felt as if they were crumbling around her,
pinning her under heavy debris. 

How long had her life brushed up against these men who had
taken her?  At least twelve years, she now knew.  But had
they been around earlier?  Parents of her childhood friends? 
The reclusive neighbor who'd lived down the street?  How
many shadow people were there?  How insidious was their
influence in the lives of the innocent?

Whom could she trust now?

No one.

No one but her mother.

And Mulder. 

Always Mulder.

"Come meet him--you'll love him."

Scully felt the urge to turn and run.  But from somewhere
deep inside, she tapped into a core of steel and lifted her
chin.  Maybe it was the knowledge that in this situation,
SHE had the advantage of surprise.  And knowledge.

Somehow, she got the feeling that Ray Leone--if that was
really his name--hadn't enlightened his son about his more
questionable activities.   And that gave her the upper hand.

That knowledge surged through her like raw, sheer power. 
She nodded.  "I'd love to meet him."

*  *  *  *  *

The woman released Mulder's arm only after he let go of
Christopher.  "Thank you," she said, the first words she'd
spoken.  Her voice was high and clear, like silver tapping
crystal.

"Who the hell are you?" he grunted, well aware that despite
her angelic voice and goddess-like appearance, this woman
was deadly.

She smiled, baring small, perfect teeth.  "Deborah Bennett. 
And you?"

"Fox Mulder," Christopher supplied for him.  "And Mr. Mulder
was just leaving."

"Not until you answer a question for me, Mr. Christopher." 
Mulder stood his ground, despite his growing suspicion that
the woman hovering close by wouldn't let a little thing like
a crowd of people stop her from ripping his testicles right
out from between his legs.  

"Carter has made it clear that he doesn't want to continue
this conversation," Deborah said, her voice light and
delicate, her smile belying the lethal intensity of her
gaze.

"Who are you, his bodyguard?"

Her smile widened.

My God, he realized, that was exactly what she was.  He
managed not to drop his jaw, gathering up another gutful of
courage and turning back to glare at Carter Christopher. 
"Where is Sarah Chandler?"

"I know of no one by that name."

"Liar.  I have witnesses who will testify that they saw you
in New Haven, Connecticut, with Sarah Chandler the day she
disappeared."

"Your witnesses are either sadly mistaken--or they are
lying.  I have been nowhere near New Haven for several years
now."

Mulder ignored his denials.  "Why was she taken,
Christopher?  What does she know?"

"He can't help you."  Deborah Bennett's voice rang in his
ear, her breath whispering over his skin in a wretched
parody of seduction.  "But I can kill you.  Quietly, so no
one even notices.  And then I can kill your pretty partner
as well.  And no one will ever know what happened to you."

His blood froze.

"No one is looking for Sarah Chandler but you and your
partner.  No one else cares.  So go home, Agent Mulder. 
Take your partner with you." Her crystal pure voice
softened, hummed.  "Get married.  Have babies.  Live a 
normal life.  And never look back."

He turned his head to meet her gaze.  What he saw there
shocked him.

Compassion.  Sadness.  Just for a second, before it
disappeared behind a sheet of icy disdain.

"I can't," he rasped.

Her voice lowered to a whisper.  "Then you'll both end up
dead."


*  *  *  *  *


Dana Scully watched, her heart in her throat, as Ray Leone
turned his head and met her gaze.  A little thrill of power
shot through her as she saw his eyes widen just a bit, his
full lips parting to emit a small hiss of shock.  His dark
gaze flitted from her face to the open, smiling face of his
son.  With great effort, he hid his surprise, greeting his
son's smile with one of his own.  

"Dad, I want you to meet an old school friend--Dana Scully.
Dana, this is my father, Ray Leone."

She held out her hand, smiling a cool, knowing smile.  His
carefully schooled expression couldn't fully mask the
apprehension she saw trembling in the depths of his eyes. 
"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Miss Scully."  He released her hand, his gaze never
wavering from hers.  

He looks like a bird watching a snake, waiting for it to
strike, she thought, a ripple of satisfaction dancing
through her stomach.  Good.  "Please, call me Dana."  You
called me Dana before, you son of a bitch.  When YOU were in
control.

"I haven't seen Dana in years," Paul commented, oblivious to
the tension between Scully and his father.  He looked down
at her.  "So, you must be a big time surgeon now."

She shook her head.  "No, I opted for Forensic Medicine. 
I'm a special agent with the FBI now."  She looked pointedly
at Ray Leone, wanting him to squirm.

A little muscle in his jaw twitched frantically, but that
was the only outward sign of distress.  "How interesting
that must be for you."

She bit back a howl of bitter laughter.  You bet your ASS
it's interesting, you manipulative bastard.  How thrilling
to have my sister die in my stead.  How utterly marvelous to
watch my partner's heart ripped out every single day as he
sacrifices his entire life to right the wrongs you and your
sanctimonious, power-grasping cohorts commit as blithely as
breathing.

Her anger was not lost on Leone.  His eyes darted around the
room as if looking for an avenue of escape.  A swift shimmer
of relief suddenly washed over his face.  "Ah, Leigh!"  He
lifted his hand, gave a little wave.  

Scully turned her head to watch the approach of a slim, red-
haired woman coming their way, a smile on her face. 
Something about her reminded Scully of her sister Melissa--
maybe the soft hazel eyes or the wide, open smile as she
approached.  Pain like a razor ripped through Scully's
heart, and it was all she could do not to turn away.

"Sweetheart, come meet an old friend of mine!"  Paul held
out his hand to the woman, his face a study in adoration. 
"This is Dana Scully, who saw me through more than one
physics class at Maryland.  Dana, my fiancee, Leigh
MacGraw."

Scully shook hands with the taller woman, steeling herself
against the impact of Leigh's friendly smile.  "Nice to meet
you."

"If you'll excuse me--"  Ray Leone began to sidle away, as
if he'd seen someone across the room. 

Damn it, Scully thought, her eyes following him.  He was
headed toward the corner, where Mulder had gone in search of
a confrontation with Carter Christopher.  She bit back a
little grumble of frustration, wishing she could see over
the heads of the people milling about her.  Her view of the
corner was obscured.

"So, what are you doing in New York City, Dana?  You never
did say."  Paul's voice drew her attention away from his
father's departing form. 

She smiled.  "Just here with a friend, seeing the sights."

"And crashing parties?"

Her smile widened, though her heart wasn't in it.  "It was a
dare.  I'm trying to be more adventurous in my old age."  To
say the least.

"Well, I'm glad you crashed this one."  Paul squeezed her
arm gently.  "What a nice surprise."

"Where's your friend?" Leigh asked. Her voice was even a
bit like Melissa's, Scully realized.  Warm, a little
husky, with a musical lilt.

"My friend?"

"You said you were here sightseeing with a friend."

"Oh--he's here somewhere."  Her reply gave her another
excuse to look around the room in hopes of catching sight of
her partner.  But a group of impossibly tall men stood
between her and the corner, and she could see nothing.  Her
stomach tightened with apprehension.  She didn't like
leaving Mulder to fend for himself.  She'd been his partner
too long to feel comfortable away from his side.  

Besides, he had the only gun.  Her Sig Sauer was too large
to fit in the small clutch purse she'd brought along.  

"What does he do for a living, Dana?" Paul asked.

"He's my partner."

"Dana's an FBI agent," Paul added for Leigh's benefit.

"Really?  Must be pretty exciting, huh?"  Leigh's face lit
up with interest.  "Say--I need to go to the ladies' room,
Dana--care to join me?"  She darted a teasing glance at her
fiance.  "You can tell me all of Paul's embarrassing college
moments in private, where you won't feel the need to censor
yourself."

The last thing Scully wanted to do was have a little chat
with Paul Leone's fiancee, but a trip to the restroom would
give her the chance to locate her partner on the way,
reassuring herself that he wasn't in any trouble. "Sure."

Leigh lifted her face to Paul for a swift kiss, smiling up
at him with a look of adoration that threatened to steal
Scully's breath.  How wonderful, she thought, not to have to
hide your feelings.  To be able to show the man you loved
just how much he meant to you.

Then Leigh hooked her arm through Scully's as if they were
old pals and led her through the maze of people milling
about the ballroom.  Scully lifted her chin and looked
across the room toward the corner, noting with a sense of
relief that Mulder was there, apparently in one piece,
engaged in an intense but not-too-threatening discussion
with Carter Christopher and his gorgeous female companion.

Better not be getting that woman's phone number, Mulder, she
thought, welcoming the wry humor that took the edge off her
tension.  By the time she and Leigh emerged into the empty
corridor outside the ballroom, Scully almost felt relaxed.

That feeling lasted only as long as it took to round the
corner.  Once out of sight of the giant guarding the
ballroom entrance, Leigh's gentle grip on Scully's arm
turned to steel, jerking Scully around to face her.  Scully
gasped.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing here?"

Scully blinked, stunned.  "Excuse me?"

"Raven told you to find you answers in your own damned head,
Agent Scully--not here in the middle of the viper's nest! 
We don't want you this close--you're putting our lives in
danger."

Scully's stomach turned a couple of somersaults before
sinking to her toes.  "You're one of them?"

"In a manner of speaking."  Leigh looked around carefully
before she continued speaking.  "Like Raven, I have my own
agenda."

"Is your name even Leigh MacGraw?"

Leigh merely arched her eyebrows.

"Of course not," Scully murmured, shaking her head in
bemusement.  "Paul's name probably isn't Leone, either, is
it?"

"As far as he knows, it is."

"And as far as he knows, you're madly in love with him.  But
nothing is ever as it seems with you people, is it?"

"I do love Paul, Dana.  That's why I'm doing this."

"Doing what?  Lying to him?  Manipulating him?"  Scully
shook her head, unspeakably angry.  "That's not love."

Leigh shook her head, her mouth tightening with impatience. 
"I don't have to justify myself to you, Agent Scully.  I
just have to get you and you partner out of here before you
get all of us killed."

"Is Raven here?"

Leigh didn't answer, but that was all the answer Scully
needed.  

"She's one of the Consortium, isn't she?"

"I'm not here to answer your questions."

"No, you people never DO answer questions, do you?"   Scully
shook her head, her voice dripping disdain.  "You just pose
them, torment us with the whats and whys and hows."

"You entered the game of your own free will."

"I was put here, and you know it.  They wanted me to be
their tool, to put an end to Mulder and his investigations. 
I didn't choose this game."

"You chose Mulder.  And isn't that the same thing?"

Scully was sick of the games and the lies, and she was sick
of having her life laid bare to the scrutiny of people who
didn't give a damn whether she lived or died--unless her
life or death could somehow benefit them and their nasty
little machinations.  

She turned away from Leigh, planning to go back into the
party and finish what she'd come here to do.  But she hadn't
gone more than three steps before Leigh's hand clutched her
arm, fingers digging into her flesh like steel prongs.  Pain
rocketed up her arm, and she gasped.

"I'm not finished yet," Leigh murmured into Scully's ear.


*  *  *  *  *


"You don't want your pretty partner to end up dead because
of you, do you, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder pinned Deborah with his coldest glare, the one he'd
learned from his father.  "I don't like threats, Ms.
Bennett." 

"It's not a threat, Agent Mulder.  It's a reality you and
your partner need to face.   You seem to believe that your
efforts can change events that have already been set into
motion, but they can't.  Some things are more important,
grander than your pedestrian fascination with the truth." 
Deborah shook her head, a mirthless smile curving her full,
red lips.  "Your business here is finished, Agent Mulder. 
Go home to mommy."

Mulder's heart skipped a beat.  She knew, he realized.  She
knew his mother's involvement.  Fear crawled up his spine
like icy fingers.

Deborah's smile tightened.  "Relax, Fox--she's safe.  For
now."

Bitch,  he thought, his hands curling into fists.   Deborah
Bennett and her employer held all the cards.  They always
had--maybe they always would.  He turned to face Carter
Christopher, his expression hard with contempt.  "Do you let
your bodyguard do your talking for you, Christopher?"

"She's quite eloquent, don't you agree, Mr. Mulder?" 
Christopher's eyes met Mulder's angry gaze.  "So rare in
hired help these days, such a facility with the language."

The gun strapped to Mulder's ankle felt remarkably heavy
then, as if it had come alive and was tugging at the small
holster, begging to be released.  He knew full well that
before he could manage to get to the gun, Deborah Bennett
would have snapped his neck in two.  But just considering
the thought of mowing down this smarmy, manipulative son of
a bitch gave Mulder a rush of sheer, dangerous pleasure. 

"Fetch your little partner and run along."  Deborah's
crystalline voice rang softly in his ear.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, Mulder
realized that leaving was the only option.   He and Scully
had accomplished nothing by coming here.  They never seemed
to accomplish anything where the Consortium was concerned.

Maybe Deborah Bennett was right.  Maybe he should walk away
and never look back.  Concentrate on Scully, on this thing
that lay between them, beckoning for a more thorough
examination, an acknowledgement.  Get married.  Have babies. 
Never look back--

A muffled shout rose above the hum of conversation and the
light, airy sounds of the string quartet playing Bach in the
corner.  Mulder's blood ran immediately cold.

Scully.

He pushed past Deborah Bennett and ran headlong into a
phalanx of large men gathering near the doorway.  One of the
bodyguards--what else could they be?--grabbed Mulder's arm 
as if to stop his rush toward the hallway, but Mulder thrust
him aside, fear giving him added strength.  Several of the
hired muscles trailed down the hall after him, guns drawn,
but Mulder didn't give them a second thought.  He darted
around a blind corner and skidded to a stop on the plush red
carpet, his heart flying into his throat.

Dana Scully knelt on the floor less than ten feet in front
of him, drenched with blood.  On the floor in front of her,
a woman's body sprawled, covered in the same rich crimson
that stained his partner.

"Scully?"  He choked out her name.  

She lifted her face and met his gaze, although he wasn't
sure she was really seeing him.  His heart thudded madly as
she lifted her hands as if displaying the blood that
sheathed her fingers like gloves.  He saw that blood
streaked her throat and chest, discolored the brocade
bodice, darkened the velvet skirt and sleeves.  

He took a faltering step forward, his hand outstretched.

"She's dead," Scully said, her voice faint and raspy.

Mulder crossed to her side, trying to avoid stepping into
the blood, although with so much blood, it was a futile
effort.  "What happened?"

Scully shook her head slightly.  "We were talking and
suddenly I head a soft popping sound.  Leigh fell against
me."  She looked down at the body in front of her.  Her
throat bobbed wildly, and Mulder followed her gaze.

The woman's throat was basically gone.  He winced at the
gory sight, realizing the bullet must have entered the back
of her neck and exited the front, blasting through the soft
tissue of her throat with devastating ease.  Hollow point,
he surmised, considering the damage.  He was surprised the
shot hadn't severed her head from her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to ask Scully another question when a
loud, horrible shout of anguish ripped the air.  He turned
his head toward the sound and saw a dark-haired man lurch
forward, his face a mask of horror.  Before Mulder could
make a move to stop him, the man had knelt in the pool of
blood by the body and gathered her into his arms, utterly
heedless of the blood that now stained his tuxedo and snowy
shirt as well.  

"Call the paramedics!" he screamed, rocking the woman to his
body.

"Paul--" Scully's voice was a low, heartsick moan.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay."  The man hugged the
lifeless body, crooning softly.  

Mulder felt a surge of nausea and lurched away, half-
dragging Scully with him.  She resisted for only a moment
before she let him pull her to her feet and stumbled with
him halfway down the hall. 

He stood between her and the sight of the sobbing man,
searching her for signs of injury.  He lifted his hand to
her face, brushing away a lock of hair that had tumbled from
its restraints.  "Are you okay, Scully?"

She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his worried gaze.  The
blank expression in their blue depths chilled his blood. 
Slowly, she shook her head.  "No."

That one word scared Mulder more than anything in the world.


*  *  *  *  *


The hotel room seemed preternaturally quiet, Mulder thought
as he followed Scully inside and shut the door behind him. 
Maybe it was the contrast to the two hours of chaos he
and Scully had just endured.  After the shooting, all hell
had broken loose, and they had been right in the heart of
it.  

He lay the satin cape his mother had lent Scully on one of
the two beds.  Despite the fact that Scully was shivering
wildly, she'd refused the cape.  "I don't want to get blood
on it," she'd muttered through rattling teeth.  He'd put his
own thick wool overcoat around her shaking body instead. 

She stopped in the space between the two beds and turned to
look at him, her eyes wide and dark.  "I'm sorry."

He shook his head.  "No need."

Her teeth still chattered together softly.  "I don't know
why I'm reacting this way.  It's not like I haven't--"

He held up his hand, warding off the apology.  "I
know, Scully.  I don't want you to feel you have to
apologize to me for what you're feeling." 

She looked down at the floor, as if the gentle intensity of
his gaze was too much for her to cope with.  "I wasn't much
help to you."

"There wasn't much anyone could have done."  Mulder sighed,
running his fingers through his hair.  "Whoever killed Leigh
MacGraw was a professional.  He knew what he was doing.  He
knew how to get away without leaving any clues behind.  For
all we know, he was standing there in the crowd, laughing at
us."

"Nobody at that party was what he or she seemed." She shook
her head.  "It was a room full of shadows."

He had no answer to that.  She was right--he doubted there
had been many people at that party who were what they'd
seemed.  He thought of Deborah Bennett's taunt,  and his
blood ran cold.  "I managed to talk Mom into staying with a
neighbor," he told Scully, who had not been privy to his
phone call to his mother.

"You didn't frighten her, did you?"

"I tried not to.  But I couldn't let her stay at the house
alone."  He looked at Scully, standing there stiff and
shivering in her blood-drenched gown, and realized that the
first order of business was to get her out of that dress and
cleaned up.  What she needed was a hot shower and the nice,
warm terry-cloth robe the concierge had promised would be
waiting for her in the room--

A knock on the door stopped him in mid-stride.  Maybe that
was room service with the hot tea he had requested.  He
turned and went to the door.  But when he swung it open, he
found himself looking into the slate-blue eyes of Deborah
Bennett.

He blocked the doorway.  "Go the hell away."

"I didn't come here to talk to you," Deborah said, looking
past him to where Scully stood.

"It's you."  Behind him, Scully's voice was low and hoarse. 
He turned to look at her and saw that she was staring at
Deborah Bennett, her eyes narrowed.  "It's the woman I told
you about, Mulder.  Raven.  Aren't you?"

Mulder glared at Deborah Bennett, who nodded.  Anger bolted
through him, and he grabbed the woman's arm, drawing her
into the hotel room and pushing her against the wall. 
"You're Raven?"

She didn't even flinch.  "I don't want to have to hurt you,
Agent Mulder."

"I'm not afraid of you."  Forty-eight hours of fear,
frustration and rage made him reckless.

"Then you're a fool."  Deborah's reflexes were lightning
quick--he was on the floor with a four inch heel digging
into the middle of his spine before he could blink twice. 
"I can sever your spine in a second."  She applied pressure
to his vertebrae, sending a howl of pain coursing down his
back.  He sucked in a lungful of air.

"Stop it."  Scully's voice rang with authority, aided by the
quiet but deadly click of a gun cocking.  "Move away from
him now."

The pinpoint of pressure against his spine disappeared, and
he rolled well clear of Deborah Bennett.  He looked up to
see that Scully held his gun leveled at the tall brunette. 
She must have retrieved it from the inside pocket of his
coat, where he'd tucked it after a futile search for the
shooter earlier that evening.  

"You came here to say something to me?" Scully asked, her
voice strong for the first time in two hours.

"Put the gun down, Agent Scully.  It's not necessary." 

"I'll decide what's necessary."

Mulder stared at his partner, stunned by the change in her
demeanor.  She blazed with anger--he could almost see it
coming off her in little sparks.  She held his gun in her
bloodstained hands, her aim steady.  Her eyes were cold like
chips of blue ice as she faced down Deborah Bennett.

She was magnificent.

"Who killed Leigh MacGraw?" Scully asked.

Deborah shook her head slightly.  "I don't know."

"Why was she killed?"

Deborah's eyes narrowed.  "Because of you."

"Don't try that with me," Scully said, her voice thick with
contempt.  "My partner may feel like he has to take on the
burdens of the world, but I don't.  I don't owe a damned
thing to you people--all you've done is hand me a load of
lies and double-talk and misinformation.  YOU people killed
my sister.  YOU killed Agent Mulder's father.  You and your
pathetic crew of power-eaters have tried to kill us both--
more than once.  So don't expect me to shed tears for you
and your kind when you turn on each other like wild dogs."

"I told you to find the answers in your own mind, Agent
Scully.  In your own past."

"I don't care what you told me.  I don't dance to your
tune."

"Then you'll end up dead."

Scully laughed, a low terrible sound that sent chills
skittering down Mulder's spine.  "We all end up dead, Raven.
Sooner or later.  At least this way, I die knowing I wasn't
your spineless little puppet."

"This is a dangerous game to try to play alone, Agent
Scully."

Scully shook her head.  "I'm not alone."  She turned her
head and looked at Mulder, her gaze intense.

He returned the gaze, giving her his strength and support. 
Then, in silent concert, they both turned their eyes toward
Deborah Bennett.

She looked from one to the other, silent and wary.  For a
second, Mulder thought he saw something very much like envy
lurking behind her eyes.  Then she simply turned, opened the
door, and left the room.

Neither Mulder nor Scully moved for a long moment.  Then,
suddenly, Scully dropped the gun on one of the beds and
lurched toward the bathroom.  Seconds later, Mulder heard
retching sounds.

He grabbed a washcloth from the gold rack just outside the
bathroom door, drenched it with cold water, and knelt next
to her.  He held her hair back as she finished emptying her
stomach, then handed her the wet washcloth as she collapsed
back against the side of the tub, her eyes closed and her
throat bobbing as she swallowed convulsively to ward off dry
heaves.  He flushed the toilet and then sat cross-legged on
the bathroom floor in front of her, waiting for her to
recover. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured a few moments later.  

"You owe me, Scully," he said with a wry grin. 

A faint smile darted across her ashen face.  "I don't think
you can afford to keep score, Mulder."

He chuckled, heartened by her attempt at humor.  He stood
and reached down to catch her hands.  They felt cold and
stiff in his grasp--the blood on her hands had dried and
crusted, he realized, his own stomach rebelling for a
second.  He pulled her to her feet and gently turned her
around so that her back was to him.  The gold and silver
drape dipped almost to the small of her back, baring the
delicate ridges of her spine.  With a self-mocking half-
smile, he realized that under any other circumstances, all
that Scully-skin would be a wicked temptation.  But not
tonight.  Not when she was so vulnerable.  Not when what she
needed most was tenderness and comfort.

He reached below the drape and found the pull-tab of the
zipper.

"What are you doing?"  Scully murmured.

"Living a personal fantasy," he answered, his voice light
and teasing.  "Getting you out of your dress."

She turned her head, cutting her eyes at him.  He met her
quizzical gaze openly, reassuring her.  She dipped her head
forward, her eyes fluttering closed, and she relaxed, her
body almost swaying against his.

He finished unzipping the dress and gently helped her ease
the long, stiff sleeves off her arms.  The ruined dress
puddled to the floor, leaving Scully naked from the waist
up, and clad only in panties and sheer stockings from the
waist down.  Mulder stepped away, backing toward the
doorway.  "I'll be outside.  Take your time."  He scooped up
the blood-stained dress and took it out with him, closing
the door behind him.

He folded the dress and stashed it in a plastic garment bag
he found hanging in the closet.  He debated going back
downstairs and looking for one of the police detectives who
were no doubt still milling about the hotel.  The bloody
dress could constitute evidence, he supposed.  But he didn't
want to leave Scully alone.  Not when he'd once again come
so close to losing her.

So he stashed the bag in the bottom of the closet.  He could
give it to the NYPD in the morning--he and Scully were
supposed to go sign their statements before noon anyway.

As he was crossing back to the bed, someone knocked on the
door.  He tensed, grabbing his gun from where Scully had
dropped it, and crossed to the door.  He glanced through the
peephole, saw a bellman's uniform  and relaxed fractionally.
But he kept the gun in hand until the bellman entered, tray
of tea and shortbread cookies in hand.  He tipped the
bellman and set the tray on the table between the two beds,
then kicked off his shoes and socks and stretched out on the
bed, waiting for Scully to finish bathing.  

He listened to the soft hiss of the shower, thinking about
Scully standing under the spray, letting it wash away the
traces of Leigh MacGraw's blood.  Letting it cleanse her.
What she had been through tonight was horribly traumatic,
even for someone like Scully, who dealt with death on a
daily basis.  It wasn't possible for Scully, with her
doctor's dedication to preserving life, to watch someone's
life ripped away right in front of her without being
affected.  He knew she thought it was a sign of weakness,
how deeply the night's events had shaken her.  But he found
it her greatest strength--the fact that despite all the
horrors they had witnessed, she still had the capacity to
feel things so deeply, to be affected by tragedy.  It was a
testament to her character.

The sound of the shower ceased, and he turned his head
toward the bathroom door, awaiting her reemergence.  A few
seconds later, she walked out of the bathroom clad in an
oversized terry-cloth robe, her hair wet and tangled, her
skin bright pink from a vigorous scrubbing.  She avoided his
gaze and lay down on the other bed with her back to him,
curling into a tight ball.

"Room service delivered some tea," he murmured.  "Sure you
don't want some?"

"I'm okay."

He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed.  "I
know you are."

"Liar," she murmured.  "You think I'm a basket case."

He stood and crossed to her bed, lying down behind her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What do you think?"  He gently ran his fingers through the
hair tangled against her cheek. 

"Mulder, I'm fine."

"Um hmm."  He continued the rhythmic caress.  

"I can handle it."

"Yes, you can."

"Mulder, stop it."

"Stop what?"

She caught his hand, trapping it against her cheek.  "Stop
that.  I don't want you to think you have to do this.  I'm
okay."  

"Scully, let me do this for you."  He scooted closer to her
until his body brushed up against her back.  "You've been a
rock for me more times than I can remember.  Don't shut me
out, please.  Let me do this."

Her hand trembled and fell away from his.  "I don't know why
I can't shake this."

"Maybe because you're human?"

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder.
"Mulder, are you coming on to me?"

He chuckled, resuming the gentle play of his fingers in her
hair.

She looked away again.  "Seriously, I've seen much worse
things, Mulder.  I didn't even know this woman.  Why am I
still shaking?"

"I think it's not just Leigh MacGraw's death.  I think it's
everything that's happened to us over the past three weeks. 
You told me yourself that it was unnerving to think about
how insidious the Consortium is in the lives of innocent
citizens.  That's the kind of thing that shakes your
foundation, makes you wonder if there's anyone in the world
that you can trust."

"Paul was going to marry Leigh, Mulder.  He loved her--she
said she loved him, too--but she was lying to him all along.
His father is lying to him.  Raven's job is to protect
Carter Christopher with her own life, yet she seems to have
no qualms about betraying him."  Scully rolled onto her
back, looking up at him, her eyes dark and wary.  "I used to
trust people, Mulder.  I took them at their word."  She
shook her head slightly.   "That seems so long ago.  Now I
know there's almost no one in the world we can trust."

He propped his head on his hand and looked down at her, his
heart clenching.  He had done that to her, he thought,
dragged her into his nightmare and ripped away her faith. 
So, perhaps, he alone had the power to give some of it back
to her now.  "I think there are probably millions of people
in the world we could trust, Scully."

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise.  

"There have to be good, honest, decent people in this world,
Scully.  Or else, what we're doing wouldn't have any
meaning.  There'd be no point in finding the truth if
there's no one out there who cares to hear it."  He brushed
aside a little strand of wet hair that clung to her lip. 
"The problem is, we don't have the luxury of the time it
would take to find out who we could trust and who we
couldn't.   So we have no choice but to watch our backs
every second."

She reached over and caught his hand, cradling it to her
stomach between her own hands.  "I guess I'm really pretty
lucky, Mulder.  I have my family.  And you."

He was acutely aware of the warmth of her body beneath the
terry-cloth robe, the sweet soap and water freshness of her
scent.  The soft hum of attraction that coursed through him
was more pleasant than frantic, and he let himself enjoy the
sensation of lying next to his favorite person in the world,
feeling her warmth against his body, hearing the tenderness
and affection in her voice.  He felt safe and blessed, a
rare feeling in his realm of experience. 

"I'm pretty lucky, too," he murmured, moving his hand
against her stomach in the most delicate of caresses.  "If
you weren't around, I'd have a four inch heel sticking out
of my spine right now."

She didn't smile as he'd hoped.  Instead, her expression
darkened.  "I hate people like her, pretending they're
trying to help us find the truth, while we take all the
risks and make all the enemies."

He nodded.  "And yet it's so hard to turn your back on the
information they offer, knowing it could be the key to
finding what you seek."

She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed as if in pain.  "I'm
so tired, Mulder."

"Then you should sleep."  He gently withdrew his hand from
her grip and started to retreat to his own bed.  But she
rolled onto her side to face him, her hand gripping his arm,
anchoring him.

Though her lips trembled, she uttered no sound.  But the
entreaty in her gaze was clear.  Stay with me, Mulder.  I
need you.

He opened his arms and she burrowed against him, her head
nestling in the curve of his throat, her arms circling his
waist and pulling him close.  He curved his body around
hers, enveloping her with his own warmth.  Within moments,
she was asleep, her body and mind exhausted from the
traumatic events of the evening. 

But he lay awake for a long time, keeping watch, listening
to her steady breathing, and thanking whatever God might be
listening that they'd both lived to see another day.



End of #5






DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this story belong to
CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.  The characters of M.D. Godin, Paul Leone, Deborah Bennett and Kathy Nahill belong to me and should not be used without my permission.

So many people to thank for this one--the real Kathy Nahill for the information about nurses, Lorna Youngs and the real Paul Leone for the information concerning the Thresher incident, and my brother Dennis for his expertise with all things automotive.

This is chapter six of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of
Separation.  The events in this story precede the events in
12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. 

Rated R for particularly strong adult language and situations. 


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#6:  "Revelation"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



New York City Police Department
February 15, 1998
9:45 a.m.


The dark-haired detective taking Dana Scully's statement
muttered a curse and reached for the correction fluid. 
"Sorry--not gonna win any commendations for my typing," she
apologized.

Scully shrugged, wondering if the day would ever truly come
when paper work was obsolete.  

"So you never saw anyone in the hallway, maybe lurking?"

"It was a big party and I didn't really know many people
there."

"So what were you doing there in the first place?"

Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag.  M. D. Godin. 
"Detective Godin, my partner and I were following leads in a
missing persons case."

M.D. glanced across the office at the corner, where Mulder
was giving his statement to a short, stocky Hispanic
detective.  "That your partner?"

Scully nodded, following M.D.'s gaze.  

M.D. arched one dark eyebrow.  "Lucky you."

She had no idea just how lucky, Scully thought, remembering
how she'd awakened that morning in the warm, safe circle of
Mulder's embrace.  The temptation to never move from that
spot had been so overwhelming she had almost wept.  So
seldom in their six year partnership had she allowed herself
to be utterly vulnerable to Mulder--not because she didn't
trust him but because she didn't want him to feel he
couldn't trust her.  He needed to know he could depend on
her to cover his ass, no matter how rough the case.  She had
to be strong, nurse her own wounds, carry her own burdens no
matter how heavy they became.

So she'd slipped out of his arms and into the other bed
before he awakened, even though separating herself from him
had left a physical ache as real as an excision.  Keeping
her distance from him was necessary.  Essential.

Wasn't it?

"Are you officially on this case?" M.D. asked.

Scully dragged her gaze away from Mulder's lean, angular
features.  "We haven't submitted a 302 yet.  We wanted to
see if the case warranted official investigation."

M.D. nodded and typed a couple of lines on the report in
front of her.  She looked back up at Scully and opened her
mouth to ask another question.  But her eyes shifted
suddenly and her mouth dropped wide.  "Holy shit," she
murmured.  "I think I can die happy now."

Scully looked over her shoulder, following the detective's
stare.  Her heart sank.  Assistant Director Walter Skinner
filled the doorway, his shoulders practically brushing the
door jamb.  He caught sight of her and crossed the room
slowly, his dark eyes shadowed, his jaw clenching and
unclenching.

Scully glanced across the room at Mulder.  He, too, had
noticed the arrival of their boss.  He murmured something to
the detective taking his statement and rose, headed toward
her.  She stood as well, releasing a little sigh.

"You know that man, too?" M.D. asked, her voice tight with
awe.  "You go, girl."

Skinner and Mulder reached her side at the same time.  She
glanced from her boss to her partner.  "It's not Agent
Mulder's fault," she said when Skinner started to open his
mouth.

He arched his eyebrows.  "Why don't you let me in on what's
going on then, Agent Scully?  Let's start with the phone
call I got at 3 a.m. this morning informing me that two of
my agents had been involved in a murder."

Scully glanced over her shoulder at Detective Godin, who was
observing their discussion with rapt attention.  She frowned
slightly and looked back at her boss.  "Sir, I'd rather
discuss this at another time.  Agent Mulder and I have to
finish giving our statements."

Skinner's lips tightened with annoyance, but to her relief
he nodded and backed away, crossing to lean against the wall
near the door.  Scully met Mulder's weary gaze for a long
moment, drinking in his silent support, letting it steady
her.  Then she turned back to the desk to finish answering
Det. Godin's questions.

"Is he married?" M.D. asked.

Scully blinked.  "Excuse me?"

The detective nodded toward A.D. Skinner.  "The big guy.  Is
he married?"

"He's a widower."

"Oh.  How sad."  The detective didn't sound particularly
sincere.

"Look, how many more questions do you have for me?"

"About the shooting?"

"Of course about the shooting."

"I'm through with that."  She pulled the report from the
typewriter and handed it to Scully.  "Sign there."

Scully signed by the X.  "Can I go?"

M.D. shook her head.  "Not until you answer one more
question.  What's the big guy's name?"

Scully glanced over her shoulder at Skinner, who was glaring
impatiently in her direction.  "Walter Skinner." 

"Walter."  Det. Godin caressed the word, her voice soft. 
"Nice name.  He another FBI agent?"

"Assistant Director," Scully answered, only half-listening. 
Mulder had apparently finished his statement and was headed
in her direction.  He glanced at the detective, nodding
slightly toward her before he slipped his hand behind
Scully's back, pressing his palm against her spine.  His
touch was electric, as always, piercing through his wool
overcoat and the terry cloth robe hidden beneath.  He guided
her toward the door.

Skinner met them there, blocking the exit.  "Now, want to
tell me what the hell's going on?
 

*  *  *  *  *


The bagel shop was little more than a glass front hole-in-
the-wall, but it had hot, fresh bagels and cream cheese, and
a round table in the back that afforded Mulder, Scully and
Skinner a modicum of privacy.  Skinner ordered bagels and
coffee for the three of them, and the waitress smiled at him
as if she knew exactly who he was.  Which, for all Mulder
knew, she did.  After five years and counting, the Assistant
Director remained an enigma.  Sometimes--many times--he was
certain that he could trust the man with his life and
Scully's.  But other times, he realized that Skinner would
take only so many chances for his agents.  Sometimes, he
backed away and left them to twist in the wind.

Scully didn't trust Skinner.  Not completely.  Mulder
thought that she liked the man and even respected him.  But
she didn't trust him.  She trusted no one.  No one but him.

Just like he trusted only her.

He sat back and listened as Scully told the story from
beginning to end, her voice low and controlled.  To look at
her, no one would know she had spent a good part of the
night before shivering in his arms.  She didn't even blink,
her tone of voice never wavered.  

But Mulder knew.  He remembered.

She had clung to him, curled against him, buried herself in
his embrace.  She had allowed him to witness her
vulnerability, an act of trust so intimate he still found
himself breathless at the memory.

And yet, this morning she had retreated from him, slipping
quietly from his embrace, trying not to wake him.  He hadn't
let her know that he was awake, not wanting to embarrass
her.  But it had taken a huge amount of control to suppress
the groan that had rumbled through his entire being when she
had pulled herself away from him.

Holding her had been...right.  It had felt natural,
necessary.  Like air filling lungs.  Blood coursing through
veins.  And when she'd torn herself away and retreated to
the other bed, he had felt as if something essential had
been stripped from him.

It still hurt, even now.

"When we get back to Washington, I'd like to submit a 302,
sir," Scully finished.  "I believe there is sufficient
evidence to warrant further investigation of Sarah
Chandler's disappearance."

Skinner's jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared as if he'd
smelled something foul.  "I can probably push this case
request through for you, Agent Scully, but are you sure it's
wise?  Your position and that of Agent Mulder are tenuous at
the moment.  The primaries are not going well for President
Matheson's supporters--this may not be the best time to rock
the boat."

"A woman is missing, sir.  A crime has apparently been
committed.  Politics cannot be allowed to dictate our
investigations."  Scully lifted her chin, her eyes blue and
blazing.

Mulder held back a smile.  For a woman who'd been sent to
put an end to his work in the X-Files--not to mention derail
his career--Dana Scully had turned out to be quite an asset
to both.  With her assistance, he'd turned the X-Files into
a viable division with a phenomenal success rate.  And his
own position with the Bureau had seen an upturn over the
years, as he'd been able to back his speculations with solid
evidence, thanks to her careful scientific methods of
inquiry.

He knew Walter Skinner couldn't resist her determination. 
God knew HE'D never been able to.

The waitress approached with their bagels and coffee.  After
she left, a taut silence ensued as they spread cream cheese
on their bagels and stirred creamer in their coffee. 
Finally, when Mulder was about ready to scream from nervous
tension, Skinner spoke.  "I'll make sure the paperwork is
pushed through.  When will you be returning to D.C.?"

"We have to go back to my mother's house and make sure she's
all right.  I'll want the local cops there to keep an eye on
her for a few days, make sure she's safe.  But we'll be
back at work first thing in the morning."  Mulder took a
bite of bagel.  It was soft and delicious, reminding him of
childhood excursions into the city after he and his mother
had left the Vineyard and moved to Connecticut.  On some
Sunday mornings she used to take him to a deli much like
this one, he remembered.  They'd have bagels, cream cheese
and fresh fruit and talk about everything and nothing.  

But even then, they'd steered clear of the most important
subjects.   Like what had happened to Samantha.  What had
ripped the family apart.  Why they couldn't seem to talk
about the most significant, horrible events of their mutual
lives.

Skinner interrupted his sad musings.  "My flight back leaves
in a little over an hour.  I think I have enough to file the
302 for you."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said.

He pushed away from the table and stood.  "Are you certain
you wouldn't like to take another day off, Scully?  You've
been through a lot over the past few days, and you're still
not fully recovered from the shooting--"

"I'm fine," she assured him.  Mulder bit back another smile.

Skinner glanced at Mulder.  He said nothing, but his
expression was unmistakable.  *Take care of her, Mulder,*
Skinner's eyes told him.  Mulder nodded slightly, assuring
his boss that the message had been received.

They parted company, Skinner remaining behind to pay for
their food while Mulder walked Scully back to her car.  The
morning was chilly, and Scully shivered slightly as she
unlocked the passenger door for him.  No debates about who
would drive, he noted.  It was her car, but more
importantly, it was her opportunity to take positive steps
toward reclaiming control over her life.  

She had reacted in a similar fashion another time she'd
broken down in front of him.  When the Donnie Pfaster case
had stripped her bare of her defenses.  She'd cried in his
arms, sharing her pain and fear with him, holding back
nothing.  Nothing he'd ever experienced--not friendship, not
love, not sex--had ever come close to the intense intimacy
of what he and Scully had shared in that moment.  Her pain
had become his, not because he'd taken it into himself but
because she'd given it to him to bear for her.

But when it was over, she had regrouped.  Distanced herself. 
Put the walls back up, protecting herself even from him. 

He understood.  Really he did.  But distance was distance,
no matter how understandable the reasons.  

She turned to look at him while he was fastening his
seatbelt.  He met her serious, quizzical gaze with a little
lift of his eyebrows.

"You don't have to do this with me, Mulder."

He frowned, not following.

"This case--I don't know where it's going to lead us, but
I'm pretty sure we're both going to get jerked around a
while before it's all over.  I just want you to know that if
you want to bail out, I'll understand.  Sarah Chandler is
nobody to you.  You don't have to do this."

"Do you want to find her, Scully?"

She nodded.

"And you're going to do everything in your power to do that,
right?"

She nodded again.

"Then so am I."  Impulsively, he reached across the seat and
caught her hand.  He tensed, waiting for her to draw away.

But she merely turned her wrist so that her palm flattened
against his, tightening the grip.  "Thank you."

He squeezed her hand, then reluctantly let go, sitting back
in his seat as she cranked the car and deftly pulled out
into the mid-morning Manhattan traffic.  Her driving was
quick and efficient; he dozed off as they headed into the
flow of traffic on the I-95 headed into Connecticut and
didn't awaken until Scully gently tapped his chin.

He started awake to find that they were parked in front of
his mother's house.  "Sorry."

"No problem--your snoring kept me awake for the drive," she
said with a wry little half-smile.

He smiled back at her.  "As long as I didn't TALK in my
sleep."

"Who says you didn't?"  Her eyes darted away coyly as she
unfastened her seat belt and opened the driver's door.  

He frowned as he followed, not sure whether she was kidding. 
"Did I give away any trade secrets?"

She cut her eyes at him, waiting for him to precede her up
the stairs to his mother's house.  "I know where you hide
your sunflower seeds now." 

He feigned a groan and walked up the steps.  He lifted his
hand to knock, but the door opened before he got a chance. 
His mother lurched out the door and flung her arms around
him, almost knocking him off balance.  He felt Scully's hand
on his shoulders, steadying him until he could regain his
center of balance.  He looked down at his mother. "Mom?"

She held him tightly for a moment, then suddenly pulled
away, her face going red with embarrassment.  She stepped
back, straightening her cream silk blouse.  "I'm sorry,
son."

He shook his head, unutterably sad that his mother felt the
need to apologize for a display of affection.   Just how
dysfunctional was that?  "What's the matter?"

"The incident at the hotel was all over the news but no one
released any names.  But one reporter gave a description of
the young woman who had been shot and killed--a young red-
haired woman.  I tried calling everyone I knew who might
have information but no one could tell me anything!"  She
turned to Scully, her eyes wide with burgeoning relief. 
"I'm so happy to see the two of you in one piece," she
murmured, holding out her hand.

Scully took his mother's hand and squeezed gently.  "We're
fine."

"But we need to talk," Mulder added.

His mother looked up at him, her eyes dark with pain and
fear, and for a moment, he almost lost his resolve.  But
unbidden, the image of Leigh MacGraw's blood-drenched body
filled his mind, reminding him how close he'd come to losing
Scully--yet again.  And he knew that no matter how much it
hurt, his mother was going to have to face the past and give
them some answers, before anyone else got hurt.

His mother licked her lips slowly, drawing a deep breath. 
Then she nodded, thrusting out her chin in an expression of
determination so reminiscent of Samantha's little girl
stubbornness that he couldn't catch his breath for a moment.

"So much of it is gone, Fox," she said.  "But I'll tell you
what I remember."

*  *  *  *  *


The trunk in Caroline Mulder's bedroom was small and old, a
brass and leather treasure that Bill Mulder had brought with
him to the marriage.  As Scully crouched by the closet to
get a closer look, Mulder listened to his mother's soft
explanation, his stomach twisting into a dozen painful
knots.

"I found it among his things after his death, but so much
happened--I let it slip out of my mind."  His mother
couldn't meet his eyes as she handed him a small brass key. 
"And the times when I remembered it--I suppose I didn't
really want to know what was inside.  I didn't want you to
have to know things about your father that would taint your
memory of him.  I suppose I believed I was protecting you
from his secrets and lies the way I failed to protect you
and your sister when you were young."

He turned away from his mother, automatically looking to
Scully.  Her steady gaze shot through him like a jolt of
electricity, easing his tension a bit.  He crossed to the
closet and pulled the trunk from its hiding place, noting
its weight and the dry, old smell of the brown leather.  His
breath quickened, his heart pounded, as if he were about to
unlock the secrets of the universe.

"I'll be in the living room," his mother murmured.

He paused in the act of unlocking the trunk and turned to
watch her go, sadness dampening his excitement and fear. 
Even now she can't face it, he thought, staring at the empty
space in the doorway where he'd last seen her.  

Scully's hand closing over his turned his attention back to
the trunk.  He met her quizzical gaze.  

"Are you sure you're ready to do this?" she asked.  "Are you
ready to face whatever we might find in here?"

He stared at her a moment, gauging his own resolve.  He
already knew a good many horrifying things about his father.

Did he really want to know more?  What if something he found
in this trunk destroyed what little regard for his father he
had left?

He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned the key in the
lock.

*  *  *  *  *

Fifteen minutes of silent perusal later, Mulder opened a
folded piece of notepad paper he found tucked into an
address book from 1993.  A sprawling cursive covered the
small sheet of paper, bold and black.  Mulder scanned the
note quickly without really reading it, his eyes dropping
automatically to the signature at the bottom.

His eyes widened.

He read the note again, more carefully.

"Mr. Mulder,

"We need to meet.  You have information I need, and I have
something of interest to you that might be worth a trade.  I
will be in Boston on Friday, November 19th.  Meet me at City
Hall Plaza at 3:30 p.m."

The note was signed, "William Scully."

Mulder's stomach knotted painfully.  Not William Scully.

Not him, too.

He quickly refolded the note and tucked it in the back of
the pocket calendar, glancing at Scully to see if she had
noticed his swift gasp of surprise upon seeing her father's
name.  She was looking through a stack of letters and memos,
her forehead crinkled with concentration.

He took a couple of steadying breaths and opened the
calendar, flipping to November 19th.  There, in his father's
tight, neat handwriting, he found "W.S. - Boston" jotted on
the calendar page.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Damn it.

Okay, okay--  He tried to regather his thoughts.  There was
nothing here to indicate that William Scully might be
involved in his father's dirty dealings.  Scully's father
might have wanted to meet with his father to discuss his
daughter's work--William Scully hadn't been happy about his
daughter's job, and based on what Mulder knew about the
former Naval officer's personality, it wasn't a stretch to
think he might have sought out his daughter's partner's
father for a "dad to dad" discussion.

Was it?

He put the calendar and the enclosed note in the pocket of
his jacket and picked up another stack of papers.  Mostly
memos, notes his father had jotted to himself, an occasional
card from a friend or an acquaintance.  Nothing that meant
anything to him.  

But in the next stack, he found something else that made his
breath catch in his throat.

It was a clipped newspaper obituary.  "Capt. William Charles
Scully, U.S.N., Ret."  

His heart in his throat, Mulder skimmed over the accolades
for a man who'd served his country and left behind two
daughters, two sons and a grieving widow.  There was nothing
written on the clipping, nothing to indicate why his father
might have kept the newspaper notice.

He pulled the pocket calender from his jacket and tucked the
obituary next to the note.  He started to put it back in his
jacket pocket when he heard Scully's swift, sharp intake of
breath.  

He looked up and saw that she had gone utterly pale, her
eyes wide and stricken as she stared down at the ragged-
edged paper in her hands.  "Scully?"

She looked up from the paper, her throat bobbing as she
swallowed convulsively. 

"What is it?"  He reached for the paper, but she pulled it
back, pressing it against her chest.  "Scully?"

She stared at him wordlessly.

He reached for the paper again, gently prying her fingers
open so he could take it from her.  Her eyes fluttered
closed and her lips parted slightly to draw a shallow
breath.

He looked down at the piece of paper.  It was a one-sheet
dossier.  At the top were the initials "D.S." and Scully's
address. Below, neatly typed, was a day by day log of
Scully's activities, from the time she left her apartment to
the time she arrived at her office at the FBI Academy at
Quantico.  Dated and notated, it was a detailed run down of
her life over a five day period in mid-August, 1994,
including her participation in the hostage situation
involving Duane Barry.

At the bottom of the dossier, a single line sent a chill
down his spine.   

"Your orders, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head, unable to absorb the words he was
reading.  It wasn't possible--his father couldn't have--

Then, in a red haze of fury, he realized that sacrificing
human beings for the "greater good" was an act his father
had perfected.  The old bastard had traded off his daughter,
for God's sake!

"Son of a bitch!"  He spat the words, his voice rough and
hoarse as if he'd just swallowed broken glass.

"Mulder--"  Scully reached out to touch him, but he pushed
her hands away and jumped to his feet, rage compelling him
to keep moving, keep walking, do anything but dwell on his
father's treachery.  

Heat surged through him despite the coolness of his mother's
bedroom; he peeled off his jacket and flung it onto the bed,
venting his anger through the sharp, violent action.  "He
knew what they were going to do to you, Scully!  The son of
a bitch KNEW and he let them do it!  God, he may have
ordered it himself!"

"Mulder, we don't know--"

"I DO know, Scully.  I know he was part of experiments
inflicted on innocent civilians and I know he gave my sister
to those manipulative, lying bastards and I GODDAM
FUCKING KNOW HE COULD'VE STOPPED YOUR ABDUCTION BUT DIDN'T!"

He grabbed the first thing his hands fell on--a photograph
lying on his mother's dresser--and flung it across the room
into the wall.  The glass shattered, the small wooden frame
splintered, and the photograph inside fluttered free of its
confines to settle atop the broken frame.

He stumbled to a halt, bending at the waist and sucking in
deep breaths as if he'd just run a long distance.  For a
long moment, only the ragged sound of his breathing filled
the silence. 

Then Scully spoke, her voice faint and tight.  "Mulder--
what's this?"

He lifted his head to look at her.  She was holding the
small leatherbound date book he'd tucked into his jacket
pocket.  It must have fallen out of the pocket when he threw
his jacket on the bed.  In her lap, he saw the small note
and the obituary that he'd tucked into the back of the
calendar.

"Scully--"

"This is from my father."

He ran his hand over his jaw, trying to push aside his
seething rage at his own father to address her concerns
about hers.  "Scully--"

"Was he involved with your father's work?"  Her eyes
darkened, widened as she met his gaze.  "Did he know--"

Mulder shook his head violently.  "No, Scully, we don't know
that your father had anything to do--"

"He said he had something to trade with your father,
Mulder."

"It could be anything--"

"Why would my father want information from your father?  In
November of 1993, he was retired from the Navy and your
father was no longer with the State Department.  What could
they have to discuss?"

"You said your father didn't approve of your choice of
careers.  Maybe he was hoping my father might be able to
influence me to--"

"To what?  Ditch your little partner?"  Her nostrils flared.
"That's not how my father operated."

"But you think he'd be involved in genetic experiments on
innocent human subjects?" 

She stared at him a moment, tension creasing her forehead. 
Then, suddenly, she relaxed and lowered her head.  "No, of
course not."

He released a little sigh, experiencing a sharp stab of
envy.  How wonderful it must be to have utter faith in one's
father.  "Maybe your father suspected that your job was more
dangerous than even you realized.  He was in the military,
after all--he's a smart man.  He probably knew the
government and the military were keeping secrets from the
public.  He might even have known the danger you would be
subject to as my partner.  Might he have tried to take steps
to ensure your safety?"

"Why approach your father?"

"Maybe he thought I was the source of danger in your life. 
Maybe he wanted to use my father's influence over me to make
sure that I did nothing to endanger your life."

"He would have come to me--"

"Would he?  You yourself admit that your relationship with
your father was strained after you chose to enter the FBI. 
Maybe he didn't think you would listen if he tried to warn
you that I was of danger to you."

She looked down at her hands.  "I wouldn't have listened."

"Maybe you should've."  He looked away from her, a fresh
surge of anger slicing through his insides.  "Maybe you
should've turned right back around that first day and told
Blevins and his cronies that you had no intention of working
with 'Spooky' Mulder."

"And what?  Nothing bad would've happened to me?"

"You were abducted because of working with me, Scully. 
Melissa is dead because of your association with me.  Maybe
even--"  He stopped short, shocked by what he'd almost said.

"Maybe even what?" she asked when he didn't say anything
more.

He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.

Why had his father kept an obituary notice about William
Scully's death?  And was it mere coincidence that within two
months of meeting with Mulder's father in Boston, William
Scully had died quickly and unexpectedly of a heart attack? 
He'd been in great health, Mulder knew--despite carrying a
few extra pounds, William Scully had been in excellent
physical condition.  Both Scully and Mrs. Scully had
mentioned that fact at different times, expressing the utter
unexpectedness of his death.

What if--

He shook his head again.

"Mulder?"

He looked at her, saw the dawning suspicion in her eyes. 
She picked up the newspaper clipping and looked down at it,
her eyes welling up at the sight of her father's photograph.

He swallowed with difficulty and said the words aloud. 
"What if your father didn't really die of a heart attack?

Mulder's question hung in the silence between him and his
partner, thick and harsh.  He stared at Scully, watching the
slow transformation of her expression from puzzlement to 
realization to dawning horror.  

She shook her head.  "How could that be?"

He didn't have an answer, he realized.  He had no idea how
or why someone would murder Scully's father, and he should
never have spoken the stray thought aloud.  "I'm sorry,
Scully--I didn't--I don't--"  He broke off with a sigh of
frustration.  "I'm sorry.  You're right--there's no reason
to think such a thing."  He looked away, feeling like a
jerk.  It was one thing to indulge in wild speculation--and
another thing altogether to talk about Scully's father as if
he were just another corpse to be examined and dissected.

"We don't even have solid evidence linking him to anything
but a meeting with your father, and that could have been
perfectly innocent."  Scully's low, raspy voice was steady
but thick with hurt.

"I know."  He nodded, moving away from her, pacing toward
the detritus of the photograph he'd thrown against the wall. 

He stooped and pulled the face-down photograph from the 
wreckage, shaking off loose shards of glass.  He turned it 
over.

His own face stared back at him--ten years younger, a quirky
smile instead of his usual world-hating scowl.  His hair was
a little messy, rumpled by the wind coming off the water of
the Long Island Sound.  He could remember the exact day that
photograph was taken--Mother's Day, 1988.  He was between
Oxford and the FBI Academy--between being screwed over by
Phoebe and being screwed over by his own government.

No wonder he'd been smiling.

He used the photograph as a makeshift dustpan, scooping the
broken glass and splintered wood onto the flat surface.  He
cleaned up as much of the mess as he could and tossed the
whole pile into the garbage can by the dresser.

When he turned around, he found Scully staring at him, her
eyes narrowed slightly.  

"I'm sorry," he repeated.  "About blowing up before--about
what I said about your father--"

She waved her hand, blowing off his apology.  "We can
speculate all day long, Mulder, but it means nothing without
proof.  I think we need to concentrate on the contents of
this trunk--see what we uncover.  When we have a clearer
picture, then we can speculate."

He nodded, aware that she was right.  He and Scully often
clashed about how to interpret what they uncovered in their
investigations, but she was always right about the method. 
She had taught him valuable lessons about the need for
thoroughness and tangible evidence, lessons that had saved
his job--and his ass--more than once.

He sat down on the foot of the bed and reached into the
trunk sitting between him and Scully.  When he withdrew a
handful of papers, she reached into the trunk and did the
same.

With quiet determination born of unified purpose, they
continued mining the secrets of the past.

*  *  *  *  *

By eleven a.m., they had been through every scrap of paper
in Bill Mulder's trunk.  Scully's eyes were beginning to
ache from strain; she had left her reading glasses in her
purse and hadn't wanted to stop long enough to retrieve
them.    

She lay the final piece of paper on the bed in front of her
and looked up at her partner.  He had remembered his
glasses, she noted with a faint smile.  She'd never really
liked glasses on men until she'd met Mulder.  On him,
glasses were nothing short of--

What, Scully?  Nothing short of what?

A turn-on?

She steered her mind away from forbidden thoughts, promising
herself that when it was all over, when they found Sarah and
uncovered the secrets hinted at in Bill Mulder's trunk, she
and Mulder would take the time to sit down and consider the
possibilities of their relationship.

But not now.

Not when fifty years of lies and treachery lay spread out on
the bed between them.

Mulder closed the notecard, looked up and met her gaze. 
"So, what do we have now?"

She looked down at the papers she'd culled from the sea of 
correspondence in the trunk.  Besides the itinerary of her
own activities from August of 1994, she'd also found several
newspaper clippings about a submarine disaster that had
taken place April 10, 1963--and a copy of a cryptic State
Department memo dated April 11th, 1963, referring to an
"incident" involving a Russian submarine off the Pacific
Coast.  She showed the items to Mulder.  "Could they be
related?  And if so--is there anything significant about
them?"

He glanced over the articles and the memo.  "The Thresher
incident.  I remember reading about this once--the crew and
several civilian observers went down with the sub.  The USS
Thresher sprang a leak a thousand feet underwater.  Water
started spraying a panel with the main electrical connection
to the reactor.  There was a short circuit, fuses were
tripped, fission shut down, the turbo-generators stopped and
the sub started to sink."

"And the next day, you father receives a memo, unsigned,
mentioning a run-in between an unnamed U.S. Navy submarine
and an unidentified Russian submarine--"  She shook her
head, frustrated.  "I can't imagine your father holding onto
this memo if there wasn't SOMETHING significant about it--
but what?  Could the Russian sub have sunk the Thresher? 
But why cover that up?  To avoid a confrontation with the
Soviet Union?"

Mulder's eyes lit up from the inside, the way they always
did when his mind made a leap.  "What if the 'Russian' sub
was really the USS Thresher?"

She arched her eyebrows.  "Are you suggesting that another
U.S. Navy sub SANK the Thresher, and the government has
covered up that fact for over thirty years?"

Mulder merely cocked his head and made a little face at her.

Of course, that's what he was suggesting.  After all the
treachery they'd witnessed over the past six years, what was
one sunken sub?  "Okay.  We'll assume that an American sub
accidentally sank the Thresher and our government covered up
the incident.  But how does it tie in with Carter
Christopher and his consorts?"

Mulder shrugged.  "I don't know.  Maybe we could ask my
mother, see if she remembers anything."  

Scully stifled a twinge of sadness at the look of doubt on
her partner's face.  He obviously didn't expect his mother
to be much help.  Scully couldn't blame him for his lack of
faith--Mrs. Mulder had been precious little help to him over
the years.  Her memory was conveniently spotty, and though
Scully tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, she
was deeply grateful to have a mother as wonderful as her
own.  Margaret Scully would walk across glass to help her
children--

"We should talk to my mother, too," she said aloud.

Mulder's left eyebrow quirked.

"My father was a lieutenant j.g. in the early sixties--
aboard a Navy submarine for a good part of that time.  I'm
sure that the sinking of a Navy submarine must have come up
at least ONCE in a conversation between them.  Maybe my
father heard rumors--"  

Mulder nodded.  "Okay.  We'll check with her tonight after
we get back.  But I think I'd like to ask my mother about
it, anyway.  Maybe she'll remember something."

"Maybe."  She tried to look hopeful.

He wasn't buying.  He made a little shrugging gesture and
picked up a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk.  "While I'm talking to
Mom, why don't you fire up the laptop and see what this is?"

She took the disk from him. It was a standard high density
floppy, unlabeled.  "Was it attached to anything?"

He shook his head and stood, gathering the papers spread out
before them on the bed.  Scully stood as well, dropping the
disk into the pocket of her slacks.  

"I'll be in your mother's study," she told him.  She touched
his arm as she passed him, and he turned his head to look at
her, his gaze intense.  He caught her wrist, his grip gentle
but firm.

"About what I said before about your father--about the
things we found--"

She shook her head.  "I know my father, Mulder.  I know who
he was, what he was capable of.  There's an explanation, and
I'm sure when we talk to my mother tonight, everything will
be cleared up."

He nodded, his expression gentle but his eyes sad.  She
realized that his sadness was not pity for her but a deep,
aching regret for his own lost faith in his family and in
himself.  The urge to take him into her arms was almost more
than she could resist.  She contented herself by sliding her
hand into his and giving his fingers a strong squeeze.  A
little smile flirting with the corners of his mouth was her
reward.

She retrieved her laptop and set up the computer in Mrs.
Mulder's small, sunlit study.  Settling herself in the
quaint Victorian side chair in front of the dainty writing
desk, Scully booted up the computer and tried to access the
disk.

A dialogue box popped up, asking for a password.

She didn't have a clue.  She'd guessed Mulder's computer
password in record time, but then, she knew him better than
anyone else in the world.  She'd never even met Mr. Mulder.

She tried all the obvious ones--Samantha, Fox, Caroline--all
without success.  She tried 8-letter variations of Purity
Control and Paper Clip, also with no success.

She was almost out of ideas when Mulder finally stuck his
head into the study.  "Any luck?"

She shook her head.  "It's password protected.  Any ideas?" 

He shrugged.  "I get the feeling I didn't really know my
father any better than you did, Scully."

She sighed and ejected the disk from the floppy drive, then
shut down and packed up her computer.  "How about you? 
Could your mother add any information?"

"No."  He shrugged, trying but failing to hide his
disappointment.  "She says the stroke erased a lot of her
memories of those days--and that she didn't really know all
that much to begin with.  I don't know--I suppose that's
probably true."

She touched his arm, gently guiding him toward the front of
the house, where they had left their overnight bags after
packing up earlier that morning.  "I'm sure it is."

"I'm sure your mother will be more help than mine--"  Mulder
stopped short as he and Scully rounded the corner of the
hallway and came face to face with his mother.

Caroline Mulder stared at her son, pain creasing her face. 
Obviously she'd heard her son's words, Scully realized.

Scully felt Mulder go tense beside her.  "Mom--"

"I'm sorry, Fox."  She lifted her chin slightly, her lips
trembling as if she wanted to say so much more.  But in the
end, she merely looked away and stepped aside to let them
pass.

Mulder lowered his head and walked stiffly toward the door,
gathering up Scully's bag as well as his own.  Scully,
however, paused and put her hand on Mrs. Mulder's forearm.  
"Thank you so much for your hospitality and your help, Mrs.
Mulder."

Caroline Mulder couldn't meet Scully's eyes.  "I don't feel
I've been very helpful."

"I believe you've helped us as much as you could."  Scully
wondered if she sounded insincere.  She felt a bit
fraudulent, for she couldn't help but compare Mulder's
mother to her own and find Mrs. Mulder wanting.  But was
that really fair?  Would Mrs. Mulder have been a different
person if she hadn't married a manipulative, power-hungry
man like Bill Mulder?

No doubt.

Mrs. Mulder still wouldn't meet her eyes, but she flashed a
small smile in Scully's direction.  "Thank you, Miss Scully,
for the good care you take of my son.  I know I owe you a
great debt many times over."

"It's my job, you know."

"I think, perhaps, it's also your pleasure."

Scully didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't try. 
She squeezed Caroline Mulder's arm once more and went out to
the car, where Mulder was packing the trunk of her car.  He
sandwiched his father's brass and leather trunk between
their overnight bags to keep it from sliding around, then
closed the trunk.  Scully held out her hand for the keys,
and he relinquished them with an amusing display of
masculine reluctance.  

"My car," she reminded him with a small smile.

He pushed back the passenger seat so that he would fit,
while she pulled up the seat from where he'd slid it back to
drive the night before.  Within ten minutes, they were
headed south on I-95 toward Washington D.C.

Like the trip up three nights earlier, the trip back to D.C.
was quiet and uneventful.  Right up until they came upon a
traffic tie up about twenty miles south of Wilmington,
Delaware.  

Seeing the brake lights flashing red several hundred yards
ahead of her, Scully applied her brakes.

And nothing happened.

She pressed the brakes again, pumping them.  The brake pedal
went all the way to the floorboard with no effect
whatsoever.

"Scully?"  Mulder's head jerked around as he saw them
barreling up on the cars ahead of them.

"No brakes," she gritted, jerking the car into a lower gear,
then jamming her foot onto the emergency brake pedal.  The
car shimmied and slowed, but it was becoming frighteningly
clear that her efforts weren't going to stop the car in time
to keep from slamming into the cars jamming both lanes of
the interstate.  "Hold on!" she warned Mulder as she jerked
the wheel to the right, pulling the car onto the soft
shoulder.

The change in surfaces was apparently what did them in.  The
car slithered across the loose sand and spun off the road.
On the first roll, the driver and passenger air bags
engaged, plunging Scully into a sightless, claustrophobic
realm in which the world spun wildly and her body jerked and
bounced against the restraints that kept her from flying out
the shattered windows.  After what seemed like an endless
nightmare rollercoaster ride, the car came to a stop in what
felt like a relatively upright position.  Scully felt
something pressing against the top of her head and realized
it was the partially caved in roof of her car.

After the riotous chaos of the previous few seconds, the
ensuing silence in the car was deafening.  Scully blinked,
realizing that the air bag had already begun to deflate,
returning her sight to her.   Immediately she looked to her
right.  And gasped.

Mulder sat with his head lolled back, blood streaming down
his face and all over his shirt.  

"Mulder?" She fumbled with her seatbelt, ignoring the
twinges of pain sparking through her own bruised and
battered body.  "Mulder, can you hear me?"

He made a soft groaning sound and shifted into a more
upright position.  He lifted his hand to his head, where a
long gash was bleeding copiously.  He wiped the blood away
from his left eye and turned to her with a grimace, giving
her a baleful look.  "And you wonder why I never let you
drive?"


*  *  *  *  *


February 15, 1998
Christiana Hospital
Wilmington, Delaware
1:45 p.m.


"The brakes were tampered with."  Scully blew into Exam Room
3 of the Emergency Department, her eyes blazing with anger. 
Mulder watched with amusement as she brushed past the
startled nurse who was taking his pulse and came to stand by
the side of the exam table.

"What--did they cut the brake line?" he asked.

"Perforated it, actually.  Ensuring a slow leak.  The
mechanic said it could have been done anytime during the
night.  We could've been leaking brake fluid ever since we
left New York."  She glanced around the exam room, eyes wary
as if any moment she was expecting to have to duck and run. 
"The mechanic said that whoever did it knew exactly what he
was doing."

Mulder frowned.  "And now the mechanics have obliterated any
evidence--"

"Not necessarily."  Scully shook her head.  "I made them
wear latex gloves and take precautions.  A Delaware State
policeman was to oversee the whole procedure, taking
photographs and recording all the findings for the official
record.  And they were under strict orders that once they
found evidence of tampering, they were to cease all
activities and secure the car for transport to the FBI lab
at Quantico."

"Ooo."  Mulder gave her a look of unabashed admiration.  His
Scully was nothing if not thorough.  

She cut her eyes at him, then turned to the nurse.  "So, how
is he?"

The nurse smiled a cool, professional smile.  "Dr. Atkins
should really be the one to fill you in--"

Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag.  "Kathy Nahill, BSN,"
it read.  "Ms. Nahill, I'm a medical doctor as well as
Agent Mulder's partner.  I am perfectly able to assess his
medical condition myself if need be.  I was just hoping you
could save me the time."

Kathy's eyebrows rose slightly, and her dark eyes met
Scully's steady gaze without flinching.  "Look, ma'am, there
are policies in this hospital just like there are policies
where you work.  And one of our policies is that the doctors
tell the patients what's going on, not the nurses.  Besides
which, I'm not an E.R. nurse--I'm a psychiatric nurse.  I'm
only here to take Agent Mulder's vitals because we're short-
handed and the E.R. nurses are all busy with critical care
patients.  So even if it WERE our policy that nurses be
allowed to update patient conditions, I couldn't do that." 
Her face softened suddenly.  "Look, I can see that you're
worried about your partner.  If it makes you feel any
better, he doesn't appear to be on the verge of death, and
as a psychiatric nurse, I can also assure you that while
he's an unrepentant flirt, he's not a rampaging psycho. 
Okay?"

Mulder watched Scully's face, wondering how the hell she was
going to react to THAT.  He was slightly surprised when she
grinned at the nurse.

"Thank you, Ms. Nahill."

Kathy turned and winked at Mulder.  "I'll give you my
assessment of HER later," she murmured.  She folded up the
blood pressure cuff, jotted down some information on
Mulder's chart, and left the exam room.

Scully picked up the chart and looked it over.  "Well, you
don't appear to have a concussion, although this indicates
that you should be watched for a while to make sure.  I
think they'll probably release you as soon as the doctor
comes to talk to you."

"Did you get to get our stuff out of the trunk of the car?"

She put down the chart and nodded.  "It's in the trunk of
the car I just rented."

"All of it?" he asked, thinking of his father's trunk.

"All of it."

He lay back against exam bed, closing his eyes.  His head
hurt like hell, and other parts of his body weren't exactly
feeling so hot, either.  "So much for a nice, relaxing
weekend in Connecticut."

She chuckled, making him open his eyes.  For a second, he
thought he saw something very much like adoration in her
eyes.  But he blinked and it was gone, replaced by gentle
concern.  "How's your head feel?"

"Like I just headbutted a concrete wall."

She winced.  "Another nice scar to add to your collection,
huh?"

He nodded and immediately regretted it.  The world swam for
a moment and he felt a rush of nausea.  Oh, God, he thought,
please don't let me puke on myself in front of her.

She went into action immediately, grabbing a bedpan and
thrusting it under his chin, just in time.  Pain ratcheting
through his head with every spasm, he emptied his stomach
into the pan.  When he was through, he lay back against the
bed, tears of pain and humiliation squeezing from the
corners of his eyes.

She quietly, efficiently disposed of the bedpan and its
contents in the nearby bathroom, then returned to his side,
a wet handkerchief in her hand.  Gently she wiped his face
and mouth.  "Better?"

He started to nod again, then remembered what had gotten him
into this position in the first place.  "Yeah.  Thanks."

"Now we're even."  She smiled slightly.

Not hardly, he thought.  He was so far behind in the debt
department, he might as well stop counting.  "You're not
going to make me stay here at the hospital because of this,
are you?"

She shook her head.  "No.  But you're not staying by
yourself at your apartment tonight, either.  You'll stay at
my place.  Then, if you're feeling better in the morning, we
can go see Mom."

He wasn't about to argue.  Even if he were in better
condition, he would have insisted on staying at Scully's. 
Over the last 72 hours, someone had tried to kill her at
least twice.  He wasn't about to let anyone get close enough
to try it again.


*  *  *  *  *

Dana Scully's apartment
5:57 p.m.

Mulder sat on Scully's couch, his feet propped up and a
glass of orange juice in his hands--the only concession to 
her nagging, she thought, watching him with a mixture of
affection and resignation.  He had her laptop in his lap,
tapping at the keys in an attempt to figure out the
password to his father's floppy disk.

"I could call Pendrell," she suggested.

He looked up, scowling slightly.  "Or we could call the
Gunman."

"Maybe both?" she added, arching her eyebrows.

His eyebrows rose in response.  "Wouldn't THAT be a sight?"

"Pendrell's trustworthy, and the guys at the GUNMAN are too
paranoid to be security risks."  The idea was starting to
sound good, she realized.  "I'll call Pendrell; you call
Byers."   She pulled her cellular phone from her coat pocket \
and dialled Alan Pendrell's cell phone number.

"You have Pendrell's phone number?" Mulder asked.

She shot him a quick look before Pendrell answered.  "Alan?
This is Dana Scully."

"Alan?" Mulder muttered.  "His name is Alan?"

"Oh!"  On Pendrell's end of the line, there was a loud
crashing sound and a muttered oath.   "Sorry--dropped the 
phone."

She stifled a smile.  "I was wondering if you could help me
out with something, Alan.  On an unofficial basis."

There was dead silence.

"Alan?"

"Un-un-unofficial?"

"Can you meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes?"  She
gave him her address.  "I'll explain everything."

"Okay.  Yeah.  Sure."  Pendrell sounded stunned.

It wasn't until Scully hung up the phone that she realized
she might have given him a wrong impression.

"You call him Alan?"

She looked at Mulder, nibbling her lower lip.  "Mulder, can
I tell you something?"

He frowned.  "Sure, okay."

"I think Pendrell has a little crush on me."

Mulder's face relaxed.  "Of course he does.  Every man at 
the Bureau has a crush on you."

She stared at him, surprised.  "Excuse me?"

"Don't be so shocked, Scully.  Why do you think they all
stare at you when you walk down the hall?"

"They don't."  Did they?  She was usually so preoccupied 
with work--and with Mulder--that she didn't really notice
what went on around her at the office.

Mulder just made a little face at her and turned on his cell
phone to call Byers, Langly and Frohike.  Scully put her
own phone on the counter and walked back to her bedroom
to start unpacking.  

At the bottom of her overnight bag, she found the pair of
black pumps she'd worn to the party at the Waldorf.  A
circular splash of blood about the size of a dime was still
on the toe of her left shoe.

She sat on the bed and stared at the shoe, her stomach
coiling.  Even now she could see the scene unfold before 
her eyes, see Leigh MacGraw's body jerk, the spray of gore,
the utter surprise in the woman's eyes, feel the hot wetness
of the woman's blood spurting down the front of her 
dress....

She dropped the shoe from nerveless fingers and closed
her eyes, trying to shut out the memories.  But the
dark theater of her mind only provided a stark background
for the vivid memories of fear and death.
 
She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when
Mulder came into the room.  She didn't open her eyes, even
though she could feel his presence, the nearness of him.  He
was standing in the doorway.  Watching her.  If she opened
her eyes, she would see a look of uncertainty, a question in
his eyes.  Should he disturb her?  Should he invade the
privacy of her thoughts?

God, she knew him so well.

"I'm tired, Mulder," she murmured.

"Want me to go?"

She shook her head and opened her eyes.  "No."

He crossed the room slowly, his gaze locked with hers.  His
eyes were gentle, concerned--but something else burned
behind them, flickering like a flame in their murky depths. 
And for a moment, she wanted to throw herself into that
fire, immolate herself, let the fire refine her like
gold....

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of him.  He
was too close--

The bed shifted beside her.  

Oh, God.

He didn't say anything, and neither did she.  She didn't
even open her eyes for fear that the sight of him would snap
any self-control left to her.  She prided herself on
strength and control, but right now she felt as if she were
walking a tightwire, her balance gone, all her energy
focused on putting one foot in front of the other to keep
from plunging into the abyss.  And the slightest touch might
send her plummeting--

And then he touched her.

His fingers brushed her forehead, lightly moving her hair
away from her eyes.  She shuddered at the little caress, her
whole body tightening, focusing on the feel of his fingers
against her skin.  

She opened her eyes and felt the air whoosh from her lungs. 
He was so close to her, his head lowered so that he was eye
to eye with her, searching her face, his intense gaze
ripping away the layers of self-protection in which she
cocooned herself.  They stared at each other, eyes locked,
pulses pounding--she could hear the quickened pace of his
respiration, see the rapid flutter of the vein in his
forehead.  His eyes darkened, and her limbs grew heavy and
warm--

A muted rapping sound sliced through the haze of longing
washing over her.  Mulder made a soft, grumbling sound and
stood, already turning toward the bedroom doorway.

Scully followed him to her front door.  He glanced through
the peep hole, sighed softly, and opened the door to admit
Byers, Frohike and Langly.  

The three men who oversaw the publication of THE LONE GUNMAN
entered Scully's apartment as if they'd been there a
thousand times.  Which, for all Scully knew, they had.  She
doubted a standard dead bolt held much of a challenge for
these guys.

"So, what's up?" Frohike leered mildly at Scully.

Mulder led them into the living room and quickly went over
what they'd found in the trunk--leaving out the information
about Scully's father's correspondence with Bill Mulder. 
Scully flashed him a grateful half-smile, and his eyes
smiled back. 

"So, now you're looking to crack the password on this disk?"
Byers held up the floppy.  "Piece of cake.  We can probably do
it right here."

As he was putting the floppy into Scully's computer, the
doorbell rang.  Scully crossed to the door and checked
through the peep hole.  Alan Pendrell's earnest face looked
back at her.  She opened the door.  "Thanks for coming,
Alan."

He straightened his tie and ventured a wobbly smile.  "Sure,
Agent Scuh--Dana.  Any time--"  He stopped short when he saw
the other men in Scully's living room.  For a second, his eyes 
widened comically, and Scully had to bite back a sympathetic 
chuckle.  Oh, dear, Agent Pendrell, what ARE you thinking?

"Pendrell--glad you could come help us out."  Mulder crossed
and shook hands with the younger agent, gently drawing him
away from Scully and toward the other men.  "I want you to
meet some friends of mine and Agent Scully's--Byers,
Frohike, Langly, this is Agent Pendrell.  A man after your
own hearts."

Byers motioned for Pendrell to join him at the computer and
immediately launched into a technical description of what he
was doing.  Scully watched, amused and also impressed, as
Pendrell's shy nervousness slipped away, replaced by the
lightning intellect and boyish enthusiasm that had made him
one of her favorite people at the Bureau.  He drew up a
chair next to Byers and immediately tossed out a couple of
suggestions.

Mulder edged over to Scully's side and bent his head toward
hers.  "Maybe we could fix something to eat--looks like
these guys might be here through dinner."

She nodded and followed him to the kitchen.  Without having
to speak, they settled into a comfortable working rhythm--
Mulder making sandwiches while Scully opened a large can of
vegetable soup.  But even the simple, innocent activity of
preparing dinner seemed to take on delicious, forbidden
undertones these days--Mulder's body brushed past hers as he
reached into the cupboard for a new jar of mustard, sending
little sparks of awareness skittering through her;  bending
to retrieve a sauce pan from a lower cabinet, she pressed
her hand against his back to steady herself and felt his
body tremble beneath her fingers.

How close had they come to changing things between them
forever? she wondered as she ladled soup into bowls. 
Earlier in her bedroom, she had been utterly certain Mulder
was going to kiss her, and she had wanted him to.  So very 
much.  Damn the consequences, damn the danger.

But they couldn't afford to be reckless.  Not now.  Not when
the answers lay in front of them, beckoning them to come and
turn the last stone that hid the truth from view.

And there was always the specter of Samantha, crying out for
justice and closure.  Raven had said that finding Sarah
Chandler might help them answer the questions about
Samantha.

Scully wanted to believe.

She wanted to know.

And if that meant taking a few steps back from Mulder and
forcing herself to focus on the work instead of this
burgeoning, promising thing that lay between them, she'd
find the strength to do it.

Questions about their relationship would have to wait until
they'd answered the bigger questions about all the lies and
machinations of the last fifty years.

She just hoped it wouldn't be too late.


*  *  *  *  *


February 15, 1998
Dana Scully's Apartment
7:38 p.m.


Fox Mulder leaned over his partner's shoulder to get a
better look at the computer screen in front of Byers.  The
dialogue box asked for the password, but so far they'd had
no luck.  

"Try 101361," Mulder suggested.  They'd already tried
Samantha's birthday as well as the birthdays of his parents.

Byers tapped in the numbers and hit enter.  The error bell
dinged, and the dialogue box changed, informing them that
the password was incorrect.

"Try 112773," Scully murmured.  She glanced over her
shoulder, meeting Mulder's gaze.

Mulder's eyes widened slightly.  Why hadn't he thought of
the day Samantha disappeared?  He hadn't realized 
Scully even knew that date--but why should he be
surprised?  Scully was nothing if not thorough.

Byers tapped in the number.  

And the file opened.

"Bingo," Pendrell murmured.

A stream of numbers and letters scrolled down the screen. 
The symbols were obviously set up in paragraph form--but 
in code.

"Damn it!"  Mulder had a sickening sense of deja vu.  
Almost three years ago, he'd opened a file he'd been 
sure would be the answer to all their questions, only to 
discover it was written in Navajo code-talk.  The 
repercussions of that discovery still haunted him today.

"It's definitely encrypted," Pendrell noted.  "But I'll bet it's
nothing that our latest cryptography program can't break. 
I'll just take the disk--"

"No," Mulder, Byers, Langly and Frohike said in unison.

Pendrell looked up at them, startled.  "Or I can download
the program to Agent Scully's computer," he amended after a
beat.  "Since you said that A.D. Skinner okayed the 302--"

"I'd appreciate that, Alan."  Scully rested her hand on
Pendrell's shoulder for a brief moment.  Not quite brief
enough for Mulder's tastes, but--

"What we'll have to do is put the file on an automatic
cycle--it'll run the file through the various cycles of the
cryptography program, which will hunt for patterns and
hidden codes.  The whole process will probably take six to
eight hours."  

"Hours?"  Mulder scowled.

Pendrell's face fell, as if he felt personally responsible for
Mulder's displeasure.  "It's a time-consuming process, Agent 
Mulder.  I'll see if there's any way to bypass some of the 
cycles, but I can't guarantee accuracy that way--"

Scully shook her head.  "No, we can be patient."  She shot a
warning look in Mulder's direction.

Byers stood and let Pendrell have the seat in front of the
computer.  Pendrell logged onto the Bureau mainframe and
started searching through the SciCrime database for the
cryptography program.  In a few minutes, he had the program
downloaded onto Scully's computer and started running the
decoding process.

He turned around and stood, his smile directed at Scully. 
"That'll take care of you, I think."

"I appreciate it, Alan."

Byers leaned in toward Mulder.  "We could probably have
decoded that file by morning ourselves, but the young fellow
seems to get such joy out of helping out Agent Scully that I
couldn't deprive him of the pleasure."

Mulder shot a glare at the bearded man.  Thanks for the
support, he thought.

Scully and Pendrell had drifted toward the door, Frohike
tagging along behind them.  Mulder sighed and headed in that
direction as well, catching up in time to hear Pendrell say,
"Thanks for dinner, Dana.  It was delicious."

For God's sake, Pendrell, it was a ham sandwich and chicken
noodle soup, Mulder thought, frowning at the young agent. 
Don't you know that overearnest act doesn't get you
anywhere?

Scully smiled at Pendrell, showing teeth and everything. 
Mulder's frown deepened.  "The least I could do to say
thanks for all your help."

Pendrell beamed, and Mulder thought he was going to throw up
again.  But the young agent's next action took him
completely by surprise.

Pendrell reached out and touched Scully's face.

Scully's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away.
Pendrell cradled her chin on the tips of his fingers and
lifted her face to get a better look at the scrapes and
bruises left by her ordeals of the last couple of days. 
"What on earth happened to you?"

Mulder's eyes locked on the place where Pendrell's fingers
met Scully's chin, and a surge of sheer, jealous anger
rushed through him, heating the back of his neck and making
his stomach curl into a knot.  Pendrell had no right to
touch her that way.  

Mulder stepped forward, fists clenched at his side.

Scully moved away from Pendrell's reach, her retreat a
gentle but unmistakable rebuff.  The young techie turned 
beet red.  "I'm s-sorry," he stammered.  "I don't know what 
I was thinking--"

"Don't worry about it, Alan."  Scully smiled her reassurance.  
"I had a car accident, but I'm fine, and so is Mulder."

Pendrell looked up at Mulder, his eyes widening a bit as if
he had only just noticed that Mulder's forehead was half-covered 
with a gauze bandage.

Missed that when you came in, did you, Pendrell?  Too busy
scoping my partner?  Mulder took a few steps forward until he 
was close enough to touch Scully.  He took his place at her side
and met Pendrell's nervous gaze.  He knew his body language
was screaming, "Hands off, she's mine," and he also knew
that Scully was probably going to ream him for his macho
posturing, but right now, he didn't really give a shit. 

"Say, Pendrell, how about a quick tour of our place?" 
Frohike put his hand on the younger man's shoulder and
guided him toward Scully's front door.  He cut his eyes toward
Scully and smiled his best deviant grin.  "I have some photos
I'm SURE you'd like to see."  

Scully's looked at Mulder, her eyes widening.  Mulder shrugged,
hiding a grin of amusement.  Frohike was bluffing.  Probably.

Langly and Byers followed Frohike and Pendrell out, Byers 
darting a quick smile in Mulder's direction.  The door closed 
behind them, leaving Mulder and Scully in silence.  Only 
the soft whirring sound of the cryptography program at work 
broke the quiet.

Then Scully murmured, "I feel like I just sent a lamb into a
den of wolves."

Mulder chuckled.  

Scully moved slowly away from him, headed toward the 
kitchen, where the remainders of their dinner littered the 
counters.  He followed her, planning to help her clean up, 
but she turned and gave him a stern look.  "I can manage 
this, Mulder.  You're supposed to be resting."

"I think I can handle washing a dish or two--"

Her expression brooked no further argument.  "Go find my
deck of cards--I feel like whipping your ass at gin."

He arched his eyebrow and immediately regretted it, as the
movement shot a screech of pain through the gash on his
forehead.  He tried to hide his wince of pain.

And apparently failed.  "Better yet, why don't you go get my
first aid kit out of the bathroom and I'll change your
bandage when I get through cleaning up," she suggested. 
"Get it and go wait for me in the living room."

He knew better than to argue.  Obediently he went through
the hallway to the bathroom and opened the wicker cabinet
above the toilet, where Scully stored her first aid kit.  It
wasn't the small store-bought red, white and blue metal
canister most people kept in case of emergencies.  Not for
Dr. Scully, oh no.  Her kit was a large cardboard box of
supplies--sterile-packaged gauze pads, surgical tape, 
antiseptic, pain relievers, antibiotic ointments, and the
ever present bag of latex gloves, among other items.  He
tucked the box under his arm and went back into the living
room to wait for her to finish in the kitchen.

He sat back against the sofa, listening to the faint sounds
of her movements.  Hearing her soft footsteps, the barely
perceptible sounds of her breathing, gave him a sense of
peace and well-being that he'd never known with anyone but
her.  Not with his family, certainly not with Phoebe or the
other women who'd passed through his life.  Scully alone
gave him this sense of security, the utter faith that as
long as she was within reach, nothing could really hurt him.

She wouldn't allow it.

He realized suddenly that he could no longer hear her moving
around.  He turned his head, looking through the open bar
that separated the kitchen from the dining room, but she was
out of sight.

He went to the kitchen and found Scully standing near the
stove, her hands flattened out on the counter, her head
bent.  She looked so weary, so tense.   He crossed to her,
his sock-clad feet silent on the linoleum.  When he put his
hands on her taut shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her
skin.

"Sorry," he said quickly, squeezing her shoulders to steady
her.

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder.  "I
thought I told you to wait in the living room."

"Since when do I listen to you?" he teased.

She shook her head, lowering her chin to her chest again, as
if stretching her neck.  "You should, you know."

"I know."  He rubbed his thumbs in small, firm circles
against her shoulder blades, kneading the knotted muscles he
found there.  "Come on."  

He tugged her with him through the kitchen and out to the 
living room.  Positioning her in front of him on the sofa, he 
ran his hands soothingly over her shoulders, his touch light 
and undemanding.

"I'm supposed to be changing your bandage," Scully murmured,
her words slurred with weariness.

"My bandage is fine, Scully.  Now, close your eyes.  Think
of somewhere safe and peaceful."

She rolled her neck slightly, giving him better access to
her shoulders.  "You're very good at this, Mulder." 

"And you thought I was just another pretty face."

"Silly me."  She slumped a bit, her back brushing against 
his chest.  She was hot and soft--his body tightened 
pleasantly in response to the feel of her. 

She was enjoying his touch, and it gave him a deep sense of
satisfaction to know that he was pleasing her.  "Not a bad
way to pass the time until the cryptography program cracks 
the code, huh?" he murmured.

"Beats the hell out of a game of gin."  Her low, liquid 
voice ignited a little flame in the pit of his stomach.  This is 
such a dangerous game we're playing, he thought. 
Skating right up to the edge of thin ice and daring each
other to take one more step...

He slid his fingers up the velvety column of her neck, his
thumbs pressing against the little ridge of vertebrae where
her neck met her spine.  He apparently hit a nerve, because
she released a low, guttural groan that shot shivering
sensations straight to his loins.  He closed his eyes, his
fingers trembling against her neck as he fought the
clamoring of his body.

I did that to her, he thought.  I made her feel that. 

And I can do it again.

A sense of utter invincibility surged through him, giving him
the courage to step up his seduction.  

That's what it is, isn't it, Mulder?  Seduction?

He wanted to hear her make that sound again.  He 
wanted to hear it in his ear while his body surged into
hers, while her arms locked him to her, while his mouth
sought and found the secrets of her body.  But for now, he 
stroked the spot at the back of her neck that had
evinced her little groan of pleasure.  "Good, huh?"

"Mmm hmmm."  She rolled her neck, her hair sliding 
over the back of his hand.  It felt like cool silk against
his flesh.

"I've never known a woman whose g-spot was in the
back of her neck," he teased, whispering the words into
her ear.

She chuckled softly, her body slumping more heavily against
his.  "Mmmm.  Jack used to say the same thing."

He froze.

Jack used to say that?

Jack Willis?

Jack had touched her like this?  Given her pleasure this way?

A mean little voice answered in a soft taunt.  Of course he did, 
you dumb shit.  He was her lover long before you ever set 
eyes on her.

Mulder dropped his hands away from Scully's neck, 
swallowing convulsively.

Scully looked over her shoulder, her forehead creased in a
little frown.  "What's wrong?"

He stared for a second, not knowing what to say.  He could
hardly tell her that the mere thought of her making love to
another man tied him into a thousand painful little knots. 
Finally, he said, "My hands are starting to cramp."

She twisted around, her eyes searching his face.  He tried to
keep his expression utterly neutral.  He wasn't sure he was
succeeding. 

After a moment, she merely nodded and pushed herself up 
off the couch.  "I need a shower.  I'll be back in a bit."

He nodded, watching her cross to the hallway. She paused 
in the doorway and turned back toward him for a second, 
her gaze locking with his.   Her eyes asked him a thousand 
wordless questions he didn't know how to answer.  

After an endless moment of  heavy silence, she turned and 
continued into the bathroom.  When she was out of sight, 
he slumped back against the sofa cushions, mentally kicking 
himself.  

Damn it, Mulder--what did you expect, that she'd be a virgin? 

But that wasn't the problem.  Jack Willis wasn't even the
problem--
he was dead and gone, and whatever he and Scully had shared 
had ended long before Mulder met her.  The problem was, Jack 
Willis had known Scully in a way that Mulder never had.  

And that just wasn't right.

He didn't like the thought that there was some part of
Scully that he couldn't touch--or that there was a part of
him that she couldn't touch.  Despite the hazards, despite
conventional wisdom, despite all the warning bells that went
off in his head every time he and Scully neared the
invisible line between their worlds, Mulder wanted to know
everything about her--what made her laugh and cry, what made
her writhe and what made her scream.  The feel and smell and
taste of her--he wanted to know all of that.

So why'd you push her away, Mulder?  

She had been enjoying his touch, responding to his
seduction.  Why had he screwed it up?   

Because you realized that maybe she'd have responded 
to any halfway attractive man?  Because any set of strong,
warm hands could have elicited that sound from her throat?
The little voice at the back of his mind was taut and dark.
Because when a woman gets lonely, maybe any warm body
will do?  

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pressed
his face into his palms.   He wanted to be special to her.  He
wanted to give her something nobody else in the world could
give her.  

For a moment, he thought he had. 

But he'd been wrong.

What if he were wrong about other things as well? 

Had he been reading things into their relationship all these
years?  Was that spark of attraction he'd thought he saw 
from the very first nothing more than wishful thinking?  A
figment of his overwrought imagination?

Was he risking the best thing in his life--his friendship with this incredible woman--to tilt at another windmill?



End of #6


***End Notes:  The U.S.S. Thresher incident is an actual event in American history.  The Thresher sank on April 10, 1963 as noted. However, NOTHING remotely like the events I propose in this piece of fiction ever took place.  I do not mean to suggest otherwise. 




DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this story belong to
CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.

This is chapter seven of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees
of Separation.  The events in this story precede the events
in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. 

Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 



12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#7:  "Redemption"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Dana Scully's Apartment
February 16, 1998
5:03 a.m.


Scully tiptoed into the living room, past the still, quiet
form of her partner sprawled on the couch, and checked her
computer.  Her screen saver had kicked in, scrolling a quote
from MOBY DICK across her screen:  "My soul is more than
matched; she's overmanned; and by a madman!"  A small, wry
smile touched her lips.

Yes, indeed.

She moved the mouse and the screensaver disappeared,
revealing a dialogue box in the middle of the computer
screen.  "Open file?" it asked.

Scully's stomach coiled with a mixture of excitement and
dread.  She glanced over her shoulder at Mulder, her
expression softening at the sight of his face, boyish in
slumber.  He hadn't slept much, she knew--she'd awakened
briefly around 2:00 a.m. to find him still up, watching an
old James Dean movie with the sound turned way down so 
as not to disturb her. 

She sighed, wishing she knew what she was going to do
about this exciting, complex man.  Why was it so difficult
for them to test the boundaries of their relationship? 
Friends became lovers every day---and many of them found a
way to make their relationships work.  Her own parents had
been friends first; she had heard the story so many times
she knew it by heart.  Margaret had been a child and William
a teenager when they met.  A friend of Margaret's older
brother Patrick, William had been like another brother--
sometimes playing the role of protector, sometimes
confidante, sometimes patient playmate.  But never anything
but friends--until the summer Margaret had turned seventeen.

That year, William Scully came back from his final year at
the Naval Academy with the news that he had received his
first commission and would be leaving for Mobile, Alabama,
in two weeks.

That's when Margaret Cleary had realized she was deeply in
love with her best friend.

Scully smiled, remembering the chuckle in her mother's voice
every time she told the next part of the story.  "And you
know me when I make a decision...."

Maybe that was the problem, she reflected.  She hadn't yet
made a decision about Mulder.  

The situation was just so complicated.  Whatever decision
she arrived at could have dire consequences.  Ignoring her
growing feelings for Mulder guaranteed a future of
frustration.  Could she really continue to work with him
indefinitely, having to sublimate her desires?  The fact
that they'd managed to stay together this long without
dealing with their feelings was more a result of the
frantic, dangerous nature of their work than of any
carefully considered decision on the part of either of
them.

And what, exactly, WERE Mulder's feelings for her?  She knew
he trusted her implicitly and exclusively.  She knew that he
found her attractive--last night's aborted attempt at
seduction was hardly the first time she'd been aware of his 
appreciation for her as a woman.  But was Mulder capable
of more?  Was he able to love her the way she needed to be
loved--fully and fearlessly, the way her parents had loved
each other?

She closed her eyes.  Damn it, I can't even take the time to
think about this, she realized.  They had so much to do--so
many secrets still to uncover.  

Secrets that might be revealed with a single click of the
computer mouse button.

She turned from the computer and crossed quietly to the
kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker.  The soft hissing sound
of hot water streaming through the grounds in the filter
followed her into the living room.  She paused at the edge
of the sofa, staring down at Mulder, allowing herself one
stolen moment of pleasure at the sight of him.

God, he was beautiful.  Not just physically, although she
found him very attractive.  Mulder's beauty came from his
fierce, ultimately noble soul.  No matter how crazy he made
her, no matter how infuriating his reckless disregard for
his own safety, no matter how single-minded and driven he
could be in his quest for the truth, at his heart, he was a
good, decent man who wanted to do the right thing for the
right reasons.  He was all too rare a creature in this
world, and Scully would always love him if for that reason
alone.

She reached down and gently traced the curve of his cheek. 
He gave a start, his eyes popping open and his body coiling
with tension for a moment, until his eyes met hers.  Then he
visibly relaxed, his eyes softening, his mouth curving in a
sheepish smile. 

"Morning," she murmured, stepping back from him.

"Morning."  He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes with his
fingertips and yawning.  His hair was spiked in a hundred
different directions, and his jaw was blue with stubble. His
white t-shirt was rumpled and untucked from his jeans.  He
stretched his neck, baring his throat to her in an oddly
endearing show of trust.  "Coffee?"

"Almost ready," she answered.

His expression changed in an instant, and he stood, crossing
to the the computer.  "The file--"

"I wanted to wait until you woke to open it."  She followed
him, pulling up a chair next to him as he sat in her desk
chair.  He closed his hand over the mouse and started to
click the button, but she covered his hand with hers,
stilling his movement for a moment.

He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.

"I just--"  She took a breath and started again.  "I just
wanted to tell you that no matter what we find in these
files, WE'RE going to be okay.  There's nothing in here that
can hurt us."

His eyes searched hers for a long, electric moment.  Her
breath caught in her lungs, making her head swim.  Then he
nodded and turned back to the computer.  He pressed the 
mouse button, his finger moving beneath her own.  As she 
moved her hand away, the screen filled with writing.

She scooted her chair closer.

     "Dear Fox," the file began.

"It's a letter," Mulder murmured. "From my father."

Scully started to stand and move away, but Mulder reached
over and grabbed her wrist.  "Don't go."

She looked up at him.  "I don't want to intrude."

"There's nothing in here that I would keep secret from you,
Scully."  He gently tugged her back down to her chair and
slid his arm around the chair back, keeping her close.  She
settled into the warm curve of his arm and looked back at
the message on the screen.

     "For twenty-two years, I have lived in utter silence
     with the knowledge of my ultimate damnation, as if by
     never speaking the words aloud, I would have my
     sentence commuted in the end.  But redemption can never
     be had without confession.  Though redemption may be well 
     beyond my reach, for your sake and my own an attempt 
     must be made."

Scully glanced up at Mulder, watching his eyes dart across
the page, a look of utter pain twisting his face.  She
closed her eyes a moment, a sliver of sympathetic anguish
piercing her heart.  Then she forced herself to look back at
the computer screen.  Mulder tapped the cursor down key and
the screen scrolled to the next section.
 
     "In this file, I have compiled what information still
     remains in my possession and my memory.  Regrettably,
     both sources of information have been ravaged by the
     passing years.  And I fear that when all is said and
     done, there will be truths to which I will neither be
     able nor willing to confess.  But I will try to find
     the courage that has failed me in the past.

     "Know also, my son, that I have loved you always.  Any
     choices I have made reflect only my own failings, not
     any failure on your part.  You have been a good and
     dutiful son, far more so than I deserve.  The choices
     you have made in your own life fill me with a deep
     sense of pride--and a deeper sense of shame for my own
     weaknesses.  I wish I had been half the man you have
     become, Fox.  I wish I had shown you and your mother
     even a fraction of the loyalty and devotion you give to
     those you love. 

     Every day I thank God that you have not become your
     father's son."

Scully looked at Mulder again.  Tears sparkled on his lower
eyelids, and he slowly turned his head as if to meet her gaze. 
But he couldn't look at her, and he lowered his eyes back to
his hands.  His mouth worked slowly, silently, perhaps 
searching for words to express the emotions roiling inside 
him.  Scully shook her head slightly, not needing words to 
understand.  She felt what he was feeling as keenly as if these 
tortured, guilty words had come from the heart of her own father.

Mulder closed his eyes, small tears trickling down the sides
of his cheeks.  Scully touched her fingertip to the corner
of his eye, brushing away the dampness.  She didn't try to
soothe him with words--nothing she could say had the power
to ease his pain and grief. 

He took a deep breath a moment later and opened his eyes.
And found the strength to meet her eyes.  "Let's see what 
else is in here."

As he lifted his arm away from her, reaching for the mouse,
Scully caught his wrist.  "I think we should try to print
the file first."  The last time they'd had vital information
in their hands, circumstances and treachery had conspired to
steal it from them.  Scully wanted hard evidence in her
hands--something more tangible and substantial than bytes of
information on a computer screen.

Mulder nodded and clicked the "print" button.  The dialogue
box popped up with myriad options; he chose to print three
copies of the full document.  Scully waited in utter silence
for the printer to begin the soft, mechanical hum that would
signify that the document was processing through the system.
The wait seemed endless.

Then the printer began to hum. 

Scully released her breath, noting with wry amusement that
Mulder's shoulders heaved with relief as well.  He sat back,
dropping his hand from the mouse.  "So far so good."

Scully rested her hand briefly on his thigh, gave a little
squeeze, then stood and crossed to the printer to check the
first pages that had emerged from the feeder.  The type was
clear and readable; the file hadn't re-encrypted upon being
sent to the printer the way she'd half-feared it might.

She gathered the pages, glancing over each sheet as it
emerged.  After the initial letter came an odd assortment of
documents--what looked like a passenger manifest, a list of
names and corresponding numbers, several pages of graphs
that appeared to chart some sort of test--

Several pages into the document, a name caught her eye, and
her breath faltered and hung in her throat.

Oh my God, she thought, scanning the page to see if she
could make sense of what she was seeing.

She quickly flipped back several pages to the handful of
sheets that had looked like a passenger manifest.  She
quickly scanned the list, noting with frustration that the
names were listed in order of the corresponding numbers
rather than in alphabetical order.  She forced herself to
slow her frantic respiration and concentrate, afraid she
would overlook the name she sought.

Her eyes widened as she found her own name, the notation
dated August 19, 1994--just days after Duane Barry abducted
her.  Her suspicions about the list suddenly seemed
justified--it WAS a passenger manifest, she'd be willing to
bet.  A manifest detailing her passage on a mysterious train
where mysterious doctors had performed God only knows what
kind of horrible tests on her--

She closed her eyes and tamped down the panic.  Breathe
slowly, Scully--in, out.  In, out.  She waited for her
respiration to slow and her heart rate to subside before she
opened her eyes.  When she did, she found herself looking
into Mulder's worried eyes.

"Scully?"

"I think it's a list of test subjects."  She took the list
over to where Mulder sat and showed him her name on the
manifest.  Flipping pages, she showed him another name that
appeared in what seemed to be a summary of a psychological
test.  

"Sarah Chandler," Mulder murmured, noting the name.

She nodded, running her finger down the list of names in the
passenger list.  Still no Sarah.

She went back to the printer and pulled out another handful
of pages.  The paper was hot against her cool, trembling
fingers.  She looked through the new pages, noting what
looked like another list of test subjects.  The dates listed
on these pages were much earlier than the dates shown on the
previous manifest--the first page began at October 1964.  On
a hunch, she flipped forward to November 1973, scanning the
page for a familiar name.  

And found one.

Just not the one she expected.

There was no Samantha Mulder among the test subjects
listed under the 1973 headings. 

But there was a Scully.

Melissa Scully.


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder re-read his father's words, studying the sentences
and paragraphs as if he could somehow decipher a deeper,
more familiar message of disappointment and anger within the
structure of the language.  He was floored by the enormity
of his father's confession.  No truth he might find within
the confines of this file could be more stunning than his
father's admission of love and pride.

Had his father ever spoken such words in life?  Not that
Mulder could remember.  Anger, yes.  Disapproval, certainly.
Embarrassment, definitely.  But never affection.  Never
praise.  Even before Samantha's disappearance, Bill Mulder
had been a cold, reserved man.  He'd drunk too much, slept
too little.  He'd cut off any attempts to get close to him,
hiding behind a wall of disdain and indifference, a wall
inpenetrable to the woman who longed for her husband's 
admiration and affection--or the boy who only wanted his 
father's love.

Mulder blinked back tears that stung his eyes.

Those were feelings Bill Mulder had always seemed to save 
for his daughter, his golden child.  Only Samantha had ever 
been able to breach the barriers.  She'd been that kind of
kid--bright, funny, impossible to ignore.  Mulder's own
feelings for her had always been complex--as resentful and
jealous as he'd been of his father's obvious affection for
Samantha, he himself had never been able to resist her
little girl appeal. 

When Samantha had disappeared, the fabric of their family 
had unraveled, frayed and finally fallen to pieces.  Mulder
had grown up a virtual orphan, estranged by distance and
circumstance from his father, forced by necessity to be both
son and parent to his grief-paralyzed mother.  Life as a
child had ended for Mulder at the age of twelve; he'd been
forced to grow up early.  Except for that one small part of
him that would never grow up, that twelve-year-old who would
always miss his sister--and always blame himself for her
disappearance.

He rubbed his fingertips against his stinging eyes, suddenly
drained by the combination of tension, emotion and lack of
sleep.  Enervated by the rapid-fire succession of events, he
found himself curiously lethargic.  So what if the secrets
of the universe were contained in this file?  He just wanted
to lie down and sleep for a week.

"Mulder?"

Scully's soft, strangled voice crept through the thick fog
of weariness enveloping him.  He dropped his hands from his
eyes and turned to look at her, his vision slightly blurred.
It took a moment for his sight to clear enough for him to
see that Scully was deathly pale, her forehead creased, her
lips parted and trembling. 

He pushed to his feet immediately. "What is it?

Her throat bobbed wildly for a moment, her eyes wide and
afraid as she met his gaze.  He felt a frisson of anxiety
ripple through his gut.  

"What, Scully?"  He closed the distance between them and
cupped her elbow, steadying her. 

She held out the sheaf of papers in her hand.  They
fluttered in front of him as her hand continued to shake.
Then her lips pressed tightly together, and she visibly took
hold of herself, tamping down the shock and fear.  Mulder
had seen similar transformations from her before, but as
always, her sheer determination left him in awe.  "Melissa's
name is on this list, Mulder."

He stared at her for a moment, certain he'd misunderstood. 
"Melissa?"

She thrust the papers toward him again.  He took the small
stack of printouts and looked where she indicated.  

     #062863 - August 18th, 1973 - Kingsport, Tennessee
     Melissa Scully.  DOB 3/4/62.  Red/green  5'0" 81 lbs.
     SPE, RFLP, GME, PsProf. 8/18/73-8/19/73.  
 
Mulder frowned.  "What is this?"

Scully shook her head.  "I don't know."

He flipped back a few pages, looking for some sort of cover
sheet, something to indicate what this notation might mean. 
But there was nothing but listing after listing of numbers,
dates, names and abbreviations.  The last thing before the
list began was a short notation from his father.

     "we treat innocent citizens with all the respect with
     which we would treat cattle being led to the slaughter
     like merchandise like chattel"

He glanced back through the pages, looking for other notes
from his father.  As he backtracked, he realized that the
notes at the beginning had been much more coherent, but his
father's thought processes had steadily eroded from page to
page.  

He must have been drinking, Mulder thought.

Scully picked up another copy of the listings and grabbed
her glasses from the drawer of her desk.  She sat in front
of the computer and pushed the keyboard out of the way,
making room to spread the pages in front of her.  Mulder
retrieved the other copies of the file from the printer tray
and stacked them neatly in order, letting the automatic
motions of his hands free his mind to consider the
implications of this newest discovery.

Melissa, too?

How  many lives touched by the far-reaching hand of the
consortium? he wondered.  William Scully, both of his 
daughters--who else?  The Scully sons?  

God forbid--Margaret Scully?

"I think these may be test results, Mulder."

Mulder turned toward Scully, unable to meet her eyes. 
"What kinds of tests?"

"RFLP stands for restriction fragment length polymorphism.
Basically--it refers to a genetic marker.  An RFLP test 
would provide very specific genetic information--more than
you'd get from a more standard polymerase chain reaction
test."

Mulder nodded.  "And what about SPE?  Or GME?"

Scully shrugged.  "SPE might be 'standard physical
examination.'"

That made sense.  "PsProf might be psychological profile? 
If we're right, maybe each person on this list was given a
battery of tests--"

"IF we're right, Mulder---and that's a pretty big if." 
Scully picked up several  of the sheets in front of her and
flipped through them.  "Not everyone was subjected to the
same procedures, either--if we're interpreting this
correctly."

Mulder sat down next to Scully and looked at the information
she indicated with a small tap of her forefinger.  

"Most of the people on this list have SPE and RFLP
designations. But only a handful have PsProf or GME."

Mulder glanced over the list, trying to figure out a pattern
to the notations.  "Can we deduce that the date notations on
this sheet indicate the amount of time a given test subject
was in the hands of his or her abductor?"

Scully shifted in her chair as if uncomfortable.  "Mulder,
I think it's a bit early to draw any such conclusions--"

Mulder frowned, inexplicably irritated by that single, prim
little refutation.  "Look, Scully--I'm not saying that
extraterrestrials were involved, if that's what you're
afraid of." 

"I'm not afraid, Mulder."  She bristled, her eyes pinning
him like a bug under a microscope.  "I just don't think we
can make any broad statements about what these papers mean. 
I need a lot more evidence--"

Nothing new, he thought.  Scully could be face to face with
Marvin the Damned Martian and want more proof.  "What else
could they be?"

They stared at each other, tension buzzing between them. 
Scully looked away first.  "I don't know."

Her quiet admission dissipated his anger.  He put his hand
on her shoulder.  "I don't want to believe that your sister
was subjected to God knows what kind of tests, Scully.  I
don't."

"I know."

He squeezed her shoulder and let his hand drop to his lap.
"Any idea what GME stands for?"

She shook her head.  "It's not a standard medical acronym. 
It could stand for any number of things."

Mulder glanced over the listings again.  He paused at
Melissa Scully's name.  "August 18th, 1973.  Does that ring
any bells for you?  How about Kingsport, Tennessee?  Were
you living there then?"

"No, in '73 I think we were living in Pensacola--that was
the year after we moved there from San Diego."  Scully
absently threaded her fingers though her hair, pushing the
touseled mass away from her face.  "I suppose Mom might
remember more."

"Good thing we're planning to talk to her anyway."

Scully frowned.  "I wish I didn't have to tell Mom any of
this."

"So do I."

She turned her head to look at him, her gaze direct yet
gentle.  For a moment, he couldn't breathe.  Only when her
soft voice broke the thick silence was he able to draw in a
chestful of air.  "Mulder, why don't you go take a shower
while I finish getting dressed?  We need to at least make an
appearance at the office, check in with Skinner.  I'll drop
you by your place to get a suit."

He nodded and stood.  "Okay."  He let his hand brush across
her shoulder as he stepped past her on his way to the
bathroom.  He grabbed duffel bag on the way through and took
it into the bathroom with him.  Once the door closed behind
him, he pulled his cell phone from the pocket of the jacket
and dialled a number.

"Yo."

"Frohike, I need some help.  Any idea what the notation
'GME' might mean--in connection to some sort of medical
tests?"

"Sure--the latest in high tech information gathering.
Genetic Material Extraction."

Mulder's eyebrows rose.


*  *  *  *  *

"Genetic Material Extraction?"  Scully arched her eyebrows.

"Well, it's not a run of the mill procedure, of course, but
it's well within our technological means."  Alan Pendrell's
voice was thick with sleep, making him sound like a drowsy
adolescent.  "The bigger question, of course, would be why
anyone would want to extract genetic material."

"Any ideas?"

"Well, the most obvious reason would be for comparative
testing--sort of carrying RFLP testing a few steps further."

"What would be the point of such testing?"

"Perhaps to ascertain reproductive compatibility, maybe to
clone given organ cells---I suppose, theoretically, cloning
technology might one day advance to the point that we can
clone whole new organs from somatic cells.  We'd never have
to worry about finding compatible organ donors--people could
have somatic cells extracted from their vital organs and
frozen until the time comes when a person needed an organ
replaced.  The organ could be cloned from the somatic cells
and implanted with virtually no worries about rejection."

"Alan, what you're talking about is science fiction.  That
technology doesn't exist."

"It doesn't exist yet, Dana.  But thirty years ago, the idea
that man would some day walk on the moon was also called
science fiction."

God, she thought, when did Alan turn into Mulder?  "But how
long have we been capable of genetic material extraction?"

"Officially, since the early eighties, although according to
the guys at the GUNMAN, tests were thought to be carried out
as early as the late fifties."

According to the guys at the GUNMAN?  She'd KNOWN better
than to let Pendrell leave with Byers, Langly and Frohike.
"Thanks, Alan.  Again, you've been a big help."

"Are you coming back to work today, D-Dana?"  He still
sounded uncomfortable using her first name. 

"Mulder and I are going to come by the office briefly, but
we have to go talk to a few people about the new case.  But
if you think of anything else, you have my cell phone
number."

"Yeah."  Pendrell sounded absurdly pleased.

"Thanks, Alan.  Mulder and I owe you."  She hung up the
phone and went into her bedroom to get dressed.  

She was brushing her hair when the door to the bathroom
opened and Mulder emerged, bare to the waist, towelling his
hair dry.  Scully took advantage of his covered eyes to take
a long, appreciative look at his lean body, the long torso
and the muscular stomach.  She knew from experience that his
skin was soft and his muscles hard, and no matter how ill-
advised the thought, she couldn't help but wonder what it
would be like to feel his bare skin against the bare skin of
her breasts, her stomach, her thighs--

He pulled the towel away from his head and looked up at her.

She lifted her eyes quickly to meet his gaze, hoping that
the heat she felt washing over her face and neck wasn't
quite so apparent to the eye.

"I think I left my razor at my mother's house--do you
have an extra?  And shaving lotion?"

"In the cabinet over the sink."  She followed him back to
the bathroom.

He opened the cabinet, rustling around until he found the
package of disposable razors and a can of shaving gel.  His
lips curved at the sight of the pastel can.  "Lucky I'm in
touch with my feminine side."  He sniffed cautiously at the
top of the can.

Hiding a smile, Scully reached into the cabinet for her
moisturizing face wash and scooted in next to him at the
sink.  "Mind if we share?"

He glanced at her.  "Your sink."

She turned on the water, testing its warmth.  He mirrored
her movements, his hand sliding against hers as he scooped
up a handful of water and dampened his stubbled jaw. 

Scully trembled, suddenly aware of the innate intimacy of
what they were doing.  Sharing the sink in her bathroom--
Mulder half-dressed, still damp from the shower.  The
mingled scents of soap and his tangy masculine deodorant
filled her nostrils, invaded her lungs.  She looked up in
the mirror and saw his reflection staring back at her. 

His eyes locked with hers, he leaned over her shoulder and
dipped his hands into the stream of warm water again, his
fingers slipping over hers like a caress.   She tried to
draw a breath and found she couldn't.

He eased away from her slowly, his touch gliding up her
wrist like a whisper.  He trailed drops of water up her arm
before lifting his wet hand to his face again.  She stood,
frozen, her hands still under the running water, and watched
his reflection squirt a dollop of shaving gel in the palm of
his hand.  A faint sea-scent rose from the gel.

"Nice," he murmured.  He spread the gel across his jaw, his
hand rasping softly against his beard stubble. His jaw
whitened with foam.

Scully swallowed with difficulty and tore her eyes away from
the mirror.  She squirted moisturizing wash on a soft face
cloth and set about the business of cleaning her face and
neck.  She was NOT going to look back in the mirror.  She
was NOT.

She looked back in the mirror.

Mulder's eyes met hers in the glass.  He ran the razor down
his jawline in a long, slow, sure stroke.  Great hands,
Scully thought.  The man could've been a surgeon.  Long
fingers, strong and sure.

She trapped her lower lip between her teeth and watched him
maneuver the razor over the curve of his chin.  The blade
left a swath of smooth skin, slightly pink from the rasping
of razor's sharp edge.  Her fingers tingled with the
overwhelming need to touch his face, to feel the difference
between his harsh beard and his satiny smooth skin.  

Only by the greatest of effort was she able to return her
attention to her own task.  She finished washing her face
and bent over the sink to rinse away the soap.  With her
eyes averted where Mulder couldn't read her every thought,
she could let herself admit that she liked the way she felt,
standing next to his half-naked body.  She liked the utter
awareness of her femininity, the contrast to his maleness. 
She liked the intimacy of his nearness, the way the heat of
his body washed over her like a caress.  It felt natural and
phenomenal, all at the same time.  She could imagine playing
out this scene morning after morning for the rest of her
life.  Longed for it, even.  Ached for it.
 
And that scared the hell out of her.

She straightened, patting her face dry with a hand towel. 
When she moved the towel away, she darted another peek at
the mirror.  Mulder was nearly finished shaving, only the
underside of his jaw left untouched.  He stretched his neck,
baring his throat to her again, and dipped the razor beneath
his jaw.

He jerked suddenly and hissed a quiet oath.  Blood beaded on
the skin beneath his jaw.

Scully turned and looked up at him, lifting her hand
automatically to his wound.  "Let me--"

He grabbed her wrist, stopping her.  "No."

She stared at him, startled by the sudden tension in his
voice.  "I was just going to see how much damage you did."

He released her wrist.  "It's a nick.  Dr. Scully can take
the morning off."  He grabbed the towel she'd just discarded
and patted the excess shaving lotion from his face, moving
several feet away from her, his back turned.

Scully stared at the reflection of his back in the mirror. 
What the hell was that about?  His shoulders were slightly
hunched, his muscles taut.  For God's sake, she thought,
you'd have thought I was going to strangle him.

She closed her eyes, shutting out the sight of him.  What
was happening to them?  Every word, every touch seemed only
to intensify the aching tension between them.  Mulder in
particular seemed unable to take a step forward without
taking two steps in retreat.  

She opened her eyes and stared at his reflection, thinking
of a thousand things she should say to him about trust and
love and taking risks.  But she said none of those things
when she finally spoke. "Do you want bagels for breakfast? 
Or cereal?"

Mulder turned to look at her.  His face relaxed slightly. 
"Got anything loaded with fat and sugar?"

"I'll see what I can come up with," she answered, venturing
a slight smile.  They were both making an effort to ease the
tension between them, she recognized.  But it wasn't quite
working. 

She followed him slowly to the kitchen, lagging behind,
trying to read his thoughts in the curve of his spine 
and the set of his shoulders.  He was on edge, tightly
wound.  So was she.  

And they couldn't go on that way forever.

One day soon, they were going to have to figure out what to
do about each other.

End of #7













DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this story belong to
CC, 10-13 Productions, and Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.  Benton Crane, Annelle Hollis, Lucinda Brown and Barbara Hewick belong to me (sorta <g>).  Please don't use them without permission.

Thanks go to Paul Leone and Lorna Youngs for the plotting help on this chapter.  Thanks go, also, to MaryAnn (MAPBISAC@aol.com) for answering some of my questions about psychologists and hypnosis. 

This is chapter eight of a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees
of Separation.  The events in this story precede the events
in 12 Degrees but take place in the same universe. 

Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations. 


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#8:  "Reflection"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Margaret Scully's home
February 16, 1998
8:04 a.m.


Margaret Scully knew something important was about to
happen.  Something monumental and possibly life-changing. 
She felt it in her marrow, in that same deep, dark place of
knowledge from which previous premonitions had sprung. 
She'd felt the first vague fingers of unease on Friday, when,
in the middle of preparing dinner for one of the diocese
shut-ins, she'd been struck with the certainty that
something wasn't right with Dana.  Benton Crane's call later
that evening had both confirmed and eased her fears--Dana
had been assaulted but she was all right.  And Fox was there
with her, too, which eased Margaret's mind.  

She had thought then that the uneasy feeling would go away. 
But it hadn't.  It had merely grown, transformed.  It was
about Dana, still--she felt that clearly. 

But not JUST about Dana.

She was tense, on edge, jumping at every little noise.  That
unnamed something was coming.  She could feel it, like the
change in air pressure before a storm.

When the doorbell rang, her heart leapt in her chest.

This was it.

She opened the door and found her daughter and Fox Mulder
standing on the porch, their bodies close but their souls
somehow apart.  She sensed the tension and felt a little
niggle of sadness deep inside.  What was so very clear to
her seemed to pose great difficulty for Dana and Fox.  Had
they not yet come to understand how fragile and fleeting
life was?  How rare the chances to find true joy?

As her first impressions--of tension, fear, anger--
dissipated, she noticed other more tangible things.  The
scrape on her daughter's chin.  The bandage on Fox's
forehead and the purple bruises on his cheek.  "My God, what
happened to you?"

Dana ventured a reassuring smile, but it was Fox who spoke. 
"Dana drove."

Chuckling at the glare her daughter sent in Fox's direction,
Margaret gestured them inside, her tension eased slightly 
by the familiar sound of Fox'd dry humor. Even in the very 
worst of times, back when she'd despaired of ever seeing 
Dana again, Fox had been able to make her laugh.  She would
always love Fox Mulder for giving her those few, stolen 
moments of laughter in an otherwise dark and joyless time.

"Something is wrong, isn't it?"  She didn't waste time,
leading them right to the kitchen, where all the important
Scully talks always took place.  She didn't ask if they
wanted something to drink; she automatically poured coffee
for them--Dana's with cream, no sugar; Fox's black with a
teaspoon of honey.  Dana paced quietly in the doorway of the
kitchen, while Fox leaned against the cabinets and watched
Margaret prepare the coffee.  She was certain that Fox would
be the first to speak--he vibrated with unasked questions.  

But Dana spoke first.  "Mom, we need your help."

Margaret met her daughter's wary eyes.  "Of course."

Dana took a deep breath, considering her words.  Margaret
glanced from her daughter's troubled face to the vibrant
gaze of Fox Mulder standing at her elbow.  He blazed with
nervous energy, the sheer intensity of his expression
threatening to overwhelm her.  She looked away, marveling at
strong a woman her daughter must be to handle a man like Fox
Mulder on a daily basis.

Dana stopped pacing in the doorway and turned to look at
her.  "Mom, just before Dad died, did he tell you about a
trip he made to Boston to see Bill Mulder?"

Margaret released a soft sigh, not quite able to hide the
sadness that rippled through her at the memory.  William had
been so worried about their girl, so afraid of what danger 
her new partner might pose.  He had spent the greater part 
of his life in the Navy, and though he'd thrived on doing 
his duty to his country, he had not escaped without a
sense of cynicism.  He had seen the price of freedom--and
the toll of deceit.  And he'd feared for his daughter, for
the lessons she, too, would have to learn.

"You knew about it, didn't you, Mom?"  Dana's face reflected
pain and betrayal.  

Margaret closed her eyes for a moment.  "Yes."

"Why?  Why did he want to talk to Mr. Mulder?"  Dana's voice
was taut with a combination of anger and pain.

Margaret eyes flickered open, widening with surprise. 
"Dana?  You know your father would never do anything
dishonorable, don't you?  Surely you don't doubt that."

Fox spoke quickly.  "Of course, Dana knows that.  We both
do."

Dana looked up at Fox, her eyes widening slightly.  He met
her searching gaze with an intensity that only served to
strengthen Margaret's certainty that he was the only man in
the world for her daughter.  Without words they spoke
volumes; with mere flicks of their eyebrows they held entire
conversations.  

Yet the most important words could not remain unspoken
forever.  One of them would have to find the courage to say
them first.

Dana looked away from Fox, her gaze steady as she met
Margaret's eyes.  "I know Dad would never have done anything
wrong.  But he must have had a reason for wanting to meet
with Mulder's father."

"How did you find out about this?" Margaret asked.

Dana reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a slip of
paper and what looked like a pocket planner.  "We found this
in a trunk that Mulder's father left for him."

Margaret took the slip of paper from Dana's outstretched
hand.  She unfolded the note and scanned it quickly, her
breath catching in her lungs as she recognized the bold,
looping script of her late husband.  Tears pricked the back
of her eyes as in that small, brief moment she relived every
letter, every note, every snippet of correspondence she'd
ever seen bearing his handwriting. 

"What did Dad mean about 'something' Mr. Mulder might
consider worth a trade?" Dana asked.

Margaret shook her head, blinking back tears.  "I don't
know."

"Did he tell you anything at all?" Fox asked.  His voice was
gentle, hesitant.

Margaret looked up and met his earnest, slightly wary gaze.
"Let's sit down, and I'll tell you what I can remember."


*  *  *  *  *


Scully felt Mulder's eyes on her.  His gaze was hot and
intense, alternately questioning and comforting.  She
couldn't look at him now, however, not with her emotions raw
and exposed.  Mulder depended on her strength and her
composure.  She didn't want to fall apart in front of him
again. 

"Fox, I've told you about Dana's father and how much he
loved serving his country."

"Yes."

"The only thing he loved more than the sea and the Navy was
his family.  He would have given anything for us.  Made any
sacrifice we asked of him.  He would have turned his back on
the sea and his career if we had required that of him."

"But we would never ask that of him, no matter how much it
took him away from us," Scully murmured, a faint smile
touching her lips at the bittersweet memory of her father
and his passions.  "Ahab and the sea were never meant to be
separated.  We all knew that."

"Sounds like a lucky man."  Beneath the table, Mulder's hand
brushed lightly over her knee, giving her a slight squeeze. 
The comfort he meant to convey was colored by her own
shivering awareness of his nearness.  She took a
deliberately deep breath to steady herself.  

"We were the lucky ones," Margaret said, her voice soft, her
eyes misty and faraway.  "He was a good husband, a good
father.  William would have done anything to keep his
children safe."

"Is that why he wanted to meet with Mr. Mulder?" Scully
reached across the table to squeeze her mother's hand.

Margaret dragged herself back from her memories and met
Scully's gaze.  "Yes.  When you told us you were working
with Fox Mulder, the name rang a bell for him."

"Rang a bell?" Mulder asked.

"Apparently William and your father crossed paths a long
time ago, Fox.  You couldn't have been more than a toddler--
Dana wasn't even born yet."

"When, Mom?" Scully asked.  "Under what circumstances?"

"I barely remember, honey--it was so long ago.  But it had
to do with a military accident.  William lost a good friend."

"What kind of accident?" Fox asked.

"William was in the Silent Service for much of his early
career in the Navy," Margaret replied.  "He was a lieutenant
j.g. on the USS Blaire in 1963 when he and his submarine
were called to deal with a rogue Russian submarine--
apparently the crew had mutinied and had loaded the torpedo
bays, looking for targets.  William and his boat were
commanded to sink the Russian sub."

"But?" Scully prodded.

"But William told me later that the Blaire's sonar operator
swore that the Russian sub was no such thing--the sound of
the screws was all wrong."

"Could it have been another American sub?" Mulder asked.

Scully knew he was thinking of the USS Thresher.  So was
she, to tell the truth.  If someone in the government--or
someone on the fringes of the government--had wanted the
Thresher scuttled for whatever reason, they knew how to make
it happen.  They knew how to cover it up, too.

"That's what William came to believe," Margaret admitted. 
"That question haunted him 'til the end.  Because the same
day the Blaire sank the so-called Russian sub, his friend
Thomas Linwood died in a freak submarine accident in the
same area."

"The Thresher," Mulder murmured.

Margaret looked up at him, surprised.  "Yes.  How did you
know?"

Mulder reached into the breast pocket of his suit.  "This
was in my father's trunk."

Margaret took the newspaper clipping and glanced over it,
her forehead creased.  "Why do you suppose your father kept
this?"

"Because I think it's connected to this."  Mulder handed her
another slip of paper, this time the State Department memo
referring to the Russian submarine incident.  "My father
wrote that memo about the sinking of that so-called Russian
sub.  But I think maybe Capt. Scully was right.  I think
maybe the Blaire sank the Thresher."

"But why?" Margaret asked.

Scully looked down at her hands, twining and untwining her
fingers.  Why, indeed?

Had it been a simple snafu?  Lack of communication leading
to a horrible accident that the military and the State
Department later covered up?  Or had the sinking of the
Thresher been deliberate, a direct order from higher ups
with their own hidden agenda?

"Did Capt. Scully ever voice his suspicions?"

Margaret nodded.  "He did.  He was thanked for his concern
and informed that any further inquiry into the matter was
the business of military intelligence."

"And nothing ever came of it."

Margaret looked at Mulder.  "William agonized over that for
all the years of his life.  He had followed protocol,
informed the proper authorities in the subscribed manner--"

Mulder made soft, derisive sound.  Both Margaret and Scully
looked up at him, and he reddened.  "Sometimes it's hard to
keep track of who the good guys are."

Margaret nodded.  "William said the same thing."

"You said that Capt. Scully had crossed paths with my father
during that incident.  How?"

"I'm not clear on that," Margaret admitted.  "He was out to
sea for a long time on that tour of duty.  And there were
things he couldn't tell me about his work because of
security concerns."  She pushed back her chair and rose to
her feet.  "But I think I know where you might find more
answers."

Scully and Mulder stood as well, exchanging quick glances. 
Mulder's eyes were dark with excitement.  Scully herself was
torn between anticipation and dread.  "Where, Mom?"

Margaret's face softened, and her lips curved in a slight
smile.  "Your father can tell you in his own words."


*  *  *  *  *


Margaret Scully's House
Feb. 16th, 1998
8:58 a.m.


Mulder walked slowly around William Scully's study, noting
the simple, masculine feel of the room.  Tall bookshelves
lined two of the four walls, while a battered but sturdy
mahogany desk and two Navy surplus file cabinets filled the 
wall in front of the window.  For a second, he was back in the
old house in Chilmark, in his father's study.  The trappings
were finer there, but the same utilitarian austerity
prevailed.  Bill Mulder and William Scully had shared that
much in common.

What else might they have shared?  

Mulder had told Mrs. Scully that he had no doubts about
William Scully's honor, and for the most part that was true.

But he'd seen too much, lost too much to trust anyone
completely. 

Anyone but Scully.

He glanced at her.  She leaned against the edge of the desk
watching her mother unlock one of the file cabinets. 
Scully's posture was deceptively relaxed, but Mulder had
been with her long enough to recognize the lines of tension
in her forehead and the rapid rise and fall of her chest as
her respiration quickened with anxiety.  She was scared. 
She was scared to death that something they found here today
might compromise her respect and admiration for her father.

He envied the fact that she still had illusions left to
be shattered.  His own had been crushed long ago.  The most
recent revelations about his father's treachery were nothing
but overkill.

She turned her head, her gaze meeting his for a moment
before sliding past him to stare at the wall beyond.  "My
father kept a journal for as long as I can remember."  Her
voice was faint, far away.  "I remember when I was small, he
would ask me how to spell words he wanted to use in his
journal entries.  It was a game we played.  Mostly he'd ask
me about easy words like 'run' or 'water'--but sometimes,
he'd get the most mischievous look in his eye and ask me how
to spell a word like 'refraction.'"  She chuckled softly,
gesturing at the small wool rug by the desk.  "I learned how
to spell right there, sitting in the floor at my father's
feet."

"Won the state spelling bee when she was in the fifth
grade," Margaret tossed over her shoulder.  She gave a
strong yank and the bottom drawer of the file cabinet
opened.  She reached inside and withdrew several thin,
leatherbound volumes from the drawer.  "These are the
journals from the early 1960's."  She handed them to Scully
and opened one of the upper drawers.  "And this is from
1992 and 1993."  She gave that journal to Mulder.

He took the volume and pulled his glasses from the breast
pocket of his jacket.  Settling in one of the leather
armchairs in front of the desk, he opened the journal and
began flipping pages, looking for his father's name.

"I don't know if I can do this."  Scully's voice broke into
his concentration.  He looked up and found her clutching the
journal against her abdomen, a deep frown on her face.  "I
feel as if I'm invading Dad's privacy."

Margaret crossed to her daughter and slipped her arm around
Scully's shoulder.  "Dana, Dad would have been glad to help
you find the answers to your questions."

Scully cut her eyes toward Mulder.  He read her gaze with
the ease of a long-time companion.  She knew as well as he
did that it was time to ask the OTHER question raised by the
information they'd gathered from his father's belongings.  

The question of what happened to Melissa in 1973.

Scully didn't want to bring up the subject.  She didn't want
him to say anything, either.  She didn't want to think about
it.  The reluctance was written all over her worried face.

He was torn, himself.  He had no desire to add to Margaret
Scully's sadness--but if he could find out what happened to
Melissa, maybe he could find out what had happened to
Samantha, too.  Maybe he could finally find proof of what
had been done to her, where he could find her remains. 
Maybe he and his mother could finally put Samantha to rest
and get on with their lives.

"I need to run some errands, sweetheart."  Margaret spoke,
snapping the band of tension stretching between Scully and
him.  "You and Fox feel free to stay here as long as you
need.  Make yourselves at home--there's tea in the fridge
and makings for sandwiches.  I should be home before lunch,
though."

Scully was silent until she heard the front door shut behind
her mother.  Then she turned to Mulder.  "I think this is
really hard for her.  She tries to hide it, but she misses
Dad so much.  He'd retired just a year or two before his
death--they had so looked forward to the time when they
would be together every day, just the two of them...."

Mulder nodded.  "Life can be unspeakably cruel."

Her eyes softened with compassion, and he felt something
stir deep inside.  He knew with utter certainty that if he
went to her now and let go of the pain and fear he harbored
inside him, she would open her arms and take it all.  Weep
with him, rail against heaven in his stead, hold him up with
her steely strength.  Just when he'd gotten used to being
horribly alone, she'd been foisted upon him by his enemies. 

Thank God.

Still, he couldn't let go of his tight grip on his pain. 
Sometimes he thought that the pain was the only thing
holding him together.  It was the glue that kept him from
shattering into a million little pieces.  If he could feel
the pain, he knew he was still alive, still breathing.

He looked back at the journal in his lap.  He'd flipped
pages up to March 1992.  He turned to March 6, 1992, the
day Scully had been assigned to work with him.  No entry,
but three days later, William Scully had jotted a brief
notation:

     Dana has been assigned field agent status.  She says
     she's glad to be trying something new, but I don't like
     the thought of my baby girl on the streets wearing a
     gun.  She's been assigned to an odd division as well--
     a project, she says.  Called the X-Files.  I asked Bud
     Cromwell about the division and he laughed.  Apparently
     some eccentric Bureau genius has taken to lurking in
     the basement of FBI headquarter, looking for ghosts and
     goblins.  Good God, is this what I went to sea to
     protect and serve?  

     And now poor Starbuck has to deal with this oddball. 
     Well, if anyone in the world can put the fellow in his
     place, it's my girl.


Mulder's lips curled slightly.  Indeed she could. 

But he was sad that Scully's father had seen him this way,
as an oddball, a pariah.  Someone whose unwelcome presence
his daughter was forced to endure.  Despite his tendency
toward self-loathing, Mulder recognized that he was much
more to Dana Scully than a millstone around her neck.  He'd
saved her life just as she'd saved his, many times over. 
He'd been there, for the most part, when she'd needed his
comfort and support.  And sometimes, though she'd never
admit it, he made her laugh.

He looked up and found her engrossed in the open journal in
front of her.  He stole that moment to just watch her,
notice the way her facial expressions changed subtly as she
took in the words in front of her.  He'd known her for so
many years--his relationship with her was the most intense,
exclusive and long-lived relationship of his entire life,
and yet he never really seemed to tire of her.  He always
seemed to notice something new, something different about
her every time he looked at her--the way her hair curled
around her chin, the almost imperceptible beauty mark above
her lip, the way her eyecolor changed as often as the
weather.

"Any luck?" he asked.

She looked up, blinking as if he'd startled her.  "I'm up to
April 11, 1963, the day after the Thresher sank.  Mostly
Dad's entries are about losing his friend.  He hasn't said
anything about his suspicions concerning the connection
between the Thresher and the alleged Russian sub.  But
that's how Dad would have been--he'd have pursued the proper
channels first before even speculating in writing."

Mulder nodded and turned his attention back to the journal
in his lap.  He slowly flipped through the pages, scanning
William Scully's entries in search of familiar names or
dates.  He found another mention of the X-Files in October
of 1992:

     Dana visited today.  She seems happy with her work on
     the X-Files, although when I asked her about her
     partner, she rolled her eyes at me.  Poor sad fool,
     she's probably got him cowering in the basement by now,
     trembling at the sight of her.  That's my girl.

Mulder chuckled softly.

"What?"  Scully looked up from the journal she was reading. 

"Your father's opinion of me...left a lot to be desired."

"He never met you, Mulder."

"Well, apparently you gave him the impression that I was 
like some kind of human mold, hiding out in the basement of
the FBI building, afraid of direct sunlight and hard-assed
G-women."

Her eyes twinkled for a moment.  "I don't know WHERE he'd
have gotten that idea."

He arched one eyebrow at her and returned his attention to
the journal.  The next entry of interest was dated October
15th, 1993:

     Confirmed my lingering suspicions.  Dana's Mulder IS
     Bill Mulder's son.  Suddenly I'm wondering just who
     assigned her to this mysterious X-Files division and
     why. It was bad enough spending my whole career being
     manipulated and lied to--that's NOT going to happen to
     my daughter, too.  The danger to her is too great.  I
     won't stand for it.  She'll be angry with me for my
     interference, but I can't stand by and leave her in the
     heart of danger without trying to stop it.

And then, November 12th:  

     I sent a letter to Bill Mulder, asking him to meet with
     me in Boston on November 19th.  I told him I was
     willing to make a trade--something I want for something
     he wants.  It won't hurt for him to believe I know
     something more than I do.  It's a risk, perhaps, but my
     sources say that Mulder is persona non grata among his
     previous associates, that he's a drunkard and a coward.

     I doubt I have anything to fear--but I'm certain I have
     much to gain.

Mulder released a small sigh of relief.  Whatever doubts he
had harbored about William Scully had faded to nothingness,
leaving only a deep and growing respect and admiration for
his partner's late father.  Mulder regretted that he'd never
had the chance to meet him.  Any man who could capture the
heart of Mrs. Scully and rear a daughter as fine as Dana had
to have been a hell of a man.

Then his relief faded into regret as he re-read the passage. 
"...he's a drunkard and a coward...."

Mulder arched his eyebrows slightly.  Come on, Captain
Scully, don't pull your punches.  Tell me what you REALLY
think of the Mulder men....

"Mulder--listen to this."  Scully's voice tugged him back
from the edge of darkness.  She began to read from the
journal in front of her.    

"I finally presented the Naval Review Board my suspicions
about the Russian submarine incident.  I relayed sonar
operator Joffrey's concerns about the screw signature and my
own confirmation of what Joffrey heard, but to no avail. 
The Review Board informed me that a team from the Pentagon
under direct supervision of the State Department had
thoroughly investigated both incidents and there was no
correlation.  They showed me the State Department memo
settling the matter.

"I don't believe we are being told the truth, but I have no
proof to contradict the official report.  I do have deep
reservations about the State Department's handling of the
inquiry, however.  Neither I nor Lt. Joffrey was ever
questioned by anyone concerning the incident.  And now Lt.
Joffrey has gone AWOL, so I have no one to corroborate my
own observations.  All I have are suspicions--and the name
of the State Department's point man.  William Mulder."

Scully looked up at him.  "This must be the connection Mom
was talking about."

Mulder nodded.  His head suddenly hurt; he pulled off his
glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb
and forefinger.  "Anything else?  Any mention of Lt.
Joffrey's death?"

Scully arched her eyebrows.  "Death?"

"You don't think he simply went AWOL?  That would be pretty
damned convenient, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose."  She sighed softly, returning her attention to
the journal.

Mulder watched her for a moment, suffering a surprisingly
sharp pang of sheer jealousy.  Must be nice, he thought,
knowing your father was such a damned paragon.  Capt.
Straight Ass "I never met a rule book I didn't like" Scully.
Mr. "I'm so fucking perfect I make Bill Mulder look like the
goddam anti-Christ!" Scully....

Mulder wanted to throw something, break something, kill
something.  Just for a second.  Just long enough to remind
him that he still had the capacity to be his father's son.

Then the anger seeped away, leaving guilt and remorse in its
wake.  He didn't resent William Scully, he knew.  He
resented his own father's weakness and evil.  God, he'd give
his right arm to have been William Scully's son.  To have a
father who'd have fought the devil himself to protect his
children.  William Scully would never have let anyone force
him into making a choice between his children.  He'd have
died first.

Bitter tears stung Mulder's eyes.  He rubbed his burning
eyes with his fingertips, trying to regather his wits. 
Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to solve this case.  

"Joffrey was found dead in a back alley in San Francisco two
weeks after the submarine incident."  Scully's voice was low
and tired. 

He looked up at her, his vision slightly blurred.  "Murder?"

"Opium overdose."

He nodded.  "Same thing."

"That's what my father thought."  Scully lay the journal on
her father's desk and pushed her hair back from her face. 
"I had no idea he had gone through something like this.  He
never told us."

"I suppose he wanted to spare you that kind of story.  Kind
of hard to teach your children about patriotism when your
own country is screwing the hell out of you."

"Were you always this jaded, Mulder?  Didn't your father try
to spare you, even a little bit?"

"Oh, yeah, he spared me," Mulder muttered, his voice thick
and ugly with bitter anger.  "He spared me at the expense of
my sister's life.  Thanks, Dad."

Scully's lower lip trembled a little, and he kicked himself
mentally, angry that he'd dumped his pain and anger in her
lap yet again.  She didn't need any of this--not the danger
she faced daily because of him, not the loss of her
innocence and her faith--

"What about you?  What have you found?"  Scully regained
control over her trembling lip and nodded toward the journal
in his lap.

"Just a rundown of the Mulder family failings."  He tried to
smile, but his face felt stiff.  "I'm about to check your
father's account of his meeting with my father in Boston. 
Assuming Dad bothered to show."  Opening the journal, he
flipped through to the entry dated November 18, 1993 and
began reading aloud.

"Bill Mulder was so much smaller a man than I expected.  Not
just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well.  He
was more a shell than a man--a husk of humanity covering
utter emptiness.  He has no life now; I didn't need to hear
almost those very words from him to know the truth.  He has
lost everything, and for what?  To what end?  I don't know. 
I don't think Mulder knows.  

"I wanted to hate him because of the lies he has perpetrated
for all these years, but somehow it was pity that most
plagued me upon meeting him.  I felt sorry for him because I
realized that I have what he longs for most--a family who
loves me.  A clear conscience.  A reason to live.

Mulder swallowed with difficulty and dropped the book in his
lap, suddenly unable to return his eyes to the page.

Scully rose from her father's desk chair and walked around
the mahogany desk to crouch at Mulder's side.  She put her
hand over his and looked up into his face, her sheer will
forcing him to look at her.  The gentle compassion in her
eyes almost broke him.  He thrust the book at her.  "Please
finish."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded.

She took the book from him and stood, leaning against the
edge of the desk.  She began reading aloud.

"He was drunk.  He was shaking and weak.  He spoke in
riddles, his voice slurred.  He asked me the strangest
question...."  Scully's voice trailed off.

Mulder met her wary gaze.  "What is it?"

She didn't answer right away.

"Read it, Scully."  He braced himself mentally--and
physically as well, his hands clutching the arms of the
chair.

She took a breath and began again.  "He asked me the
strangest question. 'Captain Scully, if your children were
in danger and you could only save one, how would you make
that choice?'"


*  *  *  *  *


Scully paused, glancing at Mulder.  He closed his eyes,
as if unable to bear the sight of her pity.  "Go on."  His
voice was raspy, as if he'd swallowed broken glass.

She resumed reading.  "I was so angry at the question I 
almost hit him.  But then I saw that he was in agony. I had 
heard that his daughter disappeared when she was a little 
girl--that must still haunt him.  I can't imagine such pain 
myself--I don't want to imagine it.  So I walked away.  I 
suppose I found the answer I sought--Bill Mulder and his son
are not threats to my daughter.    It was wretchedly obvious
that Bill Mulder means nothing to anyone anymore--probably 
not even his son."

"He was wrong," Mulder murmured.  "No matter what my father
did, no matter how he hurt us and failed us, I loved him
anyway.  I still wanted his approval and his love. How sick
is that?"

Scully looked up at him, her heart breaking.  "Mulder, he
was your father.  You loved him because you were his son."
She touched his arm.  "Sometimes that's all the reason
that's necessary--and there's nothing wrong with that."

Mulder pulled away from her touch, his movements quick and
jerky with anger.  "He let me believe that it was MY fault
Samantha was taken, Scully.  He KNEW why they'd taken her--
for God's sake, he made the choice himself!"  He raked his
fingers through his hair.  "I wish he'd chosen for them to
take me instead, Scully.  I wish they'd taken me."

Scully shook her head violently.  "No."

"At least I wouldn't have lived the last 25 years with this
empty place inside me that nothing else can fill."  He shook
his head, his anger visibly transforming to bitter sadness. 
"I've tried to fill it, Scully.  I've tried my work, my
obsession with finding the truth.  I've tried liquor, I've
tried sex--"  He paused, turning his head slowly to look
into her eyes.  "When we first started working together, I
thought maybe I could fill that place with you.  You could
take Samantha's place for me.  But you're not her."

Scully's heart sank into the deepest place inside her.  She
couldn't bear to look into his eyes and see the sadness and
disappointment.  "I'm sorry."

He reached out and cupped her jaw, forcing her to look up at
him.  "No, Dana."

She blinked, surprised by his unaccustomed use of her first
name. 

"You have your own place inside me that you fill perfectly. 
I realized that when you were taken from me."  He slid his
hand around the back of her neck and pulled her to him, his
other arm slipping around her shoulders to draw her into a
fierce embrace.  He brushed his lips against her forehead. 
"I used to take courage in the fact that you came back to
me.  I thought maybe someday she would return as well."  He
sighed, his warm breath stirring her hair.  "But that's not
going to happen, is it?"

She tightened her arms around his waist, wanting to give him
hope, to offer something to ease the soul-deep ache she felt
from him with the empathy of a long-time companion.  But
more than compassion, Mulder valued honesty.  And the truth
was, there was little reason to hope for Samantha's return. 

Mulder released her.  "You really do put up with a lot of
crap from me, Scully.  I don't say thank you enough."

"Cuts both ways, Mulder," she assured him with a smile. 
"So--what now?"

"Well, we've cleared your father--that's one thing off our
minds."

She glanced at him, warmed by his obvious relief.  She
wished she could find a way to at least partially redeem his
own father in his eyes.  For all the damning evidence to the
contrary, Scully had a gut feeling that somewhere before the
end, Bill Mulder had tried to make amends for his earlier
sins.  Maybe it was as simple as the confession he'd been
trying to make to his son right before he'd been shot.  The
night of Bill Mulder's murder, when Mulder had been so out
of his head from the drugs in his water, he'd told Scully
all he could remember from his meeting with his father.  The
details were blurred by the drugs, but she'd gleaned enough
to realize that Bill Mulder had been trying to tell his son
all the dirty secrets he had to hide.  

He'd wanted to do the right thing in the end.  That had to
count for something.

"There's still the question of Melissa, though."

Her stomach lurched and fell.  "We have to be
misinterpreting those papers, Mulder.  I can't believe my
sister could have been missing for two days without my
hearing something about it.  Even at nine, I would've known
something was going on."

"What else could those papers be, Scully?"

"I don't know."  She crossed to the file cabinet and rested
her hand on the drawer marked "1970-1980." The brass handle
beneath her fingers was cold and smooth.  "There has to be
another explanation."

"That's what we're looking for, Scully.  An explanation."

She looked up at him, searching his face.  Is that really
what you're seeking? she wondered, studying the eager glint
in his eyes, the taut anticipation that corded every muscle
in his body.  Or are you looking for evidence to prove your
own theories about what happened to your sister?  Are you
looking for proof that my sister was an abductee?

She looked away, sudden anger firing through her.  Damn him,
she thought.  Damn his obsessions and his single-minded
pursuit of his narrow version of the truth.  Sometimes she
wondered what would happen if they discovered proof that her
own missing time was a result of extraterrestrial
experimentation, as she knew he'd theorized.  Would he be
thrilled?  Elated?  Would he rejoice at the final,
unalterable proof of his theory, even if it meant that
something unspeakably foul had been perpetrated against her?

Would he sacrifice her for his own truth?

In the throes of her anger, she remembered a dark night and
a moonlit bridge outside Bethesda, Maryland, when Fox Mulder
traded a woman he believed to be his sister for Scully's
safety.  She knew he'd hedged his bets, taken every
precaution to ensure that neither of them were hurt, but the
bottom line was, he'd risked the goal of his quest for her. 
And deep in her heart, beneath her questions and fears, she
knew he'd do it again.

She tugged on the file cabinet drawer.  It opened with a
low, metallic groan.  She looked through the neatly filed
journals, noting the dates written in bold black strokes on
the narrow spines of the books. She found the book labeled
"October 1972 - September 1973" and withdrew it from the
drawer.  As she opened it near the back, she felt Mulder
come up behind her, his body heat seeping through the layers
of linen, cotton and silk she wore.  She closed her eyes for
a second, taking strength from his nearness.  Then she
looked down at the open journal.

She flipped forward to August 18 and glanced over her
father's entry for that day.  "He was at sea then," she
murmured, noting the litany of daily duties and amusing
shipboard anecdotes her father had recorded.  She slowly
flipped forward a few pages, scanning the pages for any
mention of Melissa.  Still nothing--no mention of any of his
children, except a brief statement about calling them all as
soon as the sub was allowed out from under radio silence.

"Nothing?" Mulder asked, his voice tight with
disappointment.

Scully shook her head, turning to look at him.  "Nothing."

"Then we have to ask your mother."

"Ask me what?"

Scully's heart lurched at the sound of her mother's voice. 
She had been so intently searching her father's journal that
she hadn't heard the front door open or her mother's
approach.  She pressed her palm against her chest.  "You
scared the life out of me!"

Margaret looked from Scully to Mulder, her eyes wary.  "What
do you want to ask me, Fox?"

Scully put her hand on Mulder's elbow and squeezed, hoping
he'd get the message.  If he did, he ignored it.

"Mrs. Scully, in August of 1973, was Melissa missing for any
period of time?"

Her mother's eyes widened.  "Yes.  How did you know?"

Scully's heart dropped.  "She was?  When?"

Margaret walked deeper into the room.  "Like Fox said, it
was August.  Middle of the month, I think--I don't remember
exactly.  Melissa was at summer camp just outside Bristol,
Virginia--Our Lady of Mercy.  It's a Catholic girls' camp."

"I don't remember anything like that," Scully protested.

"You weren't there, honey.  That was the summer you went to
Maine for the Young Scientists Camp.  Remember--you won
first prize at the commencement fair."

She nodded, the memory teasing her mind.  "But how--what--?" 
She didn't know what question to ask.

"What happened, Mrs. Scully?  How long was Melissa missing?"

"Only a day and a half.  She went off in the woods by
herself and got lost.  When they found her two days after,
she was fine.  Tired and a little scraped up, but fine.  She
said she went looking for trilliums in the woods and got
distracted by a family of rabbits playing tag in the
underbrush.  She followed them and lost track of where she
was.  The more she wandered, the more lost she became."

That sounded like Melissa, Scully thought.  Never had a
great sense of direction--and so easily distracted.  She
couldn't squelch a sad smile.  "So that was it?  She got
lost, and then she was found?"

Margaret nodded.  "I didn't even think about it after it was
over.  I didn't mention it to your father until weeks later,
when he managed a trip home."

"What about Bill and Charlie?  They never said anything."

Margaret frowned slightly, arching one eyebrow at Scully. 
Scully blushed, realizing her questions had sounded like a
cross-examination.  "Bill was at boy's camp, and Charlie was
only four--I doubt he even knew what was happening."

"What about Melissa?" Mulder asked.  "What did she remember
about the incident?  Did she experience any missing time?"

Scully and Margaret both turned their heads toward him, and
he flinched slightly under the dual onslaught of their
gazes.  Scully added a hint of warning to her gaze, hoping
he'd realize the wisdom of allowing her to ask the
questions.  But, as happened far too often,  Mulder ignored
her.

"Did she have a span of time she couldn't account for, Mrs.
Scully?  Did she tell you a story about where she'd been and
how she'd passed her time that seemed implausible?"

"Mulder--" Scully began.

Her mother cut her off with an upraised hand.  Slowly, she
approached Mulder, her chin held high.  "Fox, what are you
suggesting?"

Mulder stared back at Scully's mother, his face flushed but
his jaw resolutely set.  "Did she have missing time, Mrs.
Scully?"

Scully swallowed with difficulty, trapped between her
mother's anger and her partner's stubborn defiance.  She had
never seen Mulder and her mother at odds this way; it felt
wrong, she realized with surprise.  "Mulder, I think we
should go--"

"She was eleven years old, Fox.  She couldn't account for
every second she was missing, but I'm not sure an adult
could have done so."

"Did she tell you she was in the woods the whole time?  Or
did she say that she'd found shelter of some sort?  Maybe an
abandoned cabin or a hidden cave?"

Margaret's eyes widened, and Scully's protest died in her
throat.

"Yes," Margaret said.  "Melissa said she found a shack in
the woods where she spent the night."

"But no one in the area knew of any such place, right?"

Margaret nodded slowly.  "How did you know?"

Mulder looked down at his shoes.  "Abductees often return
with 'cover stories' that fill in their missing time.  The
'cabin in the woods' is a common story--researchers theorize
that perhaps it's a post-hypnotic suggestion."

"What are you trying to tell me, Fox--that my daughter was
abducted by aliens?"

Margaret's question reverberated in the ensuing silence. 
Tension roiled, thick and hot, between the three of them. 
Scully didn't know what to think, how to feel.  Anger was
inescapable, but so was fear.  So was dread.  

"After Melissa's--experience--in 1973, did she ever display
any strange behavior?  More occurrences of missing time? 
Episodes of sleepwalking or sleep paralysis?"

"Sleep paralysis?"

Scully looked at her mother, her stomach sinking.

"Did Melissa suffer sleep paralysis?" Mulder persisted.

Margaret nodded.  "It terrified her.  She'd be drifting to
sleep and suddenly feel as if she were paralyzed.  She told
me she could hear people talking, but she couldn't respond. 
She couldn't move.  She felt as if something huge and heavy
was sitting on her chest, sucking her breath from her lungs.
It terrified her."

Scully realized she remembered this.  She remembered
Melissa's nightmares, her cries and her terror of going to
sleep.  Her parents had thought it was a pre-adolescent
phase, and within a year the incidents of night terrors had
subsided.  But after that, Melissa had been--different. 
Quieter.  More inward, more contemplative.  That had been
the beginning of her interest in New Age spiritualism.  

Once, not long before Melissa left home for what had turned
out to be years of estrangement, Scully had asked her sister
why she'd turned to crystals and chakras for enlightenment. 
At the time, she'd found her sister's answer typically
vague.  "It's the only thing that allows me a sense of
peace."

"Sleep paralysis and sleepwalking are textbook
manifestations of post-abduction trauma," Mulder said, his
words tinted with a hint of excitement.

Scully's anger tripled and she turned on him, planting
herself firmly between him and her mother.  "There ARE no
textbooks on the subject of alien abduction, Mulder, because
there are NO substantiated reports of any such phenomenon!"

He glared at her, his expression flitting between anger and
pity.  "Scully, something happened to Melissa in 1973. 
Something that changed her life.  Something that had to do
with my father and his work--"

"Your father?" Margaret interrupted.

Mulder and Scully both turned to look at her.  Mulder
shifted next to Scully, his arm brushing against hers.  She
could feel the tension vibrating through his body.  

"My father took part in a conspiracy to obtain tissue
samples from every person who was ever innoculated with the
smallpox vaccine."

Margaret's brow creased.  "To what end?"

"We don't know," Scully interjected before Mulder could
frighten her mother further.  "We have no evidence of ANY
sort suggesting the purpose of the tests."

"How do you know about this?" Margaret asked.  "Is this
something you found out over the weekend?"

Mulder shook his head.  "Right before Melissa died, Scully
and I discovered a mine in West Virginia that housed a
massive filing system of medical records.  My sister's file
was there.  So was Scully's."

"Dana's?"  Margaret looked at Scully.  

Scully squeezed her mother's arm reassuringly.  "All we know
is that the files contained medical data.  It may be
nothing."

"We were unable to secure the files at the time, and our
subsequent visit to the site revealed that the files had
been either removed or destroyed," Mulder added.  "But it's
not out of the question that there was a similar file for
Melissa."

"And this 'missing time' you're asking me about--you believe
that someone took my daughter and performed some kind
of...tests...on her?"

"We don't know anything, Mom," Scully insisted before Mulder
could speak.  "Mulder is only speculating."  She turned to
her partner, pinning him with a furious glare.  "We have the
answer we came for.  I think you should be going now."

Mulder's eyes darkened and his lips pressed into a thin
line.

"Come to dinner tonight?"  Margaret asked.

Scully turned to look at her.  "Of course."

"Actually, Dana, I was asking Fox.  But you know you're
always welcome, too."

Scully looked at her mother, surprised.  She should be angry
at Mulder, not asking him to dinner.  But her mother's
expression was placid, even affectionate, as she met
Mulder's questioning gaze.

"You'll come to dinner tonight, won't you, Fox?"  Margaret
asked.

Mulder glanced at Scully.  She closed her eyes and gave a
slight nod.  

"Okay, Mrs. Scully.  I'll be here."

Margaret tucked her arm through Scully's as she walked them
to the door.  "You'll come too, Dana?"

Scully nodded.  "Wouldn't miss it."  

Margaret gave Scully a kiss before she left.  She reached
out and squeezed Mulder's hand as well--once again
reassuring him that all was forgiven, Scully recognized. 
Her mother's capacity for unconditional love was astounding.

"Thank you, Mrs. Scully, for all your help.  I know that
answering my questions was difficult."

"If I remember anything else, I'll let you know," she
assured him.  "See you both around six-thirty?"

Scully nodded and bent in for another hug before her mother
closed the door behind them.  She walked a half-step ahead
of Mulder, silent until they reached the car.  Then she
whirled and grabbed the front of his shirt.  "What the HELL
did you think you were doing?"


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder looked down at the small, strong hand clutching the
front of his shirt.  "I was asking your mother questions
about your sister's mysterious disappearance in 1973.  Isn't
that part of the reason we came here?"

"You implied to my mother that my dead sister was an alien
abductee, Mulder!  No subtlety, no sensitivity--"

"I asked her reasonable questions, Scully.  She didn't seem
to resent them, so why do you?"

Scully's cheeks reddened with anger.  "There is NO proof
that Melissa was abducted by aliens or even humans, Mulder. 
Her name on a list doesn't prove anything."

"Not yet."

Her lips tightened with impatience.  "You had no right."

"No right to what?  Ask your mother about Melissa's
disappearance?  Or no right to question YOUR rigid view of
the world?"

"Rigid?"  She pressed her curled fist against his chest and
pushed herself away from him, letting go of his shirt.  "I'd
say YOU'RE the rigid one, Mulder.  You're so damned rigid
you won't consider ANY possibility that doesn't include
aliens or monster.  Have you ever stopped to consider that 
Melissa may simply have wandered off into the woods and 
gotten lost, just like she told my mother?"

"Have you ever stopped to consider that the reason you fight
me about this subject is because you're SCARED SHITLESS?" 
Mulder grabbed her shoulders.  "I know you're afraid of what
happened to you.  I'm afraid, too, Scully.  I am.  But is it
really
easier to live in fear and doubt than to face the truth
about what happened to you?  Wouldn't it be better to know
the truth than to wonder about it for the rest of your
life?"

She shrugged his hands away from her shoulders, turning her
back to him.  When she spoke, her voice was low and slightly
unsteady.  "I know what happened to me.  I saw the boxcar
where I was held.  I remember Ishimaru and the other
doctors.  I remember a probe in my gut...my stomach distended.  
The only information I'm missing is the why...and whether or 
not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the 
women in Allentown expect to."

He closed his eyes, leaning against the car.  God, he didn't
know what he wanted to believe.  Would it really be easier
to believe that HUMANS had taken her?  That they had put
that implant in the back of her neck, that they had done God
only knows what kind of tests on her?  Would that be easier
than believing that other-worldly creatures had perpetrated
those crimes against her?

He opened his eyes.  She still stood a few feet away, her
back to him.  She looked so small, so damned fragile. 
Deceptively so, he knew--she was the strongest person he had
ever known.  But a long time ago, someone had reminded him
that despite her strength, she was still human.  Flesh and
bone.  She still bled and she still cried. 

He took a deep breath before he spoke.  "Scully, those
papers in my father's file must mean something or they
wouldn't be there."

She turned slowly, her eyes blazing at him with barely
checked anger.  "So why don't you go back over those files
and see what you can uncover?"

"What about you?"

"I have a lead I'd like to follow."

"What?"

She shook her head, looking away.  "I'm not sure.  I'll tell
you more when I know more."

She was being deliberately vague, purposefully keeping him
at a distance.  Now his own anger began to roil inside him. 
She always accused him of going off on his own, never
heeding her words, but she had a nasty habit of going off on
her own as well.  It wasn't a physical act--her escape was
to a hidden place behind a wall of ice.  She froze people
out, making sure that they couldn't get close enough to
hurth her.  She even did it to him.  Sometimes ESPECIALLY to
him.

"Don't shut me out, Scully."

Her head snapped up and she arched one eyebrow at him,
reminding him of the irony of his words.  He sighed and
looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose between his
thumb and forefinger.  He'd slept less last night than
usual, and the result was the beginnings of screaming
headache.  

He sighed deeply.  "I don't like not knowing where you are,
Scully."

She made a low, dry sound that might have been a laugh.  Not
that she was smiling when he turned to look at her.  Her
expression was a mixture of anger and resignation.  

"So...so...so what?"  He threw up his hands, angered by her
stony silence.  "This is payback?"

"You said it.  I didn't."

"Oh, you said it, all right," he muttered.  

"I'm sorry, Mulder, but I'm tired."  She passed a hand over
her eyes. 

"Of me?"

She looked up at him, her expression sad.  "Sometimes."

Jaw clenched, he looked down at the cracked sidewalk under
his feet.  Guess I asked for that, he thought.  "Why do you
even bother to hang around?"

"Because I don't trust you to take care of yourself," she
answered.

He looked up to see if she was joking, but her expression
was deadly serious.  She DIDN'T trust him to take care of
himself.  And he could hardly blame her--his track record in
the self-preservation department was horrendous.  Scully had
seen him in action too damned many times.  "I don't want you
to feel responsible for me, Scully."

"Too late."  She shrugged.  "I imagine you put up with my
'rigid views' for much the same reason."

Not true, he thought.  I stick with you because you keep me
honest.  You make me look before I leap--at least, most of
the time.  And because you're the most amazing person I've
ever known.

Why couldn't he say those things to her aloud?  Because he
was afraid of what it might reveal about his feelings for
her?  Hell, three days ago, he'd been set to pursue an
honest-to-God relationship with Dana Scully and now he
couldn't even find the guts to tell her that she was his
best friend?

Talk about scared shitless....

Scully released a soft sigh.  "I'm going to talk to a
hypnotherapist that Melissa knew. IF, as you suggested to
Mom, Melissa was having episodes of sleepwalking or memory
loss, I believe she might have talked to Dr. Pomerantz about
it.  So I want to see what he might be able to tell me." 

His eyes widened with surprise.  "A hypnotherapist?"

She looked uncomfortable.  "Melissa didn't have the same
doubts about the reliability of hypnosis as a therapy tool
that I have."

"Think she might have undergone regression hypnotherapy?"

"If she thought there were things about her past that she
couldn't remember, I KNOW she would."  Scully's gaze shifted
slightly, as if she were watching a scene happening
somewhere a million miles away.  "And I'm sure she'd have
gone to Dr. Pomerantz."  She focused on him again, her face
losing that soft, far away expression.  "You go see if you
can figure out what those lists your father compiled for you
really mean.  See if any other names are recognizable or if
you can discern a pattern of any sort.  You're good at
that."

He accepted her gentle words as the peace offering they
were.  "Okay. I'll call a cab.  You take the car."  He held
out his hand to give her the car keys.  Her fingers closed
around his hand briefly as she refused the keys. 

Her lips curved slightly.  "I wrecked the car; I'll call the
cab."

He met her gaze and nodded slightly, as if to reassure her
that they were really okay.  

Her eyes softened with a sort of affectionate resignation.  
"I'm going to see if Mom has a copy of both of our birth
certificates.  I think I'd rather approach Dr. Pomerantz as
Missy's sister rather than as an FBI agent."

He nodded again.  "Good idea."

"I'll call you as soon as I finish with Dr. Pomerantz.  See
if you've had any luck."  She stepped back as he opened the
car door. 

He slid behind the wheel and looked up at her.  She gave a
little wave and turned back toward the house.  He watched
her go, waiting until she was knocking on the door before he
slipped the car into gear and drove away.


*  *  *  *  *

J.Edgar Hoover FBI Building
SciCrime Division
11:13 a.m.


Alan Pendrell tried not to squirm under the intense gaze of
Special Agent Fox Mulder.  It wouldn't do to let the older
agent know that he was feeling distinctly intimidated.  Let
that happen and he could kiss his dream of being a field
agent goodbye. "Well, I think you're probably right about
the notations on this list.  Definitely looks like a record
of physical and psychological testing."  

He swiveled his chair and tried not to flinch as he realized
how close Mulder was standing.  The lean, dark-haired agent
had a habit of invading people's personal space--
particularly that of his partner, Dana Scully.  

Pendrell had heard all the scuttlebutt about "Spooky and the
Ice Queen."  He hated both terms--Mulder might be
unorthodox, but Pendrell knew that the guy was brilliant. 
In his ongoing effort to work his way up to field status,
Pendrell had made a point to learn all he could about what
it took to be a great agent.  And all that he'd discovered
had led him to the unshakable belief that Fox Mulder was a
top notch investigator--one of the absolute best. 

As for Agent Scully--he'd never found her to be cold.  She
was a dedicated, single-minded investigator in her own
right, but she wasn't a bitch about it.  She worked hard and
expected hard work from others, but she was quick with
praise and gratitude.  

And when that woman smiled...God.

"Is there any way to run these names through the FBI
database, see if we can gather enough data to come up with
some sort of commonality?"  Mulder interrupted Pendrell's
thoughts.  "Maybe a pattern will emerge, explaining why
these particular people were abducted."

Mulder's words sent a little shiver down Pendrell's spine. 
He knew, of course, about Agent Mulder's more unusual views
on the question of extraterrestrial life.  Knowing what he
did about some of the cases Mulder and Scully had
investigated, Pendrell could understand why Mulder's view on
paranormal phenomena was a bit more inclusive than the
standard view.  Of course, he himself tended to side with
Agent Scully on the matter.  Surprise, surprise. 

He hid a self-deprecating smile.  "Running all those names
through the records search program could take several
hours."

"Any way to trim that time?" Mulder's voice was tight with
impatience.

"Possibly."  He could probably tweak the program a bit, cut
out the dreck.  He met Mulder's fierce gaze, his expression
a bit wry.  "Do you trust me enough to let me use the disk
itself?  Having the names already typed in will speed things
up considerably."

"I made a copy just for you.  But I'm trusting you,
Pendrell--NOBODY sees this disk but you, and you take it
with you EVERYWHERE you go.  Deal?"

He tried not to betray his surprise--or his wariness. 
"Deal."

Mulder handed over a blue plastic floppy disk.  It was
unmarked except for a small "x" written in pencil in the
upper right corner of the disk.  "See what you can come up
with, Pendrell.  I need printouts of everything."

Pendrell held back a frown of frustration.  The way Mulder
talked, you'd think he believed that what he was asking was
no more difficult than tying one's shoes.  But far be it
from HIM to complain.  Whining wouldn't get him that bump up
the ladder he wanted so much.  "You've got it," he promised
Mulder. 

Mulder nodded, sparing a brief half-smile.  "I'll be in
touch."  He turned and left the SciCrime lab.

"So what did Agent Mulder want?"  Annelle Hollis rolled her
chair closer, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity.  

Pendrell glanced at the dark-haired fingerprint technician,
surreptitiously pocketing the disk Mulder had given him. 
"Just some names he wants run through the computer."

"Too bad Scully wasn't with him, huh, Alan?"  She winked at
him.

He blushed and looked at his computer, where brightly colored
piranhas devoured each other on his screen saver.  "Bite me,
Annelle."

"Aw, come on, Alan.  I was just teasing."  Annelle reached
out and squeezed his arm.  Her grip was strong and warm,
forcing him to look up at her.  "I'm sure if she wasn't
already so nuts about her partner, she'd be nuts about you."

"That's just the rumor mill, you know," Pendrell pointed
out.  "I don't think there's really anything going on
between them."

Annelle chuckled.  "You are SO into denial.  I'm not saying
they're actually together--just that they both wish they
were."

Pendrell absently fingered the disk in his pocket,
remembering Mulder's territorial posture the night before,
when Alan had forgotten himself and touched Dana Scully's
chin.  Definite alpha male vibes happening there, he had to
admit.

"Tell you what, Alan--why don't I take you to lunch, let you
drown your sorrows in a big old sloppy cheeseburger?"
Annelle arched her eyebrows at him, her cheeks dimpling with
a gentle smile.  "My treat."

Her grin was infectious, pushing away his momentary
depression.  "Wish I could, Nelle. But looks like it's going
to be a busy day for me."

"Well, how about I pick up something for you while I'm out?"
She rolled back to her cubicle to fetch her purse, then
returned, pausing behind his chair to ruffle his hair.  "A
growing boy like you needs his nourishment."

He made a face at her.  "Just for that, throw in something
for dessert."

Annelle chuckled, bending close to whisper in his ear. 
"Dana Scully's a fool, Alan.  You're definitely the catch of
the day."  She squeezed his shoulder, then turned and left
the lab.

A bemused smile still curving his lips, he withdrew the disk
from his pocket and inserted it into his floppy drive.  With
a soft sigh he shifted in his chair, seeking a more
comfortable position as he accessed the record search
database.  It was going to be a long day.


*  *  *  *  *

HealthServices Building
Silver Spring, MD
12:28 p.m.


Dr. Mark Pomerantz's name was no longer on the door of the
office, Scully noted with surprise.  Instead, the placard
read, "Dr. Lucinda Brown.  Psychotherapy and Hypnosis."  

She frowned, considering her options.  Obviously Pomerantz
had moved his office elsewhere.  She could check the yellow
pages, she supposed.  She really should have done so before
she came here in the first place.

Of course, it was possible Dr. Brown knew where Dr.
Pomerantz had relocated.  It was worth asking.  And if she
didn't know, Scully could borrow the yellow pages and look
up his new address herself.

She pushed open the door.  Behind the tall reception desk, a
slim brunette was engrossed in a book.  Scully glanced at
the title on the spine. 'SOUL OVERMANNED': QUEER SUBTEXT IN
'MOBY DICK'  She arched one eyebrow.

The receptionist caught her expression and made a face. 
"Grad school," she murmured, as if that explained
everything.

Scully looked at the engraved placard on the desk.  "Ms.
Hewick, my name is Dana Scully.  Is Dr. Brown with a
patient?"

"Do you have an appointment?" Barbara Hewick asked.

"No, but I'm not here as a patient.  I'm trying to locate 
Dr. Mark Pomerantz." 

Barbara's expression changed subtly, her eyes darkening.  "I
see."  She reached for the phone and pressed a button near
the bottom.  A soft beeping sound ensued, followed by a
crackle of static.  

A distorted voice filtered through the speaker.  "Yes?"

"Dr. Brown, a Ms. Scully is here trying to locate Dr.
Pomerantz."

There was a thick pause.  Then Dr. Brown said, "I'll be
right there."  

Seconds later, the inner door of the office opened, and a
petite, pretty blonde emerged, her slim hand outstretched
toward Scully.  She was immaculately dressed, every stitch
of clothing perfectly color-coordinated.  Intellect blazed
from her cornflower blue eyes.  "Ms. Scully, I'm Lucinda
Brown."

"Nice to meet you."  Scully shook her hand, hiding her
impatience with the niceties.  "As Ms. Hewick mentioned, I'm
trying to get in touch with Dr. Mark Pomerantz."

"Were you a patient of Dr. Pomerantz?" Dr. Brown asked.

"No."  Not beyond that one time right after she'd returned
from New Mexico thinking that Mulder was dead.  "But I think
my sister may have been a patient, and I need to ask Dr.
Pomerantz some questions."

"I'm afraid that will be impossible."  Dr. Brown's voice
softened, saddened.  "Dr. Pomerantz died almost three years
ago."


*  *  *  *  *


J. Edgar Hoover FBI Headquarters
February 16, 1998
12:29 p.m.

Fox Mulder flipped through the printouts of his father's
file, wishing he could glean some clue, some truth that
would answer all the lingering questions about five decades
of secrets.  So many lives touched, twisted, destroyed--and
for what?  

For what?

He let the pages flutter to the desk top and leaned forward,
pulling off his glasses and pressing the heels of his hands
to his burning eyes.  For him, the questions were distilled
to two:  What had happened to his sister--and what had they
done to Scully?

Scully's tight, angry words haunted him.   "The only
information I'm missing is the why...and whether or not I
can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer' like the women
in Allentown expect to."

He wasn't sure he even believed in a benevolent God who
listened to the self-serving prayers of humankind, but he
lifted a silent prayer anyway, just in case.  Because he
couldn't keep going without Scully.  It just wasn't
possible.  Maybe if he'd never met her--maybe then.  Maybe
he could've kept on the way he had been, in self-imposed
exile. 

But not now.

Was that REALLY why they'd sent her to him in the first
place? he wondered.  To remind him what it was like to have
someone--only to rip her from him in the end?   Had they
known that she would become as essential to him as air?

A soft tap on the door startled him.  He sat up, blinking to
clear his vision.  "Yeah?"

"I've got some information for you, Agent Mulder." 
Pendrell's voice was muffled by the closed door.

"It's unlocked," Mulder called.  He put his glasses back on
and straightened the papers in front of him, stacking them
to his right. 

Pendrell entered bearing a thick sheaf of papers.  "These
are the FBI records on the names listed from 1969 through
1975.  There are a lot more to come, but I thought you'd
want the first batch."  He put the papers on Mulder's desk. 
"Say, Agent Mulder--have you had lunch?"

Mulder arched one eyebrow, surprised by the question.  "Not
yet."

"I suspected as much."  Pendrell reached into his lab coat
pocket and withdrew a brown bag.  His expression was
slightly apologetic as he dropped the bag on Mulder's desk. 
"I should warn you--it's a veggie burger.  Agent Hollis
thinks it's her duty to watch my cholesterol level."

Mulder grinned at the younger agent.  Pendrell blushed a
little but smiled back.  "Women," Pendrell added with a
shrug.  "She promised me a big sloppy cheeseburger and came
back with that."

"Hey, Pendrell--you know when they start watching your fat
intake, it's a sign of affection."  Mulder unwrapped the
sandwich and gave a wary sniff. It smelled okay.  "I've
heard these things are pretty good."

"I'm sure they are, but I grew up in Oklahoma.  Beef
country.  Eating a veggie burger is against my religion."  
Pendrell's half-grin widened.  "Well, I'm off to run another
batch of record checks.  I hope you find something in those
files."  He headed for the door.

"Thanks, Pendrell."  

Pendrell gave a little goodbye wave and closed the door
behind him.

Mulder took a bite of the veggie burger and picked up the
first page of dossiers.  The sandwich had an unusual but not
unpleasant taste.  He wished he could say the same of the
dossier---it was as bland as cardboard and about half as
informative.

He finished the sandwich in five uncaring bites as he
scanned through the FBI records, trying to discern some sort
of pattern, some link between the people listed on his
father's disk.   

Two patterns became evident about halfway through the stack. 
About a third of the people listed either now belonged or
had once belonged to some sort of UFO organization.   And
fully 1/4th of the people on the list were now deceased.



*  *  *  *  *



Dr. Lucinda Brown's Office
12:45 p.m.

Scully stared at Dr. Brown, surprised by her words.  Dr.
Mark Pomerantz had died three years ago?  "But I met Dr.
Pomerantz myself just three years ago."

"It must have been shortly before his death."

"How did he die?"

"The police seem to think that Dr. Pomerantz walked in on
someone trying to steal drugs.  He was shot to death and the
office was ransacked.  The burglar must not have realized
that psychologist can't prescribe meds."  Dr. Brown
shrugged.

His office was ransacked?  An odd feeling swept over Scully,
a strange certainty that led her to a leap worthy of Fox
Mulder.  "Do you remember when he died?  The date?"

Dr. Brown's eyebrows quirked slightly.  "April of 1995. 
Late in the month--maybe the twentieth or after?   I know it
was after the tax deadline, because when I took over his
practice right after his death, I was relieved to know I
wouldn't have to deal with the IRS right away."

April of 1995.  Right after her own hypnotherapy session. 
About the time that Melissa had taken the bullet meant for
Dana.  

Scully's lips trembled open.  "I want to see the files on my
sister."

Dr. Brown looked at her with surprise.  "Patient records are
confidential, Agent Scully."

"My sister died around the same time Dr. Pomerantz died. 
But some recent information has called into question her
mental state at the time of her death, and I need to know if
something in her patient records can shed light on my
sister's life."  Scully pulled Melissa's birth and death
certificates from her coat pocket, as well as her own birth
certificate.  She handed them to Dr. Brown.  "I don't know
what the proper procedure would be, but there is the proof
you need to see that I am who I am and I'm telling you the
truth."

Dr. Brown looked over the papers.  "What do you expect to
find in your sister's records, Ms. Scully?"

Scully nibbled her lower lip, wondering how to answer. What
DID she expect to find, evidence of Mulder's theory--that
her sister had been an alien abductee?  Or proof that he was
wrong?  She glanced at the doctor, who was awaiting her
answer, an expectant expression on her pretty face.  Scully
took a deep breath and forged ahead.  "Dr. Brown, what is
your opinion about alien abduction memories?"



*  *  *  *  *


FBI Headquarters
4:29 p.m.

Pendrell brought the last of the printouts to Mulder's
office around 4:00 that afternoon.  He'd offered to stay and
help Mulder sift through the information, and Mulder had
surprised himself by agreeing.  Usually he didn't like
sharing an office with anyone but Scully, but to Pendrell's
credit, the techie was being quiet and industrious as he
flipped through the printouts, looking for the details
Mulder had instructed him to seek--vitals like age, sex,
race and place of birth, plus membership in UFO
organizations.  Pendrell was noting such information with
singleminded concentration, the tip of his pen scratching
lightly across the surface of his notepad.

Pendrell finished his stack around 5:15; Mulder finished his
about five minutes later.  He looked across the room at the
techie.  "Well?"

"Seventy percent female.  Current ages ranging from 19 to
49, with approximately 40% between the ages of 30 and 40. 
Crossreferencing with the dates listed on the original file,
most people were...."  Pendrell stumbled in the midst of his
recitation, apparently seeking the right word.

"Abducted?" Mulder supplied.

Pendrell reddened.  "Examined," he substituted, "between the
ages of 10 and 25.  Seventy-five percent underwent only
standard physical exams, assuming that's what SPE stands
for, and RFLP testing.  Twenty-five percent underwent
Genetic Material Extraction and what we presume to be
psychological profiles."

Pendrell's numbers were jibing with Mulder's own
tabulations.  "What about the other factors?"

"Approximately 80% caucasion, 15% African-American and 5%
other."

"An equal opportunity abductor," Mulder murmured.  "Right in
line with the U.S. population."

"Thirty percent of the people on this list either currently
belong to a UFO group or did at one time.  Of those, 70%
belong to MUFON, 20% to NICAP and 10% to various others."

Mulder nodded.  That wasn't very surprising, either.  MUFON
was the most accessible of the groups, with a very
supportive membership.

"And approximately 26% of the people listed on your father's
disk are now deceased.  Of those, 60% died of various forms
of rare cancers, 30% died in accidents, and 10% were victims
of either suicide or homicide."  Pendrell put down his
notebook and looked up at Mulder.  "Those percentages are
alarming for people in this age group."

Mulder nodded, tapping his pencil against his chin. 
Scully's words still ran through his head, "...whether or
not I can expect to die of an 'undiagnosed cancer'...."  He
closed his eyes, not wanting to think about it.  Scully had
undergone a battery of tests to ease her mind, Benton Crane
had told him.  Everything had come up negative.  Surely by
now she would had developed symptoms if there was anything
to worry about.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder looked up, realizing that Pendrell had been calling
his name for several seconds.  "Yeah?"

"Does this have anything to do with what happened to Agent
Scully?"

Mulder passed his hand over his mouth and chin, wondering
how to answer.  "Not that we're aware of."

Pendrell didn't look relieved.  "What else can I help you
with, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder smiled at his earnestness.  Pendrell was obviously
bucking for a promotion.  Too bad he'd chosen to suck up to
the Bureau pariah instead of someone who could REALLY help
him out.  Still, he supposed, he could drop a hint or two to
Skinner.  Probably wouldn't hurt Pendrell's chances.  "Nah,
Pendrell--you've gone above and beyond today.  I owe you."

Pendrell looked ridiculously pleased.  "Any time, Agent
Mulder."  From his lab coat pocket he pulled the blue disk
Mulder had given him that morning.  "Here--thought you'd
want to keep this with you."  He put it on Mulder's desk and
headed for the door.

Mulder picked up the disk, impressed with the techie's
discretion.  Pendrell might just do.  "Thanks, Alan.  I'll
let you know if there's anything else you can do to help us
out."

Pendrell turned in the doorway, grinning.  "You do that,
Mulder."  He closed the door behind him.

Mulder sat back in his desk chair, rocking it precariously
backwards as he turned the disk in his hands, staring at it
as if it could somehow reveal all the secrets of the
universe.  For all the interesting statistical information
the lists had provided, there were still more questions than
answers.  Why had these people been chosen for these tests? 
Why were some given different tests from others?  And why
had so many of them ended up dead?

He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, willing away
the tension headache creeping up his shoulders and neck.  He
reached for the phone and dialled Scully's cell phone
number.  He'd given her the space he'd sensed she wanted but
now he needed to hear her voice.

"Scully."  She sounded tense.

"Hi, it's me."

"Hi."  Her voice softened slightly.  "I can't talk right
this minute Mulder, but I have something to tell you when I
see you."

"Same here.  Do you need me to pick you up somewhere?"

"No, I'll catch a cab to Mom's.  I'll see you there, okay?"

"Okay."

He hung up the phone and started gathering the papers he and
Pendrell had just spent the afternoon sifting through.  He
put them in a cardboard box and locked them securely in the
office safe he and Scully had purchased with their own funds
just over a year ago.  Only he and she had the combination.

Then he grabbed his coat and headed for Margaret Scully's.


*  *  *  *  *


Margaret Scully's house
Feb. 16, 1998
6:45 p.m.


Dana paused on the front stoop, gathering her thoughts
before she knocked on the door.  But while she was waiting,
the door opened and her mother greeted her with a smile. 
"Hi, honey.  Let me take your coat."

Scully shrugged off her overcoat and followed her mother
into the living room.  Mulder was sitting on the sofa, glass
of tea on a coaster in front of him.  He'd stripped off his
jacket and tie, and the sleeves of his white dress shirt
were rolled up to his elbows.  He stood as she entered, a
courtly gesture that she found endearing in Mulder, though 
irritating in almost any other man.  "Can I get you some
tea?"

She arched her eyebrows, unable to hold back a smile.  She
knew that he and her mother had grown to be close friends
over the past couple of years, but she'd always been careful
not to intrude on that relationship.  It was between Mulder
and her mother, and she respected their privacy.  Still, it
was decidedly odd to have her partner playing host in her
own mother's house.  "I think I know where the tea is,
Mulder.  But thank you."  She put out her hand, her
fingertips brushing across his arm as she passed him, a
gesture of reconciliation.  She didn't like it when they
fought, and considering what she'd found out at Dr. Brown's
office today, she might owe him at least a bit of an
apology.

She poured herself a glass of tea and returned to the living
room.  Her mother sat in the armchair facing the sofa,
leaving Scully to sit next to Mulder.  She sensed a bit of
matchmaking going on, but she didn't really mind.  It wasn't
like her mother's wishes were anything new.  And it wasn't
like the thought hadn't crossed her own mind, especially
over the last few days.

Besides, what she'd discovered at Dr. Brown's office was a
little unnerving.  She could use Mulder by her side on this
one.

She opened up without preamble.  "Mulder, Dr. Pomerantz is
dead.  He was murdered three years ago, only a day or so
before Melissa's death.  All of his patient records were
turned over to a Dr. Lucinda Brown at the time, and Dr.
Brown let me look through the records.  I found billing
statements for Melissa, but her records were missing.  I
believe that whoever broke into Dr. Pomerantz's office and
killed him also took all of Melissa's records and files."

Mulder's left eyebrow rose.

"And that's not all."  Scully reached into the pocket of her
suit jacket and withdrew an audiotape.  "This is the only
thing we were able to find.  It's Dr. Pomerantz's notes
about a hypnotic regression therapy session.  It hadn't yet
been transcribed and was found in his pocket, which is why 
I believe it wasn't taken upon his death as well." 

"Melissa underwent hypnotic regression therapy?"  Mulder's
eyes darkened with anticipation.

Scully felt the muscles of her stomach knot.  She looked
from Mulder's expectant expression to her mother's wary
gaze.  "Probably," she admitted, "but that tape isn't from
any of Melissa's sessions with Dr. Pomerantz."

"Then...?"  Mulder cocked his head.

"Mulder...it's from mine."


End of #8






 














DISCLAIMER:  For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network.  I mean no
infringement.  Dialogue excerpts from "The Blessing Way" by 
Chris Carter and from the script (but not the episode) "One
Breath" by Glen Morgan and James Wong are also used without
permission, but again, I intend no infringement.  

Warning:  Adult language and situations, plus some disturbing images warranting an R rating. 

This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within the same universe.


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#9:  "Regression"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Warehouse District
Baltimore, MD
Feb. 16, 1998
7:02 p.m.


The warehouse was dimly lit outside and in, deep purple
shadows shifting and dancing with every movement inside.  On
a catwalk two floors above, the man in gray struck a match
and touched the flame to the tip of his Morley.  Smoke
billowed momentarily, clouding his vision, but it drifted
away soon, giving him a clear view of the warehouse floor
below.

How many places like this had he seen over the years?  Had
he ever bothered to keep count, he'd have lost count long
ago.  Suffice it to say that what he now saw was nothing
new.  At least, not in theory.  

But in practice....

The woman on the table was in her early thirties, Caucasian,
unremarkable-looking.  Wavy brown hair tangled around her
head. Her build was slim, lanky--ordinary.  Her eyes were
shut, but he knew they were a non-descript hazel-green
color.  Were he to pass her on the street, he might think
her a pleasant-looking young woman, not beautiful, not
striking.  A woman of no consequence.

But appearances could be deceiving.  For Sarah Elizabeth
Chandler was a dangerous woman who had made dangerous
connections.  There were those among his colleagues who felt
that her continued existence was too risky, but the man in
gray had assured them that once the reconditioning was
completed, Sarah Chandler would be no threat at all.  On the
contrary, her very existence might be a very important
asset.  They had relented, and Sarah was brought to this
warehouse to have her memories reburied again.   

The smoking man turned to the slim man in the white lab coat
who stood beside him.  "Why is this taking so long?"

"Her cover memories were becoming corrupted," the doctor
replied.  "We've had to strip them away first.  It had to be
done delicately--the mind is a fragile thing."

"So now she knows who she really is?"

"She knows who she was.  She also knows who she became."

"How much longer before she no longer remembers?"

"We believe the final reconditioning will be finished by the
end of the week.  That will give us time to reconstruct her
cover memories as well as create memories to explain her
whereabouts over the past couple of weeks."

The smoking man nodded.  "Good. Good."

"She is extraordinarily resistant.  Her earlier conditioning
was far less difficult."

"She was a child then."

"Did you know her before?"  The doctor glanced at him, his
brown eyes curious.

The smoking man took a deep draw of his cigarette.  He
released the smoke, obscuring his face.  

"No," he said.


*  *  *  *  *


Margaret Scully's house
7:08 p.m.


Mulder stared at his partner.  "You underwent hypnotic
regression therapy?"

"Just once."  Scully looked down at the tape in her hands,
not meeting his eyes.

"When was this, honey?"  Margaret leaned forward in her
chair.

"Just after I came back from New Mexico after Mulder--" 
Scully's throat bobbed quickly and she looked up at Mulder. 
For a second, her expression was raw with pain, making his
breath catch.  Then she quickly schooled her features and
returned her eyes to the cassette tape in her hands.  "I'd
just found the implant in the back of my neck and had no
memory of how it had gotten there.  Missy convinced me that
I had to try to remember.  She gave me Dr. Pomerantz's
name."

"And you underwent hypnosis?"

Scully's forehead creased.  "I tried.  I didn't think it was
getting anywhere, but--"

"But?" Mulder encouraged.

She held up the audio cassette tape.  "This is a copy of Dr.
Pomerantz's notes after my session.  I listened to it in the
car on the way here.  Apparently I told him a lot more than
I remember."  She crossed to the stereo system near the
fireplace and put the tape into the deck.  

She pushed a button and a soft, pleasant voice began to
speak.  "What I'm going to do is induce a non-ordinary
state, a modified form of hypnosis that involves what is
called holotropic breath work...."

Mulder sat forward, listening to the therapist explain the
procedure.  Dr. Heitz Werber had used a somewhat different
form of hypnotherapy during his own hypnotic regression
sessions, but Mulder was familiar with holotropic breath
work from his own education in psychology.

"Now what I want you to do is to maintain a focus on your
breath. Relax your breathing.  Now I want you to close your
eyes now and think of a place where you've always felt
completely comfortable...and safe...." 

Mulder looked at Scully.  Her eyes were on her mother, and
he realized he knew exactly what place she had imagined when
she closed her eyes during her session with Dr. Pomerantz. 
She felt safe here, with her mother.  He could sympathize.

"Tell me why you're here, Dana."

"I need to remember something that happened to me."  On the
tape, Scully's voice was tight and faint.  Mulder recognized
her reluctance, her feeling of ambivalence.  She hadn't
really wanted to be there in Dr. Pomerantz's office, yet she
desperately wanted to know what had happened to her during
those lost months.  He reached over and closed his hand over
her where it lay in her lap.  She turned her head and met
his gaze, her expression betraying her discomfort.

On the tape, she told Dr. Pomerantz about the time she had
been missing, her memory loss and the implant in her neck. 
Her voice grew fainter, more hesitant.

"You told me of your experience of being taken away and
losing time," Dr. Pomerantz said.  "Do you remember how you
felt just before this happened?"

"I was afraid."  On the tape, Scully's voice was slurred,
weary.

There was a brief pause before Pomerantz asked, "Do you
remember what you were afraid of?"

Mulder could hear soft, sussurative sounds.  Then Scully
spoke.  "That I would die...."  Her voice faded away to a
sigh at the end.

"But you didn't die.  Someone must have cared for you.  Do
you remember who that someone was?"

"There were men.  A man took me...I...."

Mulder's throat tightened.  He looked over at Scully.  She
was sitting still as a sculpture, her eyes downcast.

On the tape, her slurred voice continued.  "There was a
light...loud sounds.  My ears were pounding."

"They performed a procedure on you.  Do you remember any
pain during this?"

"I'm trying.  The sound is all screwed up.  There's an
alarm.... I remember, um...they wanted to know if I was all
right...."

"Maybe you trusted them not to hurt you.  Could this be
possible?"

"I don't know."  For a second, the voice on the tape sounded
like the Scully Mulder knew.  Stronger, tinged with
impatience at the slow process of unearthing her memories.

"At the FBI, you work with people you must entrust with your
life.  Could it have been one of these people?" Dr.
Pomerantz asked.

"I had to trust someone."  Scully sounded surprised on the
tape, as if the faint memory was unexpected.  Then her voice
softened and darkened with pain. "I was powerless.  I
couldn't...I could not resist them...."

Mulder tightened his grip on her hand as they listened to
her voice fade away.  He watched the almost imperceptible
parade of dark emotions washing over her profile, wishing he
could spare her the pain of these revelations. 

Dr. Pomerantz spoke quickly.  "If this is too painful, I
want you to go back to that comfortable place where we began
and try again--"

There was a gasp of surprise, a quick, "No!"  Then Scully's
voice, shaky and disoriented-sounding.  "I'm sorry, I'm
trying, I'm trying..."  Her voice gathered strength.  "I
don't think this is working.  I don't think we're getting
anywhere."  

The tape picked up a faint rustling sound, the soft tapping
noise of footsteps.  Something about that sound tickled a
memory hidden in Mulder's mind.  

Something about a bridge--

"Thank you, but you'll have to excuse me."  Scully's voice
again, stronger, slightly clipped, barely hinting at her
earlier distress.  Then the sound of the door closing.

There was a click, as if Dr. Pomerantz turned off the
recorder.  A second later, another click heralded the
therapist's low, modulated tones.  "I suspect that Ms.
Scully will not return for a second session.  She seems
remarkably resistant to hypnotic regression techniques,
despite her obvious distress at not knowing what happened to
her during her missing time.  I sense that she fears knowing
what happened more than she fears not knowing at this time. 

"I am certain, based on even this abbreviated session, that
Ms. Scully's experiences are not dissimilar to experiences
revealed by her sister Melissa in our therapy sessions. 
However, unless Dana Scully chooses to resume therapy, I am
powerless to help her remove the barriers between her
conscious mind and the memories embedded deep in her
subconscious."  

There was another click, and Scully crossed to the tape
player.  She removed the tape and slowly turned to face
Mulder and her mother.  "That's all there is.  I don't
remember any of it after my initial explanation of why I was
there."

Mulder glanced at Margaret Scully, whose face was creased
with concern.  Mrs. Scully met his gaze, her eyebrows
lifting slightly.  Mulder made a little shrugging motion,
then turned to watch Scully's slow, bemused approach.  He
stood, holding out his hand.

For a second, she stared at his outstretched palm, as if she
wasn't sure what he wanted her to do.  Then she lifted her
hand and slipped her fingers into his gentle grip.  He
closed his hand around hers and drew her back to the sofa. 
They sat together, bodies close.  She sandwiched his hand
between both of hers.  "I don't know what those memories
mean, Mulder.  I listen to myself speak and I sound like a
stranger.  Those things I said--I have no conscious memory
of any of it.  The sounds--someone to trust--"  She shook
her head.  

"Maybe you should undergo hypnosis again, Dana," Mrs. Scully
suggested.

Mulder looked over at Scully's mother, surprised but
grateful she had been the one to bring up the subject.  He
agreed--Scully's memories were obviously too deeply buried
for her to be able to unearth them without help.  But she
was more likely to accept the suggestion from her mother
than from him, considering their many disagreements over the
years about the value of hypnosis as a mnemonic tool.

"Mom, you heard the tape--it wasn't working."

"Honey, you were fighting it.  Maybe you just didn't feel
comfortable with Dr. Pomerantz."

"I don't feel comfortable with the notion that a science as
inexact and open to charlatanry as hypnosis could have any
real value beyond the most general therapeutic benefits.  I
certainly don't believe that 'memories' recovered by
regression hypnosis are the least bit trustworthy."

"So don't take it as truth, Scully," Mulder said softly. 
"Just look at it as therapy--a way to ease some of your
fears."

She jerked her head around to meet his gaze, her hands relea
sing his.  "How could it ease my fears?"

"Because you're afraid of what's buried in your
subconscious, Scully, that your imagination has created a
monster far more threatening than even the real monster
could be.  By undergoing regression hypnotherapy, you may
not be able to 'identify the monster,'  But at least you can
look it in the eye and show it you're not afraid anymore."

She stared at him, her pale face revealing the full scope of
her fear.  He wanted to pull her into his arms and wrap
himself around her, protect her from all that would conspire
to cause her pain and harm.  But he didn't have that power--
only she did.  And he had to trust her to fight her own
demons.

"I can call Dr. Werber--"

"No."  She shook her head.  "I'm not putting his life in
danger--not after what happened to Dr. Pomerantz."

"You don't think his death might have been a coincidence?"
Mrs. Scully asked.

Scully looked across at her mother.  "As much as I'd like to
believe that, I can't.  He was killed right after his
session with me--and both my file and Melissa's are
missing."  She turned to Mulder.  "I'm not putting another
life in danger with this."

"We could arrange a secret meeting--" he began.

She shook her head violently.  "No, Mulder."

"What if Fox regressed you?" Mrs Scully asked. 

Mulder looked up quickly at Scully's mother.  "Mrs. Scully,
I'm not a trained hypnotherapist--"

"But you're familiar with the procedures.  You told that
yourself."

"Yes, but--"

"Could you do it, Mulder?"  Scully put her hand on his arm.

He looked at her, surprised.  "You want me to do this?"

Her lip crooked slightly.  "'Want' might be an overstatement
of the situation."

He chuckled, releasing just a bit of burgeoning tension. 
"I'm really not trained for it, Scully.  And I know what you
think about the whole process."

"We don't have time for my memories to return on their own,
Mulder, since they're not exactly in any hurry.  Deborah
Bennett said that my lost memories might hold the key to
finding Sarah Chandler--and finding out what happened to
Samantha.  I'm not that optimistic, but I'm desperate enough
to take drastic measures."

He touched her face, tracing the curve of her jawline from
her ear to her chin.  "You're a trouper, Scully."

Her little half-grin twitched a notch higher.  "Bet you say
that to all the girls, Mulder."  The smile faded and a
little crease of tension formed in her brow.  "So, what
now?"

"I think we should do it here.  Now.  Before you have time
to work yourself into a nervous state.  And I think this is
a place where you feel safe."  He glanced over at Scully's
mother, who was watching them with a bemused half-smile on
her face. 

Scully nodded.  "I do feel safe here."

He looked into her eyes, seeking the depth of her resolve. 
"So?"

She lifted her chin, a look of sheer determination darkening
her eyes.  She took a deep breath.

"Let's do it," she said.


*  *  *  *  *


8:03 p.m. 


Scully looked down at her clasped hands, noting that she'd
chipped a nail sometime over the course of the day.  She
couldn't remember how.

Then again, apparently she couldn't remember a lot of
things.

Down the hall, she could hear the soft murmur of Mulder and
her mother conversing in low tones.  Mulder had suggested,
and Scully had agreed, that it might be best for her mother
to wait in another room.  Uncertain about what horrors she
might have undergone during her missing time, Scully knew
she'd find her mother's presence in the room inhibiting.  It
was very sensitive of Mulder to realize that.  But he'd also
promised to call her mother back into the room if she needed
her.

He returned to the living room and crossed slowly to her,
lifting the arm chair and pulling it closer to the sofa
where Scully sat.  He sat and bent forward slightly so that
he could rest his hand atop hers.  "Before we get started, I
want you to decide now how you want to control this
session."

"Control it?"

He nodded.  "I want you to be in control of what happens in
your regressive state, Scully.  I want you to feel that you
can safely explore any dark areas, no matter how frightening
they may appear, because you can escape them at any time. 
Like Dr. Pomerantz told you, we're going to have a safe,
secure place where you can go at any time that the session
is too frightening for you.  Let's decide right now where
that is."

"Right here."

He nodded. "This room?"

She shook her head.  "The kitchen.  I'm sitting at the table
and my mother is at the stove, making Dad's favorite chili."

A faint smile touched his lips.  "Good choice.  Okay--
ready?"

She nodded. 

He let go of her hand and reached into his jacket for his
microcassette recorder.  They had agreed that taping the session
was important.  "Would you feel more comfortable sitting or lying
down?"  

"Sitting," she said immediately.  She didn't know why.  She
only knew that Dr. Pomerantz had asked the same question and
she'd given the same quick answer.

"Okay.  Like Dr. Pomerantz explained to you, what we're
going to try to do is focus on your breathing to help you
reduce your external awareness of your surroundings.  I want
you to stop thinking analytically and let yourself relax." 
He lifted his hand to her face, gently brushing his fingers
over her eyelids, closing her eyes.  "You're going deep
inside yourself, into your center.  You breathe slowly and
deeply.  Feel your lungs pulling air inside.  Feel the
muscles pushing air back out.  Slowly, in and out."

She matched her breathing with the calm, rhythmic cadence of
his voice.

"You can feel the sofa supporting your body.  You can relax
completely because the sofa is strong and can take all your
weight.  Feel the back of the sofa pressing gently against
your spine, taking all your weight.  The cushions under your
legs are enveloping them, helping you feel very peaceful,
very relaxed."

Her limbs grew warm and heavy.  Her breathing evened.  Her
mind went inward.  Mulder's voice was like soothing music,
playing deep in her mind.  

"Now, Scully, we're going to your mother's kitchen.  It's a
bright, sunny Saturday afternoon, and you're sitting at the
table, watching your mother stir the chili.  The sun is warm
on your face.  You look out the window and you can see the
hummingbird feeder.  There's a hummingbird feeding.  He's
beautiful, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"You feel very happy.  Very safe.  You can see the
hummingbird, you can hear the soft sound of the breeze
rustling the leaves outside.  You turn and look at your
mother.  What is she doing now?"

"She's putting in a teaspoon of cocoa in the chili." 
Scully's mouth curved in a smile.  "Shh--that's the secret
ingredient."

"Is anyone else here?"

"No.  Just Mom and me.  This is our time."

"You feel very safe with your mom."

"Yes."

"And you know that no matter what happens from here on out,
you can always come right back here to the kitchen with your
mom."

"Yes."

"Good.  But right now, Scully, I want you to relax even more
and go back to that place deep inside you.  Down to your
core.  You're very, very calm.  Very relaxed, and yet your
mind is alert.  Now, I want you to go back several years. 
It's a couple of days after you helped me through the
hostage situation, remember?  You talked me though it,
through that scary time.  I was afraid, Scully, afraid Duane
Barry would kill me.  But I could hear your voice in my ear,
telling me that you were watching out for me, and I wasn't
so afraid anymore.  Because you'd never let anyone hurt me,
and I knew it.  And that's what I want you to know now,
Scully.  I want you to hear me in your ear now.  Know that I
won't let anyone or anything hurt you now."

"I know that."  Her tongue felt thick.  To her own ears her
voice sounded slurred.

"Good.  Now, you and I are going to have a little signal
between us, okay?  Whenever we come across as situation
that's too frightening for you, I'm going to count to three
and put my hand on your knee.  When you feel the warmth, the
weight on your knee, you'll know that I'm there.  That I'm
going to stop the bad thing from happening so we can step
back for a moment and regroup, okay?"

"Yes."

"Now, I want you to go back to a couple of days after Duane
Barry was shot.  The doctors had found something in his
abdomen.  Do you remember what that was?"

"It was a piece of metal.  Like shrapnel."

"What did Duane Barry say it was?"

"A probe."

"I come into your office and we talk about the metal.  You
tell me you're going to do something with it.  What do you 
do with it?"

"I take it to Ballistics.  They run a test on it.  We find
something strange.  Etchings."

Mulder's voice seemed closer somehow.  Inside her.  "What
kind of etchings?"

"They look like...."  She hesitated, remembering how
foolish she'd thought the idea at first.  "They look like
some kind of bar code.  I decide to take it home with me. 
I'm not really sure why."

"Do you go straight home?"

"No.  No, I stop at a grocery store."

"Then what happens?  You stop at the grocery store...."

"The clerk is walking away, and I remember how the metal
seemed to have a bar code.  I'm curious...."

"What do you do, Scully?  Do you take the implant out of
your purse?"

"My pocket.  I take it from my pocket.  I'm just curious.  I
don't expect what happens."

"What happens, Scully?"

Her brow furrowed.  "I pass the vial over the scanner and
the scanner display goes wild.  The clerk comes running
back.  I leave quickly."

"Do you go home then?"

"Yes.  I go home and I don't even turn on all the lights.  I
dial your home phone number.  Damn it, it's the machine."

"You leave a message."

"I tell you that something strange happened to me....Oh.  I
hear a noise outside.  My skin crawls.  I know that
something's...something's not right...Oh!  God!"  She
flailed her arm, seeing the scene unfolding in front of her. 
The blinds parting to reveal Duane Barry lit by a flash of
lightning. "Mulder!"  The scream tore from her throat as
she relived the moment when Barry burst through her 
window, shattering glass, splintering wood.  He was 
surprisingly fast and forceful as he grabbed her. 
"Mulder, I need your help!" 

"I'm right here, Scully--hear me in your ear."

His voice was faint, faraway.  Much farther away that Duane
Barry's hands grabbing at her, pulling her with him.  He was
amazingly strong, considering his injury, she thought, one
part of her mind still functioning with the clinical
detachment hammered into her by years on the job.  But
another part of her was shrieking in terror.  "Mulder!"

"I'm here, Scully.  Remember what I told you---when I put my
hand over your knee, it's our signal to step back for a
moment, to get away from the frightening situation.  On the
count of three, I'm going to touch your knee and then I'll
be there in the room with you, and I'll stop him.  One, two,
three...."

She felt the warmth and weight of his hand on her knee and
her panic began to rapidly subside.  "Mulder...."

"Right here with you, Scully." 

He was there, in the room.  Standing between her and Duane
Barry.  She focused on her breathing, on slowing it,
steadying her heart rate.  "Better...."

"Good.  Scully, in order to find out what happened, I'm
going to have to let Duane Barry take you.  But remember,
YOU'RE in control.  We're going along for the ride, but you
can back out anytime you want.  All you have to do is go
back to your mother's kitchen.  Now, tell me what's
happening." 

"He's tying me up.  I'm struggling, but he's so strong.  How
can he be so strong?  He was just shot...."  She shook her
head, terror rising again.  "He--I'm bleeding. I can feel
the blood trickling down my forehead."

"He puts a gag in your mouth and takes you out to your car."

"Yes.  The carpet in the trunk burns my cheek as I skid
across it.  He's not gentle."  Pain stung her cheek as she
relived the memory.  "The ropes are tight--"  A moaning
sound escaped her throat.  "My arms are aching already...."

"How long are you in the trunk?"

"I hear music.  Muffled--strange.  The sounds are all
screwed up...."  She frowned.   "Is this what I was
remembering from before?"

"I don't know.  Tell me what you're remembering now."

"I hear--Oh, God, Mulder, I hear a siren!  Mulder, it's a
siren!  Someone's looking for me!  You sent someone to look
for me!"  Excitement roiled in her breast, speeding up her
breathing.  

"Tell me what happens then."

"The car is pulling to a stop.  I can feel the difference in
the speed, in the sound of the engine."

"Duane Barry pulls to a stop and then?"

"I hear voices.  A man.  I think he's asking Duane Barry to
step out of the car.  I've got to find some way to let him
know I'm here.  I can't let him walk away!"  She made a
soft, keening sound of desperation.  "I need his help!"

"Focus on your breathing, Scully.  Focus on staying calm.  
Deep breaths, in, out."

She followed Mulder's voice, the worst of her panic
subsiding.  "I need his help.  I try to move, try to bang
against the trunk so that he'll know---Oh!"  She jerked back
as a phantom sound echoed in her head.  "Oh, God, no!"

"Tell me what's happening, Scully."

"Oh, God, no, God, no...."  She shook her head from side to
side.  "Oh, please, God--"

"Scully, I'm here.  Feel my hand on your knee...one, two,
three...."

The warmth.  The weight.  Then she felt his presence there
in the dark trunk.  His arms holding her, keeping her safe.
She let his presence soothe her again.  

"Tell me what you're seeing, Scully.  Be my eyes."

She nodded, taking courage from his admission of need.  She
could do it for him.  "There's nothing but silence, and I
know that whoever stopped the car is dead.  He's dead and
it's my fault."  A hot tear trickled down her cheek.  "It's
my fault."

"Scully, you didn't do anything wrong."  Mulder's voice was
strong in her ear, strong and yet achingly gentle.  "Now,
tell me what you're seeing."

"He's opening the trunk.  I'm sure he's going to kill me
now, too."  Panic threatened to surge to the surface again,
but she concentrated on the feel of Mulder's hand on her
knee and she was able to stop it.  "But he just looks at
me."

"Does he say anything to you?"

"Yes."  She creased her brow, remembering.  "He says he's
not going to hurt me.  That we have to meet someone."

"Does he tell you who you have to meet?"

"No, but he doesn't have to.  I heard what he said to you in
the travel agency, Mulder.  I know he thinks we're going to
meet an alien ship."  Fear and anger coiled in her gut. 
"Damn it, when that ship doesn't show up, my life's not
worth anything to him anymore!  I've got to find a way out
of this."  Tears squeezed from her eyes.  "Mulder, I need
you to come get me.  Please, Mulder...."


*  *  *  *  *


Scully's soft plea curled around Mulder's heart, and his
hand shook where it lay on Scully's knee.  "I'm here,
Scully.  I'm right here."  He fought his rising anguish,
forcing his own breathing to stay calm and focused. 
"Remember--whenever this gets too hard, we can go back to
your safe place."

He watched her struggled to regain control over her
burgeoning panic.  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and he
wanted to reach up and brush them away, but touching her
face might break her focus and propel her out of the
hypnogogic state.  So he remained still. 

"Okay...okay."  Her voice was a little stronger.  "I'm
okay."

"Where are you now?"

"In the trunk.  We've been driving up an incline; I can feel
the slant of the car.  I've rolled to the front of the
trunk.  There's something beneath my cheek, something small
and metallic."

"What is it?"  He suspected he knew, remembering the tiny
cross pendant he'd found in the trunk of the car when he'd
reached the top of Skyland Mountain.  But he didn't try to
lead her.

"I can't tell.  It's pitch black in here.  And my hands are
tied behind my back.  I can't breathe very well, Mulder.  I
feel closed in."  Her breathing grew shallow, rapid.  She
was hyperventilating.  "I...c-can't...breathe...."

"Yes, you can, Scully.  I want you to take a long, deep
breath and hold it as long as you can.  That's it.  Do it
again.  In rhythm.  Deep breath, hold it until I count to
five, then release.  Then repeat it." 

He helped her get her breathing back under control,
breathing with her to calm himself.  He'd known that taking
Scully under hypnosis himself was going to be difficult, but
he'd had no idea just how difficult.  He felt as if he were
reliving the whole nightmare--only it was worse, now,
because before, he had only had his imagination to tell him
what she had gone through.

Now, he had the first hand account, relived in front of him.

And it was worse than he'd ever imagined.


*  *  *  *  *


Warehouse District
Baltimore, Maryland
8:25 p.m.


The man in gray crossed slowly to the examining table and
bent over Sarah Chandler's still form.  She was sleeping
now, the doctors had told him, aided by a strong sedative. 
Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm.

He lay his hand on the young woman's bare shoulder, feeling
her warmth beneath his fingers.  Against her smooth skin,
his nicotine-stained hand looked like sun-dried leather. 
Prominent veins and splotches of melanin bespoke his age. 
Once, he'd been as young as this woman, young and certain
that the world was his to conquer.  He'd played the cards
dealt to him with skill and passion, and he'd won more often
than he'd lost, which was all that any man could really hope
for in the end.

The losses were calculated.  Prepared for.  Worth the
ultimate gain.

And he was not a cruel man.  Whenever possible, he spared
life.  Spared pain.  

By all rights, Sarah Chandler should be dead now, but he'd
spared her.  Spared her even after the initial tests
twenty-five years ago had revealed that, despite her unusual
conception, she was a normal child.  Bright and remarkably
intuitive, certainly, but her parents were people of talent
and intellect.  She and the boy had been trailblazers
without even realizing it.  But not so special that the
consortium had felt the need to keep them around.  

He had fought for her.  For them.  Protected them.

He looked down at her still, quiet form.  Tender emotion was
rare with him, so rare that it never ceased to surprise him
when it surfaced, as it did now.  Looking down at the girl,
he remembered the faraway past.  Sunlight filtering through
the trees, dappling the carpeting of leaves on the ground,
sparkling on the lake.  Laughter.  A young boy's shout of
excitement.  A little girl with chestnut brown hair and big
hazel eyes, begging for a piggy-back ride.  She had looked
like her mother.  And she'd thought he could do no wrong.

He drew his hand away from the woman's shoulder and turned
away.  He left the main room, entering an access corridor
and heading for the exit.  He paused in the doorway to the
outside and lit a cigarette.  Smoke rushed into his lungs. 
Filled him.  Calmed him.  He exhaled.  

He left the warehouse, shrouded in smoke.


*  *  *  *  *  


Mrs. Scully's house
8:38 p.m.


"Whatever they gave me has immobilized me.  I'm aware of my
surroundings, but I can't move."  Scully's voice was faint
and tinged with fear.

"Do you want to move?"  Mulder fought to keep his voice
steady, to remain calm for her.  But the last few minutes
had taxed his control as she'd relived in horrific detail
the second abduction.  Within minutes after Duane Barry had
taken her to the top of Skyland Mountain, a black helicopter
had alit.  Men in dark, nondescript uniforms had taken her
from Barry and thrown her in the back of the helicopter. 
Bruised her.  Hurt her.

His back ached from leaning forward to keep his hand on her
knee, but he couldn't pull away.  His hand on her knee was
his link to her subconscious.  Breaking that contact would
seem as if he were abandoning her. 

"I hate this feeling."  Her voice shook with anger.  "I hate
feeling like I have no control over my own body.  I want
these bastards to let me go!"

"Where are you?  What do you see?"

"I'm in a small, narrow room.  It's a boxcar.  On a train. 
I can feel the movement of the train.  The sound of the
wheels clattering on the rails."

"Where are you in the room?"

"On a table.  It's an autopsy tray."  She shuddered.  The
sensation vibrated up his tired arm.  "They're...looking at
me."

He slid forward in the chair until he was sitting on the
very edge.  The movement eased a bit of the growing tension
in his arm.  "How are they looking at you?  Just looking? 
Or are they examining you?"

She shook her head.  "No, they're just looking at me. 
They're speaking to each other.  Not in English."

"In Japanese?" he asked.

"Yes, I think so.  There--that's Dr. Ishimaru.  He seems to
be in charge.  He seems to be telling everyone else what to
do."

"Do you know what he's telling them?"

"Oh, God!"  Horror twisted her face, and she started gasping
for air.

His stomach clenched.  "Focus on your breathing, Scully."

"No, please--what are they--I can feel that!"  She cried
out, a sound of agonizing pain.  "No, it hurts!"

"Scully, we're turning down the pain.  Just like turning the
knob of a television set.  We're lowering the volume of the
pain."

Tears squeezed from the corners of her eyes.   "They're
cutting me, Mulder.  They don't care that I can feel it."

"They aren't trying to anaesthetize you?"  His voice came
out in a choked whisper.

"No, they don't care...."  She made a soft whimper.

He swallowed a flood of rage.  "Where are they cutting you,
Scully?"

"My abdomen.  Small incisions--three, maybe four.  I can't
tell--just...the pain...."  She moaned, clenching her fists
in her lap.

Mulder closed his eyes for a second, forcing himself to
remain calm.  After a couple of steadying breaths, he asked,
"Do you know what they're doing to you?"

"It's like laparoscopy--they're filling my abdomen with some
sort of gas, distending it...."  She moaned again.  "It
hurts...."

"I know it hurts, Scully.  I'm so sorry it hurts."  Tears
burned his eyes, pooled above his lower eyelids, blurred his
vision.  "I'm sorry they're doing this to you, you know I
am.  But remember the knob?  Let's turn down the knob.  Turn
down the pain."  He scooted off the chair, moved forward and
knelt right in front of her, his hand never leaving her
knee.  "Now that the volume of pain is turned down, we can
concentrate on other things, right?  Can you tell what
they're trying to do to you?"

"I feel the instruments moving around inside me."  Her
forehead wrinkled.  "It's more horrifying than the pain. 
Feeling them invade me.  Violate my body.  I want to kill
them for what they're doing to me."

Tears ran, unchecked, down his cheeks.  "I'm so sorry,
Scully.  I feel the same way, you know I do."

The rage and fear in her face softened.  "I know.  I think
about you as this is happening to me.  I wonder what you're
doing.  Are you worrying about me?  Are you're blaming
yourself?  I don't want to die this way, without telling you
goodbye...."

He choked back a low sob.  "I'm thinking about you, too, 
Scully.   I'm wondering about you.  Wondering if you
know...." He stopped himself, fighting to regain his control
over the session.  He had to take his own step back--out of
the horrific nightmare vision she was showing him.  He had
to stay grounded in the present, in reality.  That was his
job.  He closed his eyes, wiping away the tears with his
free hand.  "Okay, Scully.  I want you to tell me what's
happening now."

"It's over.  They're closing the incisions--not with
sutures."  Her voice held a hint of surprise, a touch of
curiosity.  "It's something like a cauterizing laser, I
think.  Tiny and precise.  There's pain, but it's very
localized.  More like a stinging sensation.  I wonder what
it is--I've never seen anything like it."

He listened to her words, noting the sudden strength of her
voice.  A bubble of amazed laughter hovered in his throat. 
Only his Scully could find a way to combine scientific
curiosity with abject terror.  "They've finished the
procedure.  Now what's happening?"

"Nothing.  Nothing happens for a long time.  Some of the
doctors sit across the train compartment, talking among
themselves.  Two of them are in another area.  It looks like
a makeshift laboratory.  They're looking at something."  Her
expression twisted with outrage.  "Something hurts deep
inside me.  They cut me!  They took something out of me!" 
Her voice rose to a wail.  "Oh, God, what have they taken
out of me?"  She went rigid, her fists clenching. "Mulder, I
can't move, I can't move, I want to move, I want to kill
them for what they've done to me!  Goddam bastards, what
have you done to me!  You sons of bitches!"  She flailed
out, striking a painful blow against Mulder's cheek.  

He bit back a gasp of pain and tightened his grip on her
knee.  "Scully--Scully, listen to me.  Let's go back to that
safe place now.  Let's take a breather from this.  Scully? 
Are you listening to me?"

"They took something out of me, Mulder." Her voice was soft,
almost childlike, dark with hurt.  "They took something from
me."

He lowered his head, unable to bear the sight of her pain. 
"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."

He felt her hands in his hair, stroking gently.  Her voice
was gentle when she spoke.  "Let's go to the safe place,
Mulder."

He looked up.  She was still in a hypnogogic state, her eyes
shut, tears trickling down her cheeks.  Her forehead was
wrinkled with concern.  Concern for him.  Even now.  He
wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her.  He settled
for gently stroking her knee.  "We're in that safe place,
Scully.  We're safe now.  I'm right here beside you."

She breathed slowly, deeply.  He felt her leg muscles
loosening beneath his touch.  "I don't want to go back
there, Mulder."

He didn't, either.  Not ever.  "That's okay, Scully.  You
don't have to go back there if you don't want to."  Maybe
what she'd remembered was enough to help them.  It certainly
raised enough terrifying questions.  "Do you want me to
bring you out?"

"Can we just stay here a little while, Mulder?  Just you and
me, right here?" 

"Sure."  He moved his hand lightly over her knee.  "Right
here."

Mulder didn't know how long he stayed that way, crouched in
front of her, gently caressing her knee.  Time unraveled. 
Only the soft click of his cassette recorder running out of
tape disturbed the amazing sense of peace and communion.  He
reached out with his free hand and flipped the tape to the
other side to record what was left of the session.  "Okay,
Scully, are you ready to for me to bring you out?"

She shook her head slowly.  "No, Mulder...I have to go
back."

He frowned.  "Scully, you don't have to--"

"I do.  I have to go back.  There's more...."  She rolled
her neck as if her muscles were stiffening up.  Already he
could feel the tension building up in her body again. 
"There's more I need to remember...."

"Scully--"

She didn't wait for him.  Her chin jutted with resolve. "I'm
back on the train.  It's dark in the compartment.  They've
finished their tests and they've gone to another part of the
train." 

He took a deep breath and plunged in.  "Are you alone?"

"There's a man with me.  I can't see him, but I know he's
here.  I can hear him breathing."

"Are you still immobilized?"  

"Yes.  I'm strapped down now, too, but I don't think I could
move even if the straps weren't there."

"Tell me what you're hearing."

"Breathing.  Soft, a little raspy.  It's a man--I can tell
it's a man.  I smell something--aftershave, maybe.  Scotch--
very faint."  Her nose wrinkled.  "Cigarette smoke."

Mulder leaned forward, rage building at his core.  "Is it
him?  Is it Cancerman?"

She frowned and shook her head slightly.  "No, the voice is
wrong.  A different...a different sound.  Clipped. 
Hmm...it's familiar.  I can't...I can't place it..."

"The voice is familiar?"

"No.  Just the accent.  Umm...Brahmin."

"Brahmin?"

"Yeah.  You know--New England.  You have the same sound,
sometimes.  Once in a while."

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to think
what he was thinking.  The dossier on her comings and
goings--that had been bad enough--

"He's next to me.  I can feel the warmth of his body next to
mine."  Scully's voice rose slightly.  "Oh, God, he's
touching me!  He's touching my hand.  His hand is hot, dry. 
It's so dark!  I can't see him.  I'm so afraid--I don't want him
to 
touch me."  She wrung her hands as if shaking away the 
phantom hands in her memory.  

"Is he h-hurting you?"  Mulder swallowed with difficulty,
fighting a sudden surge of nausea.

"No.  He's speaking again.  He's saying my name.  Very
softly.  'Dana.'"  She winced.  "I ask him how he knows me,
and he tells me that they know all about me."

Mulder closed his eyes.  "Does he say anything else?"

"I ask him if he's going to hurt me.  He tells me he's there
to help me.  He says he's there to watch out for me, to make
sure I get back home safely to the people who care about
me...."

"Does he tell you who he is?"

She made a soft sound of frustration.  "He speaks in riddles."

"Riddles."

"I don't know--riddles.  Parables.  He says that he's 
Agamemnon.  That he must atone for his sin."

Agamemnon.  Mulder sat back on his heels, his heart
thudding wildly in his chest.   Agamemnon, the Greek
king who sacrificed his daughter to ensure good winds
for his fleet in the battle against Troy.   Agamemnon, 
whose deed incurred the hatred of his wife.

Oh, God.

It was his father.



*  *  *  *  *


8:41 p.m.

The scream was weak, anguished, followed by a low, soothing
murmur.  Dana and Fox, reliving nightmares together. 
Margaret Scully closed her eyes, spilling tears down her
cheeks.  She should never have agreed to stay in here.  It 
was her house.  Her child.  She should be out there with her 
child.  With her children.  She shouldn't be waiting in here. 

Life had taught Margaret about patience.  Half her life
seemed to have been spent waiting.  Waiting to grow up. 
Waiting for William to realize she wasn't a little girl
anymore.  Waiting for her children to be born.  Waiting for
her husband to come home from sea.

She had learned to fill the time by staying busy. 
Gardening, reading, cooking, teaching--she'd packed the
hours of waiting so full that she'd hardly noted the passage
of time.  Her friends complimented her on her industry; her
family took pride in her accomplishments.  And, eventually,
she'd come to understand that what she was doing wasn't
really waiting.

She was simply living.

Waiting was a darker, colder thing.  Waiting was pacing in
the corridor of a hospital in the middle of the night until
a doctor emerged to tell you that the love of your life, the
father of your children, was gone.  Waiting was months of
wondering where your baby girl was, what was happening to
her, who had taken her.  Waiting was watching your eldest
daughter's life seep away before your eyes.

Waiting was listening to a nightmare being played out on the
other side of the wall and knowing that there was nothing
you could do to stop it.

The screams came again.

In agony, Margaret waited.


*  *  *  *  *

9:09 p.m.

"I don't know how long I have been unconscious.  It feels
like forever."  Scully's voice was weak, raspy.  "I know I am 
tired.  So tired...."

Mulder sat at her feet, his hand still closed around her
knee.  He was tired, too.  Tired and hurting in ways he
didn't even want to think about.  After the first procedure
she had described, there had been more.  More mysterious
extractions.  More pain. Time had ceased to mean anything to
her, days blurring into nights.  

Regard for her as a human being was non-existent.  She
remembered being strapped to a gurney for hours at a time,
catheterized, fed through a tube in her stomach.  They left
her naked, exposed, while they went about their work around
her, oblivious to her humiliation.  

Only one man bothered to treat her with any dignity
whatsoever.  The man who called himself Agamemnon.  

Mulder's father.  He was more convinced now than ever.

"He's here," Scully murmured.

Mulder lifted his head wearily and looked up into her pale
face.  "Agamemnon?"

"Yes.  He covers me with a sheet and touches my hand.  His
eyes--his eyes are haunted.  I think he was not prepared for
what he's seen here...."

"Not prepared?"

"He's not one of them...."

"One of your captors?"

"I know he's not another prisoner, but he's not like the
others, either.  What he sees them doing to me--it pains
him.  But when I beg him to help me...."  Her voice trailed
away.

"What does he do?"

"He looks away.  He's afraid.  Afraid of them."  Her brow
creased suddenly.  "He's arguing.  I hear his voice.  It's
loud...slurred...."

Mulder took a shuddery breath.

"I smell the Scotch he's been drinking.  He drinks for
courage, I think.  But his courage fails him."

"What are he and the others arguing about?"

"Me.  He asks them why they have kept me so long when the
others have been released."

"The others--you mean the other women you met?"

"Yes.  They've been returned.  I'm the only one who remains. 
Agamemnon...wants to know why...."

"What is he told?"

"That I'm being taken to another place for a final
procedure.  But first--No!"

Her sharp cry sliced through his taxed nervous system like a
razor blade.  His heart pounded.  His fingers tightened on
her knee.  "Breathe, Scully.  Breathe...that's it.  What's
happening?  What are you seeing?"

Her face crumpled as if she had reached the utter end of her
emotional reserves.  "They're putting something in my
neck...."  Her last word elided into a heartbroken whimper.

He laid his head atop his hand where it rested on her knee. 
The session had gone on too long--he'd let her continue too
long.  But she was so determined to keep going, to remember
everything, rid her mind of the horrors.  She wanted it
over.  She didn't want to return to the past again. 

He didn't want her to, either.  Not for all the answers in
the world.

"I'm turning down...the pain...." she whispered, and he
lifted his head, kicking himself for his brief moment of
inattention.  He was weakening, losing his focus.  He should
bring her out--

"The world is spinning...I'm dizzy.  My stomach--I'm throwing
up...."  She made a choking sound.  "I'm...I can't
breathe...can't move....I'm choking...."

"Scully, let's go back to the--"

"He's turning me over...so I don't choke..."

"Who?"

"Agamemnon.  He's always there when it's over.  I'm so
off balance...I think it must be what they put in my neck...
he's helping me...cleaning me...."

"Scully...."

She ignored him and forged ahead.  "He's afraid...he says he
can't be there long...someone's coming...."

"Does he tell you anything?"

"Just that he can't stay long--but that he's trying to help
me.  He tells me to be strong, that he's trying to help me
but things may get worse...."

Worse?  How could things get worse?  Mulder closed his eyes.

"I smell smoke...."

He opened his eyes.  "Is there a fire?"

"No...tobacco smoke."

"Is Agamemnon back?"

"No.  Not him.  He was sent away...."  Her lip curled in
disgust.  "God, Mulder.  It's him...."

"Who?  Cancerman?"

She gave a weak nod.  "I can't see him.  The compartment is
dark.  But I hear his voice.  I know it's him."

"He's speaking?"

"He's talking to someone--the man who was arguing with
Agamemnon.  I can't make...I can't make out sentences...I'm
sorry."

He rubbed her knee.  "It's okay.  Can you make out words?"

"Something...something about another test...."  She made a
low moaning sound of fear, and his heart contracted. 
"Mulder, they're taking me away...."

He didn't know if he could take anymore.  "Scully--let's go
back--"

"Everything's black now.  I can't...I can't see.  I'm having
trouble hearing...."  Her voice faded away.

Mulder waited for her to speak again.  But she didn't.  Not
for a minute.  Two minutes.  He shifted slightly, wondering
if she had gone to her safe place.  "Are you in your
mother's kitchen?" he asked.  "In the safe place?"

She didn't answer right away.  He frowned, anxiety building.
He opened his mouth to call her name.

But she spoke first.  "I'm dying, Mulder."

The words froze his blood.  

Her voice was faint, faraway.  Her body slumped with 
weariness.  Her lips were dry and bloodless.  "I don't 
know how long it has been since I was conscious.  I 
don't know if I'm conscious now.  I can't see anything.  
I can't hear.  I can only feel."

"What do you feel?"

"I feel my body dying.  Even the pain is dying."  Tears
oozed from the corners of her eyes.  "I don't want to die,
but I can't stop it...."

"You're not dying, Scully."  He gripped her knee tightly. 
"Feel my hand on your knee.  Remember I'm here, and I won't
let anything happen--"

"I don't want to die, Mulder.  I'm so afraid that I'm going
to die and I won't be able to tell you...."

He couldn't bear any more.  Not one thing more.  "Scully,
let's go back to the safe place.  Come back with me to the
safe place.  It's time to leave--"

"No, I can't leave yet," she moaned, weakly turning her head
back and forth as if trying to elude the grasp of death
itself.   "I have to tell you...I have to...."

"You can tell me in the safe place, Scully...."  In
desperation he removed his hand from her knee to break the
spell.  She gasped aloud, as if he'd ripped the air from her
lungs.  

"No, no, I have to tell you...Mulder!"  Her cry was little
more than a weak murmur.  "Don't...I need you Mulder...."  

She wasn't coming with him.  She was back there in her own
private hell, and he'd betrayed her with his weakness, his
fear.

Like father, like son....

No.

He laid his head against her knee, her linen pants rasping
against his damp cheek.  "I"m here, Scully.  Feel me?" 

Her hands fluttered against his hair like pale butterflies.
"Yes."

"I'm here."

"I need to tell you something...before I die.  I'm so afraid
I'm going to die and you'll never know that I didn't betray
you.  Not ever."  Her words came out in a rush, as if she
were racing death to speak her piece.  "They wanted me to
destroy you, but I never....I know you must blame me for
losing the X-Files, but I never gave them anything...."

"I know."

"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I think you must have hated me
from the first, and I'm so afraid that I'll die without
knowing if you still do...."  She wept bitterly now, her
small body shaking.  

He dared not hold her as he wanted to, afraid to do anything
to jar her in this state.  But he turned his head and
pressed his lips against her leg, then put his hand over her
knee again.  He looked up into her tear-streaked face. 
"Never.  I wanted to hate you Scully.  I knew they sent you
to ruin me.  I knew you were the enemy.  But no matter how I
tried, I couldn't hate you.  I never could.  I thought I
couldn't bear to have you in my life, Scully.  But I know
now that I can't bear to be without you in my life."  He
pressed his forehead against the back of the hand on her
knee.  "Before you came, I trusted only myself.  But now,
you're the only one I trust, Scully.  The only one."

She touched his head again, her fingers gentle against his
temple.  "Let's go back to the safe place, Mulder.  Let's go
back."

He took a deep breath and looked up.  "We're back in your
mother's kitchen now, Scully.  The sunlight is still bright.
Your mother is still at the stove, cooking.  She turns to
look at you.  She smiles, and you feel safe and warm."

"I see the hummingbird outside the window.  He's small and
full of energy," she said.  Her voice was raspy from
overuse, but it was stronger.  More sure.

"I want you to stay here for just a few minutes, Scully. 
Stay here and enjoy the peaceful feeling.  You remember
nothing painful.  Nothing that frightens you.  You think
only of happy things.  In a few minutes, I'm going to bring
you back out.  And when you wake up, you'll remember only
the things you want to remember.  You don't have to remember
anything that frightens you or pains you.  We have the tape
for that, right?  The tape will remember for you."

She nodded slowly.  "Will you stay with me?"

"I'm going to leave the room for just a minute.  Just a
minute.  You stay here in the kitchen where it's safe, and
I'll be right back.  I promise.  You trust me to come back,
don't you?"

"I trust you, Mulder."  She sounded like a child.  

He brushed away his tears with his free hand.  "On the count
of three, I'm going to take my hand away from your knee. 
But it will be okay, because you know I'm coming right
back."

"Yes."

"One...two...three...." He slowly withdrew his hand and
pushed himself to his feet.  Stiff from remaining so long in
a crouched position, his body protested.  His legs felt like
rubber and wobbled a bit as he hurried down the hall to Mrs.
Scully's room. 

She must have heard his approach, for she opened the door
before he could lift his hand to knock.  "Is it over?"

He nodded.  "I want you to be there when I bring her out,
like we discussed."

"Is she okay?"

He passed his hand over his burning eyes.  "I think so."

Mrs. Scully put her hand on his arm.  "How about you?"

He couldn't bring himself to utter the lie.  "No," he
admitted.

She squeezed his arm, her eyes filling with tears.  For a
moment he swayed toward her, wanting nothing more than for
this good woman to hold him and let him cry on her strong
shoulder.  But he stopped himself.  He stepped back,
gesturing toward the doorway.  She went into the living room
ahead of him.

Scully sat on the sofa, her face tear-stained and white. 
But her brow was smooth.  Her body seemed relaxed.  She was
still in the safe place.

Margaret hovered near the couch while Mulder sat in the
armchair again, leaning toward Scully.  "I'm going to count
to three and then you'll feel my hand on your knee again. 
When you feel this...when you feel the weight and the
warmth, you'll open your eyes.  You'll feel as if you've had 
a long sleep.  You'll remember only what you want to
remember.  Only what you feel safe remembering. 
One...two...three...."  He put his hand on her knee.

Scully's eyes fluttered open.  She looked at him, her eyes
slightly unfocused.  "Mulder?"

He stroked her knee gently.  "Welcome back."

She lifted her fingers to her cheek, tracing the tears.  A
small frown furrowed her forehead.  "I...I feel strange."

"You want a glass of water?"

She nodded.  Margaret went into the kitchen to get it. 
Scully's eyes followed her mother, a hint of a smile
crossing her lips.  "I remember that," she murmured.  "I
remember the safe place."

Mulder lifted his hand to her cheek, wiping away an errant
tear.  "What else do you remember, anything?"

She met his wary gaze.  He could see her mind working,
searching, delving.  Sadness crept into her eyes.  "No. 
It's like a dream...I know there was SOMETHING, but I don't
remember details...just...."  She looked away, her gaze
dropping to her hands.  She flexed her fingers, wincing. 
"My hands are cramping...."

That was fairly common after a protracted regression
session, Mulder knew.  He took her hands in his and gently
massaged the taut muscles.  "Let Dr. Mulder take care of
this," he teased.

"I'm sorry.  I know you wanted me to remember."  She glanced
at him.  "Did I?"

"Remember during the session?  Yes.  A few things."  He
tried not to betray his anguish, but he could tell from her
crestfallen expression that he'd failed.

She pulled one hand from his and touched his cheek.  "I'm
sorry."

"Do you want to hear the tape?"  He prayed that she would
say no.  He didn't want to hear it again.

"Yes."  She sounded wary but resolute.

He closed his eyes for a moment. 

Her fingers brushed his cheek again.  "I need to know."

He met her gaze.  "I know."


*  *  *  *  *


11:48 p.m.


Scully sat in stunned silence as Mulder shut off the tape
player. On the couch beside her, her mother was weeping
quietly.  Her own eyes were dry;  she couldn't connect the
voice she'd heard on the tape to herself.  She remembered
almost none of the experiences she had related under
hypnosis. 

She rubbed her hand over her abdomen, recalling the
nightmarish recounting of the invasive procedures she's
spoken of on the tape.  "Confabulation," she murmured.

Mulder's eyes met hers.  "You remember none of it?"

"More to the point, Mulder--I have no scars, beyond the one
in my neck, that would have to be present in the case of
such procedures as I described on the tape.  Nor do I have
any missing organs."

He passed his hand over his stubbled jaw.  "Something
happened to you, Scully, something more than having a chip
place subcutaneously in your neck, or you'd never have
turned up in a coma near death."

"I'm not arguing that, Mulder.  I have no doubt that some
sort of test was performed on me.  But it didn't happen the
way I described it under hypnosis."  She waited for a
flicker of impatience to cross his weary features.  But it
never came.  

He doesn't want to believe those things happened to me, she
realized.  Amazing--Fox Mulder doesn't want to believe.  

"What DO you remember?" her mother asked softly.

She wrinkled her brow, considering the question.  "I
remember my abduction.  I remember being tied up in the
trunk and the trip to Skyland Mountain.  I remember the
helicopter landing.  Beyond that..."  She didn't know if
anything beyond that could really be called memory. 
Impressions might be a better word.  "I recall a bright
light.  I see flashes--people's faces.  Dr. Ishimaru--I saw
him there, Mulder, like I told you when I first saw that
picture of the 731.  I think--I have a sense of an alarm
sounding.  I vaguely recall voices, though I can't begin to
tell you what they're saying."

"Do you remember the one you called Agamemnon?"

She had wondered how long it would take for him to ask about
that.  She had seen by the expression on his face while
listening to the tape that he believed Agamemnon was his
father. 

"Mulder, I doubt there WAS an Agamemnon."  

"That's a pretty specific detail to confabulate, Scully."

"Not necessarily.  We both know that the mind doesn't just
compartmentalize itself.  Just because I 'regressed' doesn't
mean I didn't bring the sum total of my knowledge and
experiences there with me, right?"

He nodded slowly, waiting for her to continue. 

"We have circumstantial evidence indicating that your father
MAY have been at least peripherally involved in my
abduction."

"So you conjured him up, named him Agamemnon and made him
your personal guardian angel?"

"Maybe."  She sighed, rubbing her temples.  She could tell
he wasn't sold on the story, but she was too tired to argue
with him.  "Look, Mulder--we're all tired."  She pushed to
her feet, swaying a little as her knees wobbled.  Her
muscles were tight and sore as if she'd been running for
hours.  "Why don't you go home?"

He raked his hand through his hair, pushing it off his
forehead. "What about you?"

"I'm going to talk to Mom for a little while, then I'll head
home, too."

"Maybe you should spend the night here," her mother
suggested.  "Both of you," she added, glancing at Mulder.

"No, Mom.  You've already gone above and beyond on this
one."  Scully slipped her arm through her mother's.  "But
thanks."

Mulder stepped back from them both, his expression
shuttered.  "Scully's right, Mrs. Scully.  We can talk about
everything in the morning.  It's late and we're all tired." 
He crossed to the coat rack near the door and retrieved his
suit jacket and overcoat.  "Scully--call me when you get
home, okay?"

She nodded, acutely aware of the distance between them.  She
could understand his need to take a step back, however.  She
might not be able to remember the events of the hypnosis
session, but he obviously did.  And judging from the tape,
the experience had been intensely painful for him.

She shouldn't have put him through this.  

"It was a bad idea," she told her mother after Mulder left.  
 
Margaret put her arm around Scully's shoulder and led her
into the kitchen.  Scully sat automatically in the same
chair she'd occupied since she was a small child--the one to
the right of her father's empty place.  Where she'd sat when
she retreated to her safe place during the hypnosis. 
Margaret sat in Ahab's chair and closed her hand over
Scully's.  "You don't believe that any of those memories
could be real?"

"Some portion of them, maybe," Scully admitted.  "But
obviously, if I'd undergone all the procedures I remembered
on the tape, my abdomen would look like a roadmap of scars." 
She turned her hand over, palm to palm with her mother's
hand.  "Wouldn't it?"

Her mother inclined her head.  "I'm sure you're right."

"No, you're not."  Scully stared at her mother, surprised. 

"Dana, what I heard on that tape--you were terrified."  Her
mother's eyes filled with tears.  "You sounded like a lost
child--and I haven't heard you sound that way since you were
a little girl."  

Scully blinked back tears burning her eyes.  "I don't
remember it, Mom.  I don't want to remember, okay?"  She let
go of her mother's hand and rose from the table.  She paced
in agitation, pushing away the memory of the screams she'd
heard on the tape.  

Look at the evidence, Scully.  The evidence can't be wrong. 

Fact--she had no scars on her abdomen consistent, or even
inconsistent, with ONE laparoscopic procedure, much less
several.  

Fact--the ONLY physical evidence she had from her missing
time was a tiny metal chip that had been effectively
destroyed by Agent Pendrell while he was attempting to
analyze its properties.  

Fact--the framework of her "memories" was remarkably
consistent with all the pieces of the puzzle she and Mulder
had already uncovered by old-fashioned detective work.  

There were NO other implants--after the MUFON women had told
her about Betsy Hagopian's "undiagnosed cancer," Scully had
undergone extensive diagnostic tests, including a battery of
x-rays and ultra-sounds.  If anything had been implanted--or
extracted--she'd know it.  

If anything, her "recovered memories" were probably nothing
more than her subconscious mind trying to fit the pieces
together to fill in the blanks. 

She stopped pacing and turned to look at her mother.  "I'm
sorry, Mom.  I'm sorry you had to go through this."

"I wasn't the only one, Dana."

She was talking about Mulder, Scully knew.  Poor Mulder--
she'd certainly put him through hell tonight, then sent him
home alone to brood about it.  "I shouldn't have done that
to him, Mom.  I've just given him one more reason to kick
himself."  She shook her head.  "He blames himself for
everything, and I'm afraid I've only given him more
ammunition."

She clutched the back of her chair, lowering her head,
flexing her neck.  She was sore.  And tired.  And, if she
dared to admit it, scared.  

Because there was another fact she hadn't addressed--the
fact that whether or not her memories were real or
confabulated, SOMETHING had happened to her.  Something had
stripped her of her memory and her health and left her lying
near death on a respirator at Northeast Georgetown Medical
Center three and a half years ago.

Something evil.

Something so terrifying her conscious mind refused to
remember.

Margaret rose and placed her hand on Scully's arm.  "Are you
sure you won't stay the night, honey?" 

Scully shook her head.  "I just want to go to my own place
and sleep in my own bed.  I--I need to reconnect with
myself."

Margaret nodded, closing her eyes for a brief moment as if
in pain.  When she opened her eyes again she opened her
arms.  "Call me when you get home?"

Scully's chuckle was a bit watery.  "Nag, nag, nag," she
murmured, allowing her mother to enfold her in a warm
embrace.  The tears she was trying to hold back spilled from
her eyes, but it was okay.  It was her mother.  

It was her safe place.

*  *  *  *  *

Hallway outside Dana Scully's apartment
12:29 a.m.


Mulder sat in the hallway outside Scully's apartment, 
wondering if one of her neighbors was calling the police 
at that moment to report the strange man sitting outside 
Apt. 5.  He could have used the spare key she'd given him
a while back, but after tonight, he thought it best not 
to invade her space without her permission.  He wanted her 
to feel in control, and walking into her apartment to find 
him waiting there was NOT the way to do that.

He glanced at his watch.  Twelve-thirty.  

Maybe she'd decided to stay at her mom's house after all. 
Maybe she'd left a message on his answering machine.

No, she'd have tried his cellular phone.  He pulled the
phone from his pocket to make sure it was in working order.
It was.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 
He was so tired.  Wiped.  Barely able to function.  He
should have gone home, he supposed--what could he say or do
that couldn't wait until morning?

He couldn't erase what had happened to her.  He couldn't
give her back the missing months.

He was useless to her.  Worse than useless--he was dangerous
to her.  

Deadly.

He pushed himself off the floor, wobbling a little as his
aching thigh muscles trembled from his weight.  He placed
his hand against the wall for support, then turned and
slumped against the wall, defeated.  

He couldn't leave her, even for her own good.  It was his
most glaring weakness.

After several moments more, he heard soft footsteps coming
around the corner.  The cadence was slower, more weary than
usual, but he knew it was Scully.  He felt it in his marrow.

She gave a start as she rounded the corner and saw him
there.  "Mulder."

"Hi, Scully."

She slowly closed the distance between them, pulling her
keys from her jacket pocket.  "I thought you were going
home."

"Just wanted to make sure you got home safely."

"You couldn't have just called?"  She opened the door and
entered, flicking on the light.

He closed the door behind them.  "But that's so impersonal,
Scully."

She turned to face him, her expression a mixture of
exasperation and affection.  "You plan to borrow my couch
again?"

"If you don't mind."

"Mi sofa es tu sofa."  She graced him with a lopsided smile.

"How about your bathroom?"

An odd look darkened her eyes for a moment, and he wondered
what she was thinking.  But the moment passed, and she
gestured toward the hallway.  "I'll be in my room."

He went to the bathroom and relieved himself, pausing as he
was washing his hands to look around the tidy room.  It
smelled like sunshine and seaspray, the undeniable scent of
Dana Scully.  He breathed the fragrance, filled his lungs
with her essence.  He found comfort in the mere fact of her
nearness, the fact that she was just beyond the door, just a
few feet away.  Breathing.  Heart beating.  

There had been a time he'd not been able to say that.  A
horrible time he'd relived in stark, horrific detail
tonight.

The bathroom opened into a narrow hall.  From the bathroom
doorway, Mulder could look straight into Scully's bedroom 
if the door was open.  And it was open.

Scully stood in front of a full length mirror, already
dressed for bed in a pair of gray silk pajamas.  She held
the front of the nightshirt up, baring her stomach to the
mirror.

Looking for scars, he realized.

She caught sight of him in the mirror.  Her eyes closed and
she turned to face him.  "Come here, Mulder."

He stared at her for a moment, unable to draw a breath.  She
was so beautiful.  So small, delicate-looking.  He knew that
she was anything BUT delicate, but that knowledge only made
the illusion of fragility somehow more intoxicating.  Such
an enigma.  An endless puzzle. 

He crossed the hall and entered her bedroom.

She held out her hand to him, and his heart began to race. 
He closed the distance between them, placing his hand in
hers.  

She drew him toward the bed.  His mouth went dry.

"I want you to look at something," she murmured.  She
released his hand and lifted the hem of her pajama top,
bunching the soft gray silk just beneath her breasts.

He stared at her for a second, his mind sluggish.  Then he
realized what she wanted him to do.

He knelt in front of her and bent his face close to her bare
stomach.  The skin was smooth, taut, milky white.

"No scars, Mulder," she murmured.

He lifted his hand and touched the small swell of her lower
abdomen.  The skin was flawless.  

No scars.

He ran his fingers over the soft, hot skin, circling the
small indentation of her navel.  

No scars.

He traced the flat of her abdomen below her ribcage.  

No scars.

His vision blurred with tears.

He wanted to believe.

He wanted to.

She cupped his chin and lifted his face, forcing him to look
up at her.  His tears softened her image, painted her in
watercolors.  She stroked his jaw, whispered his name.

To his surprise and horror, he realized that the low,
keening noises he was hearing were coming from his own
throat.  

Embarrassment swept over him in a hot wave, and he tried to
draw away from her, wanting to hide.  He couldn't seem to
stop the shuddering half-sobs that stole his breath.

She clutched him, not letting him go.  He stared into her
loving, compassionate gaze and felt a dam break inside
himself.  Pain and anger and guilt spilled through the
breach and he shook and shattered from the onslaught. 
Beyond denial, beyond shame, he pressed his face against
her stomach and let her hold him while he cried.



End of #9

 













DISCLAIMER:  Mulder, Scully and the X-Files belong to Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and FOX network.  I mean
no infringment.

This is a pre-quel to my story 12 Degrees of Separation and
is consistent with that universe.  Rated PG-13 for language
and adult situations.

HUGE thank-yous go to the real Eve Wentworth and the real
Deena Cross, who helped me immensely with this section.  Eve
gave me details about Martha's Vineyard and Deena supplied
me with marvelous information about Charleston, South
Carolina.  The fictional Eve and Deena, plus Ray and Linda
Chandler, belong to me and should not be used without my
permission.


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#10:  "Reconstruction"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com


Shakespeare's Pub
Washington D.C.
February 17, 1998
6:48 a.m.


The coffee at Shakespeare's Pub was hot and strong, the way
Walter Skinner liked it.  The waitress knew him by sight and
brought a steaming mug to his table without having to be
told.  

She was a pretty woman, tall and leggy, with straight
sandy-blond hair and beautiful green eyes.  In her mid-
twenties, he guessed, a student, judging from the stack of 
books he usually saw behind the counter when he went to 
pay.  Her nametag said, "Juliettt."  He was curious about 
the three t's, but didn't want to pry.  Intrusiveness was
his 
job, and he tended to leave it behind when he wasn't on 
the clock.

Juliettt pulled an order pad from the pocket of her green
apron.  "What will it be this morning, sir--bagel or
Danish?"  

Feeling daring, he ordered the Danish and settled back to
read the morning newspaper.

He was barely through the editorial section--dishearteningly
full of anti-Matheson rhetoric--when the approach of
footsteps interrupted his reading.  He looked up into the
face of a nondescript man in a dark suit and conservative
tie.  Skinner pegged him immediately as Secret Service.  He
folded his newspaper and lay it in front of him.  "Yes?"

The man gave a little nod toward the door. "We're going to
the White House, Mr. Skinner."


*  *  *  *  *


J. Edgar Hoover Building
7:00 a.m.


Mulder wanted to talk.  Scully could tell by the way he
continued to shift restlessly in his seat as he perused the
print-outs Pendrell had provided the day before.

She should probably just put him out of his misery.  Let him
speak his mind.  Tell her that she was abducted by little
green men, probed, prodded, and eventually robbed of her
memory.  She knew that was what he still believed, despite
her protestations to the contrary.

The fact that even her hypnosis-aided confabulations didn't
bear out any such conclusion was of no consequence to
Mulder.  He had always been one to come up with a theory
first and then seek the evidence to support it.  Such a
backward way of doing things, really.  Very unscientific.

Very Mulder.

She glanced across the room at him, wondering why she'd ever
become so attached to him in the first place.  He was
gloomy, acerbic, stubborn and quite often childish.  He had
no patience for the kind of painstaking detective work that
solved most mysteries.  He bridled under her slower, careful
approach to their cases, chafed at her insistence that a
theory is worthless without some sort of evidence to back it
up.  He sulked when she turned out to be right.

She should have gotten the hell out of this basement a long
time ago.  She was at a loss to explain why she had not.

Unless maybe it was the way his passions enveloped her,
swept her up in the whirlwind, gave her life color and music
and fragrance.  The way he listened to her, even when he
disagreed, because he respected her mind and her opinions. 
The way he made her laugh against her better judgment and
will.  The way he trusted only her.

The way his beard stubble had rasped against the bare skin
of her abdomen, the way his breath had stirred the fine
hairs of her belly and sent shudders of need below.

God, that had been an effort, resisting the urge to curl her
fingers in his hair and urge him lower....

"I've been thinking about my father's role in all of this."
Mulder's voice broke into her thoughts, shivering down her
spine like a flutter of kisses.  His eyes lifted to meet
hers.  He had slept very little again last night.  After
leaving her bedroom, he'd tried to sleep on the couch again.

But she'd stayed awake, listening to the soft sounds of his
restlessness, well into the early morning hours.  His face
showed the ravages of the past few days--he looked tired and
older than his 36 years. 

"Mulder, I don't think--"

"I have to know."

She fell silent, knowing that he wouldn't be able to have
any sort of peace until he'd established the full extent of
his father's part in her abduction.  Oddly, she felt no such
compunction for herself.  Even if William Mulder had been
instrumental in her kidnapping, it changed nothing in her
mind.  Her only concern in the matter was how such knowledge
would affect Mulder.  She'd give almost anything to spare
him more pain--and she could imagine few injuries as
grievous as losing utter faith in one's father.

"How are you going to do that?" she asked after another
moment of silence.  "It's been so long."

"Only four years, Scully."  A haunted look crossed his face.

"Sometimes it feels like only yesterday."

She blinked back the tears that surprised her. "I know."

He looked down at the papers in front of him, hiding his
eyes from her.  "I've got a flight to Boston booked for
later this afternoon."

"Boston?"

"I'm going to the Vineyard.  To see if I can establish my
father's whereabouts from August to November, 1994.  I
booked two seats."  He glanced up at her.

She felt a niggle of discomfort, considering her own news
for him.  "I'm afraid I've booked a flight for us myself,
Mulder.  To Charleston."

He arched his eyebrow. 

"We've been so busy looking at this case backwards, Mulder,
that we haven't even noticed that we've neglected the REAL
point of the search--finding Sarah Chandler. That's what our
302 authorizes.  We haven't even talked to her parents, and
that should have been one of the first visits on our list."

He nodded and reached for the phone.  "I'll cancel the
flight to Boston--"

"No."  She shook her head.  "You need to find out about your
father, Mulder.  I understand that.  I can handle the
interview with the Chandlers myself."

"I don't like the idea of your going there by yourself."

She pressed her lips together, feigning annoyance.  She
wasn't really upset by Mulder's blatant display of
overprotectiveness, but she wasn't above using it to her
advantage.  "Mulder, I'm quite capable of flying to
Charleston all by myself."

"How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"Two days, if that."

He nodded.  "About the same amount of time I'll be in West
Tisbury, I expect."

"This is a good approach, Mulder.  We'll attack the ends and
meet in the middle."

"We always do, Scully."  His mouth curved slightly as he met
her gaze.

Yes, she thought, we always do.


*  *  *  *  *

Oval Office
7:14 a.m.

"Fox has booked a flight to Boston.  Agent Scully has booked
a flight to Charleston.  Were you aware of this?"  President
Richard Matheson steepled his hands in front of him, leaning
across the massive desk that dominated the Oval Office.

Skinner didn't, but he wasn't surprised.  Very little about
his two most brilliant--and difficult--agents surprised him
these days.   "They've filed the proper paperwork, haven't
they?"

"Yes."  Matheson sat back.  "They are quite determined to
find this young woman they seek."

"Agents Mulder and Scully are quite determined about all the
cases they pursue."  Skinner squirmed inwardly.  He didn't
like playing politics.  He sure as hell didn't like kissing
up, even to a man he more or less respected.  And he didn't
like games.

Walter Skinner was not really such a complicated man.  In
his work, he was forced to deal with the conflicting
motivations and goals of those above and below him, but at
heart he was a simple man with simple tenets.  His
dedication to his work with the F.B.I. was not as cynical or
self-serving as his underlings or his superiors might have
imagined.  

Rising in the ranks was a means to an end to Skinner, not
the end itself.  His ambition sought power not for himself
but for the ideals he held sacred.  
     
Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.
     
The course his life had taken over the past six years
surprised him with its sheer complexity.  He'd toed a
precarious line between autocracy and anarchy, trying to
hold the ripping seams of justice together.  Neither his
shadowy puppetmasters nor his resentful charges understood
why he did what he did, but Skinner didn't have the luxury
of caring what people thought of him.  He did his job, the
best he knew how, and sought to be true to his simple
tenets.  And true to those whose lives he sometimes
literally held in his hands.
     
Fox Mulder and Dana Scully were two of those lives, and he
valued them perhaps above all others.

"It is a dangerous time for Fox and his partner to be
rocking the boat," Matheson commented.

Skinner remained silent, waiting for the president to
continue.

"The upcoming Congressional elections may well decide the
fate of my administration, Mr. Skinner.  My supporters are
losing ground in the polls.  Should a scandal arise, I'm not
certain my administration will achieve the goals we set out
in the beginning.  And I don't like breaking my promises."

"Why are you telling me this?"  Skinner simply didn't have
the patience to play nice.  It was probably imprudent,
speaking this way to the President of the United States, but
he didn't exactly have much to lose these days.

"I'm telling you this because you have the power to guide
them in the way they should go."

"And what way is that?"

"Their success in this endeavor is imperative.  I want full
bureau support behind whatever they choose to do.  I've
informed Tom Shea of my wishes."

This is different, Skinner thought.  He hid a slight smile. 
Usually, his orders were quite the opposite.  He wondered
what Shea had had to say.  The FBI Director wasn't the
biggest fan of the X-Files Division. "I'll provide whatever
resources they require."

"Good, good."  Matheson rose with a dismissive gesture. 
"Glad to hear it."

Skinner stood as well, his brow creasing with curiosity. 
That was it?  The president had gone through this cloak and
dagger charade merely to inform Skinner that Mulder and
Scully were to be allowed to do their job?

There had to be more to this meeting.  "Sir, may I ask why
you brought me here?  Your wishes could have been conveyed
by Director Shea just as easily."

Matheson's expression gave away nothing.  "I simply wanted
to meet you, Mr. Skinner.  May I call you Walter?"

Skinner couldn't exactly refuse.  "Certainly."

"Walter, I've heard a great deal about your work.  I've
heard about the...difficulties...you've experienced since
the X-Files project was put under your supervision." 
Matheson smiled.  "Fox and Dana both speak quite highly of
you."

Skinner hid his pleasure, but he was flattered.  Knowing his
wary young agents as well as he did, he realized that their
respect was given sparingly.

"The next few months are crucial to our work, Walter.  To
the things I believe we all want to accomplish."  Matheson
walked toward the exit, clearly expecting Skinner to follow.
"The wrong move could be very costly.  For all of us."

Skinner felt tempted to ask the president to come to the
point.  

"Remember, Walter--you have a stake in this as well.  A far
higher stake than you might assume."  Matheson opened the
door and gestured for Skinner to leave.

That's it?  A few cryptic remarks?  Some veiled promises--or
were those threats?

No, Skinner decided as he followed a Secret Service agent
through the corridors of the White House, he didn't like
politics at all.

The Secret Service agent let him out at the curb near
Shakespeare's Pub.  Skinner glanced at his watch.  7:30 a.m.
He wasn't officially due at the office until 8:00, and
besides, he supposed a clandestine meeting with the
president would be considered "on the job" activity. 

And he never had gotten to have that Danish.

Juliettt looked up when he entered, a smile of surprise
crossing her pretty face.  She crossed to the coffee maker
immediately.  "Mr. Skinner, back for that Danish after all?"

"Can't stay away, Juliettt."  He sat at the bar instead of
his usual table, glancing at the stack of books near the
cash register.  ELIZABETHAN LITERARY SUBVERSION was the
title of the book on top.  "English major?"

Juliettt turned to smile at him.  "Working on my
dissertation at Georgetown."

He nodded.  "I got my PhD from Duke."  He gestured toward
the books.  "Renaissance Literature?  My concentration was
American poets."

She chuckled.  "Isn't that an oxymoron?"  She winked.  "Just
kidding.  I'm rather fond of Emily Dickinson myself."  She
poured him a fresh cup of coffee and placed it on the
counter next to his cream cheese Danish.  "'After great
pain, a formal feeling comes...'."

"I'm a Frost man myself."  He smiled at the young woman,
wondering what his life would be like if he'd taken that
Princeton professorship he'd turned down to enter the FBI.
God knew his job at the Bureau was thankless at best, and
nowadays he went home to an empty house.  He could do that
anywhere, performing any job.  

His only regret would be abandoning Mulder and Scully. 
Sometimes he thought they were the sole reason he hadn't
resigned right after Sharon's death.  He realized that he
was one of the few defenses the pair had against the forces
gathered against them.  

And Walter Skinner was very good at being a fortress.


*  *  *  *  *

West Tisbury, MA
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 17, 1998
9:48 p.m.


West Tisbury was what the locals called "up island,"
Vineyardese for the less touristy parts of the island that 
had as much to do with local character as geography.  
Unlike the crowded, pretty resort towns along the coast, 
West Tis was a rural place, home to people who valued
their privacy.   
  
Mulder's father's house was hidden away from the road by 
tall boxwood hedges that loomed like giants in the darkness. 

Since his father's death, the house had been leased to 
non-residents during the season as additional income for 
his mother.  Off season, the house stood empty.  But Mulder 
had a key. 

After he went to the main breaker to switch on the power,
Mulder turned on as many lights as possible, driving away
the inky darkness that covered him like a prickly blanket. 
The house was icy cold and smelled musty.  Unused.  The
tourist season ended around Labor Day, and no doubt the
house had lain untouched since then.  A fine layer of dust
covered every surface.  Mulder briefly considered finding a
cloth and doing a quick once over, but he decided against
it.  He was beat.

He did wipe off the tan leather couch before he stretched
out across it.  The living room was three walls of windows;
outside the night was inpenetrable. The windows rattled in 
their casements from the winter wind.  He sank lower into
the
cushions and stared up at the ceiling, wishing he'd taken a
room at a hotel in Edgartown.  Anyplace but this house.  

He could feel his father.  Feel the liquor-drenched sweat of
cowardice.  He smelled the sour odor of fear and deceit.

Are you here, Dad?  Come out and speak to me.  

Murder most foul....

The shrill burr of his cellular phone jarred him.  Scully,
of course.  "Mulder."

"Hey, it's me."

Her voice sounded so far away.  She must be in Charleston
now.  "How's South Carolina?"

"Remarkably warm for February."

"Trade ya."

"Cold up there?"

"Yeah."  The house was heated by steam radiators; a soft
hissing sound heralded the advent of heat, accompanied by
the occasional nervewracking clang.   Already he was
feeling a little less shivery.  "You sound tired."

"I am.  So do you."

"I am, too."

"Where are you staying--what hotel?"

"I'm at my dad's place.  It stays empty during the off
season.  I didn't see a point in checking into a hotel."

She was silent for a long moment.

"I'm okay, Scully."

"I was just thinking that a hotel might have made it easier
for you--"

"I'd planned to give the place a once over any way--see if
there are any nooks or crannies that might have been missed
when we cleaned the place out after Dad's death."

"You're not planning to stay up tonight doing that, are
you?"  Her voice took on a stern edge.

"No, Mom--I'm all settled down for bed."

"Really?"

"Yup."

"What are you wearing?"

"Ooo, Scully."  He grinned at the phone.  "I'll tell you if
you'll tell me."

She made a sound that might have been a stifled chuckle. 
"Black pajamas and gray sweat socks.  Your turn."

He looked down at his jeans and green sweater.  "Bikini
briefs," he lied.  "Leopard print.  Thong style."

"Bull.  You're still in the same jeans and green sweater you
were wearing when we said goodbye at the airport.  You
haven't even kicked off your shoes."

He looked down at his thick leather hiking boots.  The woman

was amazing.  "But I'm in a thong in spirit."

"Now THAT I'll buy," she agreed.

"Are you in a red satin bustier in spirit?" he asked.

"God, Mulder, you are INCORRIGIBLE."

And you're an angel, Dana Scully, he thought.  She was
playing along with him to help him keep his mind off the
fact that he was in his father's house, the same house where
he'd cradled his father's dead body after his murder.  The
same house where he'd discovered the first of many lies his
father had lived.  "Where are you staying, Scully?"

"Holiday Inn Express on Savannah Highway."  She gave him the
room number.  "I'm going to try to get an early start in the
morning--I called the Chandlers as soon as I got in and
arranged to meet them here at the motel around 9 a.m. 
They've agreed to show me where Sarah was found when she 
was a child--see if maybe we can round up some information 
about who found her, how she was processed by social 
workers--you know, typical legwork."

"I'm going to be doing something similar--"  A knock on the
front door startled him.  "Someone's at the door."

"Mulder--"  Scully's voice was wary.  "Are you expecting
someone?"

"Didn't order pizza, if that's what you mean...."  Mulder
crossed to the front door.  The porch light wasn't on, and
the glass in the door was opaque, obscuring his view of 
whoever stood on the other side.  He could barely make
out a dark shape.  Small--Scully-sized, he thought.

Still, he checked to make sure his Sig was in the holster 
still clipped at his hip before he opened the door.

A short, fair-skinned woman around his own age stood
on the porch, her eyes wide with surprise. "Oh my God. 
Fox William Mulder, what the hell are YOU doing here?"

"Mulder?"  Scully's voice was tight in his ear.

"Just the welcome wagon, Scully," he murmured into
the receiver.  "I'll have to get back to you."  He hung
up the phone and fumbled it into the pocket of his
jeans.  He took a small step back.  "Eve?"

"Fox, sweetie, didn't think I'd ever see YOU show your
face around this godforsaken place again!"  Eve Wentworth 
shook her head in disbelief, looking him up and down.  
"Still can't dress worth a damn, and would you LOOK 
at that hair!"

He grinned and caught her arm, pulling her inside.  "Nobody
but you ever complained."

"Nobody complained to your FACE, you mean."  She laughed,
her hazel-gray eyes sparkling.  "God, it's great to see you,
Mulder!"

"You, too, Wentworth!"  He waved her toward the couch.  "But
what the hell are you doing here?"

She sat down on the sofa.  "I live next door." 

He arched his eyebrow.  "You mean you leave the island, make
it big as a writer, make enough money to live ANYWHERE in
the WORLD, and you come back to West Tis?"

"What can I say?"  She shrugged, a bemused smile on her
face.  Age had been kind to her--she'd been a gawky teenager
when he'd known her, not really pretty but witty as hell and
one of the smartest people he knew.  Now in her
mid-thirties, she was striking, elegant-looking in a quirky 
way.   Her  reddish-gold hair had been wavy when they were 
kids; she wore it straight and shoulder length--kind of like

Scully's, he thought.  She was about Scully's height, about
her 
size and weight.  If he squinted and turned his head just
right--

"What ARE you doing?"

He blinked, realizing that he had, indeed, been squinting. 
"Sorry--been a long day."

"What brings you to the Vineyard?"

"A little detective work."

"Oh?"  Her eyebrows rose in interest.  "Official FBI
business?"

He'd forgotten how it was to be from a small town where
everybody knew everything there was to know about everyone. 
Of course, that should make his job here that much easier.
"Kind of official.  I'm actually trying to track my father's
movements during three months a few years ago."

"Maybe I can help," Eve suggested.  "I've been back here
since 1992."

"Living next door?"

"Yeah.  I kept in touch with your dad, too.  Made sure he
was doing okay...."  Her voice trailed off, and she looked
away from him.

"Made sure he hadn't drunk until he'd passed out, you mean?"

She met his gaze, her expression sad.  "It was getting
pretty bad toward the end.  I was gone a lot the Spring of
1995, so I wasn't here when he was killed.  I got the story,
though."  She put her hand on his arm.  "I heard it was a 
bad time for you."

Me and Scully both, he thought.  He patted her hand.  "You
wouldn't know about his goings and comings August through
November of 1994, would you?"

Her eyes widened slightly.  "As a matter of fact, I do.  I
was working on RAINY NIGHT IN SOHO at the time--under a
wicked deadline, and had to turn down your dad when he asked
me if I could keep an eye on the house for him."

Mulder's stomach tightened.  "So he was gone at that time?"

"Yeah.  He got my friend Laurie to watch the place for him. 
He was gone almost 'til Thanksgiving."

Mulder clenched his hands in his lap, his head suddenly
aching.  "Damn it."

"What's the matter?"

He shook his head, knowing he could never explain the
situation to this woman.  How could he say, "I just found
out my father helped perpetrate heinous tortures and tests
on the most important person in my life"?

"You want me to go?" Eve asked.

He shook his head, realizing that he didn't.  He didn't want
to be alone right now.  And with Scully so far away--

"Well, you got any decent coffee in this place?"  Eve didn't
wait for an answer; she rose and headed for the kitchen.  He
heard her rummaging around, then heard her utter a soft,
satisfied noise. 

He pushed up from the sofa and went into the kitchen,
watching her wash out the coffee maker and put on a pot to
brew.  "I didn't bother with decaf," she murmured.  "I'm a
life-long insomniac, and I KNOW you are, too."

He smiled.  "It's really good to see you again, Eve.  I'd
forgotten how much fun you were."

"Yeah, you forgot about that the second you hit Oxford and
hooked up with that chippy--what was her name?" 

He chuckled.  Chippy--Phoebe would LOVE to hear herself
called that.  Hell, it was probably one of her favorite
little sex games, knowing her.

"Penelope or something?" Eve rested her elbows on the
counter and leaned back, grinning at him. 

"Phoebe."

"Yeah.  The bitch."

Mulder chuckled.  "You didn't exactly pine away the years
for me, either, Eve."

She shrugged.  "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. 
So, I assume you eventually came to your senses about
Phoebe."  She looked at his hand.  "No wedding ring--"

"No wife."

"Married to the job?"

"I guess."

"What about this partner of yours I've heard about.  Debbie
or something?"

He smiled slightly.  "Dana Scully."

Eve's sandy blond eyebrows rose.   "So THAT'S how things
are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You and your partner--you've got something going, right?"

He cocked his head.  "We're friends."

She nodded slowly.  "Right."

"Good friends."

"Very good friends."  She chuckled softly.  "Can't fool me,
Fox Mulder.  Remember, I'm the girl with the Amazing
Powers of Discernment."

He laughed at the old joke.  She always HAD been the 
first to notice a budding romance---sometimes even before
the participants did.  She was one of the most observant
people he knew--and she had a memory that rivalled his
own.  

His smile faded.  Which is why she'd remembered that
his father had spent August through November of 1994
away from the Vineyard.


*  *  *  *  *


Holiday Inn Express
Charleston, SC
Feb. 17, 1998
8:30 a.m.


Dana Scully finished applying her lipstick with one hand
while hitting the speed dial on her cellular phone with the
other.  After four rings, she was about to hang up when she
heard a click.

"Hello?"

The sound of a woman's voice startled her into temporary
silence.  Her throat seemed to close.

"Hello?" the voice--low, cultured, with just a hint of a New
England accent--repeated.

Must be the welcome wagon, Scully thought blackly.  "I'm
looking for Fox Mulder."

"He's in the shower--hey, is this Scully?"

Scully pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it
as if it had come alive.  In the shower.  Mulder was in the
shower and the woman was answering---

Wait. They TALKED about me?

"Hello?"

She put the phone back to her ear.  "Yes, this is Dana
Scully.  And you are?"

"Eve Wentworth.  An old friend of Fox's from WAY back."  She
chuckled softly.

Scully frowned at the phone.  "Will you tell him I called?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." 

"Wait--aren't you gonna ask me?"

Scully arched her eyebrows.  "Excuse me?"

"Well, if I were talking to the first girl my partner ever
kissed, I know I'D have some questions."

Scully dropped onto the bed, a little thrown by the turn of
the conversation. "What kind of questions?"

"Well, surely you've wondered if he knows how to put that
gorgeous pouty lower lip to full use--"

"Eve!"  Mulder's voice rose in the background.  There was a
soft scuffling sound, Mulder's low laughter mingling with
the woman's throaty chuckle, then Mulder's voice was strong
in Scully's ear.  "Whatever she told you, I deny it."

"And here I was worrying about your spending the night alone
in your dad's house."  She kept her voice light and teasing,
although her stomach was beginning to ache.

"Eve was kind enough to keep the ghosts at bay.  She's an
old friend--we went all the way through school together
until my parents' divorce, and then we saw each other
summers and holidays."

"Old girlfriend?"

"Yeah.  One of the less painful ones."  Wry humor tinged his
voice.  "She lives next door to Dad's house here in West
Tis."

"Isn't that nice?"  Scully closed her eyes, immediately
ashamed of the catty bite of her voice.  Damn it, she was
NOT going through this again.  Jealousy was an ugly emotion,
and she'd succumbed to it because of Mulder too damned many
times.  "I'm glad you didn't have to be alone," she added,
much more pleased with the even, sympathetic tone of the
latter statement.

Mulder was silent for a second. Probably too stunned to
reply, she thought with a self-deprecating grin.

"So, how are you?  Getting ready to meet Sarah Chandler's
parents?" Mulder asked finally.

"Yes.  They'll be here around 9:00 to pick me up.  What
about you?  What's on your agenda--how do you propose to
find out where your father was four years ago?"

He didn't answer.

"Mulder?"

"Been there, done that."  His voice was tight. 

"How?"

"Eve told me."

"Eve?"

"She was living here in 1994.  She said that Dad asked her
to keep an eye on the house--that he was gone from August to
almost Thanksgiving."

Scully frowned.  That was mighty convenient, she thought--
Eve Wentworth just happens to show up on Mulder's doorstep
and just happens to know the whereabouts of his father for a
three month period four years ago?

"Are you sure you can trust her, Mulder?"

"Of course."  He sounded offended.

Scully closed her eyes.  Great--now he WILL think I'm a
jealous shrew.  But she plunged ahead anyway.  "Don't you
think it's a little strange that your old friend shows up
with exactly the piece of information you were looking for?"

"Coincidence."

"Hell of a coincidence, I'd say."

Mulder's voice lowered.  "I'll check it out, okay?"

She sighed.  "Okay.  So when are you going back to
Washington?"

"I'm going to see if I can get a flight out tonight.  How
about you?"

"Same, if I'm lucky.  It'll depend on what the Chandlers can
tell me."

"Scully, be careful, okay?"

The concern in his voice caught her by surprise.  "I'll be
fine."

"I just worry when I'm not with you."

"I'm packing a Sig, Mulder.  I think I can handle myself."

"I know."  His voice softened even more.  "But it just
doesn't feel right when we're not even in the same city."

"Sweet talker," she teased, covering the slight hitch in her
voice.  Damn it, the big dumb jerk was going to make her
cry.  "I miss you, too."

"I miss you MORE," he crooned just as a knock sounded on her
hotel room door.

She chuckled aloud.  "There's someone knocking at my door,
Mulder--probably the Chandlers.  I'll call you later, okay? 
And you watch out for yourself, too--if Eve offers you an
apple, run!"

"Like the wind," he promised.  "See ya."

She hung up the phone and blinked rapidly, surprised by how
much she really did miss him.  

A knock sounded on her door again.  She put her cell phone
in her pocket and crossed to answer it. 

A middle-aged couple stood in the doorway, earnest faces a
little tense with apprehension.  They seemed somewhat
relieved when they took in Scully's neat, professional
appearance.  "Agent Scully?" the man asked.

"Yes."  Scully extended her hand.  "You must be Mr. and Mrs.
Chandler."


*  *  *  *  *


West Tisbury
Martha's Vineyard
9:05 a.m.


Mulder shut off his phone and tucked it in his pocket.  He
turned to find Eve Wentworth staring at him.  "What?"

"Is that how you always talk to your partner?"

"Not always."

"She sounded jealous on the phone.  I confess, I might
not have helped matters."

Scully HAD sounded a bit miffed, he had to admit.  Then 
again, she was territorial by nature.  She hadn't cared much

for Krycek, either, and there'd been nothing sexual about 
that relationship.  It had been enough that Krycek was 
usurping her place as his partner.

He wasn't quite as sure he could dismiss her reactions to
Dr. Berenbaum or Det. White as easily--

"So," Eve interrupted his thoughts, "you were telling me
about the visit you and your mom made to Chilmark Friday."

Had it been just Friday?  So much had happened in the
interim, it seemed like years ago.  "Mom couldn't handle it.

She couldn't stand being in that house--in that room--"

"Understandable."

"It was horrible.  The room--the room is like a crypt. 
Nothing has been touched for years.  It's frozen in time." 
He shook his head.  "I used to have this fantasy about
bringing Samantha home to that house--"  He sighed. "But 
it's never going to happen.  I know that now."

"I never thought I'd see the day you gave up on her, Fox.  I
never did."  Eve's eyes were bright with tears she fought to
keep from shedding.  Like Scully, he thought.  

"I can't live my life trying to change the past, Eve.  I'd
like to have a future, and that's not going to happen if my
whole life revolves around finding someone who probably died
twenty-five years ago.  What good is putting my life on hold
to find a bundle of bones at the bottom of an unmarked
grave?"  The image his words brought to mind ripped his
heart, and he looked away, his eyes burning.

"No good at all, I suppose."  Her voice was soft,
comforting.  "I'm just wondering what changed your mind
after all this time."

The image of Scully bleeding to death on the floor of a
convenience store filled his mind.  In that moment, he
smelled the sharp tang of blood, the fear in his own sweat. 
He heard the sirens and the babble of onlookers.  "Almost a
month ago, Scully was shot and nearly killed, and I realized
that I had been given not only a second chance but a third
as well."  He could tell by the small frown on Eve's face
that she didn't understand.  "I've almost lost her twice.
The first time, I took her for granted.  This time, I
won't."

"So you are in love with her."

"I don't know."

She smiled.  "Men are always the last to know."

"I don't know if it's a good idea, Eve--Scully's the best
thing in my life.  Hell, she IS my life--Scully and my work.
And they're inextricably intertwined."

"Then how could it not be a good idea?"

"What if I ruin everything by trying to take things between
us to a new level?"

"Do you really have a choice?" she countered.

He stared at her, considering the question.  Was it even
possible to step back now?  Was it within his power?

He honestly didn't know.


*  *  *  *  *


Borden Street
Charleston, SC
February 18, 1998
9:37 a.m.


Though Charleston, South Carolina, boasted a large Naval
reservation, it was one of the few places Dana Scully and
her family had never lived during her father's career. 
Driving through the heart of Old Charleston, directed by
Sarah Chandler's parents, Ray and Linda, Scully found the
city utterly charming--from the palms and palmetto trees
lining the streets to the ubiquitous two- and three-
story Victorian houses that stood as stately reminders of
the city's rich culture and history.  

Borden Street, however, had little in common with the
Charleston tourists got to see.  It lay in the heart of a
run-down section of northeast Charleston.  Warehouses lined
the narrow road, peeling paint and broken windows marring
their facades. Litter spotted the gutters and sidewalks like
leprous patches.  Scully got a creepy feeling just driving
through, a weird sense of deja vu. 
 
"There."  Ray Chandler pointed.

Scully followed his gesture.  A narrow alley split the
street between two abandoned warehouses.  Scully pulled the
rental car up to the curb and parked.

"She was found right down there."  Chandler led Scully and
his wife into the alley on foot.  The asphalt was damp and
uneven, slick in patches.  Scully had to be very careful of
her footing.

"Right there," Linda Chandler said, pointing at a doorway
near the end of the alley.  Scully moved slightly ahead of
them, curiosity overcoming wariness.

She looked up at the door.  It sagged a bit, paint peeling
in scabrous chunks.  A faint gray logo was barely readable
on the warped wood, a large P with the words "Phipp's
Manufacturing" in peeling type below.

A sudden image darted through Scully's mind.  A large gray
"P" with a dusty pink triangular slash through it.  She
blinked, surprised.

What the hell was that?

"Is something wrong?" Linda Chandler asked.

Scully put her hand to her head, willing away the sudden
dizziness that spun her world.  "No, nothing...."

The image pushed its way back into her mind.  A fat gray
"P."  A bold pink slash.  Words--too small.  Too small to
read on the vial....

Her stomach clenched.  On the vial.

The vial Dr. Ishimaru had held in one gloved hand.  The vial
he'd used to fill the syringe he'd jabbed into her hip.

Oh, God.

She remembered it.  For real, this time--not as a hypnosis-
induced confabulation but an honest to God memory.

Heedless of the Chandlers, she took a couple of steps away
and pulled her notebook from her jacket pocket.  Hastily she
sketched the "P" and the slash as accurately as the swift
flash of memory allowed.

"Is something wrong, Agent Scully?" Ray Chandler asked.

Scully shook her head.  "No.  Everything's fine."

Maybe better than fine.

Maybe they finally had a real lead.  


*  *  *  *  *

Gay Head
Martha's Vineyard
Feb. 18, 1998
11:59 a.m.


Mulder couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd
been to this part of the island.  Gay Head was vividly-
colored clay cliffs, stony beaches and ancient memories. 
Called Aquinnah by the Wampanoag Indians who owned much of
the land in the southwest part of the island, Gay Head
wasn't for the faint of heart.  Boulders, brambles and
treacherous footing were only a few of the obstacles he and
Eve Wentworth had faced in their fool-hardy plunge into the
distant past.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Eve panted,
stopping near the edge of the high water line.  "I haven't
been out here since that night after graduation...."  Her
voice trailed off and she darted a glance at him.

He looked down at his shoes, noting that they were crusted
with sand from their descent down the 60 foot incline to the
beach.  "Yeah, me either."

"Ancient history," she murmured.

He looked out across the shimmer of silvery-green water,
wondering whether his life would have been better if he'd
stayed in the States and attended Princeton the way his
mother had wanted him to.  Oxford had been his father's
idea.  Mulder had concurred simply to get the hell away from
his bitter, angry parents and their escalating animosity.  

He hadn't really been tempted to stay.  His relationship
with Eve had been over before that last fateful blow up on
the beach the night of graduation.  Even then, he'd had
nothing to give another person.  Nothing to offer.

"How much does Scully know about Samantha?" 

"Everything."  Much more than even Eve knew.  He hadn't told
Eve about his recovered memories of the night his sister had
disappeared.  She might have heard about it through the
Vineyard grapevine, of course--he hadn't exactly been
discreet with his theories over the past few years.  But he
hadn't sat by her bed last night and spilled his guts, the
way he had with Scully a short two days after he met her.

"You've been together six years?"

He nodded, a smile on his lips.  Eve spoke as if he and
Scully were married.  "March 6 will be our sixth
anniversary--as partners."

Eve chuckled.  "She must be a hell of a woman to put up with
you that long."

"I don't know why she does."

"Ah, probably just thinks you're pretty to look at, Fox. 
Decorativeness can go a long way, you know."                
                                       
He made a face at her.  "You know, Evie, you've been pretty
quiet about your own state of affairs--is there a
significant other for you, or are you a slave to your art?"

"I'm a slave to my art."  Her lips curved.  "And I have a
significant other."

Mulder sat on a large boulder and patted the expanse of rock
beside him.  "Do tell."

"Not much to tell--his name is David.  He's an English
professor at Harvard, dabbles in the ART, is madly in
love with me and wants me to marry him."

Mulder arched his eyebrows.  "And your answer would be?"

Eve cocked her head, a wry expression on her face.  "My
answer would be yes, except I don't know if I'm marriage
material, you know?  I LIKE being alone.  I like not having
to answer to another person.  I like not having to worry
about whether my insomnia is keeping someone else awake."

"Do you love him?"

Her eyes met Mulder's, naked with emotion.  "God, yes.  But
is that enough?"

Mulder didn't have an answer.  

"I don't want to wake up one day realizing that David's love
for me has turned into contempt.  I saw that happen with my
parents, Fox.  I saw them go from love to indifference to
acrimony, and I won't do that to myself.  Not for all the
world."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Mulder murmured.  The
words from his own mouth surprised him.  He wasn't used to
arguing the idea of true, abiding love.  In fact, until this
moment, he had never really thought he believed in such a
thing.

Eve's sandy eyebrows rose with skepticism.  "And you would
know about this subject because...?"

"Because I know a really wonderful woman who spent forty
years loving and being loved by the same man, right up until
the day he died.  To this day, she loves him still.  It's
the most amazing thing I've ever seen, and I guess maybe
it's given me hope."  He couldn't help but smile--God, he
sounded like a damned Hallmark card.

Eve chewed her lower lip and looked down at her folded 
hands.  She was dressed almost completely in black,
just as she had been the night before--apparently a holdover
from her moody-artiste adolescence.  Black leather gloves
and boots, a long black V-necked sweater, black leggings--
her tweed wool overcoat, brick red lipstick,  and the narrow

silver hoops in her earlobes were the only hint of color.  
The 
more things change, he thought, the more they stay the 
same.  

"Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with 
your Scully?"  She looked up at him.

"Because I'm talking about her parents," he admitted.  "I
never got to know her dad, but her mom and I became good
friends when--"  His voice suddenly failed him.

"When she was gone?"

He nodded.  He cleared his throat.  "Scully knows how to
love, Eve.  She honest to God knows how to love.  She had
good teachers."

"Scares the shit out of you, doesn't it?"

He nodded again.

"You want it, but you're afraid of it."

He nodded a third time.

Eve sighed and looked out across the water, her chameleon
eyes absorbing the gray-green color, making it their own. 
"What are we going to do with each other, Fox?"  She
chuckled and cut her eyes at him.  "We could just run away
together, you and me.  Two chickenshits too afraid of love
to ever be happy.  We could spend the rest of our lives
making each other as miserable as we think we deserve to be.
Whaddaya say?"

He looked at her.  Really looked at her.  Saw the fear
hiding behind the joke.  Slowly he shook his head.  "No.  I
think you're going home right now, call your David, and tell
him yes, you want to marry him."

Her lip trembled.  He could see the frantic hope surging
through her at the thought.  He couldn't help but smile,
especially when she said, "I AM between novels.  And the 
break before Spring Term for David is only a few weeks 
away--maybe we could elope?"  She chuckled.  "Maybe I
can live my lifelong dream of being married by an Elvis 
impersonator in Vegas."

He laughed.  "Sounds like a plan."

"And what's your plan?"

He looked down at his feet, half buried in gritty sand. 
"I'm going to go home to Scully."

"And?" Eve prodded.

"And I'm going to see if friends really make the best
lovers."

Eve's face lit up with a smile.  "Would you look at us?  So
decisive."

He chuckled.  "Well, at least for now.  We'll see how we do
when you get back to West Tis and I get back to D.C."

"No, you've inspired me, Fox.  I can do this."

And so can I, he thought.  Warmth spread through him despite
the bitter cold wind swirling in from the sea.

I can do this.


*  *  *  *  *


South Carolina Dept. of Human Resources
Charleston Office
1:35 p.m.


Deena Cross looked over Scully's credentials thoroughly.  "I
should be able to pull the physical record in a few minutes,
Agent Scully.  Can you wait here for a moment?"  The petite,
dark-haired caseworker smiled at Mr. and Mrs. Chandler as
she went through a connecting door.

Scully glanced at the Chandlers, noting their complete ease.
"I assume you've been here before more than once."

"We've been foster parents for the state for almost thirty
years."  Ray smiled fondly at his wife.  "We've taken care
of twenty-one children over the years."

"Is Sarah the only child you've ever adopted?"

Ray nodded.  "We tried adopting a couple of others but
nothing came of it.  Sarah was a special case."

Scully reached into her briefcase and pulled out the photo
she'd gotten from the New Haven Police Department.  "I
understand this isn't a very accurate photo of Sarah?"

"It was the latest one we had."  Ray's eyes darkened. 
"Linda and I haven't seen her in over a year."

Scully arched her eyebrows.  "I didn't know."

"When Sarah started looking for her real family...."  Ray's
voice faltered, and he looked down at his work-worn hands.

The Chandlers had been hurt? Scully guessed.  Insulted? 
Worried?

"We fought her, I'll admit it.  Linda and I couldn't see how
a child could come to be naked and comatose on a South
Carolina street if her parents had loved and cared for her. 
We were afraid Sarah was setting herself up to be hurt
badly.  And then she got hooked up with that bunch of
crazies up at Harvard, trying to convince her she'd been
abducted by aliens, for God's sake."  He shook his head. 
"Sarah's not a stupid girl--she's the brightest child I've
ever known my whole life.  But she so desperately wants to
know where she came from, I'm afraid she'd consider almost
any possibility."

Sounds a lot like Mulder, Scully thought.  Considering
extreme possibilities to find his lost family.

"What about younger pictures?"  Scully was curious about
Sarah Chandler, the little girl with no past.  She didn't
know how much had been done to find her real family 22 years
ago, but there were so many databanks these days to help
locate and identify missing children, maybe if she got one
of Sarah's childhood pictures and turned the job over to
Pendrell and his staff--

"We have albums full, believe me."  Linda Chandler said with
a faint smile.  "I have one of my favorites in my wallet. 
It was her sophomore photo from UNC-Chapel Hill, where she
did her undergraduate work."  Linda reached into her purse,
pulled out her wallet and passed it to her husband, who was
sitting nearer Scully.

Ray opened his wife's wallet to the photo sleeves, flipped
to the first photo and handed the wallet to Scully.

Scully looked at the photo of a girl of twenty, smiling into
the camera.  She was beautiful, though not in any
conventional way.  Her face was all angles and planes, her
nose prominent but in a way that didn't detract from her
beauty.  She had the kind of arresting attractiveness that
Mulder had--piece by piece the features didn't seem to fit
together, but put them together...

She almost chuckled.  Sarah Chandler even had a pouty lower
lip like Mulder's.

"She was happy then.  That's before she started having
episodes," Ray said.

"Episodes?"

"She called them flashbacks," Linda said.  "Like memories."

Scully nodded.  "I've discussed this with Sarah myself over
e-mail.  She didn't have any concrete, specific memories of
her missing time, did she?  

"No.  Just flashes of things--objects, sounds.  Nothing we
could point to and say, 'Ah, there's a clue.'"  Ray shook
his head.  "She got so frustrated trying to remember on her
own.  While she was at the University of Oregon working on
her Master's Degree, she heard about a psychology study at
Harvard that dealt in hypnotic regression therapy.  She quit
school in the middle of the semester, lost all her credits,
and flew to Boston to meet some psychologist there.  A Dr.
Chamberlain, I think her name was."

Linda nodded.  "Dr. Chamberlain convinced Sarah that her
memory loss might be due to an alien abduction experience."

Scully pressed her lips together in annoyance.  Great, she
thought, another Harvard psychologist adding to the
paranoia.  Just what the world needs.

"You obviously don't share our daughter's opinion on the
subject?"

"I think that there are far more plausible reasons why your
daughter ended up in a coma on Borden Street, Mrs. Chandler.
And that's what I think we should focus on."  Scully looked
up as Deena Cross reentered the room, carrying a manila
folder.  

"This is what we have, Agent Scully.  The photographs of
Sarah Chandler, then known as Jane Doe #4, taken right after
she was taken to the county hospital.  A record of what
steps were taken to find her natural parents and the
procedures undertaken by the county to place her into foster
care with the Chandlers.  The final disposition--which in
this case was adoption by the custodial foster parents." 
Deena gave Scully the folder and returned to her desk.

"She came out of her coma two days after she was found, but
she didn't have any memory of her earlier life," Ray
murmured as Scully opened the folder.  "She was weak and
dehydrated."

"How long was she in the hospital?"  Scully glanced over the
official forms, searching for familiar names or words. 
Nothing.

"Two weeks," Linda answered.  "She was placed in our home
the day she was released."

Scully glaced over the medical record enclosed, noting the
dehydration mentioned.  She stopped at the results of a
blood chemistry test.  The white blood cell count was
extremely high with an attendant decrease in the leucocyte
population--  She flipped the page.  Yep.  A release of
glucocorticoids. 

Symptoms of prolonged weightlessness.

"Did you find something, Agent Scully?" Linda asked.

Just more grist for Mulder's mill, she thought.  She shook
her head slightly and flipped to the photograph clipped to
the back of the folder. 

And froze.

Her heart lurched, began to race.

It wasn't possible.

It wasn't.

"Agent Scully?"  Ray Chandler's voice made her nerves
jangle.  She looked up, startled.  "Is something wrong,
Agent Scully?"

She turned the folder so Chandler could see the eight by ten
photo attached to the file.  "This is Sarah?"  Her voice
sounded strangled to her own ears.

"Yes, taken right after she awoke from her coma.  She was
twelve or so--maybe a little younger, maybe a little older. 
The doctors were never sure.  We just made her birthday May
14th, the day she was found, and we assumed from her size
that she was somewhere around twelve at the time."

More like eleven, Scully thought.  Eleven and a half.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ray said. 

I have, Scully thought, staring at the photograph in front
of her.

I've seen the ghost of Samantha Mulder.

Scully stared at the photograph clipped to the back of Sarah
Chandler's file, certain that she had to be mistaken. 
Coincidence.  That was all.  Similar features, similar hair,
similar hazel-green eyes that looked just like--

Her breath hitched, caught in her throat. 

Oh, God.

"Agent Scully, are you all right?"  Ray Chandler put his
hand on her arm, making her jump.

"I'm--"  She swallowed as her voice failed.  "I'm sorry--I
just--"  

"Can I get you some water?"  Deena Cross stood, her pretty,
delicate features creased with worry. 

Scully found her voice.  "No, I'm all right.  I'm just--
surprised."  She lifted her chin and reached for her purse,
remembering something that might help clarify things for
everyone.  A couple of years back, she and Mulder had
exchanged pictures of their sisters.  A symbolic act of
common commitment to their goal of seeking the truth, she
supposed--an act they didn't talk about or analyze because
that wasn't how they did things.  She carried the photo of
Samantha in her wallet, tucked between a photo of her mother
and of her sister.  

She opened her wallet to the photograph and withdrew it from
the plastic sleeve.  She held the small picture of Samantha
Mulder next to the eight-by-ten of young Sarah Chandler.

The girls looked virtually identical.

"Where did you get that picture of Sarah?"  Ray Chandler
bent closer, his brow furrowed.

Scully held up the small photo to give him a better look. 
"You're telling me this is your daughter?"

"Yes, but--"  His eyes widened.  "She looks so young...."

"The girl in this photograph was eight years old."  Scully
marveled at the steady tone of her voice, because her
insides were rattling.  "She was abducted from her home in
Chilmark, Massachusetts, on November 27, 1973.  Her name is
Samantha Mulder."

"Oh, dear Jesus."  Ray Chandler took the photograph from
Scully's hand and held it closer to his face, his green eyes
focusing on the small image of Samantha Mulder perched on a
jungle gym, grinning at the camera.  "Linda--"  He thrust
the photograph toward his wife.

Linda Chandler took the picture.  Her eyes widened.

Scully drew a shuddery sigh.  "Is that Sarah?"

Mrs. Chandler looked up at Scully, tears pooling on her
lower lids.  "Yes.  I believe it is."

Scully looked down at the folder on her lap, at the
painfully thin, sad-eyed eleven-year-old staring back at her
from the old photo.  She didn't know what to feel.  She
didn't know if she WANTED to feel anything.  Because in a
few short hours, she was going to have to fly back to
Washington and tell Mulder what she'd found here.  She had
to be pulled together and strong when she told Mulder,
because she had a feeling he was going to fly apart. 

"You're telling us that you know who Sarah really is?"  Ray
asked.  "You have her picture--is she a relative?"

Scully shook her head.  "I work with her brother.  He's my
partner.  He's spent the last twenty-five years looking for
his sister.  For the last ten years or so, it's been his
driving quest in life."  

His obsession, don't you mean, Scully?

His madness?

Isn't that what you've thought all these years?  That he was
tilting at windmills? 

...stop running after your sister, Mulder....

...he's really got you going, Mulder....

...Mulder, are you sure it's her?

...you're identifying with her as a victim--like your
sister....

...sometimes I don't understand what drives you, Mulder....

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by one utterly unexpected
emotion.

Guilt.

*  *  *  *  *  

Logan Airport
Boston, MA
2:44 p.m.


Mulder hitched the strap of his carry-on bag over his
shoulder and turned to smile at Eve Wentworth.  "Okay--no
backing out, remember?"

She nodded, a faint smile curving her lips.  "You either. 
In fact, call her right now before I leave.  See when her
plane is coming in.  Surprise her with a gourmet dinner at
your place--"

Mulder chuckled.  "I can manage soup, Eve--and my place
isn't exactly a swinging bachelor pad."

"If she loves you, it won't matter if it's saltines and a
sofa bed."

He gave her a playful cuff on the arm.  "What a romantic."

"You're stalling, Fox.  Call her now, before they announce
your flight.  If I've gotta do this, so have you.  No
backing
out, buster."

He sighed and pulled his cellular phone from his pocket.

Scully answered on the third ring, her voice tense.

"Hi, it's me," he murmured into the phone, his palms
suddenly clammy.  His pulse thudded wildly in his throat.

"Mulder, I can't talk right now."  

Yup, definitely tense, he thought.  "Something wrong?"

"No--not exactly."  She lowered her voice.  "I'm just in the
middle of something."

"I was just going to tell you I'm at Logan, about to catch a
flight to D.C.  Any idea when you'll be back home?"

"My flight leaves at 5:00," she answered tersely.

"Want me to pick you up at the airport?"

"No," she answered quickly.  Too quickly.

"Scully, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"I may have some news."

"Bad news?"

"I can't explain it right now, Mulder.  I'll meet you at
your place as soon as I get back to town.  I'll explain
everything then."

"Scully--"

Click. 

She had hung up.

He closed the phone and stuck it back into his pocket. 
"Something's wrong."

"Something serious?" Eve asked.

He shook his head more in confusion than in denial.  "I
don't know."

"Do you think I upset her this morning on the phone?  I did
mess with her--"

"No, Scully's not that fragile."  Whatever was going on with
Scully was bigger than an episode of territorialism.  She'd
been trying to hide it, but he could tell by the sound of
her voice that something had shaken her to the core.

What had she discovered in South Carolina?  Bad news about
Sarah Chandler?  Or something about her own abduction?

A disembodied voice announced his flight to D.C.  He pushed
aside his worries and turned to Eve, who was looking up at
him with tear-bright eyes.   

"Why is it that I'm always watching your fine ass walking
away, Fox?  Bad karma?"

He chuckled and opened his arms for a swift hug.  "Some
folks might say that fortune is smiling on you."

Eve pressed her nose against his sternum, her arms tight
around his waist.  "Don't forget to share those books with
your Scully, Fox--the couple that reads together stays
together."

"And you don't forget that you promised to send me your
Vegas honeymoon photos."  He gently extricated himself from
her grasp.  "Gotta go, Evie.  Now--go make your David a very
happy man."

"And you go show your Scully that 'The Lip' is functional as
well as pretty."  Eve gave him a little shove toward the
boarding gate.

He chuckled all the way onto the plane.  But once he had
settled into his seat, his high spirits drifted away, and he
once again remembered the tension in Scully's voice.  "I may
have some news," she'd said.

But she hadn't said it was good.


*  *  *  *  *


Fox Mulder's Apartment
Washington, DC
8:05 p.m.


When Scully's flight from Charleston arrived in D.C., rain
was falling in dense, cold sheets.  She was able to catch a
cab from National Airport with little damage done, but when
the cab let her out at the curb in front of Mulder's
apartment building, not even her determined sprint could
spare her from a cold drenching.  She stopped for a moment
on the stoop beneath the front awning and shook icy water
from her hair before entering.

Her briefcase was safely tucked under her arm beneath her
overcoat, protected from the rain.  Her overnight bag fared
a little worse.  She dropped the rain-spattered bag on the
floor of the elevator that took her to the fourth floor and
Mulder's apartment.

What was she going to say?  "Mulder, I've found out where
your sister has spent the last twenty-one years.  Problem
is, she's gone again"--?  

She paused in front of his door, letting her breathing calm
and her heart rate slow.  But before she could compose
herself, the door opened, and Mulder stood before her, his
hazel eyes dark with concern.

"Forgot your umbrella?"  He drew her inside quickly, tugging
her overnight bag from her shoulder. She pulled her
briefcase from under her wet coat and shrugged the damp
garment off, putting it in Mulder's outstretched hand.

"Who knew it would rain?"  She tried to keep her voice
light.  She wondered if she was succeeding.

The worried expression on Mulder's face indicated that she
was not.   "We need to get you dried off and warmed up.  Why
don't you find some dry clothes and change?  There's a pair
of clean sweats in my closet--you can roll up the cuffs."

She knew she was only prolonging the agony, but she did as
he suggested, changing from her damp suit into a warm, dry
heather gray sweatsuit she found hanging in the closet just
off the bathroom.  While she towel-dried her soaked hair,
she silently rehearsed what she was going to say.  Mulder, I
discovered the most amazing thing--Sarah Chandler isn't just
a missing person.  She's--

"Scully?"

Mulder's voice, practically in her ear, made her jump.  She
looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He put his hand on her shoulder.  His touch burned through
the fleece-lined sweatsuit.  "Sorry--didn't mean to startle
you."

"I didn't hear you."  She tried to look away from him but
couldn't.  Where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom,
his face was cast in half-shadow, emphasizing the angles and
planes of his unique face.  He was so beautiful, she
thought.  So damned beautiful sometimes it hurt to look at
him.  Especially when he smiled. 

But he didn't smile enough.  Probably hadn't smiled enough
in twenty five years.

The news she had to tell him was double-edged.  On one hand,
she was about to validate the last ten years of his life. 
His sister HAD been alive.  It hadn't been an exercise in
futility or madness.  

Yet on the other hand, Scully couldn't produce Samantha
Mulder.  She couldn't place the woman's hand in the hand of
her brother and say, "Look, Mulder.  Here she is.  I found
her for you."

Because she didn't know where the hell Samantha was.  Or if
she was even alive anymore.

"You said you may have some news," Mulder said.  His hand
remained on her shoulder, his thumb stroking lightly over
her collarbone beneath the sweatsuit.

"I already have Pendrell working on something."  She gently
moved away from his touch, ducking beneath his arm into the
hallway.  Leading him back into the living room, she told
him about her flash of memory in the alley in north
Charleston.  "It was a thick, bold sanserif P with a
triangular pink slash across the top half of the letter.  I
remembered seeing it on a vial--some drug Ishimaru used on
me."

Mulder's face darkened slightly.  "You remembered that?"

She nodded, sitting on the sofa.  She made room for him,
patting the leather cushion beside her.  "Sit down, Mulder,
there's more."

He eyed her warily as she bent and picked up the briefcase
she'd set down next to the couch.  She'd gotten Deena Cross
to give her a copy of Sarah Chandler's records as well as a
photocopy of the photograph clipped to the back of the file.
The Chandlers had been even more generous, providing her
with a photo album of Sarah's childhood pictures.  Scully
had looked through all the photos during her flight back to
DC.  Whatever doubts she'd had about Sarah's true identity
were very nearly gone.  There was no way two girls could
look that much alike.  Especially considering that Samantha
Mulder had disappeared when she was eight years old--and
Sarah Chandler had mysteriously appeared three and a half
years later with no memory of her previous life.

But there was one final test.

One final judge.

"Mulder, I went to the Charleston DHR with Sarah Chandler's
parents to look into Sarah's past.  I wanted to know
everything there was to know about her case--any clues as to
her previous life, anything that might help us understand
why Carter Christopher and his consortium would be
interested enough to kidnap her.  The social worker in
charge of the records was kind enough to make me a copy of
her file."  She handed him the folder.  She told him how
Sarah had been found, naked and comatose, on Borden Street. 
"Her blood chemistry test indicates symptoms of prolonged
weightlessness," she admitted.

Mulder glanced at her.  "Really."

She swallowed with difficulty.  "Look at the photograph in
the back."

Mulder's eyes narrowed slightly at the choked sound of her
voice.  Pressing his lips together, he bent his head and
flipped to the photocopied picture in the back of the file.

Scully watched his face carefully.  Waiting.

At first there was no reaction.  Not a blink.  Nothing. 
Then his Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times.  The muscle
in his jaw twitched.  His body went rigid.  He went utterly
still.

Suddenly his breath exploded from his lungs and his
shoulders heaved.  He jerked his head around, meeting
Scully's gaze.  His lips moved wordlessly.  She saw the
brightness of tears in his eyes.

And all doubt was gone.

Tears filled her own eyes.  "It's her, isn't it, Mulder? 
It's Samantha."

He stared at her for a long moment.  Then his voice emerged
from somewhere deep inside him.

"Yes."



End of #10













DISCLAIMER:  These folks belong to Chris Carter, Ten-
Thirteen Productions and the FOX network. I'm just borrowing
them for a little while.  Two of them--Raven and Annelle 
Hollis, belong to me and should not be used without my 
permission.

Also---I doubt there's such a thing as a "trademark database," but there SHOULD be one, and for the purposes of this story, there is one. ;)

This is a pre-quel to 12 DEGREES OF SEPARATION and takes
place in that universe.  Rates PG 13 for adult language and
situations.


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#11:  "Resurrection"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com



Fox Mulder's Apartment
February 18, 1998
8:44 p.m.


Mulder stared into Scully's wide eyes, searching for a sign
that would tell him it was okay to believe.  She had so long
been his touchstone, he found that now, in this most
important of moments, he couldn't allow himself to believe
until he saw it in her eyes as well.

She gazed back at him, tears making her eyes glitter in the
low light from the lamp by the window.  "I asked the
Chandlers to let me borrow Sarah's childhood photo album."

She was presenting him with evidence, he realized.  In true
Scully fashion, she was giving him the assurance he needed.
This is real.  Scully has proof.

His hands began to shake.

She gently took the folder from his hands and put it on the
coffee table.  She returned her hands to his, folding her
fingers over his trembling ones.  "I know this is hard to
take in."

He shook his head, remembering another time when he'd let
himself believe.  "Are we sure it's her?  Are we sure it's
not another--"

"I believe that Sarah Chandler is your sister, Mulder." 
Scully's voice was calm, firm and low.  "I believe that the
evidence in this case points to that fact.  I believe that
once we find her, DNA tests will prove that fact to
everyone's satisfaction."

Her words wrapped themselves around him, holding him steady,
keeping him from flying apart.  "How?  How did she--how
will--" He shut his mouth, realizing that he couldn't utter
a sensible statement right now.  

"Mulder, I don't know why your sister was taken in the first
place.  I don't know if it was what Carter Christopher told
you--a way to keep your father in line.  But I believe that
the reason she was taken this time was because her memories
of being Samantha Mulder were beginning to return.  Do you
remember that journal I told you that Sarah Chandler kept? 
The one that her friend Anne Milliken let me read?"

He nodded, his neck feeling stiff and creaky.

"One of the impressions she had was of a boy.  She said the
boy was someone she trusted, but also someone at whom she
was angry.  He made fun of her."

Mulder closed his eyes, guilt washing over him in a wave. 
"The last thing I said to her--"

Scully squeezed his arm.  "She said he was someone she
loved, too.  But listen to me, Mulder.  Something has been
nagging at me ever since I saw that picture of Sarah as a
child. Something she wrote in the margin of the journal."

"What?"  Was that his voice?  That strangled, scratchy
sound?

"She wrote, 'I do not like them here or there.  I do not
like them anywhere.'"

"'I do not like green eggs and ham,'" he murmured.  His
stomach ached.

"'Would you eat them with a fox?'" Scully said softly.

Mulder wrapped his arms around his stomach, rocking gently,
his mind in the past.  Samantha yelling at the top of her
lungs, screaming the Dr. Seuss rhyme over and over until he
was ready to throttle her.  "I'm afraid."

She touched his cheek.  "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm afraid to believe it's her."

"Because you don't know where she is?"

"Because I gave up on her."  He closed his eyes.  "I gave up
on her, Scully.  I'm afraid to believe she's out there,
needing me, and I gave up on her.   Just like before."

"Before?  Before when you spent years sacrificing everything
in your life to your quest to find your sister?"  Scully
cupped his chin in her hand and made him open his eyes and
look at her.  "Mulder, in my whole life I have never known
anyone as passionate and dedicated to a single goal as you
have been.  The idea of Samantha still being alive would
seem like the height of implausibility to almost anyone
else--"

"Like you?"

She flinched as if he'd struck her.  She dropped her hand to
her lap.  "Yes.  Like me."

He shook his head.  "You never let me give up, Scully.  Even
this time--you tried to talk me out of it."

"I wanted to believe.  For your sake."  She looked away from
him.  "But I never did.  Not really."

He studied her downcast face, surprised by the guilt he saw
in her expression.  Did she think she'd failed him?  Could
she possibly believe that?  "It was enough that you wanted
to believe, Scully.  That was all I needed to know--that you
WANTED to believe she was alive."

She met his eyes.  "I did want that.  I wanted her to be
alive more than I can tell you.  And when I saw that
picture--"  She gestured toward the folder on the coffee
table.  "All I could think is that I'd found her for you. 
It felt like the most significant thing I'd ever
accomplished."

He wanted to pull her into his arms and show her how much
her unflagging loyalty meant to him.  But he didn't trust
himself--he was afraid that if he touched her now, he'd
never be able to let her go.  He was afraid he'd consume
her, swallow her whole with his need.

He clenched his hands in his lap.  "I was ready to give her
up."  A wry laugh escaped his throat.  "My timing was always
shitty."

"Mulder, you can't blame yourself.  You just can't."

But he did.  He'd lost his faith, and now he was being
punished for his apostasy.  He'd been shown a glimpse of the
prize--then had it snatched away from him.  "They have her,
don't they, Scully?  The ones who took her in the first
place."

"I think so.  I think they're doing something to--erase--her
memories."  Scully sounded acutely uncomfortable uttering
those words.  "Like what happened to you in Idaho at Ellens
Air Force Base.  You said you saw something, but they took
the memory from you."

"You didn't believe me then, Scully."

"I believe you now."

He smiled, touching her cheek with the tip of his
forefinger.  "No, you believe IN me."

She nodded.  "I also believe that whatever it is they're
doing to your sister right now, they intend to keep her
alive.  Maybe even return her to her life as Sarah
Chandler."

"But will they let her live now?" Mulder asked, his heart
thudding with anxiety.  "They have to know you went to
Charleston.  That you may well know her true identity."

She sighed.  He could see the truth in her eyes.  "Yes."

"Do you think they'll kill her?"  Once again he found
himself looking into her eyes for permission to believe.

"Mulder, they let her live this long for a reason.  I
imagine that reason still exists."  She sounded as if she
were explaining something very obvious.  He took comfort in
her certainty.  "If they think it's dangerous to return her
to her life as Sarah Chandler, they'll probably create
another 'cover story' for her.  But I don't believe they'll
kill her after all this time."

He didn't have that kind of optimism.  So he borrowed hers
for a little while.  Later he could wonder and agonize and
fear, but right now, he wanted to be happy that his sister
was alive.   "We have to go find her, Scully."

Scully's brow creased.  "How?  We know who she is now,
but we still don't know WHERE she is.  I've got Pendrell
working on tracking down that logo I remembered."

He passed his hand over his jaw, stunned for a second
to feel how smooth it was.  He was used to having beard
stubble by this time of night.  But he'd showered and
shaved only a couple of hours ago, anticipating Scully's 
arrival.  He'd also picked up Thai take-out that was 
growing cold on the stove, not to mention indulged in
an embarrassing display of unoriginality by digging out a
Barry White CD.  He'd had plans for a very different sort of 
evening.

But now there were more pressing concerns.  "There's got to 
be something we can do--"

"Is there anyone you could contact?" 

He considered the question for a moment.  "No.  No one
I trust anymore."

"Raven never told me how to contact her.  She just had 
her people knock me over the head and throw me in the
back of a van."  She smiled wryly.  "I could go stand on
the street corner and see if history repeats itself--"

"No."  He knew she was kidding, but he shuddered
anyway, remembering the agonizing hours he'd spent
waiting to hear from her after her call to him had been
cut off.  "You told Pendrell to call as soon as he found
something?"

"Yes.  Mulder, I know you want to do something, but right
now there's nothing to do.  She could be anywhere--she 
might be across the country or across the world.  We have
to work with the clues we have."

"Maybe there was something in her e-mails to you?"

"I didn't save them, Mulder."  She looked away from him.
"But I don't remember anything that would give us a clue."

He closed his eyes, fighting a keen sense of disappointment.

"I called Anne Milliken from Charleston," Scully added. 
"She's overnighting Sar--Samantha's journal to us.  I gave 
her our account number and asked her to send it for earliest
delivery, so it will be here by 8:30 at the latest."

She really had covered all the bases, he realized.  But it
grated on his nerves that he couldn't DO something.  He 
needed to take action.  His sister was alive and she needed
him.
 
Scully reached out and closed her hands over his.  "I know
this is frustrating for you.  But we've done everything we can
for now."

She was right.  He sighed and tried to relax.  "You said the 
Chandlers sent photos?"

She crossed to her overnight bag and pulled out a vinyl-
bound photo album.  She handed it to him and sat next to him
on the sofa, tucking her legs up under her and sliding her
arm across the back of the sofa behind him.  She enfolded
him with her warmth, and he gave himself over to the secure
sensation of it for a moment.  He let the guilt and the fear
seep away, replaced by the heady joy of knowing that his
sister was somewhere out there, alive and waiting for him to
come get her.

He took a deep breath and opened the photo album.


*  *  *  *  *


46th Street
New York City
9:12 p.m.


"This is a grave situation.  Everything we've worked for
could be lost."  The thin cadaverous man that Raven knew
only as Mr. Howard paced near the window.  Outside, rain was
falling lightly, softening and refracting the lights of the
city until they sparkled like Christmas lights.  

For a second, Raven thought about home, a place where she
had not been for more years than she could remember. 
Michigan was much farther away than it appeared on the map. 
Light years away.

"What is the worst case scenario?" Ray Leone asked.  The
heavy-set man looked old and tired.  The past few days had
taken a heavy toll--his son, she was told, was inconsolable.
They had not yet discovered Leigh McGraw's treachery,
thankfully.  Perhaps, if Raven was lucky, they never would.

She was playing a dangerous game, she knew.  She couldn't
boast of some noble higher cause.  Her motives were purely
personal.  Purely a matter of vengeance.

She didn't have the power to bring them down from the
outside.   But from the inside....

"Worst case scenario--Mr. Mulder and his lovely partner find
Miss Mulder before she is ready to be returned."  Carter
Christopher glanced across the room at the man in the corner
of the room.  Raven had never heard him called by name--he
was generally referred to as "our associate in Washington." 
She called him Black Lung.  

Black Lung lifted his cigarette to his lips and sucked in a
lungful of smoke.  "Obviously she cannot be returned to her
present identity.  We are already taking steps to give her a
new identity.  She will be relocated."

"Can we take that risk?" Mr. Howard asked.

Mr. Glen pulled off his glasses and put down the file he was
perusing.  "We should have terminated her twenty-three years
ago."  

Mr. James put down his cup of coffee.  "I agree."

"Why not give her back to her brother?" Black Lung took
another draw on his cigarette.  He exhaled, obscuring his
face with smoke.

"Give her back?"  Mr. Howard gaped at the smoking man.

"Complete the memory wipe and give her back.  She will
remember nothing of her experiences after her abduction
twenty-five years ago.  She will remember nothing of her
more recent abduction either.  And Mr. Mulder will have no
reason to continue his search for the truth."

Carter Christopher stood and crossed the room slowly.  He
was a thin man, but he exuded a presence like no other man
Raven had ever known.  It was to Black Lung's credit that he
hardly flinched.  "Surely you know that Mr. Mulder has a
second obsession that will not end with the return of his
sister."

Black Lung calmly took a last draw on his cigarette.  He
crushed the butt in the nearby ashtray and exhaled slowly. 
"I am aware of Mr. Mulder's more recent attachments, Mr.
Christopher.  I am also aware that a man like Mr. Mulder is
single-minded in his attentions.  I suspect that were we to
give him what he's spent his adult life searching for, his
other 'attachments' may well be weakened.  And that will
benefit us all."

Carter stepped back, his eyes narrowing slightly.  "Do you
really think he would turn his back on his partner?  After
the sacrifice he made before?"

Black Lung shrugged.  "He never meant to give up either of
them.  And knowing young Mulder's propensity for guilt, I
doubt he'd make the same sacrifice twice."

Then you don't know "young Mulder," Raven thought.  Then
again, men were obtuse about things like love and fidelity. 
They were always the last to know.  

But she knew.  She had seen.  

"No," Carter said finally.   "She is too great a risk.  Take
steps to terminate her as soon as possible.  Leave no
evidence.  And the facility must be shut down. Permanently."
He turned his back to Black Lung and poured himself a
snifter of brandy, so he didn't see the glare of pure hatred
Black Lung shot his way.

But Raven did.  And she recognized it for what it was.  It
wasn't defiance--Black Lung would follow his orders because
he was a good soldier.  He understood the notion of
sacrifice for the greater good.

But he would hate Carter for the rest of his life for what
he was being forced to do.  Like all good enforcers, Black
Lung had learned how to compartmentalize his feelings.  But
that didn't mean he didn't have them.  

Samantha Mulder meant something to him.  And though he'd
kill her, it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Fool, she thought.  Stupid fool.

Luckily, she was not as good a soldier as people supposed. 
Her loyalties lay somewhere none of them would suspect.  

She crossed to Carter.  "I'm going home, unless you need me
for anything else?"

He met her open gaze, his face softening.  He had real
affection for her, she knew.  It gave her a perverted sense
of satisfaction.  "Yes, my dear.  I have no further need of
you tonight."

She slipped from the room quietly, confident that the other
men would hardly notice her departure.  They were of the old
school--they tolerated the presence of a woman in their
midst because Carter was a powerful man, but they thought
her to be of no consequence.  

Which is exactly how she preferred it.

She caught a cab at the corner and gave the driver her home
address.  But after she was certain she was several blocks
from prying eyes, she changed her destination. 

The cab turned at the next corner and headed for J.F.K.
Airport.


*  *  *  *  *


Sci-Crime Lab
FBI Headquarters
9:34 p.m.


Alan Pendrell tapped the down cursor, scrolling through the
Trademark database in search of the logo Dana Scully had
faxed to him.  He'd gone through the current files with his
customary thoroughness and come up with nothing.  He'd now
backdated about five years to see if the logo could be
something that was out of date.  

He had the lights low as he worked at the computer.  No
reason for the mood lighting; he just felt the occasion
called for it.  He was working on an X-File, after all.  He
had to admit to a secret thrill at being there in the
mostly-deserted building late in the evening, working hard
to crack a case that was obviously a big deal to Dana Scully
and her partner.  He almost felt like a real field agent. 
Agent Alan Pendrell, Federal Bureau of Investigation.  

"Who died and made you Eager Beaver?"

The low drawl almost made him jump out of his skin.  He
whirled around and met the amused gaze of Annelle Hollis.  
"You scared the life out of me!" he scolded.

Annelle grinned and crossed to the cubicle next to him. She
grabbed a swivel-back chair and sat.  "How can that be,
Alan?  Obviously you HAVE no life.  Do you know what time it
is?"

He frowned at her, torn between annoyance at the
interruption and curiosity at the sight of her out of her
work clothes.  She looked very...different.  Her hair, loose
from its usual neat chignon, fell thick and dark to her
shoulders.  She had lost the business suit with the cut-too-
large jacket, opting for a soft black sweater and faded
Levi's.  She wasn't wearing much make-up and looked too
young to be a six-year Bureau veteran.  

He tore his eyes away from the confusing sight and looked
back at the computer screen.  "Apparently neither do you, or
you wouldn't be here at 9:30 in the evening."

"I was on my way home from dinner with a friend and saw the
light burning in the office.  Wondered what glutton for
punishment was racking up the brownie points, that's all." 
She scooted closer.  "Whatcha working on?"

He minimized the program.  "It's classified."

Annelle's eyes narrowed.  "Something for Dana?"

"It's an X-Files related case, yes."

Annelle sighed and rolled her chair backwards a few paces. 
"I see."

He glanced at her, surprised by the weary tone.  "I thought
you were a supporter of the X-Files project."

"Oh, I am.  Anything that keeps Fox Mulder hanging around
this building is okay in my book," she said with a wry grin. 
"But I know where to draw the line between support and
sycophancy."

He glared at her.  "I'm doing my job."

"You're trying to impress Dana Scully."

"I'm trying to help two fellow agents solve a very important
case--"

The computer made a small beeping noise.  Pendrell turned to
the screen, immediately focused.  He maximized the program
and saw the flashing dialogue box on the screen.

MATCH.



*  *  *  *  *


Fox Mulder's Apartment
9:38 p.m.


"Look at that one."  Mulder's finger brushed across the
plastic sleeve protecting the photo of his sister at age 14,
grinning at the camera to give the photographer a full view
of her mouthful of braces. "Always knew she was going to
have to have braces."

"They looked much better on her than they did on me," Scully
murmured, only glancing at the picture before she returned
her gaze to Mulder's face.  Watching him watch his sister
grow up in photographs was one of the most incredible
experiences of her life.  Mulder was a pro at hiding his
emotions behind a stony facade, but she had long since
learned to decipher the smallest twitch of his lips or blink
of his eyes.  

She had spent almost six years with this frustrating,
endearing man, watching him struggle with his own demons as
well as the lies and machinations of others.  She'd watched
him have his loyalty betrayed, his affections trampled, his
faith undermined, but he'd never given up.  Being his
partner had often been more agony than ecstasy, but right
now, right here, she was reaping her rewards.

She was watching this man she adored finding a moment of
sheer joy.  It didn't matter that darkness circled them with
hungry eyes.  It didn't matter that they would have to face
the fact that Samantha was still missing.  For this night,
this moment, Mulder was happy, and it was almost more than
she could bear.

"God, she's beautiful, isn't she?"  He looked up at her, his
eyes alight like a child.  This is the boy who lost his
sister, she realized.  This is what he looked like.  This is
how he was before.

She ached for him, knowing that more than just his sister
had been stolen from him twenty-four years ago.  "Yes, she's
very beautiful."

"She looks like pictures of Mom when she was young...." 
Mulder's eyes widened.  "Mom--she doesn't know--"

"Do you think you should tell her?  We still don't know
where she is--"

The light went out of his eyes, and she looked away, unable
to bear the sight of sadness encroaching on his brief joy. 
"You're right.  No need to get her hopes up when we don't
know--"

"I just meant you should present Samantha to her in person."
She, too, felt the growing weight of reality, but she
struggled to keep hope foremost in her mind.  They WERE
closer than they'd ever been.  They knew where she was just
three weeks ago, and they knew what she looked like.  They
knew the consortium was involved--

"Is that your phone?"

Scully looked up at Mulder's soft question.  She did hear a
soft trilling sound, she realized.  She'd left her phone in
the pocket of her coat, which she'd hung up to dry in
Mulder's bathroom.  She went to get it.  "Scully."

"Agent Scully, it's Alan Pendrell.  I've got something."

Her heart leapt with excitement.  "The logo?"

"It's a discontinued trademark--was replaced three years
ago.  A company called Pinck Pharmaceutical."

Scully's stomach turned over.  Why hadn't she figured that
out herself?  She'd seen first hand Pinck Pharmaceutical's
treacherous alliance with the consortium.  She'd seen the
evidence destroyed in a Virginia prison incinerator.  It
could come as no surprise that Pinck Pharmaceutical was also
aligned with a monster like Ishimaru.

"I'm already running a full profile of the company,
including its corporate structure and the location of its
warehouses," Pendrell said.

"Great, Alan.  I'll be there in a few minutes."  She shut
off her phone and turned, almost colliding with Mulder.

"What does he have?"

She told him what Pendrell had told her about Pinck
Pharmaceutical.  

His eyes darkened with anger and more than a little fear. 
"And now the bastards have my sister."

"Pendrell's running a profile.  I've got to change clothes
and head to the office."

"Let me grab a coat--"

"No, Mulder, you stay here.  You haven't slept in days."

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm staying here,
Scully."

"There's nothing you can do there, Mulder, that I can't do
by myself.  It's going to be a lot of paper pushing and
keyboard pounding.  Stay here, look at the rest of the
photos and maybe get some sleep--"

"No.  I'll bring the album with me and I'll stay out of your
way if you want, but I'm NOT staying here."  His chin jutted
stubbornly.  "Don't expect me to.  You wouldn't do it if it
were your sister."

Pain slashed through her chest, and she dropped her eyes,
not wanting him to see the sudden tears.

"Damn it."  He made a hissing sound of frustration.  "I
didn't mean it that way, Scully--"

She blinked away her tears and looked up at him.  "I know.
And you're right.  I wouldn't stay here if it were Melissa. 
But I'm driving."

He nodded.  "I'll grab an umbrella while you change."  He
closed the bathroom door behind him.

She stripped off the borrowed sweatsuit and dressed in the
spare suit she'd packed for her trip to Charleston.  It was
a little rumpled, but she wasn't concerned about
appearances.  She slung the strap of her overnight bag over
her shoulder and met Mulder in the living room.  He was
stuffing the photo album in a gym bag to carry with him.  He
hadn't taken the time to change from his black turtleneck
sweater and faded jeans, but he'd donned a heavy overcoat
and found an oversized umbrella for them to share. 

He handed over the keys to his car without having to be
asked, holding the umbrella over her head until she was
behind the wheel.  He slid into the passenger seat,
chuckling as they both reached down to readjust the seats.

"Not a word about my little feet," she warned, trying to
ease the gut-wrenching anxiety that she knew they were both
feeling.

"Wouldn't dream of it."  His voice was soft with unspoken
gratitude.  He knew what she was trying to do.

You want spooky, Fox Mulder?  Spooky is how we have whole
conversations without words. That's what's spooky.  She had
never in her life experienced the kind of communion she
shared with her partner.  He had changed her life.  He
continued changing it, every day, every hour, every second.

They had things to sort through when this was all over, but
Scully didn't dwell on those questions as she took the
quickest route to the Hoover building.  She thought instead
about the incandescent joy she'd seen on her partner's face
for one brief, shimmering moment.  He'd seen a glimpse of
his heart's desire, so close he could almost put out his
hand and touch it.  She wanted to give it back to him
forever.

She wanted to give him his heart's desire.

Pendrell was waiting for them in the Sci-Crime lab.  A
short, dark-haired girl with laughing brown eyes was with
him, Scully noted with surprise.  One of the Sci-Crime
fingerprint experts, if her memory served her.  Anna or
something.  She glanced at the i.d. tag attached to the
waistband of the woman's jeans.  Annelle Hollis.

Scully looked up at Mulder.  He didn't even seem to notice
the other person's presence.  He towered over Pendrell. 
"What've you got?"

"Pinck Pharmaceuticals has warehouses across the U.S.,"
Pendrell informed them, motioning for them to join him at
the computer.  "Eugene, Denver and San Diego in the West,   
Kansas City, Houston, and Detroit in the heartland, 
Tallahassee, Birmingham and Memphis in the South, and
Boston, Camden and Rockville, Maryland in the East."

"Rockville?"  Mulder latched onto the nearest location. 
"That's practically minutes away."

Scully cut her eyes at the other woman in the room,
wondering how much she knew and if she could be trusted.  

Mulder merely ignored her and pressed on.  "Where is the
Rockville site?"

"North of the city--a little over halfway to Gaithersburg."

"Let's go."

Scully grabbed Mulder's arm.  "Mulder--we can't just
trespass on private property."

He turned on her, his eyes dark with anger.  "Damn it,
Scully, this no time to be prissy about the rules.  This is
SAMANTHA, for God's sake!"

She clenched her jaw and stood her ground.  "I know that.  I
also know that if you go bursting in there like a maniac,
you could get her killed!"

"You expect me to just sit here?"

"I expect you to put your feelings aside and use your head,
Mulder.  If you can't do that, I'm going to call Skinner
right now and have him take you off the case.  Now calm down
and let's think this through rationally."  She met his
fierce gaze with deliberate calm, although her own nerves
were jangling wildly.  She watched as he visibly regained
control, felt him drawing on her strength as surely as if
he'd reached inside her body and pulled out something 
tangible.  

"Okay, okay."  He raked his hand through his hair.  He
seemed to notice Annelle Hollis for the first time.  "Who
are you?"

"Agent Hollis."  The dark-eyed woman didn't flinch beneath
his dark gaze.  Tough one, Scully thought, even if she did
look like a kid.  "Shall I leave or can I be of help?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed.  "What's your specialty?"

"Fingerprints, but that's not the limit of my talents.  I
make a mean cup of coffee, and I'm not too proud to fetch
and carry.  Shall I?"  She glanced at Scully as if expecting
feminist backlash.  

Scully merely nodded.  "Thanks, Annelle--that would be
great."

The woman left the room, and Scully turned back to Mulder
and Pendrell.  "Mulder, I don't think that Pinck
Pharmaceutical would have Samantha at an active warehouse or
distribution site."

He and Pendrell both turned to look at her, their eyes
widening with realization.  "Of course, you're right,"
Mulder said, looking a bit sheepish.

"I'm sorry--I should've thought of that."  Pendrell looked
even more mortified.

"What about defunct sites?" Scully asked.

"I'm not sure they would be listed," Pendrell admitted.  "I
can look."

"Please."  Scully crossed to Mulder's side and put her hand
on his arm, drawing him toward the corner while Pendrell
entered the new data query.  She lowered her voice. 
"Mulder, I'm sorry I pulled a hard-ass act with you--"

He shook his head, cutting off her apology.  "Nothing I
didn't need and deserve.  Thanks for realizing that."

She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him tight,
reassure him that it was going to be all right.  She settled
for squeezing his hand gently before returning to Pendrell's
side to see if he was having any luck.


*  *  *  *  *


Sci-Crime Lab
FBI Headquarters
11:26 p.m.


Mulder stretched his arms over his head to ease the cramping
tension in his neck and shoulders.  He felt Scully's gaze on
him at his first movement--she was worried about him.  The
concern emanated from her in palpable waves.  

His feelings were still all jumbled and fragmented.  He
couldn't seem to get a good grip on anything--was he happy? 
Sad?  Angry?  Afraid?  He didn't know.  Part of him was
begging to just shut down, to close his eyes and let
darkness swallow him.  He was so tired.  He hadn't slept
well in a week, maybe longer.  He'd certainly had no more
than two or three hours of sleep a night for the past five
days.  Sheer exhaustion hovered at the edges of his
consciousness like a descending fog.  He couldn't keep going
like this--but if he was lucky, maybe he wouldn't have to.

"Anything?"  He looked over Pendrell's shoulder at the
screen.  They'd gone done a universal search and come up
with nothing, but Annelle Hollis had suggested trying a
commercial pharmacology homepage on the World Wide Web, and
Pendrell had been weaving his way through link after link in
search of any mention of Pinck Pharmaceutical.  The techie
glanced over his shoulder at Mulder and shook his head. 
"Nothing yet.  But tons of sites yet to visit."

"Mulder, why don't you go home and try to get some sleep?"
Scully suggested.  "You're not really accomplishing anything
here--"

"No, Scully."  He shook his head firmly.  

"Well, at least take a break.  We could get something to
eat--I'll bet you skipped dinner."

He thought of the Thai food sitting in his refrigerator. 
What plans he'd had, he thought with a wry half-smile.  "I'm
okay, Scully.  I'm not gonna starve."

"I could make a food run," Annelle suggested, pushing back
from her computer where she was continuing the slow search
of databases connected to the FBI network.

"No, you keep working, Annelle."  Scully patted the younger
woman's shoulder.  "I'll go get something for all of us. 
There's an all night deli on New Hampshire--you want your
usual, Mulder?"

He nodded, distracted by Pendrell's soft exclamation of
satisfaction.  "What is it, Pendrell?"

"Found an old Pharmacology Associates newsletter that
mentions Pinck Pharmaceutical.  Seems that they were working
on a serum to treat Marburg and Ebola."

"Any link to the Reston monkey house?" Annelle asked.

Mulder and Pendrell both turned to look at her.  

Her dark brows arched slightly. "I read THE HOT ZONE," she
defended.

Pendrell turned back to the computer screen.  "The
newsletter just mentions unidentified test sites along the
East Coast." 

"Maybe we can cross-link with Ebola or Marburg?" Mulder
suggested.

"I have a file at home I started compiling on infectious
diseases after the Cumberland Prison outbreak, Mulder."
Scully crossed to his side, putting her hand on his
shoulder.  Her touch was warm, reassuring.  "All the other
evidence was lost in that case, but I thought maybe if I
pieced together what I knew with some research I did--"

He looked up at her, tenderness mingling with pride
deep inside him.  His Scully, the stickler for proof, always

managed to come through for him when he needed it most.  
"Anything on Pinck Pharmaceutical?"

"A few things.  It's been a while since I looked at the
files.  I could go get them, grab some food while I'm at
it."

He nodded.  "Want me to come with you?"

She shook her head.  "Nah.  Stay here and bug Pendrell."

Pendrell grinned up at her over his shoulder.  Damned eager
little puppy, Mulder thought.

Scully slid her fingers lightly across his shoulder toward
his neck.  Her fingernails rasped lightly against the side
of his neck, shooting prickles through his body.  Her eyes
darkened slightly as she met his gaze.  He swallowed with
difficulty.

She withdrew her hand and turned toward the door.  He
watched her go, his breath trapped in his chest.  

"I've just cross referenced Reston, and there's nothing
connecting to Pinck."  Annelle Hollis' low Southern drawl
broke the spell.  He took a slow, deep breath and looked at
her.  Her brown eyes laughed at him, and he felt like he was
standing naked in the middle of traffic.  He frowned
slightly, making her eyes dance even more.  "I could try
Fort Detrick, but a lot of that's gonna be restricted."

He looked away from her knowing smile and nodded.  "Try it
anyway."  At this point, he didn't care if he had to hack
into every computer in the Pentagon--

He sat bolt upright.  Damn it, why hadn't he thought of
them?

He grabbed the phone on the desk in front of him and punched
in a number.  Two rings later, Langly answered.  "LONE
GUNMAN."

"Turn off the tape."


*  *  *  *  *


Scully retrieved the dossier on Pinck Pharmaceutical from
its hiding place in a lock box at the back of her closet. 
Too impatient to wait, she opened the file and looked over
it while she called in a sandwich order at an all night
diner down the street from her apartment.  The file was more
clinical than investigatory--she'd put much more effort into
charting the disease she'd beheld at Cumberland Prison than
into proving Pinck Pharmaceutical's complicity in the
outbreak--
and the company's connection to Cancerman and his cronies.  
That was Mulder's part of their partnership.

She did find an article she'd pulled off the Internet
regarding 
Pinck Pharmaceutical's purchase of the Rockville 
distribution site.  Pinck had bought the property and the
existing structure, which had been a grocery warehouse, in
March of 1995.  In passing, the blurb mentioned a viral 
outbreak among lab animals at one of the company's drug 
research facilities.  The article didn't mention the
location of 
the "hot" site, only that the facility had been shut down in
early August, 1994, and never reopened.

August, 1994....

Scully's cell phone burred, and she shut the file. 
"Scully."

"Hi, it's me."

She tried to temper a surge of excitement.  "Do you have
something?"

"Not yet--I've got the guys at the GUNMAN checking some of
their sources."

"Oh, we should have thought of them right away!"

He didn't speak for a moment, and she wondered if she'd lost
the connection.  

"Mulder?"

"Just not used to your talking nicely about the boys."

She smiled at the phone.  "Like you said before, Mulder,
this is Samantha.  If I thought the Stupendous Yappi might
give us a clue, I'd dial his 1-900 number in a heartbeat."

"Any luck on your end?"

"Just a confirmation that Pinck was doing virology research
at an unnamed facility that was later shut down after a
viral outbreak among the lab animals."

"Any connection?"

She hesitated, wondering if she was as guilty of leaping to
conclusions as she often accused Mulder of being.  But the
timing was...strange....

"Scully?"

"The Pinck virology research site was shut down in early
August, 1994."

He didn't say anything for a long moment.  But she could
hear the soft, whispery sound of his breathing.

"There's probably no connection--" she began.

"In your hypnosis session, you mentioned being taken
somewhere after you were removed from the train.  Could it
have been a research facility?"

The muscles of her shoulders tightened, and she could almost
see a door closing in her mind.  "I don't know.  I don't
remember any of what I said under hypnosis, Mulder--I told
you that."  She felt her stomach twisting and her pulse rate
quickening.  "I don't--"

I don't want to remember, she realized.

I don't want to know.

Her mind was fighting memory.  Struggling to hold back the
full horror she'd gone through.  That was why she was
suddenly so tense, wasn't it?  It wasn't anxiety for
Samantha or concern for Mulder.  It was fear.

Terror.

"Scully?"

She cleared her throat, tried to calm her suddenly ragged
breathing.  "I ordered some sandwiches--I'll pick them up
and be there in a little bit.  Maybe Byers will have
something for you by then."  She hung up without saying
goodbye, afraid her burgeoning fear would add to his own
anxiety.  

Outside, the rain had stopped, and the temperature was
beginning to plunge.  A sharp wind was already drying the
streets and driving late-night stragglers behind doors. 
Scully stopped briefly to pick up her sandwich order and
rushed back to the car, shivering as the icy wind lifted her
hair and crept beneath the collar of her coat.  She cranked
up the heat and headed for New Hampshire Avenue.  

She had gone almost five miles before she realized she was
headed away from D.C.

She blinked, surprised that she could have been so
distracted.  She pulled off the main strip and was about to
turn around when she saw the sign at the edge of the parking
lot where she'd turned.  "Best Buy Food Mart."

It was an insignificant sign, one she'd probably seen a
thousand times over the past few years.  It was yellow with
bold blue letters rimmed in red.  The sign was illuminated
from within, but one of the bulbs inside was apparently
blown, for the left side of the sign was significantly
dimmer than the right side.  

And Scully remembered.

Night.  Dark, thick, heavy.  Cold, she was so cold.  Cold
and hurting.  She ached everywhere.  She was dying.  

Scully put her car in park and slumped back against the
seat, shivering.  Oh, God.  

She remembered.

She was in the back of a vehicle.  Like an ambulance, but no
sirens.  No attendants.  Maybe it was a hearse.  Maybe she
was already dead....

A soft tap on her window startled her, and she jerked
upright, her heart slamming against her ribcage.  She stared
up into the face of a night guard.  

"Are you okay, lady?" he asked, his voice muffled by the car
window.  

She nodded.  "Fine," she managed to say. 

"Are you lost?"

She shook her head.  "No--I'm fine."  She put her car into
drive and pulled back onto New Hampshire Avenue.  

Still headed out of D.C.

She kept driving east toward the Beltway. She took the
Beltway to Washington-Baltimore Boulevard, following her
memories.

She had been strapped on a gurney, held immobile, but she
had been able to see through the tinted windows of the
vehicle.  She had seen the flash of signs, trees, and buildings, 
heard the noise of traffic--  

Her cell phone rang, making her jump.  Her hands jerked on
the steering wheel, making her car swerve slightly toward
the other lane.  Fortunately traffic was light, and Scully
regained control without incident.  She opened her cell
phone.  "Scully."

"Where are you?"

"Washington-Baltimore Boulevard, headed toward Baltimore."

"Baltimore?"  Mulder's voice sounded choked.  "Why?"

"I remembered something...."  A chill was creeping up her
back, outdistancing the heat pouring through the car's
vents.

"Scully--listen...me...Byers...something...." Mulder's voice
faded into static.  Scully shut off her phone and tried to
dial him back, but she couldn't get through.

Her phone rang twice in the next twenty minutes, but when
she answered, she heard only static.  She was driving 
past the National Agricultural Research Facility and 
Fort Meade--maybe the government facilities were 
causing problems with her cell phone.  It wouldn't be the 
first time.

As she neared the Baltimore-Washington International
Airport, a jet coming in for landing passed overhead, its
roar like an echo of the past, and she remembered how it had
felt to lie in the back of that vehicle years earlier, drifting
in and out of consciousness only long enough to be afraid.

She had known where she was.  They hadn't bothered to hide
it from her.  And she'd feared that it meant they had no
intention of returning her alive.

Her heart clenched at the memory of her terror, the horrible
certainty that she was never going to see her family again. 

Never going to see Mulder....

Her cell phone rang again, jarring her back to the present. 
She realized tears were trickling down her cheeks; she wiped
them away and reached for her phone.  "Scully."
                                                             
"Scully, where are you?"  She heard a rumbling sound
through the earpiece and realized that Mulder was in a car.  

She glanced at the road sign.  "About ten minutes out of
Baltimore."

"I'm headed your way now--I'm probably ten or fifteen minutes 
behind you now.  Listen, Byers found something."     

She barely registered his remark as she changed lanes on
instinct, heading for a turn off.

"Scully, did you hear me?"

She took the right hand turn before she spoke.  "Yeah--Byers
found something?"

"He found a CONSPIRACY JOURNAL article about Pinck
Pharmaceutical's shutdown of its virology research
facility."

"It's just outside Baltimore, isn't it?"

Mulder paused a beat before answering.  "Yes, on Alvarado
Parkway."

Scully glanced at a street marker as she passed.  "I'm on
Alvarado."

"Scully, what the hell--"

"I was there, Mulder.  I was at that facility.  It wasn't
shut down because of a viral outbreak.  It was shutdown to
accommodate my captors.  There was testing going on there,
Mulder, and it may well have been viral research.  But the
test subjects weren't animals."  A shudder wracked her body.

"Scully, pull off and wait for me.  Don't go to that
warehouse--"

She crested a small rise and found herself staring at a 
sprawling two-story warehouse.  "Mulder, I'm there."

The warehouse was at the edge of a manufacturing area, 
far enough apart from the warehouses further down the 
road to be safe from prying eyes.  Not so secluded that 
it would excite curiosity, the warehouse was the perfect 
place for sins to be hidden in plain sight.  

A faded For Sale sign stood at a crooked angle in the 
grassy shoulder between the road and the outer edge
of the parking lot.  Scully doubted the building had excited
the interest of buyers;  who would buy a facility where a
deadly virus had broken out?   She pulled her car off the
road onto the shoulder and extinguished the headlights.

Mulder's voice buzzed in her ear.  "Scully, get away from
there.  Go back down the road and wait for me, do you hear
me?"

She eyed the warehouse, wondering how she could make a
stealthy approach.  The front opened on the parking lot--no
way to sneak up there.  But the back butted up to a wooded
area--maybe if she parked at one of the warehouses down the
road and back-tracked....

"Damn it, Scully, listen to me!"  

Movement outside the Pinck warehouse distracted her
attention.  Dark figures emerged from the warehouse with the
speed and precision of a coordinated team.  Five or six--
maybe more.  They darted across the front lawn of the
warehouse and loaded into a black van parked nearby.  The
van jerked into gear before the side door was shut.

"Mulder, several people just left the warehouse in one hell
of a hurry."  She watched the red tail lights of the van 
disappear over the rise.

"I'm on my way, Scully."  

"Mulder, there are no other cars here now.  I'm going to
try to take a look around."

"No, Scully--"

She was already out of her car and across the road, led by
an overwhelming sense of urgency.  Something was wrong. 
Something horrible.  She couldn't sit still.  "I'm going in,
Mulder--I think Samantha is in there."

"Scully, damn it!"  

She hung up the phone and tucked it in her pocket, realizing
she needed both hands free.  The night was dark, clouds
obsuring the moon.  Down Alvarado, street lamps lit the
night, but here at the warehouse, all the lights were closer
to the building.  She squelched the sense of vulnerability
and darted closer, driven by feelings she didn't understand
and couldn't take time to analyze.  

Her phone trilled, and she almost shut it off.  But she took
pity on Mulder and answered.

"Damn it, Scully, don't you DARE hang up on me.  Where are
you?"

"Outside the warehouse. I'm about twenty yards from a side
entrance--"

Suddenly a deafening crash split the air, and seconds later 
Scully was slammed backwards, as if hit by an invisible
truck. Her cellular phone flew from her hand and landed with
a clatter on a concrete walkway fifteen feet away.  It
skidded to a stop, its glass front display reflecting the
flickering yellow column of flames that shot into the night
sky from the heart of the darkened warehouse.  

From the cracked earpiece, Fox Mulder's frantic voice
screamed Scully's name, the cries swallowed by the
hiss and roar of conflagration.


*  *  *  *  *


1:11 a.m.


She was awake.  Not fully--the edges of her vision were gray
and blurry, but for the first time since she'd been grabbed
and chloroformed in the alley behind Garnem's Pita Bakery,
Sarah Chandler was conscious.

She was conscious of almost everything--who she had been for
the last 22 years of her life as well as who she had been
for the first eight years of her life.  There were gaps, but
she knew enough to know that she was in serious danger.  She
smelled smoke.  She felt the growing heat that drove away
the chill of the darkness.

She had to get out.  

She could barely move.  Her body felt numb, nerveless.  But
she was alone in the room.  No one could stop her--but no
one could help her, either.

She thought of her parents--the Chandlers, she corrected
with a crinkle of her forehead.  The only parents she'd
known for 22 years.  It had been over a year since she'd
seen them, and they'd parted in anger.  

Now, she wondered if she'd ever see them again.  Or her real
parents--Bill and Caroline Mulder.  

Were they even alive?

Did they remember her?

Fox....

She whispered his name into the silence, her voice little
more than breath.  He was still alive.  She knew where he
was, where to find him.  She had a picture of him--she
remembered wondering why she had been so drawn to that
photograph in her scrap book.  Now she understood.

Fox...so handsome.  She'd never have guessed he'd turn out
so well; he'd always been a geeky boy. 

Weak tears trickled down her cheeks.  Too many thoughts
paralyzing her brain.  She needed to move.  Needed to get
out of here.

She gathered her strength and heaved forward, trying to sit
up.  She succeeded only in tumbling from her gurney to the
floor, banging her chin in the process.  Pain jarred from
her head to her toe, and she crumpled to the floor, weeping.

Hands touched her shoulders, and she instinctively recoiled.

"I'm here to help you." The voice was warm, female.  The
hands were strong but gentle as they drew her to her feet. 
A steady arm circled her waist, keeping her standing. 
"You've got to help me, Sarah."

"Samantha," she murmured.  "I'm Samantha Mulder." She tried
to lift her face to look at her rescuer, but all her
strength was focused on keeping her feet.

"Samantha."  The voice was in her ear.  Strong and soothing.
She arm around her waist propelled her forward.

They went through a door.  Smoke surrounded them, gray and
thick.  Samantha coughed.  Her rescuer tightened her grip
and half-dragged her around a corner.

There was a cracking sound, and fire flashed in front of
Samantha's eyes.  Next to her, she heard a scream of pain,
and the grip on her waist loosened.  Samantha crumpled to
the floor.

Near the floor, the smoke wasn't as dense.  Samantha drew
in deep breaths of the fresher air and tried to move.  She
felt a hand close over her wrist.  

"Are you okay?"  The voice was tight with pain yet strong
with determination.

"I think so--"  Samantha peered through the smoke, trying to
see her rescuer.  It was a woman.  The warehouse was too
dark for her to make out colors or features--and even if she
could, the woman's hand covered the right side of her
face and soot marred the left side.  The back of the woman's
hand was also blackened--she'd been burned. Yet she had
strength enough to lift Samantha with her free hand, drawing
her back to her feet.  

"We can't rest."  The woman half-dragged Samantha forward.

Samantha stumbled along with her, trying to do her part. 
Oddly, her exertions were making her feel stronger rather
than weaker. 

"I think there's a side exit near here."

Samantha's eyes and lungs burned from the smoke.  She was
still a little groggy--the corridors through which they were
making their way seemed to twist and turn like a maze.  She
could see little, but what she could make out looked like a
warehouse--but one far more complex and labyrinthine than
any she had ever seen.

Suddenly a shout split the air, and Samantha's rescuer
froze, drawing her back against the wall of the corridor.


*  *  *  *  *


1:21 a.m.


Mulder pushed the borrowed Buick to its limits, flooring the
accelerator and weaving his way around the light traffic on
Washington-Baltimore Boulevard.  The turn-off was in sight; 
Mulder put down the cell phone long enough to take the curve
at way too high a speed, then grabbed the phone again, 
listening.  He heard only the hiss-crackle sound of static.

Or fire?

By his watch only a minute passed before he saw the column
of smoke rising into the night sky.  It felt like more.  An
orange glow brightened the darkness and he pressed the
accelerator until the Buick shimmied and bucked.  He topped
the rise and saw the warehouse ahead, its heart engulfed in
flames.

No thought of stealth crossed his mind.  He swung into the
parking lot and barely jerked the car in park before he was
out the door and running toward the burning building.

Halfway down the walk, his foot hit something and he
skidded, tumbling to the grass and hitting flat on his solar
plexus.  His breath exploded from his lungs and he writhed
with pain, trying to suck in air.  He managed to crawl to
his hands and knees, managed to find what had impeded his
progress.

Scully's phone.

He looked up at the warehouse, saw how the flames had
tripled just since he first came into view of the inferno. 
And he knew without a doubt that Scully was in there,
looking for his sister.

No, God, no, please--

Scully would risk her life to give Samantha back to him.  He
had known that years ago, when he had kept from her the
identity of the woman on the bridge.  He had known,
instinctively, that she would never choose her own life over
that of his sister.  It was the kind of woman she was--the
kind of friend and partner she was.

And now--

He pushed to his feet and weaved an unsteady but purposeful
path toward the burning warehouse.  "Scully!"


*  *  *  *  *


Scully heard her name.  She pulled up short, recognizing
Mulder's voice.  So soon?

She felt torn--Samantha was in here somewhere.  She knew it
with a certainty she'd not felt for years--the same
certainty that had convinced her that Mulder would return to
her side and rejoin her in their search for the truth. 

She just knew.

"Sarah!"  Her shout was a hoarse croak--she'd been inhaling
a lot of smoke over the last few minutes.  Too much smoke. 
She was already wheezing, already feeling lightheaded.  The
warehouse was a maze--corridor building on corridor, made
all the more impenetrable by the haze of smoke and the
urgency of passing time.  If Samantha had been held in the
central part of the warehouse, she was already lost. 
Whatever explosive device had been used to blow up the
warehouse had included an incendiary--she could smell the
fumes of accelerant, reminding her of the Cecil L'ively
case.  Thank God Mulder was afraid of fire--that should make
him think twice before coming in here after them.

"Scully!"  

God, his voice was closer than before.  

Was he coming in?

No.  She couldn't let him come in here.  

"Mulder, stay out there!"  Her voice was weak, scratchy.  A
coughing fit seized her, made her grab at the wall to steady
herself.

"Scully!"

She had to go back.  If she didn't go back and stop him, he
would come in here, and they would all be lost.

She turned and began to retrace her steps toward the door.


*  *  *  *  *


Raven bit her lip and ignored the pain screaming down the
right side of her face and neck.  She had shielded Samantha
Mulder from the rain of burning debris at her own risk--the
instinct of the soldier.  Protect and defend.  

But she wasn't a soldier anymore.  And she had more pressing
matters to deal with than the life of one woman.  She had
done her duty.  Samantha Mulder was within reach of
salvation.  And Raven had already sacrificed enough to bring
her to this point.

She could wait no longer to make her own escape.  And she
didn't have time to be encumbered by Samantha Mulder.

She stopped and positioned Samantha against a wall.  Up
ahead, billowing smoke denoted where the side exit door was
to be found.  "There's the exit," she told Samantha,
pointing toward the opening.  "I can't help you any more. 
It's up to you to follow me."

She didn't wait to make sure Samantha understood.  There was
no more time.

She fled through the door into the night.

Cold air hit her wound like fresh fire, and she almost
screamed.  But her training had taught her much about self-
preservation.  Stealth was her only hope, and there was too
much open ground between the warehouse and the safety of the
woods for her to take risks.

She bit her lip until it bled, focusing all thought on the
sharp metallic taste filling her mouth.  She staggered into
the woods and found shelter.

The pain was gut-wrenching.  She vomited, and the exertion
increased the pain until she felt as if her body were one
huge, swollen throbbing nerve.  She had to find shelter. 
Had to find help.

But there was no one to turn to now.  One look at the burn
on her face, and Carter would know.  They would all know.

She had severed all ties tonight.  

All for the sake of a woman she'd never met and would
probably never see again.

She pushed to her feet and weaved through the woods to where
she'd hidden her rental car, counting steps to divert her
mind from the pain and from her growing sense of isolation
and vulnerability.

Nobility, she mused, is severely overrated.


*  *  *  *  *


Mulder reached the front door of the warehouse.  It was open
a crack; smoke curled around the edges.  He touched the
handle and found it hot.

Suddenly the door burst open, slamming him backwards.  He
stumbled but managed to keep his feet as the small, soot-
covered figure hit him at a full run.

He curled his arms around her.  "Scully!"

Scully's eyes were frantic.  "Run, Mulder!"  She jerked away
from his embrace, dragging him behind her with surprising
strength.  "It's rigged to blow again!" she wheezed,
stumbling as her feet left the concrete walk and hit the
grass.  

Mulder took over, wrapping his arm around her waist and
half-carrying her with him as he ran as far from the
warehouse as he could.  But when the second explosion hit,
they were close enough to feel the concussion.  The
compressed wall of air hit Mulder in the back and knocked
them both sprawling.

When his head cleared, Mulder looked back at the warehouse. 
It was nothing but flame.

In the distance, the wail of sirens split the air, barely
audible over the roar of the warehouse fire.  Beside him,
Scully was a knot of warmth tucked against his rib cage; 
instinctively he gathered her up and held her tightly,
letting the feel of her ease the worst of his raging fear.

She's safe she's safe she's safe oh God she's safe....

But as his fear subsided, his grief swelled, unquenchable. 
It filled him, drenched him, surged through him.  He thought
it might be the only thing holding him upright.  He
whispered the name imprinted on his heart.  "Samantha...."

Scully pressed her face against his throat.  He felt her hot
tears dripping down his neck.  "I'm sorry," she whispered,
her voice a faint rasp.

He closed his eyes, swallowing convulsively.  His muscles
bunched on instinct, screaming at him to get off his ass and
plunge into the heart of the fire.  Samantha was in there. 
She needed him.

But if she was in there, she was dead.  

There.  He'd thought the words. 

Samantha was dead.  And even though there was a dark
allurement in the thought of sacrificing himself to that
same fire that had finally taken her from him, he resisted,
trapped in the strong grip of his partner's arms.  If he
went into the fire, Scully would follow.  She would die
rather than give him up to death.  She'd proved that more
than once.

And he would not be the cause of her death, too.

"Maybe she's not in there."  Scully voiced the hope, but he
could tell that she believed otherwise.  

He brushed her hair away from her face, wiping away smudges
of soot.  Through a blur of tears, he read the anguish in
her expression, her own sense of guilt and loss.  He
couldn't bear the sight of it; he looked away, over her
shoulder toward the warehouse fire.

And saw movement.

Scully looked up at him, betraying her surprise as his arms
tightened around her.  "What is it?"  

It WAS movement.  Slow, unsteady...a dark figure moving away
from the fire, silhouetted against the blaze.  He could tell
only that it was human--tall, slender, slight.  Female. 
Longish hair lifted by the wind.

He pushed to his feet, pulling Scully with him.  He heard
Scully's gasp and knew she had seen the figure, too.

He ran forward a few steps, Scully keeping pace at his side. 
But as the figure grew more distinct, as she stepped into a
puddle of light from one of the lamps illuminating the
parking lot, as her features were finally revealed to him,
he faltered.

It was too much.

Too much.

Scully paused with him, looking up into his face, searching 
his expression.  He met her gaze, his wide eyes telling her 
what she wanted to know.

She turned and ran toward the woman.  Mulder lagged behind,
his body suddenly unresponsive to the urgings of his
whirling mind.  He watched Scully gather the woman into the
protection of her arms, watched the two women close the
distance between him and them.

He saw the light of recognition in a pair of hazel eyes so
like his very own.

"Fox?"

A band of tension snapped inside him, and he lurched
forward, arms outstretched.  He whispered her name and
gathered her up into his embrace.

After twenty-five years, Fox Mulder had finally found his
sister.



End of 11


 










DISCLAIMER:  Most of the characters in this work of fiction
belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and the Fox
Network.  I mean no infringement.  The characters of Annelle
Hollis, Anne Milliken, Larry, Eve Wentworth, David, Lorna and Benton Crane, and Preston Powell belong to me and should not be used without my permission.

This is the pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes
place within that universe.  Rated PG-13 for adult
situations and language. 


12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#12:  "Retreat"
By anne Haynes 
AHaynes33@aol.com


University Hospital
Baltimore, MD
2:42 a.m.


The room was dark and quiet, lit only by a small lamp on the
bedside cabinet.  In the bed, Samantha Mulder slept, her
pale, thin face relaxed in slumber.  Her brother kept watch
beside her, his tear-reddened eyes fixed on her face,
searching, studying, memorizing.

Dana Scully watched him from a chair in the corner of the
small private room, searching, studying and memorizing as
well.  She had never thought to see this day, and now that
it had come, she wanted to preserve it somehow, capture this
moment for eternity.  

It was not often a person achieved his heart's desire.

Her eyes were damp with tears as well, shed in a maelstrom
of relief and joy and sheer nerves.  She had managed to hold
herself together through the ride behind the ambulance that
carried Samantha here to University Hospital.  She'd been a
rock for Mulder, who had begun to slowly unravel the moment
he'd heard his sister call his name.  She'd been the one who
filled out the admittance forms, who provided the insurance
information with a quick phone call to Anne Milliken. 

Scully had also called Skinner and her own mother, knowing
that with all the threads of this case that were yet to be
untangled, she'd need all the help she could get.  Her
mother had agreed to stop by her apartment and bring a
change of clothes so that Scully could get rid of the
surgical scrubs she'd borrowed from the hospital when she
had showered to rid herself of the smell of smoke.  Skinner
had dispatched a hand-chosen team of arson investigators to
the Baltimore warehouse site.

Scully suspected it would be an exercise in futility.  The
fire had been set with the express purpose of leaving no
evidence to be found.  

The door to the hospital room opened, and Scully's mother
entered, carrying a small athletic bag.  Her forehead was
crinkled with a worried frown, but Scully noticed that she
straightened her face immediately when Mulder looked up at
her.  Margaret smiled at Mulder, setting the bag on an empty
chair and crossing to his side.

Mulder rose and slipped his arm around Margaret's shoulder,
accepting her affectionate hug.  "Pretty amazing, huh?" he
murmured, looking down at his sister.  

"How is she?" Margaret glanced at Scully, questions in her
eyes.  

Scully smiled her reassurance.  "Tired and a bit dehydrated,
but the doctors say she should be okay.  They ran a battery
of tests on her when she first came in, so if there's
anything else wrong with her, we should know soon."  

Mulder glanced over his shoulder, meeting Scully's gaze. 
"If it weren't for your daughter, Mrs. Scully--"

Margaret met her daughter's eyes, her gaze filled with love. 
Tears pricked the back of Scully's eyes, and she managed a
trembling smile.  "I brought a change of clothes, Dana.  But
first--there's an agent outside who needs to speak to you."

Something about the expression in her mother's eyes made
Scully's stomach quiver.  She rose and crossed the room,
pausing briefly to run her hand comfortingly down Mulder's
back before she left the room in search of the agent.

A slim, petite young woman with chestnut brown hair turned
away from the nurse's desk.  Face on, she looked a bit
younger than Scully had expected--mid-twenties, she guessed,
although a dusting of freckles and a minimum of make-up
subtracted a few years.  Intelligent blue-gray eyes met
Scully's from behind a pair of oval framed glasses.  Her
neat suit, complete with oversized jacket, screamed FBI. 
She smiled at Scully and extended her hand.  "Agent
Scully?  I'm Agent Jenn Francis.  Assistant Director Skinner
dispatched me to your apartment after your mother's phone
call."

Scully's forehead wrinkled in confusion.  "After Mom's phone
call?"

"Agent Scully, when your mother entered your apartment this
morning, she found the place ransacked.  I'm afraid someone
broke into your apartment and conducted a thorough search of
the premises while you were out.  We can't tell that
anything was stolen--"

But Scully knew better.  The printouts of Bill Mulder's disk
had been in her apartment.  She would bet a year's salary
they were no longer there.  "I assume you're dusting the
place for prints?"  Also an exercise in futility, Scully
knew, but procedures had to be followed. 

"Of course.  A.D. Skinner--ah, here he is now."  Agent
Francis looked down the corridor behind Scully.  Scully
turned to greet the Assistant Director.

"I assume Agent Francis filled you in on the situation at
your apartment."  Skinner put his hands on his hips,
towering over Scully and Agent Francis.  Scully sometimes
wondered if he realized how intimidating his bulk could be. 
She supposed he did--he'd been a Marine, after all. 

"Yes, sir."

"I went by Mulder's place on a hunch.  It had been trashed,
too."

Scully closed her eyes and sighed.  No surprise there, she
supposed.  "Let me guess--the place was turned upside down
but nothing seemed to have been taken."

Skinner glanced at Agent Francis, his jaw muscle working
with tension.  Agent Francis apparently got the hint; she
reddened slightly and discreetly moved away, heading down
the hall toward the waiting area.  Skinner cupped Scully's
elbow and drew her away from the nurse's desk.  "What were
they looking for?"

"No doubt what they found--a file that Agent Mulder's father
compiled shortly before his death."

"What kind of file?"

"We're not sure.  I had a copy, Agent Mulder had a copy, and
there's a copy at the office in Mulder's safe."

"Not anymore--I had someone check Agent Mulder's office.  He
said the place had been tossed as well--and Agent Mulder's 
safe is missing."

Scully looked up at him, wondering if he could possibly be
joking.  "The whole safe?"

"Apparently so.  What was in that file, Agent Scully?"

"A mystery," she murmured.  Briefly she told him as much
about what they had found as she could remember.  "We hadn't
made much headway into the information contained on the disk
when I discovered that Sarah Chandler was really Samantha
Mulder."

Skinner bent his head toward her, lowering his voice.  "Are
you sure it's her?"

"Yes, sir."  Scully glanced over her shoulder at the door of
Samantha's hospital room.  "At least, as sure as I can be
until the DNA tests come back.  Would you like to look in on
her?  I'm sure Agent Mulder would be glad--"

Skinner shook his head.  "I've got to get back to the office
and light a fire under some folks, find out how in a place
as secure as the FBI building, someone managed to ransack
your office and steal a fifty-pound safe without being
noticed."

She didn't bother reminding him that people often made good
money by NOT noticing things they were supposed to notice. 
She assumed he knew that as well as she did.  "Well, at
least we should still have a copy of the disk.  Mulder made
a copy for Agent Pendrell--"

"Uh--"  Skinner's grimace made her stomach flip-flop.

"What is it, sir?"

"Agent Pendrell and Agent Hollis of Sci-Crime were involved
in a carjacking a couple of hours ago."

"My God."

"They were roughed up--they're both being held overnight at
Northeast Georgetown for observation."

"Will they be okay?"

Skinner nodded, his expression grim.  "Yeah--looks like it.
I checked on them before I came here.  Both of them took a
crack on the head, and Pendrell's got a hell of a shiner. 
But he's a lot more upset that whoever jacked them got away
with Agent Mulder's disk."

Scully shook her head, too tired to work herself into the
fine rage she wanted to indulge in.  "They always win.  Even
when they lose, they win."

Skinner looked over her shoulder toward the door to Samantha
Mulder's room.  "Somehow, I don't think Agent Mulder would
agree with you right now."

Scully slumped against the wall.  "You're probably right."

Skinner met her weary gaze, his eyes dark with concern. 
"How are you holding up, Scully?  From what I hear, tonight
wasn't a cake walk for you, either."

She managed a half-smile. "Too tired to know what to feel,
sir."

He patted her arm.  "Why don't you let your mother drive you
home?  Get some rest--I doubt Agent Mulder will even miss
you."

Scully looked down at the faux granite floor of the hospital
corridor, blinking back tears.  She suspected Skinner was
right.  "I'll consider it, sir."

"Pass along my congratulations to Agent Mulder, and forget
about coming to the office for the next couple of days. 
Call it administrative leave with pay."  He squeezed her arm
lightly and turn on his heel, heading down the corridor. 
Scully watched him go out of inertia, not moving until he
turned the corner toward the waiting room where Agent
Francis had made her retreat.

Scully pushed away from the wall and went back into
Samantha's room.  She found her mother seated next to
Mulder, her hand gently stroking his back the way she'd
always soothed her own children.  Scully smiled at the
sight, her heart swelling with gratitude for the loving
childhood she'd enjoyed.  

So very different from Mulder's. 

Mulder looked up as she approached the bed, his face a riot
of emotion.  He was out of control--but it was a good kind
of chaos, a storm of feelings he'd spent the past twenty-four
years sublimating.  He had to feel every one of them now,
the good and the bad.  And that was okay.

He held out his hand toward her as she approached, and she
almost faltered, surprised by the open gesture of affection.
She took his hand in hers, let him draw her near.  He
released her fingers and slipped his arm around her waist in
an easy half-embrace.  

And it was all wrong.

Where was the hesitation?  The tension?  The questions of
propriety and professionalism and prudence?  His effortless
touch unnerved her.  

Something was missing.

Her mother pushed back her chair and rose.  Scully could
tell by the look on her mother's face that she, too,
recognized that something was amiss.  Margaret met Scully's
gaze with a small, reassuring smile. "Dana, I'm going to go
get some coffee for Fox and me--would you like a cup, too?"

Scully nodded.  "Thanks."  She waited until her mother had
left the room before she gently moved away from Mulder's
grasp and sat in the chair her mother had vacated.

Mulder smiled at her briefly, then turned his attention back
to the woman sleeping in the bed in front of them.  "I can't
believe this is real--after that other time--that other
woman--"  He shook his head, words failing him.

"Mulder, I have to tell you something."  Scully put her hand
on his arm.  He didn't seem to feel the touch.  "Mulder, all
of the evidence is missing.  Someone broke into our
apartments and into the office."

He didn't even blink.  

"Mulder, did you hear me?  Someone tossed our office and
took the safe.  The whole safe."

He glanced at her. "Pendrell has a copy of the disk."

She shook her head.  "Not anymore."  She told him about the
carjacking.  "They're okay, but their assailants took the
disk."

Mulder looked at her blankly.  Nothing crossed his face--not
anger or frustration or even hurt.  He just stared.

"You don't care, do you?" she asked, realization dawning.

His gaze never wavered.  "The truth?  No, I don't care.  Not
right now."

She tried not to gape.

"Maybe in a few days, Scully.  Or in a few weeks.  But right
now, I don't care.  It doesn't matter."  He turned his head
away and resumed his vigil over his sister.

She looked away quickly as rage fired through her.  You
bastard, she thought, blinking back angry tears.  I spend
the last six years of my life putting my neck on the line
for you and your obsessions, and now you turn your back on me
and MY questions the second you get what you want?

But as quickly as her anger rose, it subsided, supplanted by
bone-deep weariness.  She slumped in her chair and looked at
him, watching the constant play of emotions across his
normally neutral face.  Of course he didn't care.  Right
now, he didn't have room left for anything but Samantha. 
Eventually, he'd recover his equilibrium and they could get
back to their quest.

Surely he couldn't walk away while there were still so many
questions to answer.

Could he?


*  *  *  *  *


University Hospital
Baltimore, MD
8:12 a.m.


Despite the late hour, the hospital room remained dark, the
morning sunlight blocked by heavy curtains over the window. 
Beside the bed, Fox Mulder felt himself beginning to nod
off, finally coming down from his adrenaline and caffeine
high.  Scully and her mother had left about an hour earlier,
at his insistence--Scully was dead on her feet but too loyal
to abandon him easily.  He appreciated her concern for him,
but there was really nothing she could do here beyond
sharing his vigil.  There were no more mysteries to solve,
no dragons to slay.  

It was over.

He suspected he'd have fallen asleep much earlier if he
could have brought himself to stop staring at his sleeping
sister.  He was afraid if he looked away for a moment, when
he looked back she'd be gone again.  He wondered how long it
would be before he stopped feeling that way.  Probably
never.

Samantha stirred, a slight frown creasing her wide forehead.
She shifted in the bed for a few seconds, then her eyes
fluttered open.  Blinking away sleep, she turned her head to
look at him.  Her eyes widened slightly, and a smile of
recognition spread over her pale face.  "Hi."

He clasped her hand between his own.   "Morning."

"What time is it?"

He glanced at his watch.  "Quarter after eight.  You got a
good night's sleep--how're you feeling?"

She quirked one eyebrow.  "Better than you look."

He grinned.  "Thanks a lot."

"Did you stay here all night?"

"'Cept when they ran me out to take your blood and vitals."

She glanced at the bruises darkening her inner arm.  "Damned
bloodsuckers."

Mulder chuckled.  "The doctor is supposed to drop by around
nine to tell us when you can get out of here."

"Soon, I hope."  A shadow passed over her face.  "I feel
trapped."

He squeezed her hand.  "How much do you remember, Sam--
Sarah--"  He frowned slightly, not knowing what to call her.

"Samantha is fine," she said with a strange little smile.  
"That's my real name, isn't it?"

He nodded.  "Looks that way."

She searched his face as if looking for something familiar. 
"You didn't turn out like I expected."

He quirked his eyebrows.  "What did you expect?"

"I don't know--not so...old."  Her smile faded.  "Fox, I 
don't really remember anything but bits and pieces--nothing
really solid except for an overwhelming sense of threat." 

"Do you remember meeting with Carter Christopher?"

"Who?"

Mulder described the older man.  

Recognition dawned in her eyes..  "He said his name 
was Robert Bowman and that he'd been part of Dr. 
Chamberlain's psychology study.  I met him for lunch at
Garnem's and I walked with him out to the back where he'd
parked his car--"  She frowned.  "I don't remember anything
after that."

"The man you know as Bowman and I know as Christopher is a
member of an international consortium that has been
instrumental in covering up evidence of the existence of
extraterrestrial life."  Mulder steeled himself, waiting for
her response.  He knew how crazy and paranoid he sounded
when he said those kind of things.  

She quirked one dark eyebrow, reminding him for all the
world of Scully.  Heat crept up his neck at the suspicion
that she was mentally fitting him for a straitjacket.  "And
you think I was abducted and held captive in that warehouse
for the purpose of...?"

He shrugged.  "I never said I had all the answers."

She gripped his hand.  "I don't need all the answers.  But I
do need some.  How did you find me?"

"Scully was really the one who found you."

Samantha smiled again.  "I barely got to talk to her last 
night--did she leave?"

He nodded.  "She was practically sleepwalking, so I talked
her into going home and getting some rest."

"Tell me everything--why did you start looking for me?"

"I never stopped looking for you."  He said.  Not for twenty-four
long years, not until just a couple of days ago.  "Because I 
knew you were out there, waiting for me to come get you."

A strange expression crossed her face, and she looked 
away from him, studying the IV needle in the back of her
hand.  "I really meant, how did you know about---Sarah
Chandler?  From Dana?"

He reddened, realizing his declaration of devotion to her
had only made her feel uncomfortable.  Releasing her 
hand,  he started at the beginning, telling her about 
Scully's unofficial investigation and how it had turned official 
after Leigh MacGraw's murder.  "We knew then that you 
weren't just a free spirit who'd taken off on a whim.  Scully 
was afraid for you, and that was all it took for her to go into 
pit bull mode."

Samantha chuckled at his choice of words.  "I won't tell her
you said that."

He laughed, glad that a little of the tension between them
had begun to pass.  "Please don't."

"So how did you figure out who I really was?"

"Scully saw a picture of you--one taken just after you were
released from the hospital in Charleston.  You were a little
older, but the resemblance between 'Sarah Chandler' and my
little sister was too striking to dismiss."

"So Dana saw my parents--saw the Chandlers...."  This time
Samantha was the one who faltered.  "God, I feel like I'm
two different people."

In a way she was.  One woman who had lived two separate
lives.  "If you'd feel more comfortable, I don't mind
calling you Sarah."

She shook her head. "No.  I've spent the past couple of
years trying to find out who I really am.  Sarah Chandler is
a lie, even if it's a happy lie."

Tears surprised him, stinging his eyes.  "And were you
happy?"

She met his wary gaze.  "Yes, I was happy.  Mom and Dad--the
Chandlers--they were great, Fox.  They loved me and took
very good care of me.  I was so much luckier than I might
have been."

She really had no idea how true that statement was, he
thought, remembering his own bleak, painful youth in that
cold, angry house of cards.  He reached out and took her
hand again.  "I'm glad, Samantha.  I'm so glad."

She met his gaze.  "What about our parents, Fox?  Have 
you told them yet?"

He looked down at their twined fingers.  She had adored
their father as much as he'd seemed to love her.  He dreaded
having to tell her about his death.

"Fox?"

He met the question in her eyes.  "Samantha, Dad died three
years ago.  But Mom's still alive.  She's living in
Connecticut now.  I wanted to wait until you were awake
before I called her."

Tears pooled in Samantha's eyes.  "Daddy's dead?" 

He squeezed her hand, his own tears spilling.  "I'm sorry,
Samantha.  I know this must be hard for you."

"It's just--strange.  I know it's been years since I saw any
of you, and I've lived another life since then, but--"  She
lifted her other hand to her face, brushing away tears. 
"It's like I remember everything as if it were yesterday,
Fox.  It's like I'm still eight years old and we're still
fighting over what television show to watch.  And yet
here you are, a grown man.  I know you---but I don't 
know you at all."

He nodded, understanding even though her words felt like
a knife in his heart.  "It's felt like just yesterday for 
twenty-four years, Samantha.  But I look at you now..."

Her lower lip trembled.  "Poor Fox.  Were you expecting
me to be eight years old forever?"

"I guess so."  He couldn't help but remember the little
clones he'd seen in Canada, the girls with his sister's big
eyes and dair hair.  That had been what he'd expected
to find when he found his sister, hadn't?  Certainly not
this grown up woman.  "Doesn't matter now."

"Of course it matters."  She tugged his hand, making 
him look her in the eye.  "I'm sorry--I can't imagine how
it must have been for you, Mom and Dad."

He had so much to tell her--and so much of it bad.
It could wait until she was stronger.

Until he was stronger.


*  *  *  *  *

N.E. Georgetown Medical Center
8:25 a.m.


Scully stopped by Northeast Georgetown Medical Center as
soon as she got back to D.C.   She used her credentials to
get room information on Annelle  Hollis and Alan Pendrell. 
Pendrell's room was closer so she stopped there first. 

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed watching television
when she walked in.  His left eye was swollen almost shut,
the skin around it a deep shade of purple.  He looked
greatly relieved when Scully entered the room--until he
realized he was clad only in a hospital gown that probably
didn't close all the way in the back.  

She stifled a weary smile and pulled up a chair.  "Just
can't leave you alone for a minute, huh, Pendrell?"

His coloring was quickly escalating to bright pink.  "What
happened to you and Agent Mulder?  Did you find the Pinck
Warehouse?"

She nodded.  "Better than that.  We found Mulder's sister."

Pendrell's one good eye widened.  "You're kidding.  For real?"

"Yup."  She slumped in the chair, the last of her energy
seeping away.  

"I always assumed she was dead."

"So did I," Scully admitted.  "I wanted to believe she might
still be alive, but deep down I think I was convinced it
simply wasn't possible."

"And now you feel guilty."

She looked up at him, surprised by the understanding she saw
in his eyes.  "Yes, I suppose I do.  I feel like I failed
Mulder because I couldn't believe."

"Maybe it was enough that you wanted to."

She arched her eyebrows.  "That's what Mulder said."

"So listen to him."

Her lips curved in a little smile.  "I usually get just the
opposite advice." 

"You look beat, Dana.  You should be home in bed."

She slouched deeper into the chair.  She WAS beat.  She felt
like one big bruise.  "Trying to get rid of me?"

"No, of course not."  His smile was wry, self-deprecating.  

"Maybe I could nap right here in this comfy chair."  She
didn't think she was kidding.  The chair WAS comfortable,
and she was so tired.  Would it really hurt to take a quick
nap....

She remembered nothing else until she awoke sometime later.

"Welcome back to the world, Agent Scully."  Annelle Hollis'
low drawl greeted her as her eyes fluttered open.  Hollis
was sitting on the edge of Pendrell's bed, her bare feet
tucked up under her.  Pendrell, Scully noted, had changed
from the hospital gown to his street clothes, just as
Annelle apparently had.  Except for the nasty shiner
Pendrell sported, they both looked considerably fresher than
she felt.

She stretched, noting that the light pouring through the
window was no longer morning light.  She glanced at her bare
wrist and realized she'd lost her watch somewhere along the
way.  "What time is it?"

"About a quarter 'til noon."

Scully rubbed her eyes, trying to push away the lingering
effects of sleep.  "You should have awakened me."

"I was going to, but Alan wouldn't let me."  Annelle arched
her eyebrows slightly.  "The doctor came by while you were
sleeping--we're getting sprung.  All we have to do is wait
for the paper work.  Don't suppose we could bum a ride with
you, since Agent Mulder has my car and Alan's was stolen
last night?"

Scully stretched her aching muscles.  "Of course."  She
stood and crossed to the window, glancing through the
curtains at the street below.  The day was in full swing,
lunch time traffic thick.  The bright midday sunlight hurt
her eyes and she turned back toward Pendrell and Hollis,
reaching into her jacket for her cellular phone.  

It was out of service. 

She guessed the beating it had taken during the explosion
had finally taken its toll on the poor piece of plastic and
circuitry.  She'd been amazed it was still functioning when
Mulder gave it to her at the hospital the night before,
considering.  She pocketed the phone and crossed toward
Pendrell's bed.  "May I use your phone?"  

Pendrell waved toward the phone on the bedside cabinet. 
Scully dialled Mulder's cell phone number.  After three
rings, she was informed that the customer was unavailable. 
Maybe Samantha's room at University Hospital was situated in
a dead pocket.  

Using her phone card, she called Samantha's room directly. 
After several rings, she was transferred to the front desk. 
"I'm trying to reach Sama--um, Sarah Chandler in room 628."

After a pause the operator said, "Ms. Chandler checked out
of the hospital about thirty minutes ago, ma'am."

Scully's eyebrows rose.  Checked out?  Surprise quickly gave
way to anxiety.  Someone had tried to kill Samantha last
night--had someone tried again?  Taken her, left Mulder hurt
or...or worse?

She tried to calm herself, but she'd seen too much, lost too
much in the last few years.  She couldn't help but
contemplate the worst case scenario, because all too often
these days, the worst thing that could happen DID happen to
her and Mulder.

She hung up and dialled one more number.  "Eleanore, it's
Dana Scully.  Is he in?"

In a moment, she was greeted with a growl.  "Skinner."

"Sir, it's Scully.  Have you heard from Agent Mulder?"

"Just an hour ago.  He said he'd been trying to reach you
but your cell phone wasn't working.  He also tried your home
phone but your answering machine wasn't picking up--probably
got messed up when the place was being tossed."

"What did he say, sir?"

"He's taking his sister up to his mother's place in
Connecticut.  He asked for six weeks of personal leave."

"Six weeks?"  She sat on the edge of Pendrell's bed,
stunned.  

"It was a reasonable request under the circumstance, Agent
Scully."

But six weeks--without saying a word to her, without even
saying goodbye?  "Yes, sir," she murmured into the phone. 
"Thank you."  She replaced the receiver in its cradle, her
whole body going numb.

Six weeks.  

"What's wrong, Dana?"  Pendrell put his hand on her arm.

She moved away from him, realizing that she couldn't bear
his touch.  It was the wrong hand, the wrong man.  The right
man was on his way to Connecticut and the rest of his life,
leaving her behind with little thought and no warning.  She
took a deep breath and straightened her expression, drawing
on years of experience in hiding her emotions. 
"Nothing--just caught by surprise by something.  So, how
soon before your release comes through?"

With impeccable timing, two orderlies entered the hospital
room, pushing wheelchairs.  Pendrell groaned, and Annelle
rolled her eyes, but they were used to having to follow
rules, being employees of the federal government.  Scully
went on ahead of them to fetch the car and pick them up at
the front door of the hospital.

Having Pendrell and Hollis to deal with helped Scully defer
her thoughts of Mulder.  But as soon as she deposited them
at their respective apartments, her doubts and fears crept
in on her.  

And she found herself heading away from her apartment.

Her mother's eyebrows rose slightly as she opened the door
to Scully's knock.  "Dana, what is it?"

"I--"  She realized she didn't know what to say.  She
entered her mother's house silently, heading instinctively
for the kitchen table.  Her safe place.  

Margaret took a tea pot from the counter and poured tea for
both of them without a word.  She set a cup in front of
Scully and sat across from her.  "What's happened, Dana?"

"Samantha was released from the hospital."

"So soon?"

Scully nodded.  "Mulder took her to Greenwich to see their
mom."

Margaret smiled.  "Mrs. Mulder will be beside herself."

Scully nodded again, tears pricking her eyes.  I wanted to
see that, she realized.  I wanted to see Samantha reunited
with her mother.  

For six years, she'd had a tremendous stake in the fate of
Samantha Mulder.  She'd sacrificed so much to Mulder's
quest, sometimes willingly and sometimes not.  Sharing in
his happiness and that of his family should have been her
reward. 

Instead, she was being left behind.  Ditched again.

And damn it, it wasn't right.  It wasn't fair.

It hurt.

"What aren't you telling me, Dana?"  Her mother put her hand
over Scully's.

"He took six weeks personal leave."

Margaret's eyebrows twitched slightly.  "It's a good idea."

Scully nodded.  "Yes, I know."

"But?"

"But he didn't say good bye."  She looked away from her
mother, embarrassed by the admission.  She was a grown
woman, and God knew she'd put up with a lot worse from him
over the years.  Logically, she knew that Mulder was right
to take this time and reconnect with his family.

But a part of her also recognized that she was no longer the
most important person in his life.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she met her mother's
gentle gaze.  "Everything's changing for Mulder and me, Mom.
And I don't know how to make it stop."


*  *  *  *  *


Greenwich, CT
February 19, 1998
8:43 p.m.


Fox Mulder glanced at his watch.  Almost nine, and he still
hadn't been able to reach Scully.  In the whirlwind of
activity since this morning, he'd not had time to feel
frustrated, but now he'd been trying every number he had for
her since around 6 p.m. with no luck, and he was starting to
worry.  Did she even know he was gone?  Surely--he couldn't
imagine that she wouldn't have tried to reach him by now. 
Probably had talked to Skinner and found out that way.  But
he still wanted to talk to her.

He looked out the window at the darkness, realizing that the
last time he'd been here, Scully had been with him.  Had it
really been only a few days ago?  A lifetime had seemed to
pass in the interim.  

"Fox?"

He turned from the window to meet his sister's curious gaze.
"You and Mom catching up?"

"Yeah.  She's making hot chocolate--want some?"

Trying to recapture the old times, he thought.  "Sure."  He
reached out, intending to slip his arm around her shoulders,
but she pulled back.  He dropped his arm to his side
quickly.  "I'm sorry."

She shook her head, tears sparkling in her eyes.  "No, I'm
sorry, Fox.  I'm sorry--I just--it's all so strange."

"I know."  Nothing was turning out like he thought it would.
God--had he ever really expected to find her?  He was so
unprepared for the reality.  He didn't know what to say to
her, when or if to touch her.  The preliminary DNA tests had
relieved any doubts about her identity--she WAS Samantha
Mulder, not a clone, not an imposter.  He saw his mother in
her face, his father in her eyes.  He saw flashes of the
smart, irritating eight-year-old he'd lost so many years
ago.  But she was a full-grown woman now, a person apart
from him or his mother or their frozen memories. 

She was his sister, but she was a stranger.

"Did you get Dana?"  Samantha asked as they crossed the
living room toward the kitchen.

"No.  Her cell phone got banged up in the explosion, and her
answering machine at home isn't picking up."

"So she doesn't know we're gone?"

"I'm sure she's talked to Skinner by now, so she knows."  He
frowned slightly as he followed her into the kitchen. 
Surely Scully would understand why he'd needed to do this. 
She'd been there for him the other times he'd been close to
finding his sister--she knew his heart.  She'd understand.  

His cell phone rang as his mother handed him a mug of
steaming chocolate milk.  He set the mug on the table in
front of him and grabbed his phone.  "Scully?"

"Good guess."  Her voice, low and slightly dry, greeted him.

"Listen, I'm sorry for bugging out without getting in touch
with you."

"Not your fault--I'm phone-challenged at the moment," she
said.  "I've finally gotten my home phone working now, but
the cell phone is a total loss.  I've put in a request for a
new one from Communications.  So, you're at your mom's now?"

"Yeah.  Having hot chocolate."  He tried to chuckle, but
there was something in her voice that made him uneasy.  On
the surface, she sounded like herself, but there was a dark
undertone, a hint of unease in her words.  "Look, I know I
should have tried harder to get you--"

"Don't worry about it, Mulder.  You did what you had to do. 
I know that."

There WAS something wrong.  He could feel it vibrating
through the phone line.  "Scully--"

"I just wanted to call to make sure you got there safely,
that's all.  I don't want to keep you--I guess you and
Samantha and your mom have a bit of catching up to do."

"Yeah, we do."

"I'll see you when you get back."

"Scully, wait."  He glanced at his mother and sister,
conscious of their interest in the phone call.  He felt
trapped between them and Scully, wanting to do the right
thing for everyone but not sure how.  There were things he
should have said to Scully before now, things that shouldn't
wait another minute, but somehow he couldn't bring himself
to express the things he wanted to say to her in front of an
audience.  And he couldn't turn his back on his mother and
Samantha right now, not even for Scully.

It could wait.  It would have to wait.  "I'll call you
tomorrow and we'll talk more, okay?"

"I'm taking tomorrow off--Mom and I are going to drive to
Norfolk to visit some old friends this weekend.  I'll be
back in the office on Monday.  We can catch up then, okay?"

"Okay."  He was about to say something--anything--to prolong
the contact, but a soft click signalled that she'd already
hung up the phone.  Slowly he pocketed the cellphone and
turned to Samantha and his mother.  "Finally got Scully."

Samantha nodded and smiled, but his mother looked concerned.
She knew enough about him and Scully to know that something
was wrong.  

But she waited until Samantha pleaded weariness and went to
bed before she said anything to him.  "Was Dana upset that
you left without telling her?"

"No--she understood."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know."  He dropped onto the sofa, stretching his
legs out in front of him.  "I'm not sure--but something
isn't right."

"It's a strange time, Fox.  For all of us."  

He looked up at her, noted the lines of weariness creasing
her soft face.  Even happy occasions took a toll--and he and
his mother had been through too much in the past few years
to trust happiness.  It was too damned fleeting.

"I don't know what I was expecting.  What I thought she'd be
like.  After that other woman--"  His mother's eyes darkened
with pain.  "I'm still afraid to believe it's her."

"All the evidence indicates that she's Samantha, Mom. 
Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make sure we never
found her."

"Somebody?"

He couldn't say what he was thinking.  There was a part of
her past she refused to think about, and in truth, it was
something he didn't want to face, either.  So he sat in
silence, and she sat in silence, and time ticked inexorably
away as they both avoided the truth.

But he knew they were thinking of the same person, the same
lies.  


*  *  *  *  *


Norfolk, VA
February 20, 1996
12:34 p.m.


"So it's set--Saturday, August 28th, 2:00 p.m. in the
Seaman's Chapel in Portsmouth."  Lorna Youngs took another
sip of her marguerita.

Scully jotted the date and time in her pocket calendar. 
"Got it.  You're not going to make me wear pink or anything,
are you?"

Lorna chuckled.  "I'd die first, kiddo."

Scully laughed.  "Yeah, because I'd shoot you."

"Got it all figured out now?"  Benton Crane returned from a
quick trip to the men's room and took his seat between his
fiancee and Margaret Scully.

"Just about."  Lorna gave him a long-suffering look before
nudging Scully.  "He thinks we should just get married at
the justice of the peace and skip the ceremony.  Have you
ever heard anything so unromantic?"

Scully shrugged.  "I don't know--I can see wanting to skip
the rigamarole and getting down to the business of being
together for the rest of your lives."  A little twinge of
longing curled around her insides.  One day's separation,
and she was already missing Mulder like hell.  She didn't
want to think about what the next six weeks would be like.

"So," Benton said, leaning toward Scully, "you never
finished telling us what happened after you and Mulder found
his sister."

"That was about it."  Scully glanced at her mother, who met
her eyes with tender concern.  She sighed softly, wishing
she didn't feel like a fragile flower everyone was tiptoeing
around.  Skinner had been so solicitous it was scary--he'd
wanted her to take the next week off instead of just Friday.
And her mother was studiously avoiding the topic of Mulder,
despite the fact that she was obviously thrilled for his
good news.  

Scully was thrilled, too.  Ecstatic.  She'd watched him tear
himself apart for years, risking life, reputation, sanity
all for the fragile hope of finding his sister.  This was a
magnificent, unexpected reward for her loyalty--to be part
of finding Samantha, of bringing her back to her family, to 
her brother.  

If she also had to step back, take a secondary role in
Mulder's life as a result, then she'd have to learn how to
do that.  He'd never made promises to her.  She'd known from
the beginning where his priorities lay.  His tunnel vision
now came as no surprise.

Then again, it didn't have to be a surprise to hurt like
hell.

"So he and his sister are with their mom now?" Benton asked.

Scully nodded.  "He's taking six weeks' personal leave."

Lorna's eyebrows rose.  "That long?"

"Not so long a time when you consider he hasn't seen her in
almost a quarter of a century," Margaret defended.  

"I suppose."  Lorna looked pointedly at Scully.  "So, what
are you going to do now that Mulder's run off again?"

Scully picked at her salad with her fork, tamping down a
sense of irritation.  "Work goes on."  She speared a
mushroom.  "And he'll be back."

"Even now that he's found what he's looking for?"

"There are still questions we haven't answered."

"But whose questions are they?" Lorna pressed.  "Yours or
his?"

Scully put down her fork.  She met Lorna's direct gaze. 
"Both.  Finding Samantha wasn't his only goal, Lorna.  But
right now, he needs time to focus on her, and that's fine
with me.  When he gets back, we'll regroup and we'll go on
from there."

Lorna nodded as if she'd expected exactly that answer. 
"Okay, I'm convinced."

Scully stared at her for a moment, then released the roiling
tension inside and managed a grin.  "Smooth, Doone."

"Well, I figured you were too stubborn to listen to my
advice.  Maybe you'll listen to your own."
 
Scully realized that she DID feel better.  Mulder's decision
to take time off was no reflection on their relationship. 
He wasn't trying to get away from her--he was simply trying
to get to know a sister he hadn't seen since she was an
eight-year-old child. 

When he came back, things would be better. 


*  *  *  *  *


Seaman's Chapel 
Portsmouth, Virginia
August 28th, 1998
1:32 p.m.


Six months later, Scully was still having to tell herself
that things would get better.  Mulder's six weeks of
personal leave had passed with agonizing slowness. He had
called almost every day, but their conversations were brief
and often cryptic, as if Samantha or his mother were
listening in the background.  The few times they'd talked
freely, the conversation was almost always about Samantha
and the difficulties he was having in reconnecting with her. 
Samantha had spent over twenty years as another person, and
her internal schism was taking a toll on her.  

Mulder was at a loss to deal with her mood swings--some days
she was free and affectionate; other times she was guarded
and stand-offish. He was terrified of saying the wrong
words, doing something to drive her away from him and his
mother.  He'd been a basketcase when Samantha had flown to
Charleston alone to see her adoptive parents.  He'd called 
Scully twice, sometimes three times a day--mostly for 
reassurance, she supposed.  His mother seemed to be sharing 
his angst, and the pressure of being strong for Caroline
while dealing with his own fears and doubts was hard on him. 
More than once Scully had considered catching the next
flight to Connecticut to hold his hand.

But she couldn't spend the rest of her life mothering him. 
That was a decision she'd come to during their six week
separation.  She would listen and sympathize and advise, but
the only person who could fix Mulder was Mulder.  He had to
face his demons alone.  And she had to have enough faith in
him to believe he could do it.  After all, he was almost
back to normal on the work front.  He had actually started
making intuitive leaps again, spouting those wild theories
that drove her crazy.  And it wasn't like they'd ever spent
all that much of their off time together, anyway.  

They'd been hearing rumblings about changes in the Bureau
infrastructure--it was doubtful anyone would try to tinker
with their division, but Skinner was on edge and making life
miserable for everyone, particularly poor Mulder.  Under the
circumstances, it was  no wonder Mulder was preoccupied and
stressed out emotionally.  She couldn't expect to be the
center of his attention right now. 

But secretly, she was heartened by the fact that he had
agreed to accompany her to Lorna and Benton's wedding that
weekend, even though Samantha was moving to Cambridge, 
Massachusetts, that same weekend.  In fine Mulder fashion,
he was doing it the hard way--he'd flown to Boston Friday
night to meet Samantha and some of her friends to get the
moving process started, but he was catching an 11:00 a.m.
flight to Norfolk and should be in Portsmouth in plenty of
time for the wedding.   She harbored a quiet hope that they
might finally be getting back to where they'd been just a
few months ago, when the possibilities between them had
seemed endless.   

She had resisted the temptation to call him, trusting him to
remember all by himself.  With a photographic memory, it
should be a piece of cake.

She kept telling herself that all the way through the
processional.  His plane was simply late.  He'd had trouble
renting a car at the airport.  Traffic between Norfolk and
Portsmouth must be snarled.

But by the time Lorna and Benton were declared man and wife,
she recognized the truth.

Mulder had ditched her again.


*  *  *  *  *


Cambridge, MA
August 29, 1998
11:53 a.m.


The apartment was too small for a moving crew of seven
adults, but Samantha had the soul of a drill sergeant and
kept things moving.  They were making incredible time by
Mulder's watch--they'd been working for only a couple of
hours and already the moving van was empty and Samantha had
gotten a good start on unpacking boxes.  

The change in his sister over the past six months was
astonishing.  When he'd seen her outside that Baltimore
warehouse, she'd been thin, pale and exhausted.  But this
Samantha sparkled like a jewel, her ready smile and
infectious laughter drawing people to her like flies to
honey.  She'd had no trouble finding people to help her
move.

Her Yale roommate, Anne Milliken, had made the trip to
Boston to help Samantha move, bringing along her boyfriend
Larry for extra muscle.  Mulder had called Eve Wentworth
once he'd arrived in Boston, and she'd offered herself and
her new husband David as extra sets of hands.

And then there was Preston Powell.  A couple of months
earlier, Samantha had hooked up with her old high school pal
Preston, and now they looked to be quite an item.  Preston
was a couple of years older than Samantha, a tall, lean
green-eyed Boston tax lawyer who came from a wealthy
Charleston family.  Five years in Massachusetts hadn't done
much to temper his coastal Carolina drawl, and he exuded
easy Southern charm.  He was the kind of man any mother
would want her daughter to marry. 

Mulder hated him.

"Stop glaring, Fox."  Eve Wentworth poked him in his ribs
and handed him a glass of water. 

"Glaring?  Me?"

"Preston seems like a really nice guy.  Dishy, too, and rich
as Croesus."  She tugged the sleeve of Mulder's t-shirt and
pulled him over to the window, away from prying ears. 
"You're trying too hard, you know."

He arched one eyebrow.  "Trying too hard to do what?"

"To be a brother.  You think there's some kind of criterion
you have to meet or you'll get thrown out of the Big
Brothers' Club.  It doesn't work that way.  You need to
relax, stop trying so damned hard to be indispensible to
her."

He chuckled, but he wasn't amused.  "Indispensible?  Hah.
Invisible is more like it."

Eve arched her eyebrows.  "What do you expect her to do? 
Make you the center of her universe?  You're just her
brother.  You'll be lucky if she remembers your birthday
every year."

"I just thought--"  He frowned, not sure WHAT he had thought
would happen once he found her.  He only knew that this
wasn't it.  He hadn't thought he would end up barely
peripheral to her life.

"You thought she'd need you more, didn't you?"

He met Eve's astute gaze.  "Yeah."  He leaned against the
window frame.  "I was her champion for years, Eve--everybody
else gave up, but I didn't.  I believed.  And now, I feel
like--"  He shook his head.  "I feel superfluous." 

"Are you disappointed in her?"

"God no!"  He made a small gesture toward the corner, where
Samantha was directing Preston and David as they set up a
bookcase near the hallway.  "She's beautiful and smart and a
lot more together than I'll ever be.  She's great--she's
perfect.  The Chandlers were obviously wonderful to her. 
God knows she had a better life than I'd ever hoped."

"So what's the problem?"

"I guess I always expected that when I found her, she'd be
broken and I'd have to fix her."

"And now you find out that you're the one who was broken all
along."  Eve nibbled her lower lip, her eyes dark with
sympathy.  

Mulder passed his hand over his jaw.  He'd forgotten his
razor--he'd have to borrow his sister's before he went to
the airport.  "While I was dedicating my life to finding
her, she was out living her own life.  And she was just
fine.  I wonder why she even wanted to know the truth about
who she really was.  Sarah Chandler had a better life than
Samantha Mulder ever would have."

"I think it says something that she's decided to go by
Samantha Mulder after all those years as Sarah." Eve
squeezed his arm.  "And even if you can't see it, I can see
that she thinks you're great."

"She remembers a twelve-year-old boy, Eve.  Samantha doesn't
even know who I am."

"At least she cares enough to find out who you really are." 

"I think I make her nervous."

"You probably scare her, Fox.  You had twenty-four years to
make her the focus of your life, and now you seem to expect
her to focus her life on you in exchange."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?"  

"I'm glad that she's happy and whole, Eve.  I had terrible
nightmares about what she might be like when I finally found
her."  Unbidden, the image of a sullen young drug addict
entered his mind.  Poor Lucy Householder, broken beyond
repair by what Carl Wade had done to her--isn't that what
he'd expected to find when he finally found his sister?  "It
could have been so much worse."

Eve nodded, sympathetic.  "So why can't you be happy?"

"I am happy."

"Wrong.  You're miserable.  Why?"

He slumped against the window frame.  "I can't get it right,
Eve."  

"Get what right?"

"Any of it.  I can't get anything right.  I don't know how
to handle Samantha or Mom or...."

"Or Scully?"  Eve held up her left hand.  A diamond
solitaire and wedding set sparkled on her ring finger.  "I
seem to recall a little pact we made, remember?  I kept my
end of the deal, but you, my dear, are conspicuously
unattached."

"Things happened."

"Samantha happened, you mean."

He frowned at her.  "Do you think this is easy for me?  I'm
trying to do the right thing for everyone.  My mother is
having trouble adjusting to everything, Samantha doesn't
seem to know how to deal with me, and Scully--"  He sighed,
raking his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. 
"Scully's a rock, Eve, but she's different now."

"Different how?"

"There's...space...between us."

"Who put it there?"

"I suppose I did, but when I try to approach her, she steps
back.  She's keeping the distance there."

"Maybe because you've let her believe that's what you need."
Eve glanced over her shoulder to where her husband and Anne
were unpacking a box.  "When I flew to Boston to accept
David's proposal, he thought I was joking.  I had to work
hard to convince him I was serious.  And even then, he tells
me, he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I think he
really believed that we'd get to Vegas and, as Elvis was
asking me to recite the vows, I'd say, "Oops, sorry--just
kidding.'"

Mulder chuckled at the mental image of his friend, her
husband and an Elvis impersonator in a gaudy Las Vegas
wedding chapel.  "And your point is?"

"My point is, no doubt your Scully's been through hell
because of you more than once, and maybe, just maybe, she's
tired of being the one who always bends over backwards to
make things work."

"God, I'm glad you're my FRIEND, Eve," he said with a wry
half-smile.

"I love you, Fox, but I'm not blind to your faults."  She
grinned at him.  

"The weird thing is, Scully and Samantha are really
close, and they never even see each other.  And here I am,
juggling my time between the two of them, and all I seem to
be able to do is alienate them both."  He sighed deeply. 
"You want to hear something really horrible?  I haven't 
invited Scully along on a single one of my visits to
Samantha, even though I know she'd probably like to come
along.  Know why?"

Eve frowned as if she had a pretty good suspicion.  "Why?"

"Because I'm afraid they'd ignore me.  They'd go off
together and leave me out in the cold, because I'm a stupid
shit who can't figure out how to please either one of them."

He turned toward the window, squinting at the bright
sunlight.  "Isn't that lovely?" 

"Yup, just lovely."  Eve sighed.  "Well, at least you're 
making a step in the right direction, going to this wedding 
with Scully.  What time does your plane leave this 
afternoon?"

"It's this morning at eleven-fifteen."

"Oh, Fox, don't even joke about that."

He frowned.  "I'm not."  

Eve's eyes widened and her mouth formed an "O." 

"What?"  He glanced at his watch--9:28 a.m. Plenty of 
time, though he should probably hop in the shower
in a minute.

Then he realized that the last time he'd looked at his
watch, it had been 9:28.  A good twenty minutes ago, at
least.

The second hand wasn't moving.

"Oh, shit."

"Honey, it's almost noon--you've missed your flight."

"Shit, shit, shit!" he growled, stripping off his t-shirt as
he darted for the bathroom.  "Eve," he called over his
shoulder, "please see if there's a flight out of Logan in
the next hour?"

He showered in record time, changing into the suit he'd
brought to wear to the wedding.  He didn't have a hope of
making it to the wedding now, but maybe he could get there
in time for the reception.

Eve and David drove him to the airport and dropped him off. 
The later flight to Norfolk would take just over an hour,
assuming everything went well.  He could be in Portsmouth by
three.  

He was the last person to board the plane, and he made it by
seconds.  He dropped into his seat and buckled in, ignoring
the stares of his fellow passengers, concentrating instead
on what hell he was going to say to Scully when he got
there.


*  *  *  *  *

Seaman's Reception Hall
Portsmouth, VA
3:05 p.m.

The new Mrs. Benton Crane kicked off her cream-colored pumps
and sat down next to Scully at one of the round tables
scattered across the reception hall.  Her new husband was in
the corner, talking to Scully's mother and a couple of other
women Scully recognized as Navy wives.  Lorna glanced toward
Benton, her heart shining in her eyes, then turned back to
Scully.  "So, the bastard didn't show."

"Nope."  Scully toyed with the swizzle stick in the club
soda and lime she was nursing.  "His flight made it to 
Norfolk with no problem, but he wasn't on it."

"What I can't figure out is why you're not hopping mad about
it."

"What would be the point?"  

"You'd feel better."

"No, I wouldn't.  I'd just feel mad, and I don't really have
a right to feel mad at Mulder."

"Bullshit."

"Lorna, I know how he is.  I'd known him for only two days
when he first told me that finding out what happened to his
sister was all that mattered to him.  I made the choice to
join him in that quest with my eyes wide open.  He never
lied to me.  He never misled me.  If I got hurt, it's
because I set myself up for it.  It's not his fault."

"I think you're making excuses for him.  He owes you more
than this."

"I don't want to be an obligation to him, Lorna."  Scully
took a sip of soda.  The carbonation bubbles sparkled in her
throat.  

"So what are you going to do now?  Ask for a transfer?"

Scully frowned.  "No, of course not."

"You can work with him after this?"

"Lorna, haven't you been listening to me?"  Scully put down
the drink.  "Nothing has changed.  Mulder is still my
partner and my friend.  I know I can trust him to cover my
back.  If I really need him, he'll be there."
  
"But?"

"But that's it.  That's all I can expect from him.  It's
been enough up to this point, and it'll be enough from here
on."

"So you're telling me you're not in love with him."

Scully lifted her chin and met Lorna's gaze.  "I'm not in
love with him."  

"You are such a liar."

Scully pressed her lips together, annoyed.  "I'm not saying
I haven't thought about being in love with him.  But it was
a risky idea to begin with, and everything that's happened
over the past few months just proves that Mulder and I are
meant to be friends, not lovers."

"They're not mutually exclusive, you know."

Scully sighed, exasperated.  "You're the one who thinks he's
a bastard--why are you trying to convince me I'm madly in
love with him?"

"I just want to make sure you're not kidding yourself."

"My eyes are wide open, Lorna.  I'm a big girl, and I know
what I'm doing."  She took another drink of soda, sucking an
sliver of ice into her mouth.  She crunched the ice,
repeating her last statement silently to herself.  I know
what I'm doing.

Lorna's gaze shifted, her eyes narrowing.  "Good thing,
because here comes trouble."  

Scully turned in her chair, following Lorna's gaze toward
the doorway of the reception hall.  Her stomach flipped and
sank.

Mulder had finally arrived.


*  *  *  *  *


The reception hall bore the tell-tale signs of a party that
was almost over--half-empty cups of punch, champagne flutes 
and napkins crumpled on plates adorned half the small round
tables that filled the room, while the crowd dispersed into
conversational clusters along the periphery.

Scully and Lorna were at a table across the reception hall,
both seated and looking his way.  Heat flushed his neck and
face as he crossed the room toward them.  He steeled himself
with every step, knowing that Scully was going to be angry. 
He was in for one of two things, depending on her mood--a
subtle but deadly tongue-lashing or a far more worrisome
deep freeze.  He was hoping for the tongue-lashing.

He got neither.  She merely arched one eyebrow at him.

Her friend Lorna didn't let the moment pass, however. 
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Punctuality."

"I suppose this isn't a good time to ask to kiss the bride?"

Lorna chuckled, but her eyes were dark with irritation.  She
shifted in her chair, sliding her feet into a pair of satin
pumps, and rose.  "I wouldn't depend on catching the garter,
either, big guy."  She glanced at Scully as if to make sure
that she didn't mind being left alone with him, then crossed
the room to where Benton was talking to Margaret Scully and
a couple of older women.

Mulder sat in the chair that Lorna vacated.  "I'm really
sorry."

"Forgot the time?"  

He frowned slightly, not sure if she was angry or not. 
Frankly, he'd prefer outright anger; at least he could deal
with that.  This seeming indifference, however, made his
stomach hurt.  "Not exactly.  Watch stopped."

She nodded.  "I'm guessing 'Lucky' has never been your
nickname."

"Not in the past few years.  I'm really sorry."

She looked him over with the critical eye of a scientist. 
"Actually, I'm kinda glad you didn't make it for the
wedding.  You look like crap."

He ran his hand over his stubbled jaw.  He hadn't had time
to borrow that razor.  "I knew I should've worn the nose
ring--it's just not the complete look without it."  He
glanced at her, noting the glow of her pale skin against
the glossy sapphire silk of her attendant's gown.  Her small
gold cross glimmered, drawing his eyes to the soft swell of
her breasts.  He so seldom got to see her like this, her
hair pulled up and framing her face in soft tendrils, her
slender body for once not camouflaged by over-sized jackets
hiding a bulky gun and holster.  He kicked himself for not
keeping better track of the time.

"You should've just called when you missed the flight,
Mulder.  No need to fly all the way here just to apologize."
She took a sip from her cup, taking a small piece of ice
into her mouth.  She pursed her lips slightly,  sucking on
the ice.  Unexpectedly, heat raced over his body, turning
his skin to fire and his bones to jelly. 

He mentally flailed around for a reply.  "I figured it was
the least I owed you--"

Wrong answer, he realized immediately, as her blue eyes
narrowed, her look of irritation dousing his earlier heat. 
"All you owe me is trust and loyalty, Mulder--not breakneck
flights to Virginia to get in on the end of a wedding
reception."

Her words prodded him in his sore spot.  "What are you
trying to suggest, Scully--that my priorities are screwed
up?"  

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

She sighed.  "You're trying too hard, Mulder.  You have this
pathological need to take responsibility for the happiness
of the people you love, but all you're doing is making
yourself and everyone else crazy."

"I can't just ignore Samantha and Mom."

Scully put her hand on his arm, leaning in.  She pinned him
with her gaze.  "I've never asked you to."

He stared at her, understanding dawning.  She was right--
she'd never asked him to put her first.  He felt torn
between Scully and his family because he'd put himself in
that position.  He was the one who'd begun to make Scully
the focus of his life in the first place.  Primacy was
something she obviously neither needed nor wanted.  She
probably never had.  

With a rush of pain, he realized it was time to let go. 

He leaned back in his chair, overwhelmed by the realization
that he was closing a door in his life that had once held so
much promise.  Something inside him writhed in anguish. 
Could he really go back to how it was before--friends and
partners but nothing more?  

But it never WAS like that before, he recognized with 
dawning surprise. Even from the very beginning, there 
had always been the tantalizing possibility of something 
more between them.  The moment he'd turned around in his 
office to see her there, not just a photograph in a personnel 
file but a living, breathing woman with intelligent eyes and a 
quirky half-smile, he'd realized that his plan to hate her and
drive her away wasn't going to be as easy as he thought.

He knew now that hating her was impossible.  Driving her
away was unthinkable.  If he was destined to forever and
only be her friend, he'd be the best friend she ever had. 
And it would be enough.  It had to be enough.  Because he 
couldn't bear to lose her. And if he continued to cling to this 
crazy hope for something more between them, he'd drive her 
away.  Hell, it was already happening. 

Scully let go of his arm and sat back.  "How's the moving
going?" 

He swallowed the lump in his throat.  "Much more quickly
than I thought it would."

"Guess you don't need an extra hand?"

"No." He shook his head quickly, before temptation had 
time to take root, and pasted on a smart-ass grin.  "You're 
a bit overdressed."

"You need a ride back to the airport?"

"I'll call a cab."

"I don't mind."

"I've already been enough trouble for one day, Scully.  I'll
just go say hi to your mom and go.  I'll see you in the
office on Monday?"

"Friday, Mulder--remember?  My brother's ship is docking
tomorrow, and Mom and I are staying in Norfolk through
Thursday."

"Yeah, right."  Mulder squelched a sigh.  God, when had they
gotten so out of sync with each other?  He remembered a time
when they could practically finish each other's thoughts, 
and now he couldn't even remember something as simple and
rare as Scully's vacation days.

He couldn't understand why he should feel such a sense of
isolation now that he'd made this decision about their
relationship.  Scully wasn't going anywhere, after all.  She was 
still his best friend, his right hand, the one who covered his
ass 
and bound his wounds.  She didn't have to be his lover to be his
other half.  Nothing really had to change.  It would all work
out.

Come next Friday, he promised himself,  everything would 
be back to normal. 


*  *  *  *  *


FBI Headquarters
Sept. 1, 1998
7:36 a.m.


Scully beat Mulder to the office the next Friday, determined
to get a head start on the rest of her life.  During her
week off, she'd had time to grow accustomed to her decision
about Mulder.  What was really going to change, after all? 
They weren't lovers.  He didn't owe her anything but the
loyalty, trust and friendship that went along with being
partners and friends, and she knew she had that without
reservation.  It would be okay.  It would be like it used to
be, only without the torment of wondering what to do 
about each other.

It would probably be even better than before, she assured
herself.  She stirred creamer in her coffee and carried the
mug to her desk, beginning to sort through the paper work
Mulder had left on her desk for her signature.  He'd been a
busy boy, she realized with a slight smile, noting that he'd
taken better than usual care with the forms.  No coffee cup
rings, no grease spots, no sunflower seed shells trapped
between the pages.  

She was actually in reasonably good spirits by the time he
came in around eight.  "Nice job with the paper work,
Mulder.  Have you been dipping into the secretarial pool
again?"

He made a face and sat behind his slightly cluttered desk,
grabbing the letter opener lying on the blotter.  He fiddled
with it, leaning back in his chair.  "So, did you bring
pictures?"

She arched her eyebrows.  "Pictures?"

"Of your brother.  And you.  At the same time.  With a
newspaper showing this week's date."

She sighed, biting back a chuckle.  How ridiculous that the
man who believed extraterrestrials were walking the planet
had such trouble believing that she actually had two
brothers.  "Sorry--I'll handle that the next time Charlie or
Bill is in port."

"Sure you will."  He actually flashed a grin. 

This could work, she thought, managing a bit of a smile
herself.  Things between her and Mulder were already looser
today than they'd been in weeks.  Months, even.  "Any new
cases come across your desk while I was gone?"

"Nothing interesting.  I helped Fuller in VCS with a couple
of things."

"Bet he loved that."

Mulder chuckled.  "You KNOW I'm his favorite pers--"  
The phone trilled, interrupting him.  He grabbed it.  "Mulder."  
He listened for a moment, his brow furrowing.  "Okay, we'll 
be right there."

"What is it?"  Scully rose and met him halfway to the door.

"Skinner wants to see us."

"What have we done now?"

"I don't know, but Eleanore said not to dawdle."

Scully glanced at him.  "Not to dawdle?"

"She sounded kind of tense."

Eleanore, tense?  Skinner's newest assistant was one of the
most friendly, easy-going people Scully had ever known. 
Unlike her predecessors, Eleanore killed with kindness,
using her motherly charm to keep even the most determined
agent from storming Skinner's office uninvited.  Mulder was
putty in her hands, and Eleanore knew it.  She also had a
soft spot for the quirky agent, which had earned her a soft
spot with Scully.

Skinner's office was on the fourth floor.  By habit, Scully
sniffed the air as Eleanore ushered them through the door. 
No smoke, but what she found inside the office was
disturbing enough.  Skinner was not alone at the narrow
table by the wall.  FBI Director Thomas Shea sat at the end
of the table, rising as they entered.  He held out his hand
to Scully politely, but his expression was cool and distant.

She shook his hand and stepped aside to allow Mulder to do
the same. 

"Please have a seat, Agent Scully, Agent Mulder."  Skinner
waved toward two chairs sitting side by side at the table. 
Scully did as he asked, shooting a glance at Mulder.  His
hazel eyes met hers, full of questions.

Thomas Shea stood at the end of the table, bending forward
to plant his hands against the smooth wood.  He was a tall,
trim man in his mid-fifties, his dark hair thick and turning
silver at the temples.  He had the reputation as a hard-
assed G-Man's G-Man; it was well-known that he had no great
love for Mulder's X-Files project, although Scully had no
proof that he was allied with Carter Christopher's
consortium in any way.  

Shea cleared his throat briefly before he spoke.  "Agent
Scully, Agent Mulder, I asked Assistant Director Skinner to
bring you here this morning in order to inform you of a
change taking place in the organizational structure of the
Bureau that will directly affect the two of you."

Scully's stomach tightened painfully.  She glanced at Mulder
again and saw his jaw set like stone.  Oh, God, she thought,
surely not--

"You're shutting us down, aren't you?"  Mulder spoke through
gritted teeth, directing his question not at Director Shea
but at Walter Skinner.

Skinner's lips pressed into a thin line.  Scully read the
answer in his dark eyes.

"May I ask why?" Scully turned to Director Shea.  

"The congressional subcommittee who oversees the Bureau has
deemed that unnecessary projects be cut before September
15th.  The X-Files, unfortunately for you and Agent Scully,
fell beneath the hatchet.  We're reassigning you to new
areas."

"Areas," Mulder repeated, his voice taut.  "Separate areas,
you mean?"

"Your respective specialties are not particularly
compatible, Agent Mulder.  Agent Scully is considered one of
the Bureau's brightest forensic pathologists, and her
expertise is greatly needed at the FBI Academy in Quantico."

No, Scully thought, her heart sinking.  Not back to the
Academy.  Not miles away from Mulder again....

"What about me?"  Mulder turned to look at Skinner.  "More
wiretapping duty, I suppose?"

Skinner shook his head.  "No, Agent Mulder, your work in the
field is too valuable to waste.  You're being assigned to
the Boston field office."

Mulder's breath escaped in a little whoosh, and Scully bit
her lip.  Boston?  It was worse than she had thought. 
Boston was hours away.  A lifetime away.

The Bureau was taking him away from her again.

She felt Mulder's eyes on her.  She lifted her gaze, girding
herself against the burgeoning pain.  Mulder's hazel eyes
darkened.  He dropped his gaze, a tiny muscle working
frantically in his jaw.  He parted his lips and spoke one
terse syllable. "When?"

"You're to report to Agent Parmeter, the Boston SAC, Monday
morning."

"This Monday?" Scully asked, incredulous.

"The Bureau will, of course, aid you in any way necessary to
expedite the move."  Director Shea's voice was meant to be
soothing, but it was all over Scully's nerves.  

She darted him an angry look, secretly pleased to see the
little spark of surprise that crossed his face when he read
her expression.  She lifted her chin and addressed him
directly.  "I'm to report to Quantico at the same time?"

"Yes.  Report to Covington."

Scully nodded, remembering Jeff Covington, the Academy
Director, from her previous stint at Quantico.  She schooled
her features, holding back the rage and hurt that was
roiling inside her.  Argument now would be pointless--Shea
would never have broken the news himself if there was any
hope of reprieve.  

It was over.

"We'd like for you to clear out your offices today.  We have
plans for the basement space."  Shea took a step back and
folded his arms over his chest, effectively dismissing them.

Scully moved first, pushing herself to her feet.  She
glanced down at Mulder.  He was unmoving, staring at the
opposite wall, where a closed door marked the entrance to an
anteroom.

Wondering if the Cancerman is behind this, she thought.  She
didn't have to wonder.  This little maneuver had his
nicotine-stained fingerprints all over it.


*  *  *  *  *


46th Street
New York City
8:45 a.m.

Nine men sat around the room, reading newspapers, wire
reports, surveillance reports.  Awaiting word from their
associate in Washington.  

The phone rang and Anthony, the major-domo, answered.  He
murmured assent and handed the phone to Carter Christopher. 
"Is it done?"

The low, musical voice on the other end of the line spoke
with cock-sure arrogance.  "Of course."

Carter hung up the phone and turned to his associates.  "It
is as you wish."

The others looked pleased.  

Carter was pleased himself.  But his reasoning was a bit
different than that of his colleagues.  He had his own
agenda for their separation, with hoped-for results that
would no doubt surprise every other man at this table.

He had learned a valuable lesson a long time earlier.  Hate
was a tool for the ignorant.  Love was a tool for the wise.


*  *  *  *  *


FBI Headquarters
8:57 a.m.


Mulder didn't know what to say to Scully as they slowly
walked toward the elevators at the end of the hall.  
Should he hold out hope?  After all, they'd been 
separated before, and they'd found ways to work together
then.

But he hadn't been 400 miles away that time.

So he remained silent.  She remained silent.  They walked,
silent but together, into the elevator.

The doors swished shut behind them.  He pushed the button
for the basement and turned to face her.  He sought for the
right words to say, but words seemed inadequate to bridge 
the inexorably widening expanse of time and space
separating them.   

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with goodbye.  He 
realized that there was nothing else to be said.  He looked
away, staring at the lighted panel marking their level by
level descent to the basement.

Slowly, in final silent concert, they retreated to opposite 
sides of the elevator.



THE END