Jubilee: The Collector's Edition
by Sarah Kiley
<kileyw@frontiernet.net>


jubilee: (n). 1. a. A special anniversary; especially, a 25th, 50th, 
60th or 75th anniversary. b. The celebration of such an 
anniversary.         

Chapter One: I Can Tell By the Way You're Walking

I can tell by the way you're walking, you don't want company.
I'll let you alone, and I'll let you walk on and in your own good 
time you'll be
Back where the sun can find you, under the wise wishing tree,
And with all of them made, we'll lie under the shade and call it 
a jubilee.

-Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Jubilee"

     Scully was taking her lunch alone.
     She and Mulder had finished up the rest of the 
paperwork on the Thomas case that they had closed a week 
ago, and under any other circumstances, they would be hitting 
their favorite lunch stop together, or if not having lunch than 
making plans to go to dinner. It was a bit of a ritual they had 
always upheld when they finished a horde of paperwork. After 
the paperwork from their last case had been finished, they had 
gone out to a very expensive restaurant in celebration. It had 
been one of their more strenuous cases, so they had decided to 
go all out, even dressing up for the occasion. 
     It wasn't that the Thomas case hadn't been 
particularly difficult. It had been. It had been extremely 
difficult. Mulder had been in one of his moods, where he 
seemed aloof from everyone and everything, even her. She 
recognized it as one of those times, and had expected it to lift 
once they were off the case, or back in D.C. doing the 
paperwork. It hadn't. 
     Henry Thomas, age fifty-seven, was a lonely bachelor. 
He had always lived alone, and was quite happy being alone, if 
asked. But underneath it all, he had desperately wished for 
someone. Mulder had been called in when the first woman 
disappeared. Thomas kidnapped the women for a few days, and 
they were later found wandering the streets. When asked what 
had happened, they spoke of not blaming their captor. Because 
of his psychological background, the West Virginia field office 
had requested Mulder come, do a profile on the suspect, and 
then a profile on the women. 
     Eventually, one of the women had spilled Thomas's 
name to the police. He was being charged with kidnapping, but 
he had only kept the women locked in his basement. He had 
fed them, taken good care of them, but he hadn't hurt them. 
Some of the women hadn't even wanted to press charges. 
     Scully had hoped his spirits would lift once they 
finished the case, that he would be back to his somewhat 
normal demeanor. But he had remained cold and distant, and it 
bothered her. She had been thinking about confronting him, but 
every time she had tried, he dodged her question or changed 
the subject. He knew what was bothering him, it was up to him 
to decide what he was going to do about it, and when he was 
going to do it. Scully had learned this a long time ago, that 
Mulder usually worked things out for himself. But it didn't 
make it any easier to wait. And she was getting tired of it 
herself. She wanted him to be over whatever he was feeling, she 
wanted things back to normal. He hadn't even been joking in 
the office, his statements few and far. The silence in their office 
the past few days was nerve-wracking. She couldn't wait for 
another case. She found herself wishing someone would see a 
light in the sky that could lift Mulder's hopes, get him excited 
and pull him out of the dark mood he was in. It was almost like 
a cloud followed him around, gray and ominous. 
     He hadn't even acknowledged her request that he join 
her for lunch. Merely nodding his head and mumbling 
something about "a few more forms" and "you go ahead". 
     So here she was, sitting at an outdoor cafe by herself. 
She hated eating alone. If it wasn't the waiters giving you pitiful 
looks, it was men pulling up and coming onto her.
     And Scully had no time for a relationship. Her life was 
already full of one angst-filled, moody and infuriating man. She 
didn't need another.
     Even if the one sitting two tables down *was* a little 
good-looking. She glanced down at her chicken salad, and 
sighed, taking a bite. The sky overhead was gray, and overcast, 
as it had been all day. It was in the high fifties, but it was windy, 
and she shivered. Normally she would have eaten inside with 
Mulder, ordering a big lunch that she would never be able to 
eat, but would be glad to share with her partner, who ate 
anything and everything. But this isn't a normal lunch, is it? she 
thought glumly.
     She wished Mulder would confide in her and tell her 
what was wrong. Usually it was a case of self-pity, guilt, or 
some other emotion he shouldn't feel, but inexplicably did. 
And under normal circumstances, she could identify the 
problem, and if he didn't pull out of it himself, she could jostle 
him out of the mood. 
     She finished her salad, still contemplating how she 
was going to help him, when she glanced up and saw a familiar 
form trudging down the street. Mulder's long black trenchcoat 
swirled around him, propelled by the high winds coming from 
the east. His dark hair blew in his eyes, but he didn't bother to 
push it back, didn't seem to care. He moved by people 
unnoticed, and he didn't seem to notice anyone else, too 
preoccupied in his thoughts, whatever they may be. Her throat 
clenched. He looked so lonely, so out of touch with the world. 
She took a deep breath and stood, depositing the remains of her 
lunch in a nearby garbage can. Cautiously, she began to follow 
him. He moved down the street at an almost breakneck pace, 
although there was no purpose to his stride. He was hurrying 
towards nowhere. 
     Scully paused when he turned the corner. If he was in 
one of his moods, he usually went to the Reflecting Pool. It was 
one of his favorite places, she knew. She always found him 
there when he pulled a disappearing act.
     Well, if he wasn't half-dead by the time she found 
him.
     She followed him down several streets, until she saw 
him enter two black gates that lead to the zoo. From a distance, 
she watched him pause to speak with one of the guards, before 
he slipped inside.
     She glanced at the dark sky above. It was going to rain, 
soon. Maybe even snow if the temperature continued to 
plummet towards the inevitable zero degrees Celsius. 
     She paid the fee, and was about to go after Mulder 
when one of the guards touched her arm. She turned and 
recognized him as the one Mulder had been speaking with only 
a few moments ago. "Your friend said that he'll be  in the bird 
house," he said gruffly.
     She nodded her  thanks and moved past the tall guard 
and into the zoo. She hurried past him, trying to remember 
from her trips to the zoo with her godson where the bird house 
was. 

     Mulder stood alone in the bird house of the zoo. It was 
a Tuesday and it looked like a storm was descending over the 
city, leaving the entire zoo virtually free of any other souls. The 
ceiling of the house was domed, and a large array of wildlife 
bloomed in the center. The entire room was encased in glass, 
and a barbed wire walkway circled the house to keep angry 
birds from attacking small children. The birds shrieked and 
cried and called to one another, almost drowning out the slow 
and purposeful footsteps of Dana Scully as she approached.
     He turned to look at her, his eyes weary, his shoulders 
sagging. She paused at this frontal confrontation, her heart 
clenching. Every time he did that she wanted to just go to him 
and hug him until he felt better, until they both felt better. 
Something told her that Mulder hadn't had a lot of hugs in his 
life, even when he was little. Part of it had to do with Samantha, 
she thought. The event had had its psychological effect on him, 
permanently scarring him, she suspected. He would never be a 
whole person without his little sister, she had learned this and 
she had learned to accept it. Some part of him would always be 
missing without her. She knew that his parents had divorced 
shortly after Samantha's disappearance. She knew of the choice 
his father had made, and how Bill Mulder had resented his son 
for the rest of his life. It made Scully wonder if the people who 
had abducted Samantha had actually taken the wrong child, or 
if Mulder's father had simply needed a scapegoat for his own 
conscience and found one in his son. And because Mulder's 
father had placed that guilt on him, Fox Mulder blamed himself 
for everyone's troubles, for everything that went wrong in the 
world. 
     She knew all about these things. She knew how he had 
been alienated at the Bureau, called names behind his back, 
ridiculed for his beliefs. She knew about how he had tried to 
find love in the wrong places, how his first love had broken his 
heart. And how because of all the emotional baggage he carried 
with him, the guilt and recriminations, the anger and the hurt, 
he had been further pushed into a world where he trusted no 
one, where he didn't let himself get too close to anyone, out of 
his subconscious fear of betrayal. 
     He even kept her at bay sometimes. But she wanted 
him to talk to her now. She needed him to open up, let her 
know what was wrong, so she could play doctor and fix it for 
him. Being his friend was one of the most tiring jobs she had 
ever had.
     She loved it.
     She quickly closed the distance between them, so that 
she could feel the heat radiating off of his body in waves. She 
looked up into his face. 
     His eyes were blank as they gazed down at her. "I 
caught you following me two blocks back. You're not very 
discreet, Scully."
     "I wasn't trying to be. For the record, you're not very 
subtle yourself. You know where I eat lunch when you're not 
with me."
     He shrugged, "I didn't mean to walk by there."
     She glanced up at his face, and placed her hand gently 
on his arm. "That's not what I meant. I'm glad you did."
     "You're not going to tell me about how long it's been 
since you've been to the zoo and how much you love birds, are 
you?" he asked, his voice monotone.
     Oh no you don't, she thought. You're not getting out 
of this one with a joke, Fox Mulder. "You and I have to talk, 
Mulder."
     He shrugged glumly, and more than anything Scully 
wished she was his lover instead of his friend. Just for times like 
this so she could hold him and kiss him and tell him that it was 
okay to tell her because she loved him. "We talk every day."
     "I want to know what's wrong, Mulder," she said 
softly, reaching out to him. "And don't tell me that 
everything's all right. You've been moody all week, you 
wouldn't even come out to lunch with me today."
     He turned away from her. "I wasn't hungry."
     Her temper flared immediately. "Dammit, Mulder, I'm 
your friend if nothing else, and I want to know what's the 
matter. You owe me that much, and you know it."
     He moved away from her and sat down on one of the 
green benches, running a hand through his hair. "I'm just tired 
Scully, it's been a long week."
     She willed herself to be calm as she knelt beside him. 
"I wish you would tell me what's wrong, Mulder. But I'm not 
going to force you to," she said, trying a new tactic.
     He glanced at her, slightly taken aback. When Scully 
wanted information, she pressed and pressed until she got what 
she wanted- or they got into a fight. 
     Finally, she thought. A reaction. "You should know 
by now that you can trust me, and that I care about you. And 
you can tell me anything, Mulder, anything. I'm not going to 
hate you, or think less of you, no matter what you tell me," she 
explained passionately. She sighed and rose, her hand resting 
lightly on his shoulder. "It's whenever you're ready, Mulder. I 
can't ,make you talk to me. But you have to get this out of you 
at sometime or another. And I'll be waiting, Mulder. Whenever 
you're ready."
     She ran her fingers gently through his hair before she 
turned and quietly strode out of the building.
     Mulder was left alone to think.
     
Chapter Two:  The Promise

     It was well after dark when he emerged from the zoo. 
He paused, noticing Scully's car across the street. He wasn't 
prepared for the warm rush of emotion that flooded his system 
at the sight of her waiting there. Her eyes caught his and he 
made his way across the road, climbing into the passenger's 
seat. She didn't say anything at first, studying his face. 
     "This isn't a cab for the mute," she said softly. "You 
want a ride, you have to talk."
     He took a deep breath, his eyes catching hers. 
Somehow their hands linked in the darkness, in a flurry of 
fingers before they each found the exact place they were 
supposed to be. A tiny erotic shiver skirted through her system, 
her mind filling with visions of touching him elsewhere. "I 
know, Scully," he whispered in a hoarse voice. "I'm ready."
     She nodded. "Let's go."
     The trip through the darkened Washington streets took 
only a few minutes, until they were at Scully's apartment. She 
parked the car, and they both exited. Mulder stood close behind 
her as she fumbled to unlock the door, afraid that he would 
change his mind and leave. 
     Minutes later he was seated in her favorite chair, and 
she was curled up on the loveseat. They had only bothered with 
one light in the living room, which let off only a dim glow, 
casting long shadows on the walls. A silence stretched on for a 
few minutes, before Scully realized that if she didn't initiate 
conversation, he never would. And sitting here all night with a 
silent Mulder wasn't going to solve any of their problems.
     She cleared her throat. "I hope you didn't bite your 
tongue off."
     "Well you were driving almost eighty, and those 
potholes- it's a wonder I don't have whiplash," he responded.
     "Never let it be said I kept you waiting."
     A corner of his mouth lifted in a quasi-smile. "That 
sounded almost . . . sexual, Scully."
     "Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't."
     He chuckled, his tone fey. "Don't think it would really 
matter anymore."
     She sighed. "What's wrong Mulder?"
     "That man- Thomas, I've been thinking a lot about 
him. He was just an average guy. He didn't really have 
anybody, didn't really think he wanted anybody, and then-  
what kind of loneliness must he have felt to sink to the point 
where he would kidnap someone just so he wouldn't have to 
be alone?
     "I drew up the profile for this guy, Scully, and . . . he 
was just lonely. He couldn't really see it for himself, but he 
was, and he got so desperate that he would do anything for 
company. I was putting up the profile, and I- I couldn't imagine 
the loneliness. His entire life was a game of solitaire, and he was 
so busy doing things, things that he thought mattered to him 
that he never saw what he needed to- that he needed someone, 
that no matter how many things he wanted to do, he would 
want someone with him, he would need someone to be there 
for him. And when he was there, confessing to it, explaining 
why he did it- it was like I understood, Scully, I really 
understood why he had done it, and I even felt the same way. I 
look at my life and I look at his, and I start to see correlations, 
Scully. 
     "I've been alone most of my life. I don't really have 
anybody. I haven't gone out with hookers or kidnapped 
women like Thomas, but, I need the same thing he needed. I 
read Thomas's journal, and he talks of all kinds of regrets, 
things he didn't do, people he wished he had known better. I 
saw myself in that journal, Scully. I saw bits and pieces of my 
life, slipping away, day after day, year after year." He paused, 
taking a deep breath. "Do you know what Thomas's biggest 
fear was?"
     Scully shook her head, not willing to speak yet, 
because Mulder still had a long way to go.
     "That he would die and no one would care," Mulder 
answered. "He'd spent so much of his life separate and away 
from everyone else that by the time he realized that he was 
alone and he would probably be alone for the rest of his life, it 
was too late to change anything.   
     "He would die and no one would come to his funeral, 
there would be no one that cared enough to go to it, no one that 
knew him enough to attend his funeral. He could drop off the 
face of the earth, and no one would miss him. No one might 
even realize he was gone! And I'm like that. I've been alone for 
so long, Scully, that I looked at him and I started to think it was 
too late for me, too. 
     "I've spent most of my life by myself, if not by force 
then by choice. There's just no one, Scully, no one. I can 
understand what he did, I know why he did it. And I know it, 
and I understand it so well, that, what if that's my future? What 
if at the end of my career, when my work is finished, I end up 
like Thomas? Old, alone, and full of regret?" he asked, his voice 
choking up.
     His eyes were shining by the lamplight. She swallowed 
several times before she trusted her voice to speak.
     "Mulder, listen to me," she said softly. "I am your 
partner, and I am your friend. And *I* am here for you. 
Whenever you need me, or for whatever reason, I am *always* 
going to be here. You think that you're alone, but you're not. 
You have me. You'll have me forever, I can promise you that. 
You are not alone, and Henry Thomas is not your future, nor 
will he ever be." She wanted to say more. She wanted to tell 
him that she loved him. She wanted to show him everything 
she felt, let him see that she was there for him, and that she 
would always be there for him. "Mulder, come here," she said. 
     He stood, and sat next to her on the loveseat, stiffly. 
She took a deep breath and pulled him to her, wrapping her 
arms around him, and holding him as tightly as she could. 
"You know that I'll never leave you, Mulder. No matter what 
happens, I am always going to be your friend and you can 
always count on me. Forever," she said. He pulled her closer, 
shifting so she sat in his lap. His head rested on her shoulder, 
and she caressed the side of his head softly. He cried a little bit, 
but mostly he just held onto her fiercely, as if she were an 
apparition that was going to suddenly dissipate before his eyes. 
     "I'm such a fucked up person, Scully," he confessed. 
"I don't know why you haven't left me already. I keep 
worrying that someday, you're just going to say, 'That's it, I've 
had enough' and walk away like everyone else has."
     Scully's blood boiled with anger. Damn them all. 
Damn each and every last person that has ever turned their back 
on you, she thought. And damn me if I ever do that to you, 
Mulder. "You just have poor judgment, Mulder," she said, 
hoping by teasing him she could make him feel better. "You 
chose the wrong people to love, and they hurt you. You hated 
me before, Mulder. You didn't want anything to do with me 
you were so disgusted by my skepticism. When you feel, it's so 
intense, Mulder, that you can't see anything else. And you  had 
made up your mind that as soon as I walked into your office, I 
was public enemy number one. And you were going to hate me 
with a passion, and you were never going to trust me, the 'spy'. 
And that drives people away, people who could care about you, 
if you weren't so quick to pass judgment."
     "But you are one hell of a woman, and didn't fall for 
it."
     She smiled. "I just looked beyond what everyone else 
had. I know about enemies that turn to friends. So you looked 
at me and decided you were going to hate me, the same as you 
looked at someone else and decided to give them your heart," 
she explained. 
     "I wish I had chosen you," he said, his voice muffled 
as he rocked back and forth with her in his arms.
     She shook her head. "I don't.  Not for a minute."
     He glanced up at her. "Why?"
     Her hand passed over the side of his face, rubbing his 
temples. "Because if you had, Mulder, I don't think we'd be as 
strong as we are. We've had to fight so many issues, of trust, of 
dedication, of friendship, that if we had gone the easy way, we 
wouldn't be as close as we are, and we wouldn't fight tooth 
and nail to preserve what we have."
     "You're my best friend, Dana," he confessed. "You're 
the best thing that's ever happened to me."
     She sighed gently, and he continued to rock her back 
and forth until she insisted that he go lie down. She curled up 
next to him on her bed, her hand on his chest, her body 
encompassed in the zareba of his arms. When she felt his 
breathing soften, she turned to look at him.
     "I promise you, Fox Mulder, that I'm going to heal 
you. You've got so much pain that you're carrying around, and 
I will not let it destroy you. I'm going to take care of you, and 
I'm going to make sure that you know what love really is,  and 
that you love yourself as much as I love you. Just you wait and 
see."

Chapter Three: The Past Isn't Letting You Go

And I can tell by the way you're talking that the past isn't 
letting you go,
There's only so long, you can take it all on, then the wrongs 
gotta be on their own,
And when you're ready to leave it behind you, you'll look back 
and all that you'll see,
Is the wreckage and rust that you left in the dust, on your way 
to the jubilee.

- Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Jubilee"


     Things were different.
     It wasn't any specific change that could be pinpointed 
down by either agent with an exclamation that here it was, that 
this had changed, and they had to find out why. It was a 
multitude of little, inconsequential things that were beginning to 
add up, resulting in a gentle incline, towards what, neither one 
was sure of. 
     But it was coming. Soon. 
     The slope had been continuing. Mulder didn't run out 
on Scully as much. And when he did, he told her where he was 
going. Scully has almost fainted when she'd received a short 
letter on her desk just before Mulder had disappeared for two 
days.
     "Scully, 
                             Found a lead about the Jackson case in 
Rochester. Staying at Holiday Inn. Room 207. Don't worry, but 
don't follow, please. I don't want you getting hurt.
                                  Mulder."
     Of course, she had only gotten as far as Room 207 
before she'd booked a flight to Rochester. The letter had 
stunned her. and she had arrived at Room 207 to find it in 
shambles, and Mulder gagged and beaten to a bloody pulp on 
the bed, his evidence missing. She had tended his split lip, 
blood nose, and the nasty gash made by some type of razor on 
his right arm. 
     "Mulder . . . you knew I would follow you," she said 
cautiously, as she wrapped gauze around his bicep.
     He sighed. "I didn't want you to."
     "But?"
     "But I know I must put you through hell every time I 
disappear and you have to go tracking me down. I was trying to 
be . . . considerate."
     She smiled despite herself. Carefully, she took his face 
in her hands and lifted it so she could look directly into his 
eyes. "Mulder . . . how about waiting an hour before you go 
dashing off, and I'll come with you? Can we try that next 
time?"
     He did. 
     Their partnership was better than it had ever been- 
Mulder's medical insurance was decreasing.  It was other 
things, too, and all of it was because of the night Scully had 
taken him home and told him that she would always be there 
for him. It was like smoothing over a child's wounds. He 
believed in her infallibly, believed in what she had told him that 
night. Something had wormed its way into Mulder's heart and 
he was giving her everything now. This was real trust, what 
existed between them now. It was complete faith in each other, 
and just as Scully felt it, so did Mulder. He called her up 
sometimes if he was thinking about Samantha. She had started 
talking to him about Melissa, and it felt good to speak of her 
sister's death with him. It had always been a very hush-hush 
subject between them, partly because of Mulder's guilt, partly 
because of Scully's guilt and mainly because they didn't want 
to break the eggshells they had been walking on for months 
after the incident with the DAT tape. But with their new trust, 
the eggshells suddenly seemed like secure floorboards, and 
they were venturing out onto the newly polished wood, testing 
it to make sure it would first hold their weight before they 
began jumping. She told him about how she missed her sister, 
how she blamed herself, how unfair it all was. Why had they 
needed to take her? Why did Melissa Scully's life have to end 
before she got to say her final good-byes? Why did Missy have 
to die for her? For her and her work, for the quest for the truth 
that didn't even belong to her, that wasn't her burden.
     Mulder spoke of his anger for his father, how he felt so 
bad for hating the man who had died, whom he was supposed 
to love, how the rage went so deep that sometimes he 
wondered if he had ever really cared for his father, if he had 
ever really known the man he had looked up to for most of his 
young life. And why had Bill Mulder changed his mind and had 
them take Sam instead of him? Why had it been him in the first 
place? He was only twelve- what could he have done to make 
his father love Samantha more? What had made him switch 
from his son to his daughter? Had it even been his doing? Was 
it planned? 
     They talked about things, the communication lines 
were much more open than either one could ever have hoped 
for. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Dana Scully 
knew in her heart that the change was happening because of 
her. Since that warm July night when she had wrapped her 
arms around him and told him that he wasn't alone as she 
silently swore to show him just what love really was all about, 
everything had changed. They were redefining their relationship 
and every step of the way Scully felt closer. It felt familiar, as if 
she was coming home from a long journey, lumbering on 
towards a goal that suddenly seemed miles closer than it had 
before. A goal she hadn't even known she was looking for at 
the start of this scavenger hunt.  She knew the final treasure was 
a long ways off yet, but she could almost taste the end. 
Whatever it was, it was coming and she could do nothing to 
stop it, even if she had wanted to. The wheels had already 
begun turning and to turn back now was unthinkable. She had 
to finish this damn race. She had to show Mulder that there was 
a thing called love and that it didn't have to be like a rose- 
pretty to look at, but painful to grasp. It was in every move he 
made, the fear of being hurt, of being rejected. It was a 
subconscious reaction to his surrounding environment. He'd 
even done it when he had woken up in her bed, that morning 
several weeks ago . . . 

Chapter Four: Where the Sun Can Find You
     
     Her first thoughts were that she was being watched.
     As her senses kicked into gear, she became aware of 
the pressure of a strong arm wrapped around her waist, a warm 
breath tickling the hairs on her forehead, the heat of a body 
next to hers, and the feeling of being watched. A sixth sense 
premonition she'd always had that during her years with 
Mulder had become finely tuned. She noticed people six blocks 
back who hadn't moved since she'd gone into that shop just 
ten minutes ago. Of course, sometimes it was just guys looking. 
And usually her erratic behavior of dodging them often made 
them decide that she was too much of a challenge. Too much 
work they weren't willing to do. And sometimes it was the 
faceless men that had killed her sister, taken Samantha and her . 
. . 
     So it was the feeling of being intensely scrutinized 
which made her eyes open in something akin to terror, 
wondering where she was and who she was with, and who was 
watching her and-
     Mulder.
     Scully swallowed thickly, blinking. The sun was 
drifting into her bedroom and Mulder was lying beside her. 
Safety. Her muscles relaxed. She was with Mulder, she was 
safe. No men with probes or guns or her screams echoing in a 
train car . . . 
     She looked directly into his eyes, and saw fear lurking 
there, felt his body stiffen as if he'd been caught stealing 
cookies from the proverbial jar. 
     We're not safe quite yet, are we, Mulder? she thought. 
Not even from each other. She remembered her promise to him 
last night and felt it resound in her. 
     *I promise you, Fox Mulder, that I'm going to heal 
you. You've got so much pain that you're carrying around, and 
I will not let it destroy you. I'm going to take care of you, and 
I'm going to make sure that you know what love really is, and 
that you love yourself as much as I love you. Just you wait and 
see.*
     Scully had a job to do. She never went back on a 
promise, even if the receiver of that particular promise *had* 
been asleep when she had made it. 
     She moved her hand, gently running it up and down 
his arm, as a gesture of reassurance. His eyelids drooped 
slightly, and he gave her a tentative smile, looking 
uncomfortable with the situation. Not because it was her. Oh 
no, Scully knew when a man was uncomfortable because of her 
and when he just didn't have a clue as to what he was 
supposed to do. It made sense in a way, that he wouldn't 
exactly know how to handle such a situation. She doubted he 
had ever cried himself to sleep in a woman's arms before her. 
And she doubted that his casual affairs ended with pillow talk 
or warm fuzzy feelings. He was waiting for her to get up, to 
leave the bed, to tell him to get out. Steeling himself against it, 
waiting for her to ask what he was doing with his arms around 
her. Waiting for her to shove him away, and desperately 
wishing she wouldn't, that for just this moment, they could be. 
     Scully's stomach twisted with the look of hopefulness 
in his eyes. 
     Oh, Mulder, I'd never hurt you that way, she thought. 
Don't even think I would do that, that I could push you away 
like that. She smiled back, and he relaxed more fully. He slid 
one arm from beneath her waist, using it to prop his head up. 
His elbow dug into a pillow, and she could feel the tension 
being released like throwing water on a fire, leaving her with the 
steam. His hair stuck out every which way, sunlight catching it 
and throwing reddish tints in. Stubble covered his face, and his 
eyes had that vulnerable, watery morning look. He took on a 
lopsided grin, dragging his other arm from beneath the covers 
and tracing her collarbones from where they peeked out of her 
pajamas. His movements were slow and intimate, and she 
resisted the urge to squirm. His grin tipped slightly, and Scully 
almost swore she saw a full-blown smile on his normally 
solemn face. It was so rare she wished she had a camera to 
mark the occasion. 
     He lowered his eyelids, his voice becoming husky. "So 
. . . was it good for you, Scully?" He raised an eyebrow.
     Scully found it increasingly difficult to keep from 
giggling. She felt giddy somehow. She had finally gotten him to 
open up to her last night. He had come to her apartment and 
told her what was the matter. It was nothing short of a miracle. 
He had sat on her couch, looked into her eyes and told her what 
was the matter, explained what had been troubling him. And 
she had fixed it. She felt immensely proud of herself, and him. 
     She crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes 
heavenward, but willing to play along with him for a little while. 
"Best sex I've never had."
     She was delighted when he laughed. His eyes shone. 
He paused a moment, looking down at her, and bit his lip, his 
face a portrait of indecision. "I . . . look, about last night-"
     "What?" she asked.
     He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "I- I, 
uh, I mean, y'know I'm . . uh, um . . . grateful." 
     A brilliant smile spread across her lips, as she saw him 
blushing, his eyes looking at the wallpaper of her bedroom, the 
lamp behind her. She had never seen him blush, and it was 
adorable. "For what?"
     She felt him move beside her. My God, is he 
squirming? she wondered. She really should just accept it, but 
this couldn't be easy for him. He had to spit the words out for 
himself, she couldn't do it for him- it would accomplish 
nothing. 
     He looked in her eyes and blurted, "Thank you for 
doing this for me, Dana, thank you for taking care of me again."
     Scully knew if she laughed he would take it the wrong 
way, and that would undo all she had planned for him. 
     "You don't know how it was when I woke up and I 
saw you . . . it felt so nice, and I know I must sound like a 
pervert and you're going to shove me out of this bed any 
minute now, but it wasn't . . . that kind of nice, it was a 
different kind of nice, like when you've been crying for a long 
time, and then someone gives you a hug."
     He sounded like a twelve-year-old with his first crush, 
and suddenly his words weren't adorable anymore, but sad. No 
one had ever done this for him. How could no one have ever 
just held him and told him that he wasn't alone? She brushed 
the hair away from his face, turning to face him and sitting up. 
Her face was inches from his, so close his breath caressed her 
lips. The intimacy stung her, being so close and she knew that 
she couldn't touch him . . . not like she wanted to. So she used 
words. "I meant what I said last night, Mulder. I'll always be 
there for you, and I'll do whatever's in my power to help you. 
And if some time you just need to be held, I'll be there."
     He smiled softly. "Isn't that the guy's line?"
     She ran her hand through his hair. "Who ever said you 
wear the pants in this relationship, Mulder? Most of the time, 
I'm forced to take them off you to inspect wounds."
     "And you love every minute of it," he quipped. 
     She poked him in the chest. "Well that settles it. I get 
the shower first." She hopped out of bed and grinned as she ran 
to the door, and slammed it just as he tried to bowl her over to 
get in first.
     "Hey Scully, why don't we conserve some water?" he 
called.
     She laughed. "Go make breakfast, Mulder. And don't 
tell me you don't know how to make Bisquick pancakes."
     "Sure you don't need any help?" he asked hopefully.
     Scully leaned against the door, lazily unbuttoning her 
top, and suddenly grinned. Wouldn't you just die if I said I did? 
she thought. "Make me some food and I'll think about it."
     
Chapter Five: Dark Night

     Scully drifted out of her reverie, staring at the 
television screen blankly. She and Mulder were wrapping up a 
case here in upstate New York. The early August weather was 
hot in the daytime, but cold at night. She had even gone so far 
as to turn the heat on. It was raining out, as it had been most of 
the time they were here. The rain and high winds only added to 
the cold. She sighed, relaxing on her bed. Her field report was 
finished, the rest of the paperwork didn't have to be done until 
Monday. She and Mulder were returning tomorrow morning, 
Saturday. It had been a hellish case. A serial killer who could 
make objects appear and disappear without a trace. And  he 
had. Scully had found herself flashing back to Robert Patrick 
Modell, the man who had made her partner put a gun to his 
head, and then to hers. It was something she was positive she 
would never forget, something that would stay with her until 
her last days. The terrified look in Mulder's eyes as he 
helplessly swung the gun around to face her. It had haunted her 
nightmares for days after the event, not for fear of her own life. 
She put her life in jeopardy every day, fear for her life was 
something she'd learned to overcome. She would try her 
hardest to stay alive, but she knew that someday it might not be 
good enough, and the penalty wouldn't be a blow to the head 
with the butt of a gun, or a large gaping hole of blood in her gun 
shoulder that would disable her for a few weeks. It would be 
much more serious. Life-threatening. 
     But to die like that . . .
     It would have gone down that Fox William Mulder 
shot and killed his partner in cold blood. It would have gone 
down that he was the one who pulled the trigger. And she knew 
that Mulder would never be able to live with himself if that 
happened. It would be just like him to think it was his fault, and 
to deal with it as such. He still blamed himself for all the things 
that went wrong. He took everything to heart, but it was a 
different kind of pain. The kind that he forced down into his 
soul, so that he could tilt his head up and keep going. Someone 
had taught him to do that a long time ago. To put down a lock 
on his feelings and to keep them locked up- for his own good. 
And it wreaked havoc on a man as sensitive as Mulder. He 
would never have forgiven himself for her death, possibly to the 
point of suicide. 
     Because as he put the gun on her, his eyes flashed 
with the fear that he would actually go through with it, and that 
he would never be able to say . . . .
     A knock sounded on her door. She blinked, glancing 
around her motel room. Papers were scattered everywhere, 
from when she and Mulder had rushed out the door six hours 
ago, after a call from the suspect, Steve Goddard, claiming that 
he had a young girl with him. Their backup had been on the 
scene before them, but Steve had insisted that Mulder and 
Scully go in. He would be willing to release her, make a trade. 
Without hesitation, they had donned bullet proof vests, and 
entered the building. Goddard had found their hidden firearms 
almost immediately, disabling Mulder with a kick in the 
stomach and a pair of handcuffs, and then patting them both 
down, taking his time more leisurely on her. She was sure there 
were bruises on her breast from when Mulder had yelled for 
Goddard to leave her alone, and he had in response grabbed her 
even tighter. 
     Then he had tossed their firearms in a corner, and sat 
down across from them, his shot gun resting on his knee. 
     "Where's the girl?" Mulder asked. "I thought you 
were going to set her free. That was the deal- us for her."
     Goddard smiled. The imprint of that smile was 
something Scully didn't think she'd ever forget. It was a cruel, 
inhuman smile. The smile an evil god would give when one of 
his people commits murder on their brother. "I plan on letting 
her go. But not like you think. She's going to fly home. 
Theresa's one wish was to be able to fly. Theresa's a sweet one, 
that's for sure. All around little girl, wanted to play with her 
dollies and still be able to kick the shit out of her brother at 
basketball. She watched Disney movies, read those little 
intermediate books you see at the stores. You know, The Baby-
Sitters Club, Goosebumps, that sort of thing. Her father was 
reading her The Fledgling as a bedtime story. I know that 
you're familiar with the book, Agent Scully."
     Scully swallowed, arching a cool eyebrow at him, and 
waiting for him to continue.
     "You love your Godson a lot, don't you Agent 
Scully? You wish you had a li'l boy just like him, only one 
who'd call you Mommy instead of Aunt Dana, doncha?"
     Her stomach twisted.  
     "I'm sorry 'bout hurting you before, Agent Scully. 
Nothing personal. Just really-" he stopped, and used the back 
of his shotgun as a golf club to swipe at Mulder's knee, 
"*pisses me off* when I hear people telling me what to do and 
what not to do." He sneered at Mulder as the agent writhed in 
pain, moving his leg to try to push himself out of Goddard's 
range. 
     Goddard spat. "Good thing I didn't take aim and 
shoot you. A little higher and you can kiss those sweet Scully 
fantasies ga-bye, pal."
     He turned on her, suddenly. "Oh yeah, I know he has 
them. All the time. That's why he got so bent outta shape when 
I started touching you. He has dreams about fucking your 
brains out at least once a week, doncha Mulder? Kinky shit gets 
in there too, sometimes, doesn't it? Li'l bits and pieces from 
your movies, huh?"
     Mulder's eyes locked on Goddard, angrily. *Shut up, 
you don't know what I feel.*
     Goddard snorted aloud, his eyes focusing on Mulder 
and sending him a direct thought. *Don't kid yourself into 
feeling something you can't, Mulder. You don't love her, you 
can't even think of that word associated with her name.*
     Mulder remained stoically silent, gingerly 
experimenting to see if his leg was still operational. 
     "Oh he don't like me talking about that, too much, 
Agent Scully. Li'l tender about that. But if you could see the 
things in his mind . . ." Goddard trailed off, shaking his head. 
"Amazing stuff, really. You've got quite an active imagination, 
Agent Mulder. You should write some of the movies you 
watch. Of course, you'd have to change the names. And I 
doubt that any of them would be starring the lovely Agent 
Scully and yourself. Your mind is very interesting to someone 
like me, Agent Mulder. Very interesting."
     "Is that it?" Mulder demanded. "You're reading these 
people's minds and then when you've had your fun, and they 
become too boring, you kill them?"
     Goddard sighed, and looked at Mulder the way a 
patient teacher looks at a child that isn't too bright. "I'm giving 
them their hearts' desire. I'm not . . hurting them. I'm making 
their dreams come true," he said, his voice growing very soft at 
the end. 
     "That boy at the bus stop- he wanted a million dollars. 
So I gave it to him."
     "You mean you locked him in a bank vault so he 
could suffocate," Scully spoke up.
     He laughed. "I guess you can't take it with you. And 
that woman . . . Ann, she wanted to be famous, did you know 
that? She wanted to be on the front page of a newspaper."
     "So you chopped her into tiny bits and pieces and 
dropped her off at various papers around the city-"
     "But she was on the front page, wasn't she?" he 
demanded, suddenly furious. "I was *helping* those people. I 
gave them what they really wanted- and if they want so badly 
for such material possessions, they should be willing to pay the 
price." He bent down and put his face right up next to hers. "If 
you want anything in this world, you need to pay the price." As 
if remembering himself, he moved back, smiling that cold, cold 
smile and smoothing his hair down. 
     "But you and Agent Mulder . . . it's quite a different 
story. I took the girl because I thought she would be pure. I 
didn't expect her to have so many wants. A pony, a Barbie doll. 
But she really wanted to be able to fly. Envied the birds 
something terrible."
     "Is she dead?" Mulder asked flatly.
     Goddard furrowed his brows. "I'm a man of my word, 
Agent Mulder. I intend to return little Theresa . . . after I give 
her her heart's desire, you understand. Because all I've really 
wanted is to help people. I've had my gift for years, Agent 
Mulder, but it did no good. What was I to become? A shaman? 
A gypsy? I've been able to tell people exactly what they're 
thinking . . but how could I use it for good? Who would want 
me unless they wanted me to *spy*," he exclaimed. He pursed 
his lips, as if he hadn't liked the taste of that last word. "So I 
did what I could. I've tried to help people using my gift in the 
only way I knew how."
     "You didn't help these people. You killed them. You 
took their wishes and perverted it to justify your killings," 
Scully demanded, her eyes stern. "Just as you'll justify 
Theresa's, Agent Mulder's and my death."
     He tilted his head, studying her with a frown. "What is 
your heart's desire, Agent Scully? Whadayou most want that 
you keep secret in that pretty li'l head of yours?" He glanced at 
Mulder, a disgusted look on his face. "I already know what you 
want most, Agent Mulder." 
     "Shut-up, Goddard. Fuck you!" Mulder said 
defensively. "You don't know what I want. You have no 
business being in my head, spreading lies-"
     Goddard laughed. "Agent Mulder, we *are* touchy 
about the subject of Agent Scully, aren't we? Rather silly. I 
myself find Agent Scully very attractive. But don't worry. 
You're so messed up in the head,  you don't really know what 
your heart's desire is. I'll give you a hint, though: it's hardly 
moving up in the world.  Don't think it's that silly li'l quest 
you're on for your sister, either. You don't want that. Like 
some soap hero, all you desire is love, complete and fulfilling. 
You think if you get her back you're going to get that love. You 
think if you get her, then all your troubles will magically 
disappear because *she'll* be there. What is really sickening is 
that you're surrounded with it. You think that her 
disappearance has scarred you for life. Nothing but pain scars 
you for life. Love heals all your wounds, all your scars. And 
you have it all, Mulder. You can continue to think that the quest 
will bring you love . . . but it won't. You won't be complete."
     "Thanks for the words of wisdom, you sick son of a 
bitch."
     He smiled at Mulder. "You'll learn. As for you, Agent 
Scully . . ." he drew in a deep breath as he looked at her. 
"You've taken up a new quest, have you?"
     Her eyes went wide. Oh no, no, don't tell him, 
Goddard, please please don't tell him . . 
     He shook his head. *Don't worry. I'm not out to 
expose you on that one.* It was only a few moments later that 
she realized he had been saying it inside her mind.
     Telepathy, too?
     Goddard smiled again. "A family is what you want, 
Agent Scully. Your parents taught you well, made sure you 
knew the importance of family, of love. Your brothers' 
distance, the death of your father, then your sister . . . it's only 
strengthened that need. You want  the family you lost back. 
You won't get them back, I can tell you that much. But a 
heart's desire is a heart's desire, and I am to please, so . . ."
     He leaned down, and tilted her face up. Goddard 
slanted his lips over hers, his tongue swiping into her mouth. 
He winked at her, as he stepped away. "I don't give you your 
heart's desire, Agent Scully. But I give you something more 
valuable."
     He peered conspirationally from one agent to the 
other. 
     "I give you opportunity."
     With that, he gave a slight bow and dashed up the 
stairs of the house. Scully spat the key he had shoved down her 
mouth during the kiss, on the ground, and began to undo her 
handcuffs. Once freed, she grabbed Mulder's hands. "Scully, 
how-"
     "When he kissed me," she responded brusquely, as if 
that would explain everything. For Mulder, it seemed to suffice 
at that moment. "He said that Theresa wanted to fly- that 
means-"
     "He's going to throw her out of the building," Mulder 
completed. The lock of the cuffs snapped open, as they sprung 
into action two seconds too late . . . .

Chapter Six: The Way You're Talking 

     The knock came again, harder this time, and she 
glanced at the door. It would be Mulder. Only Mulder would 
knock on her door at  two in the morning. Wearily, she padded 
over, calling, "Who is it?"
     "Count Chocula," came Mulder's voice. She snorted, 
and opened the door. He was leaning against her doorframe, 
sweat beading on his forehead.
     "Mulder, it's almost two in the morning- don't tell me 
you were out running."
     He shrugged. "I couldn't sleep, I saw your light on 
when I came back. Are you okay?"
     Diversions, diversions . . . "I'm fine, Mulder, why 
wouldn't I be?"
     He shifted uncomfortably, as if suddenly aware of 
something. "Well, it's just- I mean . . . oh, hell, Scully, can I 
come in?"
     She opened the door and watched him enter. He was 
dressed in a pair of cut-off shorts and a black T-shirt. His hand 
raked through his hair as he wandered into her motel room, and 
collapsed in a chair. Quietly, she locked the door, and moved 
softly over the carpet until she came to rest on the bed. She 
stretched out, her pillow under her head, and shut the television 
off, just waiting. She had learned that Mulder had a hard time 
phrasing things, over the past month, and that he liked to dance 
around subjects like his own feelings, and things that bothered 
him. So if she eventually just sat there, sooner or later it would 
all come out and then she would have to deal with it, just like 
she always had. 
     He looked at her. "I was really scared in that house, 
Scully. I was afraid of what he was going to do to you- 
especially when I saw him touching you . . ." A tiny shudder 
ran through him, just barely noticeable. "And today is, well, 
you know . . ."
     She frowned. It was August- oh. Oh. So that was it. 
And then the girl . . . Oh. Oh, no. "You can say it, Mulder. It's 
probably more damaging to you than it is to me. I'm not going 
to vanish or fall apart if you say it. Today is the anniversary of 
the day I was abducted by Duane Barry."
     He sighed. "I should have been there, that day, Scully. 
I should have been at your apartment, or at home, or anyplace 
where I could have gotten to you . . . I should have been with 
you when he came for you. If only I had been, things would be 
different, things would be so different . . ." He looked at her 
then, with genuine fear in his eyes. The same fear she'd spotted 
in Goddard's house. "You'd be healthy, and Melissa would be 
alive . . . and so many others . . . ."
     "Mulder, you and I did everything we could to save 
Theresa."
     "Why did Goddard let us go, Scully? What did he see 
in our minds that was so special that he let us go and he killed 
Theresa instead?" 
     Scully took a deep breath, remembering the scene 
outside the house. The little girls' body spread like an eagle. 
She had been cleaned and stuffed just like the birds she had 
always envied, according to Goddard, her glassy eyes staring 
out into nothingness, her face a mask of the terror she had felt 
when she died. An autopsy performed just an hour ago had 
concluded that she had been cut open, and fully conscious as 
she watched Goddard remove organ after organ from her body. 
The thought  made Scully physically sick. How inhuman did 
one have to be to be able to kill such a small, innocent little girl 
in such a vicious way?
     *What's your heart's desire, Agent Scully?*
     "I don't know why, Mulder. I don't know why we 
were spared. Most likely because he didn't have enough time to 
kill us both."
     Mulder shook his head. "He had all the time in the 
world, Scully. They'd never think of gassing the place- not with 
a little girl inside. And we didn't know she was already dead 
when we arrived. He could have killed us, and he didn't . . . and 
then slipping you the key-"
     "Mulder, that was an unpleasant enough experience 
the first time, you don't have to keep reminding me," she said, 
pursing her lips. 
     "I should have stopped him. I was so angry at what 
he'd said to me, what he was saying, I didn't realize what he 
was doing until it was too late. I should have-"
     "What, Mulder? You were tied up- what were you 
really going to do? Tell him not to touch me? I think I have 
bruise marks from the last time. Mulder, there was *nothing* 
you could have done to make him stop. I don't understand how 
you can take all this upon yourself."
     Seeing him flinch at her angry tone, she decided a 
different approach. Carefully, she slid off the bed and knelt 
before him, her hand resting on his knee as she looked up into 
his face. "Mulder, there's nothing you can do to change the 
past. All you can really do is not let it get to you like this. 
Everyone has regrets, things they wished they could have done, 
things they knew they should have done. But it's over. The past 
is the past, and you can't keep carrying all this around with 
you. It's hurting you, Mulder, and in the process, it's hurting 
me," she said truthfully.
     He glanced up at her. "I would have done anything to 
save you from him, Scully, to keep you from being taken. 
Anything," he implored, seeking her approval.
     "Mulder, don't you think I already know that?" she 
asked, her voice low and husky. I've seen you do things no 
other rational agent would do, to help people. I look at you 
sometimes, and I admire that you care so much. You've kept 
me from being hurt hundreds of times, Mulder- what about all 
those times? You can't expect perfection in this. Look at how 
many times you *have* gotten there in time, that we have been 
able to rescue whomever needed rescuing. One failure isn't the 
end of the world, Mulder."
     He wouldn't look at her. "It's just the end of 
someone's life," he said bitterly. He took a few deep breaths, 
and finally met her eyes. "I know what you're trying to do, 
Scully."
     She fought to keep her face from changing shape. The 
plan? How did he know about it? Had he been awake when she 
lay there next to him and swore to show him what love was all 
about?
     "But it's useless. That little girl died because I didn't 
do anything. Goddard hurt you because I didn't do anything. It 
*is* my fault that this has happened, I deserve what I have."
     Her heart was  breaking. How could he do this to 
himself? What did he deserve? A life of solitude and pain and 
guilt? For what? He had done so many things for her, had 
impacted her life in ways she couldn't even begin to describe, 
and it had all been for the better! "Mulder, all the times you've 
saved me, you've put your life on the line, the times that you 
*could* do something.  Do you remember that case in 
Minnesota? Do you remember Donnie Pfaster? Do you? I 
would have died if you hadn't come there. Bochs told me that it 
was you who did the real work, about how you were 
relentless," she exclaimed, her voice near shouting level. 
     No response.
     Time to try a new tactic. She stood, and then moved 
behind him. She placed her hands gently on his head, and 
began to run her fingers through his hair in a calming gesture. 
"Do you remember Massachusetts, Mulder? Those high school 
teachers? Do you think I don't know what you tried to do?" 
she said. Her voice had dropped to a low, slightly seductive 
level. She began to caress the side of his head, her strokes 
getting longer, more tender. "When we were lying there on the 
floor, and they had turned the showers on- they were going to 
shoot us, remember? He had a gun, and he was pointing it at 
us, Mulder, he was ready to blow our brains out, when he 
stopped and turned the gun on himself. And you turned, 
Mulder, you turned and you tried to cover me, to make sure I 
wouldn't get hurt. I felt that. There's a million other times when 
you've gotten there in time. Do you remember the case in 
Dudley, Arkansas? They were going to decapitate me and 
cannibalize my body. The sheriff had the ax raised over his 
head when you shot him."
     "You wouldn't have even been there if it wasn't for 
me," he said stubbornly. 
     She stopped touching him. "So you want me to leave, 
is that it? You want me to put in a transfer, resign, do whatever 
the hell I need to so that I leave you. You don't want me 
around."
     He flipped over in the chair, his eyes wide. "NO! No, I 
don't want you to leave, you've got to believe me, that's the 
last thing I want," he babbled.  
     Scully turned, and sauntered around the chair so she 
was facing him again. "You said before that you deserve what 
you have, Mulder. What does that mean?"
     He looked extremely uncomfortable, his eyes darting 
back and forth like he was searching for an escape route. 
Although she didn't like to, Scully had come to understand that 
she could rely on Mulder for comfort, that she had to. She 
didn't like showing him her weaknesses, but she considered 
herself strong enough to know when to let go. After the Pfaster 
case in Minnesota, she had become more open to Mulder. She 
told him how she felt, made sure he understood and sought 
comfort when she knew she needed it. 
     Mulder was a different story. He kept his feelings from 
her, held himself in check constantly. A part of their 
relationship had always been very tightly closed where giving 
each other comfort was concerned. And over the past month, 
she had felt that space opening, just a crack, and widening, 
expanding. 
     He should be able to talk to me about this by now, 
dammit. He's so afraid that I'll hurt him, but I won't, Mulder, 
you know I'd never hurt you . . .
     "It was . . . nothing," he said, still looking slightly like a 
caged animal.
     She frowned, and tipped his head up, forcing him to 
look her in the eyes. "Mulder, I know we haven't always been 
truthful with each other when we feel something, but you have 
to tell me the truth now. What did you mean by that?"
     He jaw moved slightly. "I- It was nothing, really, 
Scully."
     "You can't lie to me, Mulder. You should know that 
by now."
     He swallowed, taking a deep breath. "This is hard, 
Scully."
     She nodded. "I know, I've been where you are. But 
you're weak if you can't admit that you're not strong."
     "That's hypocritical."
     "You're not easing out of this one with a joke."
     He shrugged. "When Goddard was saying all those 
things- he did get them from my mind. I- I have thoughts like 
that, Scully," he said frankly. "And in a way, it's true- what he 
said about my heart's desire." He wasn't looking at her 
anymore, but at something off to his left. "Jesus, when did 
words become so difficult?"
     She touched the side of his face. "They aren't, Mulder. 
Strength is admitting a weakness."
     "I've messed up so many times, Scully. I wasn't there 
to save you, or that little girl . . . or my  father- Christ, I was in 
the next room! Maybe I deserve to be alone. Maybe I've 
wrecked so many people's lives that I shouldn't have my 
heart's desire anymore. Or even the idea of it," he said 
despairingly.
     She closed her eyes, and pulled him to her. He made 
no move to touch her, simply letting her hold him. "Mulder, 
what's your heart's desire? What is it you *really* want?"
     She pulled away and tipped his face up to hers, seating 
herself on the edge of the chair. His arm encircled her waist. "I 
really don't know, Scully. I don't think I know what I want, 
anymore. Everything's so entangled with my search, I don't 
know where it stops and everything else begins."
     He pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around 
her with ease. Scully was amazed that she was so comfortable 
in such a position with him. Two months ago, the mere thought 
of such intimacy would have made her laugh. But since the 
change, this was semi-normal. 
     "Do you believe me that none of this is your fault, 
Mulder?" she asked softly.
     He looked at her. "I want to believe,  Scully, I've never 
wanted to believe something so much in my entire life. But if I 
had only-"
     "If, if, if. If is the name of a Janet Jackson song, 
Mulder. Big deal. If I was taller, I wouldn't have to sit in your 
lap. Big deal. What are you going to do with what-ifs, Mulder?
     "Are you going to bottle them and keep them inside, 
wondering and toiling over how things could have been 
different, let the past keep clinging to you like an old coat that 
you don't have the heart to throw out? There *is* a time when 
you're supposed to let things go, Mulder. And right now is 
when you need to let this go." She stroked his face lightly, 
pulling him closer. "My mother used to say that there are 
enough people in this world who'll put you down, so don't put 
yourself down."
     Mulder smiled, his head resting on Scully's shoulder. 
"Your mom would make a great psychologist, you know? She 
should write a book- she always knows the right thing to say at 
the right moment, and you've got the same thing."
     She laughed, pulling away slightly so she could look at 
him. "She'd tell you the same thing, Mulder. You have to let 
the past go. It's going to cling and tug at you enough without 
you clinging and tugging back. It's just common sense."
     He shook his head. "Ah, butter me up so you can 
insult my lack of common sense," he teased. After a moment, 
his face went very serious. "You said that I should try to forget 
about the past- does that mean forgetting about-"
     "No," she replied quickly. "That doesn't include 
Samantha, and it doesn't include what happened to me, or your 
father's death, or my sister's death. Forgetting just means that 
you stop blaming yourself for everything that's gone wrong. 
You shouldn't forget about those things. But you can stop 
telling yourself that you're a failure because you weren't at 
home when I called you, or you were a young, frightened boy 
and they took your sister. You can remember your past without 
it haunting you every moment of your life." Her touch was 
gentle as she applied it to his face. "Can you let it go, Mulder? 
Can you?"
     He swallowed, staring into her eyes. They were a 
shade of crystal blue, wide-eyed with hope and care and . . . he 
was falling into those eyes, drowning in them, in the safe, warm 
haven they provided, as if she would shield him from anything, 
come hell or high-water. And he knew that she would, she 
would do that and more. He was lost for a moment, some 
unrecognizable emotion passing into her face. It made him 
want to grin like a fool, and his facial muscles were losing the 
battle with his head not to make him appear as a lunatic. 
Finally, he smiled, pure contentment washing over his features. 
"I'll try, Scully. I can try."
     She smiled back at him with her own ecstatic smile. 
"Then I can help you."
     He suddenly pulled her into his arms and hugged her 
ferociously. "Thank you, Scully." They sat like that for a few 
moments, before she pulled away and slid out of his lap. 
     She took his hand, and pulled him up. "Come on, do 
you want to stay with me tonight, or do you think you can 
make it all the way to your motel room."
     Mulder stopped stone cold. Sleep in her bed, with her, 
again, like he had done a month ago. She was going to let him 
get that close, after what Goddard had told her . . . 
     "Aren't you afraid I'll jump you in the night? Or I'll 
start having one of my dreams and . . ."
     She frowned, trying to figure out where this was 
coming from and why it was so serious before she remembered 
what Goddard had said back in the house. "You mean, aren't I 
afraid of your 'uncontrollable manly passions'?" she asked, 
quoting a line from her favorite novel.
     He forced a chuckle. 
     She smiled. "Of course not. Why should I be? I trust 
you, Mulder. I trust you with my life. I know you would never 
do anything to hurt me."
     Mulder felt an oozing all over him, like being 
submerged in melted butter. A warmth, and a pang of pain.. 
How could she trust him so much? It was infallible trust, and 
she was bestowing it on him, she *had* bestowed it on him, as 
if he were her guardian angel. 
     *I know you would never do anything to hurt me*
     "I promise I won't break that trust, Scully, no matter 
what I do, I'll never break that trust," he swore to her. 
     "I know you won't," she responded. "I know."

Chapter Seven: Their Doubts and Their Fears

And I can tell by the way you're listening, that you're still 
expecting to hear,
Your name being called like a summons to all who have failed 
to account 
For their doubts and their fears, they can't add up to much 
without you, 
And so if it were just up to me, I'd take hold of your hand, 
Saying, come hear the band, play your song at the Jubilee.

-Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Jubilee"

     Scully stared outside at the passing  vegetation now 
shrouded in darkness. She had driven the first half of the five 
hour trip from Pensacola to Atlanta, he was to relieve her and 
take the last half. That had been at eight o'clock. She glanced at 
the clock radio. They should have arrived by now. She didn't 
even know where they were. Scully had fallen asleep around 
nine-thirty, Mulder still on Route eighty-five from Montgomery 
to Atlanta. They were following  a slew of murders- literally. 
Each with the same M.O. taking place in various cities across 
the southeastern US. In each case, the victim had been a young, 
healthy male ages nineteen to thirty-six, seemingly with nothing 
in common, had been devoured. Their flesh and internal organs 
ripped viciously from the bones, which had been the only 
remains. Scully had had a difficult time determining the cause 
of death because of the lack of remains, eventually concluding 
that the assailant had probably stabbed the men in the stomach 
and then removed the flesh. It was a gruesome case, and they'd 
been at a standstill in the investigation for almost two weeks 
before they'd received the call from Atlanta. A young man had 
been found half-dead, before the killer had time to finish his 
work. A homeless man had stumbled across the scene and 
called the police. The victim had lost a tremendous amount of 
blood, and would never walk again without the use of 
prosthetic legs, but he was alive, and according to the nurse 
Scully had spoken to on the phone, he would be conscious by 
the time they arrived to question him. 
     The suspect had managed to get away in time, 
disappearing into the shadows of the night, despite the Atlanta 
PD's efforts to capture him, which included setting up a 
roadblock and even going home to home within a three mile 
radius. The best Mulder and Scully  hoped to get from the 
victim was a clue as to the killer's identity, his physical features 
and in what manner he attacked his victims, assuming they 
were random killings.
     She glanced at the clock again. They should have been 
there two hours ago at the latest. She let out a heavy sigh and 
glanced over at her partner. By the dim, greenish-colored lights 
of the dashboard, she could see that his face was drawn tight 
and he looked miserable. 
     His lips pursed tightly together, his aggravation 
escalating as the looked at him. "I don't know where we are, 
Scully, so don't ask. I got off eighty-five to get some gas, and I 
haven't been able to get back since. I haven't seen a gas station 
in more than fifty miles, or anything else for that matter," he 
snapped.
     She quelled the urge to yell at him, knowing it could 
only make a bad situation even worse than it already was. Even 
if it wasn't her fault that he'd gotten lost, and even if he was 
taking his anger and frustration out on her. She crossed her 
hands in her lap, and stared out the window, instead, hoping he 
would calm down soon so she could help him figure out where 
they were. Mulder's bursts of anger were usually short, and 
guilt often came over him, especially when he knew he'd done 
something wrong. And his guilt would humble him, eventually 
calming him down. She just hoped he would get over this soon. 
Huge trees surrounded the car on both sides. The road in front 
of them wasn't paved (was barely a road as far as she could 
tell), and the curves were like something out of an old movie on 
car safety.  
     Civilization was nowhere in sight. 
     Fog curled around the car like an exotic dancer. 
Mulder's patience seemed to also be having an effect on the 
way he was driving. She was glad she had her seatbelt on as the 
car hit sixty and started for seventy. She was tempted to 
suggest Mulder put his on, too, and slow down a bit, but she 
doubted it would do anything other than distract him from the 
road. And considering the winding path and the condition of 
the road, she did not want to distract him. The car bounced into 
potholes, loose stones flying out from under the tires and 
smacking against the underbelly. She shivered, trying to curl up 
into her trenchcoat, mentally cursing herself for wearing a skirt 
today. It had been so hot when they'd left Florida earlier that 
evening she'd been aching to put on a pair of shorts and a tee 
shirt, and now she wanted jeans and a thick sweatshirt. Cold air 
was pouring out of the vents, mingling with the chilled October 
air. She glanced at the control panel, intending to turn it over to 
heat before she realized that it was already there. The steady 
stream of air slid over her exposed legs, the closest thing to 
warmth she was going to get. She glanced at the speedometer, 
and found him pushing eighty miles an hour. Her hands 
clenched at the sides of the seat. If he didn't slow down, they 
were going to get in an accident.
     The car turned a corner, the wheels squealing as they 
plunged  into a vicious pothole. Her body was flung violently to 
the side and her head smacked against the window. She yelped, 
as she saw the side of the window become a giant spiderweb of 
glass.
     Mulder turned to see if she was okay, his foot still 
heavy on the gas. Scully opened her eyes and saw a glint a few 
feet in front of them, the promise of things to come. "BRAKE, 
BRAKE!" she screamed, pointing towards the windshield. 
     Mulder's head swiveled around just as the deer leapt 
in front of the car. He hit the brake, as the front end of the car 
slammed into the body of the deer. Mulder turned to Scully, 
who was staring dazedly at the buck. He grabbed her arms and 
pulled her upper body down. His hands left the steering wheel, 
his foot letting go of the brake as he reached to protect her from 
the wrath of the accident. The car swerved, driverless now. One 
of the tires careened into a pothole. Inertia did her work, 
flipping the car over. Mulder's head banged up against the top, 
as the windshield shattered, glass flaking off and falling like 
snowflakes all around them. He moaned as he felt something 
sharp slice into his arm, ripping at the skin. Scully's body was 
limp, now semi-sprawled on top of him, the bulk of her weight 
being held by the seatbelt she wore.
     "Scully?" he asked, his voice too loud in the still of the 
night. Silence was his answer. He shook her gently, hoping to 
rouse her into consciousness. "Dana?" What was the matter? 
Why wasn't she answering him? Somewhere inside, Mulder 
began to panic, horror racing through him like the winning 
horse at the Kentucky Derby. He nudged her with his body, 
feeling the blood rushing into his face. 
     Still no response. He shifted so he was right-side up 
again, sitting down. He placed a hand under Scully's head, and 
one under her thighs, reaching to her side to undo the seatbelt. 
It slithered back to its rightful position, as he maneuvered her 
body into his lap. He saw blood pulsing from a wound to the 
side of her head, and his stomach twisted as he took in sight of 
the color fading from her face like a sunset. His pulse raced as 
he identified a soft, constant ticking noise coming from under 
the hood of the car in front of him. He glanced at the metal, 
crushing like an eggshell by the impact.   
     Jesus Christ, give me a break, he pleaded silently as he 
spotted greedy, orange-red flames licking at the sides. 
     He pulled Scully closer, and slid to the door. He 
glanced back at the fire which was slowly blackening the edges 
of the hood. The flames bowed and danced in a seductive 
rhythm that startled him. His hand froze on the doorhandle, his 
mind suddenly focusing on the fire. It captivated him, drawing 
him under its powerful spell and quelling his urge to run 
screaming from the car. The fire suddenly seemed alive, facing 
him down, testing his resolve to just let the heat consume his 
body, to let his guard down because there was no way he 
would escape the hellish death it had in store for him . . .
     Pain racketed through his body, imagining that hot, 
horrible death, the heat clinging and so unbearable that water 
wouldn't be able to pervade the layers of fire after fire. In the 
midst of it all, Scully's body lolled against him, breaking the 
spell. Her softness connected with his shoulder, and the flames 
were doused, sans the pain. Resolve steadied, he pushed at the 
door. Its stillness mocked him. Mulder winced as his foot 
pushed the remaining glass out of the window. He lay Scully in 
his lap and shoved her body out, miraculously unharmed by 
the razor sharp edges that guarded the exit. He pulled his coat 
up around his neck, and bowed his head, forcing himself 
through the tiny opening. A piece of glass caught on his leg and 
drew a long rip in his black trousers, the cut deep enough to 
draw blood. He clutched his leg, back arching with pain as he 
almost flew the rest of the way out of the window. He rolled to 
Scully,  and placed his arms under her shoulders. He place her 
in his lap, using his good leg to slide them up the embankment 
of the ditch to the road. He positioned their bodies so they were 
sideways, her sprawled on top of him. With her head tucked 
close to his chest, long tapered fingers guarding the back of her 
head, he rolled their bodies across the road, landing them in the 
ditch on the other side of the road. The cool water felt good on 
his leg, and relieved him enough so he was able to prop her 
body up against the side of the ditch. His heart jumped in his 
throat as he took in her pale, unmoving face. "Scully?" he 
asked, desperation creeping into his voice.  He straddled her 
body, and ran both hands down the sides of her face, placing 
his finger under her jawbone to feel for a pulse. A soft, faint 
beat radiated into his cold fingers.  Good, that was good. Now 
just please be okay, Scully . . . 
     He brushed hair away from her face, and held two 
fingers under her nose. She wasn't breathing.
     The panic he'd been fighting overcame him, launching 
his mind into near hysteria. His heart going a mile a minute, he 
pushed his emotions down with considerable effort as he 
racked his mind for the answers to the situation he was in. 
     Okay, mouth to mouth resuscitation, gotta move to the 
side, Mulder, can't do it like this, at least not until she's 
breathing for herself, he coaxed himself, his own thoughts 
soothing his nerves over. He pushed her up onto the side of the 
road, kneeling as blood and water trickled over his leg. 
     Placing himself directly adjacent to her, he pulled her 
jaw down, doing his best to ignore the sight of those lifeless lips 
that constantly teased and argued with him. Two fingers held 
her nostrils together forcefully. He drew in a deep breath and 
then slanted his mouth over hers, letting air from his lungs fill 
hers, and retreat as he pulled it back. He cocked his head to the 
side, glancing at her unmoving chest. No air. Again, he placed 
his lips on hers and did her breathing for her. "Come on, 
Scully," he begged. "Can't ditch me like this, Scully, not like 
this, please," he said,  half-hoping that she would hear him 
teasing her and wake up to soothe his fears. 
     The life he could have had and the life he seemed 
destined for each passed before his eyes as if he was reliving 
the accident all over again, the threat of Scully actually dying 
seeming quite possible and more real than it ever had. 
     He placed his mouth over hers a third time, and turned 
his head to the side. "Dammit, Scully, you can't leave me, not 
like this, please." He waited a moment and then covered her lips 
again as an explosion rang out. At the same time he felt her 
draw air voluntarily from his mouth, and he pulled away. He 
hauled her into the ditch, propping her up against the side. She 
coughed and wheezed, struggling to do the action that she'd 
done all of her life without any trouble. Finally her eyes 
opened, confusion infused into their crystal depths. Her brows 
furrowed, a thousand questions being asked in that tiny gesture.
     Mulder ignored the unspoken words, instead 
murmuring a  "Thank you"  to the air. He pulled her to him in a 
hug, his relief short-lived as a second explosion hit. FBI training 
kicked in and he pressed her against the wall formed by the 
ditch, pining her body there. He ducked his head as he covered 
her body, as if the mass of tissue and bones would be any 
protection against any falling debris from the wreckage. When 
at last he was content that hot metal wasn't going to fall out of 
the sky and sear her skin, he pulled away, placing his hands on 
either side of her head. "Are you okay, Scully?" he asked. His 
eyebrows were drawn together, his face a mask of worry.
     She nodded. "I'm fine, Mulder, are you okay?" 
Cursory exchange of words. He wondered why he had 
expected something more. 
     "I'll be fine," he replied curtly. He let one hand trace 
down to caress the side of her face with two muddy fingers. "I 
was afraid I'd lost you there for a minute," he said, his voice 
shaking. He fought to keep it from cracking. "You weren't 
breathing and- and I thought that you would-"
     She shook her head, dismissing his fears. "Would 
never happen," she replied, with more confidence about the 
situation than he'd had. He sighed deeply, following her lead as 
she turned,  and began crawling out of the ditch. He shivered in 
his wet clothes as the cool night air hit him.  She was standing 
in the middle of the foggy road, looking at the burning mesh of 
materials that had once been their car. One hand crept up to her 
forehead, as if suddenly aware of the pain there and she 
grimaced at the sticky redness that stained her fingers. 
     She put her hands on her hips and turned back to look 
at him. "Guess maybe I should've driven, huh?" she said.
     He stared at her for a moment and then shook his 
head, laughing like a madman. His mind flashed back to 
another cold misty night in March, rain pounding on the 
windshield of the car, he at the wheel yet again. Light flashing, 
a startled cry from his new partner. Just a few feet from where 
he had spray painted a brilliant orange X that seemed to glow in 
the darkness, he'd jumped out of the car, ecstatic as his watch 
read not 9:02 or 9:03, but that magical 9:13. He'd laughed then, 
too, thrilled in every part of his soul. Thrilled that he had finally 
experienced something, a memory that would be clear and 
vivid, instead of shadowed and hazy like his memories of 
Samantha, the little sister he'd spent most of his adult life 
searching for. Thrilled that he had proof, at last.
     Thrilled that he hadn't been the only one to experience 
it. He had his partner, and although the little spy would 
probably deny that it had ever happened, he knew it had. It was 
the incontrovertible proof he'd wanted, proof that would satisfy 
his own needs, if not that of his superiors and their spy.
      His laughter shifted into tears, from his own thoughts 
as well as the pain in his leg. He collapsed under it, tears 
streaming down his face. Scully came to his side quickly. She 
flipped him over onto his back, and he looked up into her face. 
He trusted her so much, with so many things, and she'd never 
let him down, she would never let him down . . . 
     And now he could leave because she would take care 
of him right now . . .
     His eyes closed and he drifted into blissful 
unconsciousness, secure in the knowledge that he was safe with 
the woman whom he trusted more than anything. The one they 
had sent to spy on him. 

     Scully was angry with herself.  She should have seen 
that he wasn't all right. She supposed he did the same thing 
when she told him she was fine when she was really scared to 
death, or in agony beyond what any human should have to 
endure.  Always the same. "I'm fine Mulder." She knew why 
she did it. Deep down, she knew. Because she had to be all 
right. Because the bad guys would get away while he fretted 
over her, like she knew he would inevitably. She did it because 
she didn't want to worry him. Mulder already had so many 
worries in his life, he did not need to worry if she was all right 
all the time. And she was a strong person. Every bump and 
bruise didn't need to be checked by Mulder. 
     She told him she was fine when she wasn't because it 
was what she had been taught to do from a very young age, to 
deny her wounds, her pain. There were certain advantages to 
growing up a tomboy (not counting the disadvantages like 
black eyes and making her mother's life a living hell for two 
months after she'd been forced to wear 'this stupid contraption 
called a bra designed by men so our breasts look bigger and 
they have something else to pull besides our hair'). And one of 
the biggest was that Dana Scully had developed  a healthy 
tolerance for pain.
     Mulder, on the other hand, didn't know when he was 
fine and when he really wasn't. It probably had something to 
do with the fact that he'd been more intellectual as a child. She 
knew he played baseball and basketball, but his childhood 
hadn't been filled with climbing trees and subsequently falling 
out of them or getting into fistfights as much as it had been 
filled with books and spaceship models. She knew that he 
didn't have her pain tolerance, and yet he persisted to keep up 
that front that he was just as strong as she was. She supposed it 
had more to do with his guilt complex than machoism. He hid 
his pain from her for the same reasons she hid her pain from 
him- they each already had so many problems, they didn't 
want to cause the other any more by worrying them or not 
being perfectly fine. Scully had long banished the fear that 
Mulder was going to think of her as a weak little woman who 
would only slow him down instead of help him if she turned to 
him. She knew that she would turn to him for help or comfort 
when she really needed to, and he knew that she wasn't made 
of glass, and wouldn't shatter to a thousand bits if she took a 
hit. And Mulder had begun to open up to her in the same way.
     Mentally, at least. 
     Physically, he put up the shield all men were taught to 
put up as little boys- you don't feel pain. You're a guy. You're 
not supposed to cry, you *don't* feel pain. 
     It was crazy that he could give himself over to her 
healing mentally, but physically he would pretend everything 
was okay. 
     She grimaced sadly at her unconscious partner, 
wondering who hadn't loved him because he didn't have a high 
tolerance for pain. She ran her hand over his hair once, before 
pulling him to the side of the road. She draped her trenchcoat 
around his still form like a blanket, although it wouldn't be of 
much help considering that he was soaking wet, as was she. 
She had ripped the sleeves off of her blouse, using one to still 
the blood flow from the gash on his leg, the other to suppress 
blood flow from her head. 
     But it was all she would be able to accomplish for 
either of them right now. She had considered dragging him, but 
she didn't know how far away help was.  And she was so tired. 
She sat down on the road next to him, well away from the 
smoldering metal. Her legs spread over his thighs, as she leaned 
over to check his pulse and breathing. His heartbeat was steady, 
his chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. Comforted 
that he was still alive and well, she allowed herself to touch the 
side of his face. Her limbs felt heavy and her entire body was 
lethargic. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware 
that she should try to get up and pull him along with her to go 
get help. She watched as his features suddenly swam before her 
eyes. She fought a losing battle to right her retinal image. 
Slowly, her head lowered to rest just below his chin and chest, 
her nose pressed against his Adam's apple. 
     Scully drifted into catalepsy.

     Something was holding her down, keeping her body in 
place, and she couldn't move. She struggled, fighting against 
the heavy object on top of her, which refused to move. "Let me 
go," she yelled, continuing to push at the infuriating object 
pinning her down.
     "Miss, miss, wake up, miss," a gruff voice ordered.
     Scully's blue eyes were the color of crystal as she 
opened them, and found herself face to face with a man. Her 
eyebrows furrowed as she looked at him. He had dark black 
hair twinged with gray and white wisps here and there and dark 
brown eyes that were centuries old. He radiated strength. There 
was something about the hard canals of pain and suffering that 
lined his face, and the sternness reflecting in his eyes that told 
her he was a very strong man who had been through many 
horrible things, yet they hadn't embittered him. There was a 
certain familiarity in his face, and as soon as she thought it her 
mind brought up a mental picture, hanging it beside the man's 
face. 
     If Mulder's face showed the effects of time and he was 
a few years older, he would undoubtedly look like the man 
before her. 
     "Mulder," she sputtered. Where was he, what was- 
     "I'm right here, Scully," a voice said off to her left. 
She turned her head and moaned in pain. Her head felt like 
someone was taking a jackhammer and trying to get out of her 
skull. 
     She hissed air into her mouth, her eyes closed, trying 
to block the pain. A few moments later she slowly opened her 
eyes and was rewarded with the sight of a very concerned 
Mulder hovering over her like a mother hen guarding her 
chicks. She had to blink several times before all four of him 
finally came into focus. "Mulder," she breathed, relief flooding 
her system. She let out a sigh  and made a motion to sit up.
     He placed his hand unceremoniously on her chest. 
"Gabriel says you should lie flat for a while and get oriented 
before you try to move. He says you have a mild concussion 
and I don't want you passing out on me."
     "Who's-"
     "Gabriel, right?" he asked, grinning at her suddenly. "I 
guess he's sort of like an Angel Gabriel."
     Scully heard a faraway snort. 
     She saw Mulder turn and smile in the direction of the 
noise, before he looked down at her again. Scully felt as if she 
was four years old again, bed-ridden while recovering from a 
bout of scarlet fever, her brother leaning over her and laughing 
about having read about "the Dick test" he'd been given to 
determine his susceptibility to the disease, while she'd not 
found it all funny to laugh about someone's name. 
     "He found both of us lying beside the road a few 
hours ago and brought us here, to his cabin," Mulder said, still 
smiling. She wondered if maybe Gabriel had given him 
laughing gas. He looked very happy when she would have been 
certain he would be fretting over how she was feeling, over the 
car, over everything.  
     Scully gave a slight nod, the jackhammers buzzing 
against her scalp, warning her not to think too much about it 
just yet. "Help me sit up, Mulder," she asked. His hands sought 
her body under the covers and she did her best to stay limp 
while fighting the pain in her head , knowing that it would only 
increase if she tried to do it herself, and Mulder would probably 
drop her as soon as she flinched. He pulled her up so she was 
resting against his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, feeling the 
warmth from his body seeping into hers. She sighed, feeling 
strangely at peace.      
     She felt his arms moving behind her and a chuckle that 
reverberated through his chest and made his body shake. 
"Don't fall asleep on me there, Scully. I just spent the past 
three hours waiting for you to come around."
     He leaned her back, so she was at an angle, piles of 
pillows bunched underneath her. She smiled sleepily at him. 
Mulder had exchanged his ruined suit for some of Gabriel's 
clothes, a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. Scully was starting to 
have flashbacks about driving him across the country for three 
days to meet Albert Holstein. "What time is it?"
     "About noon. Do you remember what happened?" he 
asked uncertainly.
     She nodded. "The crash- I banged my head, and then 
something hit me in the forehead again. I was out on the road. 
There was an explosion. You collapsed, and I was so tired . . ."
     "Curled up like a cat next to him," the gruff voice that 
had first awakened her said.
     She turned and saw Gabriel setting down a tray on a 
small table beside her. He smiled at her. "Don't think we've 
been formally introduced. My name is Gabriel Morris, and from 
what Fox tells me, you're Dana Scully." Gabriel took her hand 
and squeezed it slightly in a mock handshake. Mulder perched 
on the edge of her bed, and turned to the older man with 
worried eyes.
     "She says her head still hurts," he clucked and she 
swore that Mulder would probably be the world's most over-
protective parent. 
     Gabriel looked startled. "Well I imagine you would," 
he said, addressing her. "You do speak to people other than 
Fox, don't you my dear?"
     "Many people."
     "Well I guess you won't have to do it for her, Fox." 
     She laughed at that, then turning her smile to Mulder. 
     "I suppose that you should probably give her a little 
air and let her eat something."
     Scully eyed the tray, straightening the covers.
     "I can't help it," Mulder complained. Mulder looked 
down at her, his eyes softening. "I pulled you out of there, 
Scully, and you weren't breathing."
     "Well if you smother her, Fox, she's going to stop 
breathing again," Gabriel advised.
     Her partner grinned suddenly. "I know. I'm hoping to 
give her mouth to mouth again," he leered. 
     "Mulder, if my head didn't hurt so much, you'd be in 
a lot of trouble for that comment."
     "I know, Scully."
     Gabriel chuckled, and crossed to a door. "I'm going 
out to chop some wood. Need it stocked up for the winter."
     Mulder reached over Scully and grabbed the tray, 
settling it in her lap as Gabriel closed the door softly beside 
him.
     "Are you doing okay, Scully?"
     She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine, Mulder. It just feels like 
someone's tearing up pavement in my brain." She glanced 
down at the soup appreciatively, and began to eat 
enthusiastically. 
     "So . . . what's been going on?" she asked when he 
remained uncharacteristically silent.
     "What?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers.
     "I asked what's been going on while I've been taking a 
well-deserved nap?"
     Mulder shrugged. "I got up around nine. Gabriel said 
he was on his way back from town with supplies when he saw 
us. He put us both in the back of his truck, and brought us here 
to his cabin. He lives alone up here, unless his daughter's 
visiting.
     "He took the glass out of my arm, cleaned it up and 
the cut on my leg. According to the medicine books he's read 
of his daughter's, and the trusty "Doctor's Book of Home 
Remedies", I should be fine at least until he can get us to a 
hospital. He said he'll drive us back into town if you're feeling 
better later, so we can get taken care of properly- especially 
getting your head looked at, he said that it's a really nasty cut 
you've got."
     She smiled at him. "You've been such a good little 
investigator."
     "I do my best. Are you sure you're okay, Scully?"
     She dropped her spoon on the tray, and looked at him. 
"If you say that one more time, I swear to God, I'm going to 
make you unconscious again. And I'm a doctor and there are 
secret doctor tricks that I can perform," she threatened.
     He opened his mouth with a leer about skilled fingers, 
but thought better of it, instead standing and moving into the 
chair to her right. He placed himself down, leaning forward so 
his elbows were resting on his knees. "I'm sorry, Scully. I don't 
mean to be so overprotective. I know that you are perfectly 
capable of doing everything yourself, it's just- when I saw you 
lying there, and you weren't breathing . . ." he trailed off, and 
she waited patiently while he searched for the words, her eyes 
playing over him. 
     She chastised herself for berating him. He was only 
concerned for her well-being, after all. Mulder had gotten very 
good at learning the stopping point lately the point when he 
should back off and let her breath, let her live. His regression 
into days from before, before that night in July had her 
stumped. Desperation tinged his words only heightened. More 
powerful than the days after she'd returned, when he'd been so 
careful with her it had actually angered her, his insistence that 
she had to stay safe, away from the action because she'd just 
come back, and maybe she needed time. He would still worry 
and hover over her sometimes when she was hurt, but not like 
this. There was something different, and she waited for him to 
find the words to describe why this time was different, why he 
was so scared, why that fear was still on his face, even though 
he knew that she was alive and well and safe. 
     "I was really afraid it was going to happen this time, 
Scully!" he blurted out suddenly.
     His admission startled her, and some of the soup 
spilled over onto the tray as her legs shifted.   
     He stood and she watched him limp back and forth, 
trying his best not to put pressure on his left leg, a mockery of 
what would have been a strong pace had he been fully 
capacitated. 
     "I was so afraid that this was going to be it, that you 
were really going to die in my arms and there'd be nothing I 
could do. I haven't felt that way since I saw you in that hospital 
with all those wires hooked up to you. I haven't felt like this 
since I heard you screaming for help on my answering 
machine, and it wouldn't be like this, except . . . it's different 
this time, Scully, I don't know what else to say. It's different 
and I don't know why. It's like I wouldn't just be losing you, 
I'd be losing . . . everything if you died. Everything would fall 
apart!"
     Scully's breath caught in her throat. 
     Stupid, stupid, stupid, look what you've done now. 
Look at this mess, he'll never be able to let go, look what 
you've done!
     "And it wouldn't be because we're chasing down 
some monster and it attacked you. It would be just a normal 
death from a car crash, millions of them happen very year. And 
I was thinking what I would do without you, how could I go 
on, and, I wouldn't be able to. You're everything to me, Scully, 
you keep me sane, you've given me hope, and faith, even when 
you don't believe yourself. *I don't know* how I would go on, 
I don't know if I'd be able to. I've always thought that if I was 
with you, you wouldn't be harmed, that my presence- that it 
would protect you somehow, and the possibility that you might 
die . . .  it's so distant, so foreign to me. Christ, I'm an FBI 
agent, I put my life on the line every day and so do you, and I 
swear that you dying never seemed *real* until when I pulled 
you out of that crash and you weren't breathing."
     Oh, stupid, Dana, look what you've done now, look at 
this, how are you ever going to fix this. . .  what in God's name 
made you think you could teach him love without him *falling 
in love*? 
     He suddenly turned, and knelt before her bedside, 
staring up at her with imploring eyes. "What it comes down to 
Scully is this: I know that I need you. And I've never needed 
anyone, not like this. I need you and it's scaring the hell out of 
me because you don't need me in that same way."
     Scully searched his eyes. Need for love, love was 
need. How was she supposed to teach him what love was 
without falling in love with him herself? Just the way he sat 
now, vulnerability at an all time high, naked emotions played 
out before her. Even after all this time, his emission had the 
power to startle her.
     She felt as if she were trapped in a timeless hollow, 
where truths shot like cannonballs, each one hurtling into her 
body with more surprises as she looked into him, and into 
herself. 
     Dana Scully was falling in love. She *was* in love 
with him. There was no other way to teach him. He would learn 
love through her, it was the *only* way to show him. And it 
was going to cause all kinds of trouble. . 
     Scully swallowed, hard. She needed him and he 
needed her. And she couldn't pretend that this was another 
casual relationship. The revelation rocked her system and she 
thought she would break down into tears right there. 
     I love him.
     I am *in love with him.*
     She reached out and tentatively placed her hand on 
Mulder's shoulder, digging deep inside her heart to find the 
precise words that would convey what she was feeling, that 
would help to calm him. "I think that we both need each other a 
lot more than we realize, Mulder. And this accident triggered 
that in you. We've been changing, Mulder. We've been 
becoming closer than we ever were, and the closer we get, the 
more we care about each other and the more intertwined our 
lives become," she explained softly. "Maybe that accident just 
clarified things for you, made you see what's been going on 
right under your nose. I don't think I even realized it until now 
myself, but I'm different, too. I need you like I need water and 
air, Mulder. I need you just as much as you need me, and I 
have no intention of leaving this life without you right by my 
side because I'll need you there or I won't be full, I will only be 
half of  a soul."
     She noticed his eyes wide. Confusion and clarification 
mixed through the brown, now misty with tears. He leaned in 
for a moment, his eyes searching her face, taking in every 
feature. She held her breath, her eyelids lowering instinctively. 
He leaned forward, and she could feel his breath on her 
upturned face, tickling her lips. Through the slits of her eyes she 
could see him looking at her mouth the moment before his lips 
touched it.
     His mouth on hers was as tentative as a question. His 
lips were soft and warm, applying little pressure as they rubbed 
hers. Softly, she leaned into him, increasing the kiss. A tiny 
shock went through her body, and she trembled with the force 
of it, the feeling it inspired within her body, which had 
suddenly turned traitor to her.    
     She wanted him. More than anything. She wanted 
more than this kiss. She wanted his lips elsewhere on her body, 
nudging all the tiny private crevices and nuzzling her erogenous 
zones. She detected a faint sound on the edge of her 
consciousness, and could have sworn it was a moan. Not from 
her. From him. The could feel the rumbling in his chest, where 
her hands had suddenly come to be. He didn't seek entrance to 
her mouth, and she was grateful for that. The touch of his 
tongue combined with his full lips on hers would have been her 
undoing. 
     A minute later they pulled away for air, their foreheads 
resting against each other. Dana sought his eyes out first, and 
saw them clouded with passion, confusion, and something else 
. . . . something between love but not quite. 
     Her heart swelled with love, with pride. Almost there. 
They were almost there. She pulled back softly, and smiled at 
him. Just a shy, delicate curve of her lips. 
     It was all the reassurance he needed. He smiled back at 
her, and then  lifted her hand from her lap and kissed it 
delicately. "Scully, you're the most amazing woman on earth, 
and you have permission to kick my ass to China for not telling 
you sooner."
     Her smile almost faltered at that, but she should have 
expected he would retreat to familiar ground, especially 
considering the intimacy of the preceding moment. There was 
still Mulder in him, waiting to be hurt, and trying not to be no 
matter what. Besides, even she wasn't sure exactly what the 
kiss had meant. It had, after all, been only a kiss. 
     But that fact didn't stop her heart from aching when 
he had changed the unspoken subject. She swallowed the ache, 
and tried to shrug nonchalantly. "I would, but all I want to do 
right now is sleep. And I'm safe now, Mulder. Nothing's going 
to happen to me, unless our angel has poisoned the soup."
     "I doubt that."
     She looked at him. "What happened to trust no one?"
     He shook his head. "Doesn't apply to this guy, Scully. 
Don't even ask me why not. It just doesn't. I was talking to 
Gabriel and he was telling me about his life . . . . it took my 
mind right off of everything."
     Scully squeezed his hand. "So you've changed it to 
Trust Everyone again?"
      He looked at her, his gaze lingering too long. "We've 
changed so much over the past few months . . . I don't believe 
that we just had that conversation," he marveled. "I mean, it's 
like . . . I just can't explain it, Scully. It's like I trust you more, 
somehow."
     How am I going to explain that you're falling in love 
with me? she wondered silently. How am I going to tell you 
that it's not more trust, it's more love?
     He grinned. "It sounds ridiculous, I know. But you 
know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
     She swallowed, and then looked into his eyes, shocked 
at what she found there. A type of happiness. Not real 
happiness, not overwhelming joy, but a lightening of pain, like 
the early gray dawn pushing back the dark night.  She'd barely 
recognized it as happiness. And she had done this for him. She 
had given him this little push, had helped him to drop the heavy 
weights on his shoulders. 
     For those few moments, her soul told her it was worth 
it all. The risks she took, the prices she might have to pay. 
She'd sacrifice anything for this.  For that pain-free smile, for 
the night to fade into a beautiful sunrise. 
     A sad part of her wondered if all of her 
accomplishments would ever be able to eradicate that small 
ache inside of him, in the center of his soul where a young boy 
had lost his sister. That part responded no, it was impossible. 
That he would forever hover in the pre-dawn hours, see pink-
tinged clouds but never the sun. She would never be able to 
heal that wound. It was the ultimate let-down. She knew that 
she could heal his heart. She could make him give his feelings 
more openly, she could show him that the past was not all his 
fault and that she would never hurt him like so many others 
had. But her task wouldn't be complete unless he had 
Samantha. Her goal would most likely never be reached. 
     Tears pooled in her eyes as hopelessness swept over 
her. She pulled him to her suddenly, holding him close. She bit 
her lip, burying her face in his shoulder, and trying to steady 
her voice. 
     *I can't heal that wound, but maybe I can make it hurt 
a little less.*
     "I know what you're talking about," she whispered in 
his ear. "I understand perfectly."
     Scully felt her stomach twinge in anxiety. How was 
she going to free him of that pain? If only she could fix that 
one, everything else would fade away. It was the big thing and 
she knew she wouldn't be able to help him get over it. Not 
unless they found her, dead or alive. Preferably the latter. She 
doubted she could help him heal unless they did find 
Samantha. That wound would always be there. And no amount 
of band-aids would make it all better. 
     "Are you all right, Scully?" he asked gently.
     Scully pulled away, and frowned deeply at him, trying 
to make a joke of it. Mulder wasn't having any of that. After 
he'd given so much to her, she was lying to him and he wasn't 
going to take it. 
     "Don't try to hit me for that one, Scully, I know 
something's bothering you, not physically . . ."
     Scully interjected, "It's nothing-"
     He looked away, pursing his lips somewhat angrily. 
"I'm honest with you, Scully. It took me a hell of a long time to 
get to this point where I'm being frank with you about what's 
going on inside my head, I think I deserve the same courtesy."
     She leaned back against the pillows, guilt weighing 
upon her soul. He was right, asking him to swallow an obvious 
lie was unfair. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I guess I'm a little scared, 
too. My defense mechanism kicking in. We've changed so 
much and it's a bit overwhelming that you're so open and that I 
know I can be that way with you."
     He cleared his throat. "Look, Scully . . . don't lie, 
please don't insult my intelligence. You don't have to tell me if 
you don't want to, or if you're not ready to talk about it. That 
night . . . that you found me at the zoo, you let me decide when 
I was ready to talk to you. You told me that it was up to me to 
decide when I was ready and that you weren't going to push. I 
was ready right then and there, but I was waiting for you to 
force me. And when I realized you weren't going to do that, I 
came to you, and I've been coming to you. You already know 
that you can come to me with anything that's bothering you, 
whenever you want. So I'm not going to push. Maybe you 
don't want to talk about whatever is bothering you, and I can 
understand that. Whenever you're ready, you can come to me."
     She sighed. "I'm sorry, Mulder, I just- I can't explain 
this to you right now, it's so complicated and . . . I just can't do 
it right now." 
     He smiled at her. "I know. I understand. I don't blame 
you." He stood, looking at her firmly. "Just don't try to lie and 
say everything's okay, or make up excuses, please."
     He glanced towards the door. "If you're ready to go, 
I'll tell Gabriel that. There's a pile of his daughter's clothes in 
the spare bedroom, so you can change in there. I, uh, had to 
dress you down, so to speak, to see if you had any other 
injuries Gabriel needed to take care of," he said sheepishly. 
     Despite herself, Scully smiled at his bashful tone and 
somewhat embarrassed tone. "You shouldn't be embarrassed 
about it, Mulder. You've seen me without my clothes on 
before."
     He nodded, and looked away. "I know, it's just, well . 
. . I didn't know you then, and you weren't unconscious. I felt 
like a pervert."
     She laughed. "Mulder, I've seen your video collection- 
you are a pervert."
     "But not like that!" he insisted, his eyes widening. 
     "Okay," she said, setting the tray to the side and 
tossing back the covers. She winced at the pain the movement 
caused her, but battled it down. "So you're not a pervert, just a 
sexual deviant," she said, winking at him.
     "Dana Katherine Scully," he said in a condescending 
tone. "Does your momma know you talk like that?"
     "My mom encourages me to talk like this," she shot 
back. "She encourages me to use any sexual words or phrases 
around you as much as possible."
     He chuckled. "I should have known. Mrs. Scully the 
matchmaker."
     Scully shrugged. "Mom and Dad had a very happy 
marriage. I'm the only unmarried child she has. She just wants 
to see me as happy as she was, I suppose. Now out, let me get 
changed."
     He turned and she felt a chill as the door opened and 
closed. She stood and wandered through the tiny cabin. It 
consisted of three rooms. One main room that served as a 
living/dining/kitchen/bedroom area that she was in now, what 
she supposed was a bathroom off to her left and a spare 
bedroom directly in front of her. Her bare feet made flopping 
sounds against the floorboards as she padded into the bedroom. 
The fluffy white flannel nightgown Mulder had dressed her in 
breezed around her figure. She was forced to hold one corner of 
the sleepwear in her right hand while she walked, or else she 
would trip on the material and fall. The spare room was 
decorated in various shades of blue, from the walls to the carpet 
to the bedspread and lampshades. Scully almost passed right by 
the clothes that had been laid out on the bed- a pale blue T-shirt 
and a pair of jeans. Scully dressed quickly, and snorted at her 
appearance as she caught herself in a mirror. With the gauze 
bandage putting pressure to the wound on her head, and the 
oversized clothes she looked as if she had just been out playing 
Cowboys and Indians. 
     She stared evilly at the big clunky boots that had been 
laid out for her thanking God that Mulder never bought her 
clothes for any special occasions. She had to wonder if Mulder 
had set out to make her look ridiculous or if it was just some 
cruel trick of nature that he thought she had big feet and long 
legs. 
     She sat down on the bed and began lacing up the 
boots, her thoughts drifting back to the conversation they'd just 
had. 
     Mulder was falling in love with her. There was no 
doubt about it in her mind. He was falling in love with her and 
he didn't know it. He didn't even recognize what love was, the 
difference between a higher level of trust and beginning to 
really love someone. 
     A part of her wondered why he thought this. Mulder 
*had* to know they were falling in love, didn't he? He had to 
know that this had nothing to do with trust, and everything to 
do with emotions, didn't he? Could his idea of love be so 
totally warped from what was going on between them that he 
didn't even think this was love? 
     She sighed, considering his past. She knew he had 
never been particularly close to his mother or father. That was 
why he was so close to her mother. Margaret had told her more 
than once that she often got the feeling that Mulder wanted to 
call her Mom but seemed afraid to, as if she would tell him to 
get lost and never come back if he did. 
     And the only relationship of his she knew had lasted 
more than a week was with Phoebe. Not the healthiest of 
people to lose your heart to. 
     She rubbed her forehead. How was any of this going 
to work? In teaching him love, she'd never really considered 
this end result: her falling in love with him and he falling in love 
with her. It was strange and exciting in a way. But it was so 
very dangerous . . . 
     If things between them didn't work out, everything 
would be lost. She was staking an awful lot on the hope that 
this relationship would work. It would *have to work*. There 
wasn't any choice about it. If it didn't work out, Mulder would 
never forgive her for pushing them both towards this, and she 
wouldn't be able to forgive herself. Mulder was an irrevocable 
part of her life. Some place in her heart, Scully had always 
assumed that he always would be. They'd become so 
intertwined, she didn't want to picture a life without Mulder by 
her side. She trusted him so much, she gave so much of herself 
to him that she didn't think she'd be able to regain those parts 
of herself back if it did end.
     She swallowed deeply, worry knotting in the pit of her 
stomach. So many things could go wrong, so many things 
could happen to rip them apart. The deck was stacked against 
both of them. But she and Mulder always played the odds. She 
was falling in love with him. She already loved him as a friend, 
and she had been in love with different men before, but it 
wasn't like this. The love she was starting to feel was that 
special love, more powerful than anything else in the world. 
The kind that was written about in fairy tales and 
Shakespearean novels. 
     And if she could love him as much as she did, even 
more . . . . it was possible. Maybe things could work out for the 
best. 
     But first she had to figure out how to heal his 
wounded soul completely. 
     And Scully was positive it would take nothing less 
than a miracle.
     She felt the weight of her cross lying against the slope 
of her breasts and took it up in her hands. 
     Scully prayed for a miracle.

Chapter Eight: Interlude

Norfolk, Virginia
July 4, 1976
9:45 PM

     The dog was badly wounded. His matted black fur 
indicated that he hadn't been under the care of humans in 
many months, wandering the streets at night and scavenging in 
garbage cans for leftover food. His ribs dug into his skin, 
resembling the edge of a cliff. The way he felt right now, he 
could have fallen off of one.
     The dog sighed and stared up at the dark sky, watching 
as it exploded as it did once a year. He tried to remember his 
family and his master but found no recollection of either. His 
earliest memory was of a car ride, and then being shoved out of 
the car and watching as it disappeared.      
     But he was a survivor.
     At least, he had been, the dog thought ruefully. Sticky 
red blood seeped from a wound in his stomach. The raccoon 
had come out of nowhere, looking for the food he'd been able 
to pilfer from a little girl who was more preoccupied with the 
artificial lights than her dinner. The dog whimpered and pawed 
his face. If only he hadn't taken that shortcut from through the 
woods. He would have been safe and sound in the cardboard 
box home he shared with a bum. When the dog had been 
younger, he had thought the man was his master, but that 
opinion changed when the man kicked him. The dog knew that 
real masters didn't hurt their pets. He saw those real pets with 
their real masters. The ones who patted their heads and said 
"good boy" and gave them small biscuit treats. What he had 
with the bum wasn't the master-dog love, but it was as close as 
he was ever going to get. 
     He whimpered again, louder this time. He kicked his 
hind legs in a futile effort to move, to go back to his relatively 
safe cardboard box and heal. The dog whimpered some more, 
knowing he would never see that home again. In some deep 
part of his soul, he wished some night predator would arrive 
with an empty stomach to finish the raccoon's job and put him 
out of his misery. 
     Salvation was the farthest thing from his mind.

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

     "They say that your personality and mission can be 
read in the lines of your feet."
     Dana Scully rolled her eyes at her big sister's words. 
She wasn't sure even Melissa knew what she was talking about 
this time. She probably didn't, knowing her sister. She'd seen 
her sister perform pretend seances, and from what little Dana 
knew, Melissa was doing it wrong. 
     She had only come with her sister to the beach party 
because *anything* was better than staying home with Charlie. 
He always wanted to play stupid baby board games and when 
she'd turn him down her mom would give her that "Don't-be-
mean-he's-your-brother" stare that made her feel so guilty that 
when her father suggested she only play one game she usually 
would play four. So here she was, with Melissa and B.J. at their 
beach party, listening to all the teenagers rant and rave about all 
that weird stuff like tea leaves, palmistry, tarot cards. Dana was 
glad she wasn't a teenager yet.  Who wanted to be a teenager 
anyway? They were all crazy, each and every one of them. Just 
look at what they were wearing! Melissa had on a gray, white 
and yellow skirt with a bikini top to match (which Dana was 
going to tell her mom about because Melissa wasn't supposed 
to be wearing a bikini without a shirt on over it). The rest of the 
girls were dressed similarly, each wearing headbands and 
enough jewelry to sink one of the large ships her dad sailed on. 
The guys were dressed a little better, but not by much. 
     And every one of them stared at Melissa, rapt. The 
campfire B.J. had built illuminated their attentive faces. Dana 
waved a hand in front of her face. It was still hot, even under 
cover of darkness and she yearned to wander down to the shore 
and go for a swim. The fact that the party was only a little ways 
from the beach was the main reason she had come. She didn't 
know any of Melissa's friends, and wasn't sure she even 
wanted to know them.  She liked her middle school friends very 
much, even if some of them were starting to get a little weird 
like Melissa. Staring at boys like they were God's gift to the 
planet . . . 
     "There are different lines in each of our feet. By 
checking out the position and number of lines you can find out 
virtually everything about your life, past, present and future."
     A blond girl with big green eyes spoke up. "What were 
you talking about before, Mel? About a mission?"
     Melissa smiled. "We all have a definite purpose to our 
lives, a destiny we should fulfill and that destiny becomes our 
ambition as we age. Some people never live up to that ambition 
and therefore don't complete their destiny. That's what past 
lives are."
     "There is no such thing," Dana retorted, pursing her 
lips.
     All eyes focused on Dana with a rising degree of 
hostility.
     "Lay back, guys, Day's just not enlightened yet," B.J. 
said, patting her back. 
     Secretly, Dana was pleased that he'd spoken up for 
her. One of the things she liked about having a big brother was 
that she knew he would protect her no matter what. Over the 
years as her family had picked up and moved from base to 
base, she had come to have a great respect for family, as had 
her siblings. They stuck together like glue, and Dana found 
security in the thought that B.J., Melissa and Charlie would 
always be there to help her if she needed help, just as she 
would always be there for them. 
     But then again, there were times like these. Dana 
snorted. "My feet have absolutely nothing to do with what I'll 
do with the rest of my life. It's just a bunch of weird mumbo 
jumbo."
     Murmurs around the crowd. 
     "Day, come here," Melissa beckoned. "I'm going to 
prove to you that this works."
     Dana shook her head. "This is ridiculous. You're not 
getting anywhere near my feet."
     Melissa reached out a hand. "Day, just humor us, 
you'll believe soon enough."
     Dana crossed her arms over her chest and looked 
away, towards the ocean, wishing she was rolling in the cool 
water instead of sitting by a campfire.
     Melissa rolled her eyes, and caught B.J.'s eye. He 
shrugged and turned towards his younger sister. "Day, just be 
an example, you don't have to believe in it. Listen, if you do, 
I'll watch you so you can go swimming," he coaxed softly. He 
knew she loved to swim, especially at night, but her own nature 
wouldn't allow her to do something dangerous like going 
swimming without someone watching her to make sure she was 
okay. 
     Dana brightened. Her goal of that smooth, salty water 
suddenly seemed a lot closer. "Really?" she asked.
     B.J. nodded. "All you have to do is let Melissa play 
with your feet. God knows that's punishment for her enough," 
he teased, a smile flirting with his lips.
     She frowned and socked him in the arm, wishing she 
had more muscle. B.J. played football, and his arm was about 
as thick as her neck. Her punches had all the effect of a  kitten 
pawing at a window. "I think you're confusing my feet for 
yours," she retorted. 
     Melissa wasn't wasting any time, already pulling off 
Dana's white and green jellies.
     "Wait, I didn't agree!" she argued.
     Melissa rolled her eyes. "You were going to," she 
replied flippantly. Dana pouted as Melissa's finger gently traced 
the lines in her foot. 
     "Is it like reading palms, Mel? Where the right hand is 
your present life and the left is your past?" the blonde girl 
asked.
     "Yeah, only they're not lives, their destinies."
     "Is it in my destiny to go swimming?" Dana asked.
     Melissa smirked at her sister, flattening her feet and 
spreading the toes wide. One finger licked from the heel of her 
foot to the bone that jutted protestingly under her big toe. "This 
line indicates a long life. It fades in and out at different places," 
she said, scratching one of her fingernails across different 
places along the path she'd traced. Melissa looked up at her 
sister's face, half thrown in shadow, and was surprised to see 
her paying close attention. She smiled inwardly. Dana might 
not like to admit it, but this type of stuff always fascinated her, 
even if she didn't believe in it. Her sister looked up and caught 
her gaze. Dana's blue eyes were dark and Melissa recognized a 
faint fear lingering there. Her eyebrows furrowed, conveying 
her confusion. *What's scaring you, Dana? Why do you look 
so terrified? It's all just hokey according to you anyway.* 
     "What does that mean?" B.J. asked.
     Melissa glanced at her brother and then back down to 
Dana's foot. "It means that she will be in danger for much of 
her life. Every time that line fades it means her will to live 
lessens , or she becomes ill. There's a long stretch, probably in 
her early thirties, I'm judging by the length of the line. She may 
be sick for a long time. After that period,  the line stays very 
faint- maybe a recovery period. And then it comes back deeper 
than ever."
     Dana heard her sister's words and she had to admit 
that Missy really sounded like she knew what she was doing. 
The words unnerved her, sent a chill down her spine because of 
the ring of truth in them. A dark and dangerous truth called fate 
that she didn't want her sister to play with. 
     "What else do you see?" someone from the group 
questioned.
     Melissa's fingers touched a line that came from a 
corner of her sister's foot up to the middle toe. "This line tells 
us about your personal relationships. It's deep; it means you 
have a passion for people."
     A couple of the kids snickered and Dana blushed. 
     "It doesn't have any sexual connotations, you guys. 
It's a passion as great care. As in compassion. She understands 
people and it's her nature. She gives love easily. She wants to 
give love."
     "She can give me love!" a male voice shouted from 
the back. 
     Melissa's piercing green eyes caught the boy's darkly. 
"You're disgusting. If you can't take this seriously, then leave."
     "She's not taking it seriously and she gets to stay."
     "She's the guinea pig, you're not, Todd. Get out."
     Todd made a rude gesture with his hands. "Why the 
hell would I want to sit around here with you weirdoes 
anyway," he declared. The group watched him stalk away from 
the fire and into the woods leading back to the government 
housing complex. 
     "As I was saying," Melissa continued, her voice louder 
as she drew the group's attention from Todd back to where she 
liked it, on herself. "There's a line that almost zig zags around 
your foot. It goes around your relationship line and your life 
line-"
     "It's probably a scar from when I stepped on that 
broken glass last summer," Dana interrupted suddenly. Melissa 
glanced at her sister and gasped. Terror filled Dana's blue eyes. 
It frightened Melissa a little. Her little sister had courage. It had 
come naturally to her, and Missy could never remember ever 
seeing Dana so scared. Not when they'd received word that 
Daddy's ship was lost at sea; not when Mom and Daddy had 
had that horrible fight last year and Mom had stormed out of 
the house; not when B.J. had gotten into that car accident three 
months ago. Dana had been scared then, but hadn't been 
terrified. Not like she was now. 
     "What about it?" someone asked.
     Melissa swallowed and looked down at the tiny white 
foot she held in her hands. "The, um, the line isn't from a scar, 
it's natural. It could be an indication of a person, someone who 
will have a great effect on your emotions and your life in 
general."
     A series of tiny shivers quilted through Dana's body, 
and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Gooseflesh rose 
on her arms and legs. What had started out as a game suddenly 
seemed very serious and very real to her, and she thought 
Melissa felt it, too. Missy had read her palm before, layed out 
tarot cards, but none of that had ever felt like this. This felt real. 
This felt like her fate. Her destiny. Her sister's earlier words 
echoed through her mind. 
     *Virtually anything about your life, past, present and 
future.*
     The future.
     It seemed unfathomably far away. So many things 
could happen in the future. Dana couldn't imagine being ill, 
especially not for the long period of time Missy described. She 
was rarely sick and was often extremely grumpy when she was 
sick. Mom told her she would probably become a doctor 
someday because she was such a bad patient now. 
     "Your relationship line is deep, and several other lines 
run into it, which means that different aspects of your life are 
tied into your compassion, your caring," Melissa continued 
softly. Finally, she looked up.
     "According to all of this, your role in life is in 
restruction, taking care of what is damaged. You are a healer, 
Dana."
     Dana yanked her foot away. "I don't wanna do this 
anymore, I wanna go home," she said defiantly. B.J. watched 
his sister scramble away from Melissa and saw some form of 
silent communication pass between them.
     Melissa's eyes burned into Dana's. 
     *You can't hide from what's supposed to be, Day.*
     *I don't want to hear this, I don't want to believe in 
this, it's scaring me. This isn't supposed to be real, Missy, 
nothing you ever do is real, why is it like this? I want it to 
stop!*
     "Just let her finish, Dana, and then you can go 
swimming-" he started.
     "No! I want to go home," she said, her voice getting 
louder.
     B.J. looked at Melissa for help, but she was staring 
into the campfire, lost in her own little world of flames. He 
looked back at Dana, whose eyes were wide with fear. 
     "Okay, Dana," he said softly, not wanting to upset her 
more. "Okay, I'll take you back home, you don't have to do the 
rest of this if you don't want to."
     Dana looked at him with complete and utter gratitude. 
B.J. put his hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Day, let's go," he 
coaxed. "I'll be back in a little while, guys," he spoke to the rest 
of the group.
     
Chapter Nine: Destiny

     The  journey back home was silent for the most part. 
Dana led and B.J. followed, knowing his parents would kill him 
if he let his little sister walk home in the dark. Besides, he didn't 
like the thought of her out here by herself, either. It *was* the 
fourth of July after all. People got smashed and did stupid 
things on the fourth, just like they did on New Years' Eve. B.J. 
had gotten used to being the oldest quickly. There was a two 
year difference between each Scully child except for the three 
year difference between Dana and Charlie. B.J. had been seven 
when Charlie, the youngest of the clan, was born. Margaret 
Scully had depended on him and Melissa to help with Dana and 
Charlie. In return, B.J. found that he had a very strong 
connection to each of his siblings. Looking after them had 
become a habit, one he didn't think he'd ever be able to break. 
One he didn't want to break.
     B.J. liked his youngest sister. He had a respect for her 
determination and courage. He sometimes had to remind 
himself that it was Melissa who was the elder, not Dana.  
Which was why he was more than troubled at the look of fear 
he'd seen earlier when Melissa had been doing her foot reading. 
Something about it had disturbed his sister enough to make her 
forget her swim (which was quite a feat, actually because Dana 
loved the water) and want to go straight home, after she'd 
begged him and Melissa to take her with them to the party so 
she wouldn't have to play board games with Charlie.
     He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost ran 
into his sister as she stopped in the middle of the path.
     "Dana?" he asked.
     "Shh," she ordered. "Do you hear that, B.J.?"
     Silence.
     "What?"
     "That sound, listen . .  ." she whispered. A low 
whimpering sound filled the air. A second later Dana tore 
through the bushes, heading towards the direction the sound 
had come from. She skidded to a halt in her tracks and listened 
for the whimpering. She moved blindly in the darkness, 
following the whimpers until she found the tiny black dog. He 
looked like some type of Scottish terrier mix. She reached out 
and he raised his head long enough to snap at her. 
     B.J. came up behind her. "What is it?"
     "It's a dog. I think he's hurt, B.J.," she said, moving 
aside.  B.J. knelt in the dirt beside where the dog lay. 
     "Hey there, fella," he coaxed. He reached out  and the 
dog barked, warning him to back away. Dana bit her lip and 
reached towards the dog again. She saw a flash of white teeth 
as her hand connected to his back, and then his body was calm. 
He whimpered again, and lay his head down, allowing her to 
move her hands over his body lightly, checking for wounds. 
She paused when she felt something hot and wet on her hands.
     "He's bleeding," she whispered. "We've got to get 
him to a vet, B.J.," she insisted.      
     B.J. nodded. "Let's go get Dad first-"
     "No, we've got to take him with us," she insisted.
     "Day, he tried to bite me, he could have rabies-"
     She shook her head. "He's fine with me, we have to 
get him home, though," she protested.
     B.J. sighed. "Okay, pick him up, just keep his mouth 
away from you  in case he gets violent."

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

     Bill and Margaret Scully were watching Charlie dance 
around the back yard with a green sparkler clasped in his hand 
when Dana and B.J. appeared. Bill rose from his chair 
immediately when he saw the blood smudges on his daughter's 
tee shirt and shorts. 
     "Starbuck?" he asked, his voice tight with worry. He 
hurried towards her, and knelt, searching her for the source of 
the blood. 
     "Daddy, there was this dog-"
     "Did he bite you?" 
     Margaret came up behind her husband, and looked at 
her eldest son. "B.J., what in God's name happened?"
     "We found this dog in the woods, Dana wanted to 
come back home-"
     "Starbuck, listen to me," Bill repeated forcefully, his 
hands on Dana's shoulders. "Where did the dog bite you?"
     "He didn't bite her," B.J. spoke up. "We found this 
dog- it looks like some animal attacked him. He's in the front 
yard. If we don't get him to a veterinarian, he's going to die."
     "It's the fourth of July, there aren't going to be any 
vets open," Margaret interjected. 
     "There has to be someone, Mom," Dana said. "We  
can't just let him *die*! We can take him to the  hospital-"
     "Let's see how badly he's hurt," Bill said. He put an 
arm around Dana as B.J. led the way to the front of the house. 
The dog lay in the grass near the porch. Bill knelt in the grass 
and squinted, trying to assess the dog's damage buy the dim 
streetlights. "B.J., get me a blanket, we've got to take him in the 
house."
     B.J. nodded and returned a moment later with an 
oversized beach towel. Bill wrapped the now passive dog up, 
cradling it gently in his arms. A few minutes later it lay on the 
kitchen table, whimpering as Bill poked and prodded the 
wound in the dog's stomach. 
     "I don't think it's as bad as it looks," he pronounced.
     Charlie, having been ushered into the house, reached 
out and patted the dog on the head lightly. "Poor dog," he said. 
     "I think if we stitch up this cut he'll be okay. Charlie, 
why don't you get Mr. Jenkins next door, I know he's had 
some medical training, maybe he can take care of the dog," Bill 
pronounced.
     Minutes later, Mr. Fredrrick Jenkins arrived. His 
prognosis of the dog's injuries was a "nasty cut" before he set 
to work stitching it up. Margaret and Bill had pried Dana away 
only for her to return minutes later when the dog became 
agitated and kept squirming as Fredrick tried to sew him up. 
Stitch by stitch, Dana stroked the dog's head and cooed softly 
to it, continuing to do so long after Fredrick pronounced him 
"done". When the dog closed his eyes and began to rest, Dana 
stood, still sniffling. 
     "Come on, sweetie, let's get you a hot bath and then 
into bed, the dog will be just fine," Margaret coaxed. 
     Fredrick patted her on the back. "You helped out a lot, 
Dana. I wouldn't be surprised if you turned out to be a doctor 
one day yourself," he said.
     Margaret smiled, pride for her baby girl swelling within 
her. "That's what I keep saying," she said,  giving Dana a little 
squeeze. "She'll be a great doctor."

Chapter Ten: Frail Boats on the Sea

And I can tell by the way you're searching, for something you 
can't even name.
That you haven't been able to come to the table, simply glad 
that you came,
When you feel like this try to imagine that we're all like frail 
boats on the sea,
Just scanning the night for that great guiding light announcing 
the Jubilee.
- Mary Chapin Carpeneter, "Jubilee"

November 10, 1998
7:53 PM

     Dana Scully loved bubble baths. 
     Immersed to her neck in sweet, heavenly hot water 
that teased and tickled her body, thick white patches of foam 
drifting lazily over her body, the fragrant smell of vanilla rising 
off the water in rolls of steam. 
     It was a childhood thing she'd never grown out of. 
She'd always hated taking baths when she was little. She'd put 
up a fuss and yell and pout all night when ordered into the 
bathroom. Finally, her mother had come to a compromise, 
bought a giant box of Mr. Bubble and plopped Dana down in 
the center amidst toy tugboats and rubber ducks. 
     It had done the trick. Dana fondly recalled taking huge 
amounts of toys into the bathroom with her, scrubbing up as 
she played pretend games. Rubber snakes posing as giant sea-
serpents would attack her and she would have to defend the 
dolls that floated about on the backs of giant yellow ducks. A 
giant octopus would attack a tugboat plowing through the thick 
white bubbles. Captain Ahab would search for a white whale.
     Dana smiled despite herself. Some things really do 
never change.
     As she'd grown older, she'd started seeing the 
bathroom as a place of sanctuary, a private place away from the 
rest of her family. Away from the crowded bedroom she shared 
with Missy, who would be "omm"ing at one thing or another to 
"find her center". Scully recalled long soaks listening to the 
radio, allowing herself to daydream about life in her teenage 
years. 
     And as an adult, Scully saw her porcelain tub as a 
place of rest and relaxation; much more so than her bed. The 
toys she took with her now were those of an adult; her cell 
phone, a good book, a drink. Mr. Bubble replaced by bath 
beads, oils and scented bubble bath. Instead of torture, such 
things were a luxury to her now with her helter-skelter 
schedule. If she wasn't running from one side of the world to 
the other searching for UFOs, she was trying to keep Mulder 
from doing the same damn thing. And Scully had never seen 
the point in self-pleasure. She liked certain things, yes, but she 
was always more into giving than receiving, and she had more 
important things to do than waste her time in a bathtub. 
     But lately, she'd found herself taking more bubble 
baths than she normally did. 
     After all, in a few weeks maybe a few days even, there 
wouldn't be such luxuries.
     In two and a half weeks, there wouldn't be anything at 
all.
     Because that was all the time she had left to live.
     A week and a half ago, she'd gone for her check-up. 
She had them bi-monthly, ever since she found out about the 
cancer. Sometime between her last check-up and this one, the 
cancer had started moving. Her doctor had summarized that the 
concussion she sustained from her last escapade with Mulder 
might have triggered a response from the growth. Waking it up. 
Goading it. Or hell, maybe it was just the cold turn in the 
weather.
     Her doctor was at a loss to explain why the cancer had 
chosen now to make its move. Just as they were at a loss to 
explain how she could treat it, or what had caused it in the first 
place. They couldn't tell her why God had decided to call her 
home in two and a half weeks. Especially now, when she had 
so much to live for, now when she finally knew exactly what 
she wanted in life and was about to get it. Now, when she had 
come so close to completing the task she'd sent out to do 
months ago. 
     The cancer was progressing in a strange pattern. 
Sliding from the front of her head, it was covering her brain, 
eating away at the gray matter of her cerebrum at the present 
time. At its current rate of progression, they said, it would find 
her medulla and cerebellum in a matter of weeks. It would be all 
over then. No speech or movement, no involuntary processes 
like heartbeat, breathing. The gluttonous mass would chew her 
from inside out  like a pack of hungry wolves. It would gnaw on 
the precious brain cells, as it was doing now, just snacking 
away. So far it hadn't progressed to the white matter of her 
cerebrum. That was when things would start to go. Like 
voluntary movement, memory, emotions, reasoning, 
intelligence. Dana hoped she was already dead by then. She 
didn't think she could survive losing bits and pieces of herself 
like that, cell by agonizing cell. To forget how to move her 
arms, her legs, unable to distinguish red from blue, the task of 
adding two plus four becoming a trial for her. Unable to 
remember people, places, things. Unable to feel love.
     It would be the worst side of her own hell, and Dana 
knew she was going to experience it, eventually. And as much 
as she would liked to end it all, her heart wouldn't let her. It 
pushed her to hold on, keep going, she was strong, she could 
fight this. 
     It told her body lies, and her body tried to believe.
     The doctor had given her four weeks to live.
     When she'd gotten home from the appointment that 
night, Scully had counted out four weeks, exactly. 
     Her death was scheduled on November twenty-
seventh, 1998.
     Twenty-five years to the day since Samantha Mulder 
had disappeared. 
     
8:15 PM

     Mulder watched the window wipers swish back and 
forth, plowing off rain as more plundered the glass. 
Temperatures had been in the lower forties this past week. Not 
enough for a thick blanket of snow to pacify Washington with 
her white tones, and not enough to comfortably walk down the 
street without several layers clinging to your body as protection 
from the low temperatures and the biting wind. All the signs of 
a heartless November. Music spoke softly from the speakers in 
the car, contrasting the patter of raindrops. The world was a 
blur to Mulder through the foggy windows. 
     He ran a hand through his hair and glanced again at 
the rose lying in the passenger seat of his car, wondering why it 
was there. It wasn't as if he and Scully were dating or anything. 
They were just going to dinner and a movie tonight. He and 
Scully had been doing that a lot, recently. He spent more of his 
free time with her now than he ever had before. And he found 
that he liked life a lot better when she was there more. Mulder 
swallowed. He shouldn't have asked her to go with him tonight. 
He took up so much of her life already, he shouldn't be selfish 
with her like this. 
     He slowed at a stop sign, his teeth grasping his upper 
lip as he stared at the white rose. He had only brought Scully 
flowers once before, when she was in the hospital. And those 
flowers hadn't been roses. And they hadn't had any 
connotations other than he was worried about her. He briefly 
considered throwing the rose out. 
     A rose said things to people. It gave off vibes. Roses 
declared things. Things Mulder wasn't sure what he wanted 
Scully to read into the flower. Things he wasn't sure he wanted 
to read into the flower. He knew it meant something. He knew 
that he had picked it up because tonight was *different* 
somehow. The air between both of them had been electrically 
charged all day, positive ions seemed to be sliding over negative 
ones a bit too closely, sparks erupting thus. He knew that 
something more than friendship lay between he and Scully 
now. Something more, but something less.
     It couldn't be love, after all. 
     He scoffed at the idea. He didn't *love* Scully. He'd 
never even associated the term with her. Scully was his 
*partner*, after all. She was his friend.
     Dana Scully had been sent to spy on him.
     He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he slowed 
at a stop sign. 
     "WARM 101.3, continuous music. If you've got a 
request, give us a call at 222-1013. Taking requests and 
dedications all night, and I've got one here from Georgia Hale 
to her boyfriend, Frank . . . .and pal, I'd take the hint. Here's 
Rescue Me, by Madonna."
     Mulder settled into his seat, the DJ's voice echoing 
around him as the musical intro to the song began. He found it 
oddly comforting to drive in the dark. A car was a good place to 
think. He could drive, the radio pouring from the speakers 
around him, and just reflect on different things. A lot of the 
time, he would drive around if he was restless, usually ending 
up in front of Scully's house. He'd sit outside all damn night, 
listening to the radio, thinking. 
     There was something about the night that made him 
pensive and restless at the same time.
     On most nights, when Mulder got into his car, he 
didn't expect to return to his apartment until some time in the 
wee hours of the morning when he was finished reflection on 
whatever it was his mind had needed to exorcise before he 
could go on living. But tonight he hoped he wouldn't have to 
go home at all. Truth be known, he loved sleeping in Scully's 
apartment. His own became lonely sometimes. Even if Scully 
was in another room of the apartment and her couch was 
uncomfortable, the muted sound of her breathing down the 
hall, and her *presence* comforted him. The sense that another 
human being was close by, someone who would care for him if 
he required it gave him a sense of great relief, like knowing the 
cavalry was coming when facing an enemy that outnumbered 
you. The enemy was himself, the dark side of him that kept 
itself separate and aloof from others, putting on a facade of 
apathy even in the most difficult times. The cavalry was her 
apartment, the little knickknacks on her end tables, the 
photographs of her family, and even one of him and her 
together that lined every available surface. Reminders that he 
wasn't at home, a lone soldier trying to ward off the evil that 
threatened to overtake him at times.         
     "I think when love is pure we try to understand the 
reasons why, and I prefer this mystery, it cancels out my 
misery and gives me hope that there could be a person that 
loves me."
     Mulder began to hum along with the music, the dark 
monologue of verse combined with the frantic pace of the 
music was intoxicating in a way.
     Mulder had lived with pain all his life. He was used to 
it. He knew what the sores felt like when you laid your body 
down at night, he understood what it was like to lose your 
family bit by bit and know that nothing could stop it. He knew 
what it was like to give your heart and have it crushed to pieces 
by a person who'd had theirs crushed in much the same way. 
His relationships had always been abusive in some way. Never 
physically. He would never touch a woman with malicious 
intent, but he always ended up on the receiving end of a game 
of emotions that ravaged his heart and his mind, angered him, 
frustrated him, and utterly seduced him.
     That was what love was. It was the only kind he 
believed in. All the other stuff was bullshit. It held no appeal for 
him. Falling in love with a nice girl who would be there for him, 
would cherish his heart and expect him to do the same. 
     Not dangerous enough.
     Mulder needed the danger, the edge to a relationship 
that ensued attraction. It was what love had always been to him, 
two-faced game where one side said one thing but promised 
another. Love was war.
     It was how he'd ended up spending a year of his life 
with Phoebe Green, a woman who played men like puppets.
     Phoebe had been the first woman he'd ever fallen in 
love with, the defining factor of all his other relationships with 
women. He'd lost his virginity to Phoebe. Age 19. His body 
starting to fill out a little more than it had, his acne clearing 
away, his painful past all the way across the big blue Atlantic. 
Being away from home gave him a freedom he had longed for, 
no longer caring for his mother, an emotional wreck, while 
working hard for his father's approval and always just falling 
short. He'd been naive, with notions of honor, loyalty and love. 
     "Love is understanding, it's hard to believe life can be 
so demanding, I'm sending out an S.O.S., stop me from 
drowning, baby, I'll do the rest . . . ."
     Phoebe had been sophisticated, calculating and cold. 
He'd learned from her aloofness and managed to keep that up 
in all his relationships since. Holding back just enough so he 
could make a clean break from his current lover without messy 
emotions like hurt, anger and regret getting in the way. 
     Which was why he couldn't possibly love Dana 
Katherine Scully. He had given her everything. He'd held out 
on the tiny part of his soul that he didn't want anyone to touch 
for as long as he could, but eventually she'd stolen it from him. 
     One night, months ago. When she'd stopped 
following him, stopped insisting that he explain himself. She'd 
threatened not to ask, not to beg for a peek of what he was 
hiding. It had made him want to give that part of his soul to her, 
and he had. He had handed it over without a fight and she had 
taken it up.
     So she had it all now. 
     And he didn't love her. The masochist in him warned 
that what he was approaching with her was dangerously close 
to love. If he crossed that line, he would never be able to go 
back. 
     Mulder had pulled the core of his soul back from the 
clutches of Phoebe Green, consoling himself that he would 
never see her once he went back to America and that he would 
never love the woman that clawed out that core.   
     If Dana Scully took it, if he did love her, it could only 
bring disaster. A disaster far worse than his experience with 
Phoebe Green. Phoebe had been very practical about the 
matter, and her apathy had helped him to feel the same way. 
     Scully wouldn't be so aloof. She would fight and 
scream and kick to hold on.
     Mulder didn't think he would ever be strong enough 
to fight her to regain what was his. He didn't think he could 
engage in an emotional war with her and hope to come out on 
the top. She was much stronger than he.
     But Mulder knew he was giving himself to her 
anyway.
     "Rescue me, your love has given me hope, rescue me, 
it's hard to believe, I'm drowning, baby, throw out your rope. . 
."


     "I'm talking, I'm talking, I believe in the power of love 
. . ."
     Dressed, pressed and ready to go, Scully plopped 
down on the edge of her bed, unrolling a pair of short ankle 
socks. Her light blue jeans hugged her figure graciously, dipped 
at her waist where a soft white blouse clung to her body, veeing 
at her breasts. She hummed along with the radio blaring from 
her bathroom. Mulder, knowing her predilection for bubble 
baths, had bought her a water-proof radio for her bathroom a 
few weeks ago. Just because he was in a store and saw it and 
thought she might like it. It had been a long time since anyone 
had given Scully anything without a purpose. 
     She hauled her ankle up so it rested on the knee of her 
other leg, preparing to don the sock when her thumb traced a 
line in the instep of her foot. A memory came flooding back, as 
vivid as reality.
     A campfire. Smoke drifting lazily towards the sky. 
Heat.  The sound of the waves crashing on the beach. 
     Melissa.
     She smiled, staring at the weather-beaten line in her 
foot. Melissa had read her fortune that night by the campfire. 
Melissa was always trying to read her fortune. Another crazy 
idiosyncrasy that would only belong to her sister who lay dead. 
She sighed, her stomach constricting. It was little moments like 
these that caught her off-guard. She was prepared for the pain 
and anger and sadness she felt when she visited Melissa's 
grave, or when a birthday or holiday came around. But it was 
tiny memories like these that had the power to make her sit 
down and cry. Her index finger laved over the indentation, 
reluctant to let go as her mind drifted back. When had Melissa 
read her foot? Summertime, probably July . . .
     Yes, yes there had been fireworks, and she'd come to 
one of the big teenager parties with B.J. and Missy. Her mind 
reverted back to that year, 1976. She'd been a young twelve 
then, still innocent, still safe. She remembered that night like 
she was still twelve years old. All the big kids listening to 
Missy's wild antics about reading foots. As if palmistry wasn't 
crazy enough. Missy wanted to experiment on someone. B.J. 
promised to let her go swimming if she went along. Her sister's 
tiny, deft fingers gliding around her foot.
     What had Missy been predicting for her destiny? She 
couldn't remember the exact words. Something about being a 
healer. 
     Scully snorted. "Not likely, Missy."
     "Talking to yourself again Agent Scully?"
     Shaken out of her reverie, Scully was surprised to see 
Mulder leaning in the doorframe of her bedroom. She smiled 
and rolled the sock over her foot quickly. No more memories of 
Melissa. No more pain.
     "No, just, thinking."
     He nodded. "What about?"
     She smiled and pulled her other sock on. "About 
Melissa, about when were kids and we lived in Norfolk. Just 
this time when Missy was trying to read the future from my 
foot."
     "So were genetic mutants and aliens in your foot or 
what?"
     She smiled, reaching for her sneakers. "Hardly. She 
told me I was going to be a healer when I grew up. It was my 
destiny. Just didn't work out that way, though."
     "Do you wish it had?" he asked softly.
     She shook her head, double-knotting her shoelaces. 
"Not once."
     "Good. I brought you something," he said, changing 
the subject quickly. Scully was grateful. Even after all this time 
it was hard to talk about Melissa, especially with Mulder. For 
weeks after her sister's death, Scully had blamed Mulder, 
resented his presence in her life and his quest for his sister. But 
gradually she'd realized that she had no right to blame him and 
that no one could have saved Melissa. God had wanted her so 
he had taken her. If not by conventional means, then by an 
unconventional means. 
     "Ya know, you're starting to remind me of a song my 
old Spanish teacher used to make us sing. It was about this guy 
who just shows up at this lady's house for no reason."
     "I thought you took German in school, Scully."
     She smirked. "I was in the advanced classes. Doubled 
up and took two years of Spanish and three years of German."
     "So you can swear in three languages."
     "Four, actually. B.J. took French and taught me all the 
bad words."
     She finished tying her shoe and looked up, the white 
rose almost hitting her in the face. "Here," he said. "This lady at 
the store  wouldn't leave me alone until I bought a flower," he 
lied sheepishly.    
     Scully smiled brightly at him, and plucked the rose out 
of his hand. 
     "Thank you," she said gently. "It's beautiful."
     "I knew there was a reason I thought it matched you," 
he quipped. 
     She shifted past the bedroom door and into the 
kitchen, placing it in a vase on the kitchen table which also 
sprung half a dozen pink tulips. Mulder followed her like a 
puppy dog, watching as she rearranged the bouquet so that the 
rose was in the middle, the tulips framing it in a circle.
     "So you have other gentlemen callers, my dear?" he 
asked. "You're a player, Scully! I feel so used." He clutched a 
hand to his heart as if he was in mortal pain.
     Scully swallowed deeply, staring at the flowers. 
Sympathy flowers. From a nurse at the hospital whom she was 
on friendly terms with. Scully wondered if AIDS patients 
received such things when friends and family found out they 
were terminally ill. Sorry you're dying. Here's some flowers. 
She glanced at Mulder, holding his heart as if it was broken. 
     Not broken, she thought ruefully. Just tattered, beaten 
and jagged. It won't be broken until I die. She wanted to cry as 
she looked at him. So hopeful, so loving. She had to finish what 
she'd started in July. She had to finish it as soon as possible 
and then she had to explain that she was dying. That he had 
better take his heart elsewhere because he couldn't leave it with 
her anymore. 
     Or he'd bury it with her. 
     "Actually," she said, struggling to keep her voice level, 
"I bought them for myself."
     Mulder stood straight, realizing that she wasn't in the 
mood to play. He swallowed, staring at her, recognizing the tell-
tale signs that made warning bells go off in his head.  Her back 
a little bit too straight, her jaw a little too tight, her eyes taking 
on a glassy, dewy look. Something was wrong. Something was 
definitely wrong. 
     He must have moved, because she turned and the look 
was gone, replaced by that of a smiling woman. 
     A woman who had everything to live for.
     "Can we go now?"
     But no time to live.

11:35 PM

     It started on the way back from dinner. In the darkness 
of Mulder's car, his hand sought hers out from its resting 
placed beside her thigh. Her hand responded, their fingers 
interlocking as intricately as their lives interlocked. 
     On the walk up her front steps he held the umbrella 
over their heads, his arm encircling her shoulders to keep her 
close and out of the rain. He kept her in his half-embrace after 
they entered the building. The tension heightened as they 
approached the elevator. Scully was afraid to speak, afraid to 
ruin the spell that had been cast. 
     The elevator doors shut them in the confined cubicle, 
two lone bodies standing as close as possible. The elevator 
began its ascent. Prey to some secret form of communication 
known only to lovers, their hands began to wander. Steadily, 
slowly, Scully's arms lifted, although she couldn't remember 
sending the message from her brain to her body. Her hands 
clasped around the back of his neck as his wrists rested on her 
hips, his hands clasped around the small of her back, pulling 
her forward to him. 
     Scully's eyes caught his. Blue met hazel. Sparks. 
Desire. Need. His eyelids fluttered as he moved closer to her. 
She leaned up, waiting for what seemed like an eternity before 
his lips closed over hers in a soft kiss. A bit of pressure and his 
tongue spilled onto her lips, caressing, needing. Her body 
thrummed with energy.  Months of love and care spilled into 
the hot burn of need in a matter of moments. Her knees 
anchored themselves around his hips, and he pressed her back 
against the wall of the elevator. He moaned softly as she thrust 
herself forward, her hands trailing down his back and around 
his chest, reveling in the feel of him. Mulder's hands quickly 
found their way to her blouse. He trailed one hand over her 
breast, the other running the length of her thigh, and then 
sliding inward. He cupped her through the jeans, his fingers 
pressing against her. She gasped and thrust her hips towards 
him, her hands pulling his head to her own. Her head fell back 
against the wall of the elevator as his lips worked their way 
down the side of her face, to her throat, reaching the crevice 
where the vee of her shirt ended. 
     His tongue splayed hot and wet over her skin, and she 
trapped his hand between their lower bodies, her ankles 
hooking around his waist as her hands slid to the opening of his 
jeans.
     Before he could say a word, her hand was smoothing 
over his arousal, her fingers running the length of him in 
exquisite torture. He bucked forward, into her palm, his heat 
rubbing against the fabric of her jeans. Her mouth caught his 
again, his tongue catching hers, locking, dueling. "Scully," he 
moaned into her mouth. 
     Her breath caught when she heard his voice. Scully 
had always found Mulder's voice to be one of the most erotic 
things about him. That voice sent shivers through her groin, 
made her lower body clench with need. 
     The pitch it lay at now heightened the tension rolling 
in her body to an almost painful ache. She wanted him. Now. 
Tonight. Right here in this elevator, her back against the wall. 
Hard and fast and hot. The enormity of the situation suddenly 
came crashing down on her. She was not going to take him like 
this, not in a damn elevator. She'd promised herself that it 
wouldn't be this way when they finally came together. She had 
promised that she would show him the love of lovemaking. It 
was going to be a mind-blowing experience for him. It was 
supposed to be about him the first time. She'd promised herself 
that she was going to do this right, that she was going to make 
sure everything was *right* when they finally came together 
like this. 
     As good as it felt, Scully knew that this was *not* the 
right way to go about their union. They needed a bed. They 
needed hours, not minutes. They needed familiar territory. 
     She broke the kiss, gasping for breath, panting with the 
force of her desire. His arousal nudged the cradle of her hips. *I 
must be out of my fucking mind.*
     "Mulder, we're in an elevator," she gasped. He 
pressed his forehead against her so they could stare into each 
other's eyes. Her entire body protested as she saw the raging 
need and fiery passion that reflected back at her, a mirror image 
of all the twisted emotions surging through her body. *I am out 
of my mind.*
     "That's what they have that little red button for, 
Scully," he replied. 
     She exhaled loudly, her body sagging against his. "My 
apartment is ten feet from the elevator doors."
     "I want you, Scully," he murmured, his lips brushing 
hers as he spoke. "I want you." 
     "Not like this, Mulder," she breathed. "Ten feet, 
Mulder. We need more time-"
     "We've already wasted four years," he spoke quickly.  
     She looked up into his eyes, and he sighed as he 
realized there was no way he was going to convince her to 
finish it here. Her legs slid from his hips. He stepped back and 
did his best to zip himself up. 
     "Good things are worth the wait." 
     The elevator doors opened with the pronounced ding 
of a bell. 
     "Is this a good thing, Scully?" he asked seriously. 
     She smiled at him, and took his arm, leaning on him as 
they stumbled out of the elevator together. "Yeah. Yeah, I think 
this is a very good thing."
     He wrapped his arm possessively around her waist. 
"Nine, eight seven . . ." he murmured in her hair as they started 
down the hall to her apartment. 
     She laughed with him as they turned the corner, 
heading towards her apartment . . .
     . . . and pulled up short.
     Standing in front of her door next to a small brown 
package was Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Still dressed in 
his attire from work, his face was drawn and solemn. His 
shoulders sagged slightly. He looked as if he'd just battled a 
dragon . . . and lost. Laughter dissipating, Scully stood 
straighter, smoothing her jeans and blouse. Mulder blinked 
several times. Seeing Skinner here was so . . . weird. Mulder 
hung his coat in front of himself, and glanced worriedly at 
Scully. She nodded almost imperceptibly to him and started 
forward, taking charge.
     "Sir. What are you doing here?" she asked, confused. 
     He nodded. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for 
the past three hours. Where were you?"
     "With Agent Mulder," Scully explained, motioning 
towards her silent partner. 
     Mulder nodded at his boss, confirming what Scully 
said. His eyes slid to the door to Scully's apartment. He didn't 
trust Skinner. Not since Skinner had lied to him, had destroyed 
evidence in a desperate attempt to keep Scully alive. Mulder 
wondered what was in all this for Skinner. Why he was willing 
to risk life and limb for Scully. But then Scully would do 
something, would look at him a certain way and in those few 
seconds Mulder knew *exactly* why Skinner would do 
anything for Scully. Mulder knew why he would do anything 
for her, too.
     His downward examination revealed a package resting 
at Skinner's feet. He shifted and Scully traced his line of sight 
to the square cardboard box. "Is that package for me?" she 
asked.
     Skinner's eyes darted from agent to agent uneasily. 
"No. I found it here when I arrived."
     "How long have you been waiting?"
     He pursed his lips, glancing at Mulder and back to her. 
"About twenty minutes."
     "May I ask what for, sir?"
     He exhaled. "I need to have a word with you, Agent 
Scully. In private," he added, his eyes catching Mulder's 
pointedly. 
     Scully nodded, taking charge. She pulled the keys out 
of her pocket and handed them to Mulder silently. "Why don't 
you go put some coffee on, Mulder?" 
     He squeezed her fingertips as he took the keys and 
slipped inside her apartment, with the package.
     Skinner didn't waste any time. "Agent Scully, I 
recently received a report that your doctor hadn't forwarded 
your latest medical information to the Bureau last week. I called 
your doctor and he said you had told him you were no longer 
in work due to your . . . illness and that he shouldn't forward 
the reports."
     "Sir, I was planning-"
     "Save it, Scully," he barked. She quieted immediately, 
folding her hands. "I read the reports," he accused. "I know 
how much time you have left."
     Her eyes shimmered. "Then you also know that it's 
imperative I keep working-"
     Skinner's chest puffed out.  "Dammit, Scully, I will 
*not* keep an officer in the field when she has two weeks to 
live."
     "It's my choice-"
     "It's the *wrong* choice!" He turned away, angry at 
himself. Angry at her. "You have two weeks to live, is this how 
you want to spend it? Working?"
     "With Agent Mulder, yes."
     Skinner swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to 
get in control of his emotions. "Does he know?"
     She shook her head slowly. "I haven't told him yet."
     "What?" he demanded, shocked. 
     "Things have been . . . changing for me and Mulder. 
Personal things," she said in a tone that said in no uncertain 
terms his prying was not welcome. "So I haven't told him yet."
     "You want to continue working?"
     "Just for a little while longer, sir."
     He nodded, expelling a sigh. When his eyes opened 
again they stared at her not with anger, but compassion. And in 
some twisted way, a sort of affection. "Mulder deserves to 
know the truth. And he deserves to hear it from you. He is your 
partner and . . . obviously more," Skinner smirked. His eyes 
dusted over her disheveled clothes and hair. "Whatever your 
relationship is with him, either way he needs to know. Soon."
     "Sir, please," she said, desperation and fear lurking 
behind her plea. "I have to be the one to tell him. But I can't do 
it tonight, I *can't*, it's too soon."
     He pursed his lips, taking a step towards her. Skinner 
wanted to give her a hug. In a way, he had come to respect and 
admire the tiny woman that stood before him. She was looking 
right at Death, and telling him to wait. Scully was just like 
Mulder in that way. Unafraid of the truth, loving it with a 
passion that rivaled Mulder's. 
     Not rivals, though, he thought. Equals. Halves of a 
whole. Unconsciously, his eyes drifted towards the golden band 
he still wore on his left hand. His wedding ring. A reminder that 
he had once been half of a whole. A reminder of the hidden 
truths and fears he had kept from Sharon, which had eventually 
driven her away from him. 
     It wasn't lies which were going to split up Mulder and 
Scully, though. It was death.
     His eyes met Scully's, and he took a deep breath. "All 
right, Scully."
     Her body  relaxed visibly, her shoulders slumping, the 
air rushing out of her lungs in relief.  
     He licked his lower lip. "You have one week. If you 
haven't told Mulder by then . . . I'm going to tell him myself," 
he threatened. 
     She looked up at him, but didn't acknowledge the 
threat seriously. "Thank you, sir." To his overwhelming shock, 
Scully reached out and suddenly hugged him. He put his hands 
just behind her shoulders, feeling awkward in her arms. She 
pulled away a moment later, her eyes slightly watery. "Thank 
you for everything you've done for me and Mulder. And for 
what you're doing for him now."
     He shuffled backwards. "Yes, well, you're welcome, 
Agent Scully," he said, using her official name. Trying to put 
some distance between them. Trying not to care that she was 
dying and that he could do nothing about it anymore. Including 
help the man that loved the heaven and the hell that came out 
of her. 
     She smiled. "I'm sorry if that felt awkward, sir. It 
wasn't my intention."
     He shook his head, feeling his throat close with the 
hopelessness of it all. He knew in his mind that this was how he 
would remember Dana Scully for the rest of his life. Alive. 
Happy. Resplendent. A woman he would do anything to save. 
His eyes raked over her flushed face, and then slanted towards 
the door to her apartment. If Mulder knew how little time she 
had left, Skinner knew he wouldn't be the only one willing to sell 
his soul for her. 
     "One week, Scully," he reminded her. 
     She nodded. "One week."
     Scully stood in the hall, watching his retreating form 
until he rounded the corner and she heard the pronounced 
"ding" of the elevator doors. 
     Satisfied that her boss was no longer present she 
pushed aside the door and slipped inside. 
     Mulder had turned on a dim lamp next to her sofa, 
where he sat now. She smiled when she saw him, and locked 
the door behind her. No more visitors for them tonight, she 
thought. She hadn't gotten more than two steps before he 
turned to face her. Her smile faltered. His face was totally 
solemn, dark and serious. "Mulder?" she asked softly.
     His mouth opened, his jaw trembling slightly. For one 
heart-wrenching moment she thought he knew. Thought he 
could see right into her body and *know* that she was going to 
be dead soon. It terrified her more than anything else. Her hand 
unconsciously went to her face, just below her nose, checking 
for the telltale blood.  
     "Mulder," she said slowly, "what's wrong?"
     His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat, his eyes 
shining with unshed tears. "The box, Scully. I- I brought it in 
and I- I tripped," he breathed. 
     She walked towards him slowly, watching the 
emotions play on his face. Sadness. Happiness. Shock. "It 
opened," he said dumbly. She took a tentative place beside him 
on the couch. His hand extended towards her. She watched his 
fingers tremble as he handed her the photograph. 
     Her eyes widened at the image in the photograph. 
Gabriel stood there, his face crinkled and smiling with his arm 
around a young woman. A woman with long, wavy dark brown 
hair. Tall, slim, a sharp nose, widely placed placid brown eyes. 
A tiny freckle at her temple.
     The spitting image of Samantha Ann Mulder at age 
thirty-two. 
     Her eyes met Mulder's and any thought of love or sex 
or death flew from her senses. 
     "I think it's her, Scully."

     The next four hours were complete chaos.
     Mulder called Skinner and requested assignment to 
look into the matter. Scully sifted through the contents of the 
package, finding a pair of high heels that were better off dead, 
and a letter of explanation from Gabriel.

My Dear Agent Scully,
     I found these in my cabin after you left. I know 
they're a mess, but I thought you might want them. Sylvia said 
they're a very expensive brand. I found your address on your 
driver's license, which must have slipped out of your purse 
while you were here. I'm enclosing it and a photo of Sylvia- 
isn't she beautiful? She's studying to be a doctor, you know. I 
also wanted to know how you and Agent Mulder are coming 
along after your accident. Has anyone ever told you that you 
two would make a striking couple? Forgive me, that was rather 
forward. For all I know you could both be happily married to 
people other than each other.  I'm afraid I didn't let Mulder say 
much while you were unconscious. I have a tendency to ramble 
on. In any case, I hope you will respond to this letter, I'd like to 
know how you both are doing.

                         All my best,
                              
     Gabriel Morris

     Mulder got in touch with Frohike, who began a long 
trace of the records of Sylvia Morris. 
     By three-thirty in the morning, Mulder and Scully 
were buckled into their seats on a plane heading for New York 
City. 
     Scully shifted in her seat and turned to look at Mulder. 
"What did you get from Frohike?"
     He shook his head. "Not much. Langly is working at 
her past. Byers said that a day ago she flew to New York from 
Atlanta and checked into a hotel room. Langly is having trouble 
accessing the adoption agencies data banks. Apparently they've 
had some problems with hackers so they have several security 
systems set up."
     "What's she doing in New York?"
     He shrugged. "Not sure. What did you get on 
Gabriel?"
     She shook her head, glancing down at the manila file 
in her hand. "No information he didn't already volunteer. He 
has no criminal record, he doesn't work for  any government 
agency-"
     "Any agency on record," Mulder injected. 
     She let the remark pass without argument. "His social 
security number checked out, but Agent Bradshaw's having 
trouble accessing his birth records. She's still trying and she's 
going to let us know as soon as she finds something."
     He nodded curtly. "Good."
     Scully bit her lip, watching him. She closed her eyes, 
all the energy sapping out of her body like a drain pulled in a 
bathtub. Her eyes opened when she felt a hand on her face. 
Mulder was staring at her, his heart in his eyes. "We should get 
some sleep," he said. His voice was roughened, hoarse from 
talking on the phone. "It's been a long day."
     She stared at him incredulously. "Sleep? Now? 
Mulder, we may be on the verge of finding your sister. You 
actually think you're going to sleep?"
     He chuckled. "It's sort of like Christmas eve when 
you're six years old, isn't it?" He glanced at her. "Well," he 
said smugly, "for believers at least." He aimed a pointed look at 
her with his last statement.
     She smiled at him. "I'd like to believe, Mulder. But 
you know what would happen then."
     "Our heads would fill with so much air we'd start 
floating around like we were on the moon?"
     She shook her head. "You and your implausibility."
     "You and your plausibility," he bantered. He resigned 
then, leaning back in the seat. "We really need to sleep."
     "Since when do you and sleep go together?"
     He raised his eyebrows. "Since I get to sleep next to 
you."
     Her jovial expression diminished slowly as she 
thought back to what had happened. What would have 
happened had Skinner not had the worst possible timing in the 
world. It would have been morning when she opened that 
package. She and Mulder would be fresh from a long, vigorous 
night of lovemaking. The thought left her insides tingling. Made 
her heart melt. 
     "Mulder  . . ." she began softly, but he put a finger to 
her lips. 
     "I know, Scully. We have to talk about what 
happened, but . . . not right now, okay?"
     She sighed deeply. "If we wait-" she stopped, realizing 
what she was going to say. If we wait it might be too late to talk 
about how we feel. If we wait, I could be dead.
     "If we wait, what?"
     "Nothing, you're right. Let's get some shut-eye while 
we can."

New York City
November 11, 1998
4:12 AM

     The old man reclined in a soft black leather chair, his 
legs crossed at the ankle, his heel resting on the footstool. His 
face was long and rivulted, as if the rain had left a long steady 
stream of lines down his face. Blue eyes were sunken into his 
head, which reminded the younger man before him of a skull. 
The blue haze of his cigarettes filled the air. If Walter Troy (as 
his papers required to maintain his cover had labeled him) had 
been more human in nature he would have been choking in the 
smoke-filled room. As it was, however, the curls of smoke only 
left his skin with a faint odor and a crawling sensation. Nothing 
a shower or a shift wouldn't fix. Preferably the latter. Troy 
didn't like being himself, not even for the man in front of him. 
The man that was supposed to be his ally; the man he 
considered to be his enemy. His nature despised all things 
corrupt. A natural opposition to evil had been ingrained in his 
genetic thought pattern. 
     But Troy helped. He did as he was told to save his 
people. He would do anything for his people. 
     "Why have you asked me here?" he monotoned. He 
despised the corrupt tongue. In his native language the husky 
timbers of his voice made the words flow and lilt like the music 
of water running through a cool, clear stream. In the rough, 
coarse language the older man spoke.
     "I need you to kill someone. Two someones in fact. 
Hybrids."
     "For what purpose?"
     The man sucked in a  deep breath of the nicotine and 
tar-filled roll of paper. Troy didn't like the way the breathing 
organs in the older man's chest pushed themselves to the brink 
to expand. At each breath he waited for something to burst. 
"Does it matter?" he intoned. "I'm giving you what you're here 
for, what you'll be here for until you've accomplished your 
mission."
     "Why give them to me?"
     He smiled. "It suits my needs. It suits the needs of the 
group. And if you kill them, you would be doing us a great 
service. The information is in the file," he said, motioning 
towards a large manila envelope that lay on the cherrywood 
coffee table. Troy picked it up and departed. 

10:45 AM

     The two hour flight to New York did not provide either 
agent with enough sleep. Mulder had been able to confirm that 
Sylvia Morris was registered to the hotel they were now parked 
in front of, but unable to get a room number. Scully yawned in 
the seat beside him. She rubbed the side of her face and 
shivered. 
     "If only Pendrell was here," she commented.
     Mulder turned to her, his eyes questioning. She smiled 
somewhat apologetically. "He would have been up all night 
getting me the number of Sylvia Morris's hotel room."
     He smiled softly at her. "Wish we could bring that 
snooty hotel clerk in on obstruction of justice. I can't believe he 
wouldn't even call in our badge numbers."
     She shrugged. "It was five in the morning, and we 
don't exactly look like FBI agents," she said, gesturing to their 
casual clothes. "I probably wouldn't have given us the time of 
day either."
     "You know, I saw Penny the other day."
     Scully looked up. "How is she and her son?"
     He smiled softly. "Fine. Just fine. He looks, well . . . 
he looks like what Pendrell probably looked like as a baby, you 
know? Big blue eyes, freckles. Curly red hair. And Lucas loves 
that little boy just like it's his own child."
     She nodded. "Not a lot of men would be able to do 
that. To raise a child that's not theirs and love it. It takes an 
awful lot of love to marry someone who's having another man's 
child. To love and raise that child knowing that it was conceived 
between the person you love and someone they loved and 
trusted enough at the time to share themselves with that person."
     Mulder noticed the slight hitching in her voice, and it 
made him ache not to know why she teetered on the verge of
tears. Whether it was guilt over Pendrell's murder or the 
knowledge that she would never be able to have a child of her
own. That the men who had taken her had not only robbed her
of three months of her life and given her a disease that could
end her life permanently if the treatements she'd been 
receiving didn't keep working like she said they did, but that they'd
also robbed her of the ability to create a life. His mind stumbled
back to Goddard's words. 
     *One that would call you Mommy instead of Aunt Dana,
though.*
     He swallowed, feeling regret grab ahold of him like a vice.
I'm so sorry they did this to you.
     A thick silence fell between them, full of questions
and doubts and sorrow. Indescribable sorrow.
     Mulder cleared his throat awkwardly. "Well it's almost 
seven now. I'm going to go check out the lobby, see if I can 
spot her. Why don't you stay out here in case I miss her?" 
he suggested.
     She snorted. "Yeah, leave me in the cold car."
     His eyes latched onto hers. "Fifteen minutes and then 
I'll be back. I promise."
     She sighed. "Okay."
     "Call me if you see her, but wait until I get there. I 
want to be the one to talk to her," he said, stepping out of the 
cold car and into the colder air. 
      Scully shifted over to the driver's seat, trying to 
absorb the body heat he'd left behind. She watched him 
disappear into the hotel, as she scanned the crowds for Sylvia 
Morris. Scully wanted it to be Samantha. She wanted to believe 
that it really was Mulder's sister and that she was alive and 
happy. It would fill the gaping abscess in his soul, the one she 
had painstakingly tried to build a bridge across the past few 
months. So she could reach him and save him from himself. So 
he could save her.
     Scully firmly believed that finding Samantha, finding 
some type, any type of closure, be it a pile of children's bones 
or a happily married woman, would help Mulder. It wouldn't 
fix all of his problems. It wouldn't help him to believe that love 
was pleasure, not pain.
     But it was a damn good start.
     Scully feared what would happen to Mulder after she 
died. The thought of her own mortality didn't scare her as 
much as it used to. As it did in the beginning. She only feared 
for Mulder. Her mom would survive. She would be stronger, 
pull the family reins tighter and carry on, like she'd carried on 
after Missy's death. B.J. would be angry at her for a while, but 
he would accept it. Accept her death as he'd accepted 
Melissa's. Anger, grief, love and carry on.
     But not Mulder. Mulder would spend the rest of his 
life blaming himself. True to his masochistic nature, he would 
blame himself, and it could quite possible drive him over the 
edge. Twenty five years after Samantha dies, he would lose her. 
Her death was scheduled for that day. Two weeks away. And 
the endless question of what to do about Mulder still haunted 
her. 
     Scully took a breath as she spotted Sylvia. Her cell 
phone snapped open the same moment as her car door. She 
hurried across the street, receiving only a few rude gestures 
from irate drivers. Her finger depressed the speed dial button 
and she heard a trilling behind her. She stopped and Mulder ran 
into her. He reached out a hand to steady her. "You ok, 
Scully?"
     She nodded distractedly. "I'm fine, I saw Sylvia-" her 
hand lifted in front of her, where a tall brunette stood out 
against the crowd. 
     Mulder grabbed her hand and half-dragged her along 
as she struggled to keep his breakneck pace.
     They didn't catch up to Sylvia until she stopped at the 
corner to wait for traffic.
     In an unspoken agreement, Mulder let Scully do the 
talking first. 
     "Sylvia Morris?" she questioned.
     The woman turned, and her large brown eyes bore into 
Scully's. "Yes?"
     "My name is Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder," she 
said, motioning towards her partner. Mulder nodded at the 
woman, his hands balled into fists. Sylvia looked like 
Samantha. She talked like her. He wanted to reach out and hug 
her, hold her to him and never let her go.  He wanted it to be 
Samantha. More than he could ever remember wanting 
anything in his entire life. 
     "We're with the FBI. Is your father Gabriel Morris?"
     Her mouth was drawn, her eyebrows furrowed. "Yes, 
he is. What's this about?"
     Mulder cleared his throat as people started passing 
around them to cross the street. He opened his mouth to speak, 
but he didn't hear the car until it was too late. Someone behind 
them screamed and pointed. Mulder turned to see a dark blue 
sedan heading towards the sidewalk in a detour that was all too 
deliberate. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion from 
then on. He reached for Scully first, his arm wrapping around 
her shoulders and hauling her out of the path of the car.  He 
turned, remembering Sylvia, just in time to see her legs connect 
with the front of the car. She flopped like a rag doll on top the 
car, the windshield spidering out in a thousand directions as her 
head collided with it. The car jerked to a halt, and her limp body 
rolled of the hood. He watched helplessly as the driver stepped 
out. Several people tried to grab the tall suited man. Mulder was 
helpless to do anything but watch as the man walked towards 
the body, unsheathing a long pointed weapon resembling an ice 
pick. Beside him, Scully screamed and headed towards the 
man, trying to rush him as he bent over Sylvia. 
     "Scully, don't!" he cried. The tall man put his hand on 
Scully's shoulder and she flew backwards against the wall of 
the brick building opposite him. Mulder rushed to her side, as 
the driver stuck the tip of the pick into the base of her neck. 
Mulder saw his normally serious, expressionless face go white 
with surprise when red blood swelled where he had punctured 
her spinal cord. The taller man backed away from Sylvia's limp 
body, heading towards the car. He ducked in and drove off. 
Mulder checked Scully's pulse and satisfied that she was 
merely unconscious headed towards Sylvia. He swallowed 
deeply as blood trickled from the base of her neck down over 
his hand. The rhythmic pump underneath her jawbone was 
growing steadily lighter.     
     Vaguely, he remembered hands tugging on his 
shoulders as a group of uniformed paramedics attacked 
Sylvia's body. Although he didn't remember feeling dizzy, he 
supposed he must have blacked out  because before he knew it 
he was sitting in an orange plastic chair in a hospital waiting 
room. He looked up when he saw Scully come towards him.
     "Can I see her?" he rasped.
     She reached out and clasped both of his hands in hers, 
her eyes holding his. "The pick slid through her spinal cord, and 
up through her medulla, just scraping her cerebellum. She's in a 
coma, Mulder. And even if she wakes up, she'll never be able 
to live without being hooked up to machines."
     He nodded tersely. "I still want to see her."
     Scully licked her lips, and pulled softly on his hands. 
"Okay, Mulder."

3:29 PM
     
     It seemed worse to his eyes.
     Sylvia Morris was lying in a white hospital bed. 
Machines surrounded her, and from what Scully had told him, 
they were all that kept her alive now. His shoulders sagged, the 
emotion draining from his face. Scully tightened her grip on his 
hand in response, watching him. His legs suddenly ached and 
he collapsed into the chair by her bed. Scully left his side and 
pulled the curtains around them. 
     "I'll be outside-"
     "No," he said quietly. His eyes reached for her. "Stay. 
Please."
     Her heart clenched as she moved towards him. He 
grabbed her around her waist and deposited her body in his lap, 
his arms holding her at the hip as he stared at Sylvia. Her arms 
slid around his neck. "It can't end like this, Scully," he 
explained, a plea and a prayer wrapped into one. "It just can't."
     She closed her eyes, fighting off tears to be strong for 
him. His head rested under her chin. "It can't," he repeated, his 
voice cracking as silent tears broke into sobs.
     After a short eternity, Scully joined him.

9:12 PM

     "You lied to me."
     The older man was sitting exactly how Troy had left 
him, the only sign of time's passage the accumulation of 
cigarette butts in the crystal ash tray beside him. He took a drag 
off of the cigarette ever-present in his right hand. 
     He cleared his throat softly. "I did?"
     Troy's jaw hardened. His muscles flexed underneath 
the tapered suit he wore. "The woman was not a hybrid."
     The man in the black leather chair shrugged. "It seems 
there has been a mistake in the paperwork we gave you. I was 
under the impression that you knew she wasn't a hybrid. She 
knows about you, though. Through her . . . 'father'."
     "That makes no difference. I am not your assassin. I 
am not here to kill humans for you," he spoke gruffly. 
     The man in the chair shifted. "You do what we tell you 
so that the project may continue."
     "I do not answer to you and your government. If there 
are security leaks that is your problem. Not mine," he spat. 
     The cigarette went down. "It is your problem," he 
spoke, his emotionless voice taking on a note of dangerous 
annoyance. "It is your problem because it deals with the 
project. You will do as I say or you will be killed. I know how 
to do it."
     A slow, bitter smile spread across Troy's face. "You 
wouldn't risk starting a war you could never hope to win."
     "You presume to believe you're that important to the 
project? You're nothing. Nothing. You're an accessory."
     Troy continued to smile. "Believe what you will." He 
liked the way the old man's face turned a chalky color at his 
words. He liked the way the light went out of his cold blue 
eyes, replaced by fear. "Is the man a hybrid?"
     "Yes," the older man hissed.
     "The truth."
     "Yes, damn you!" he barked.
     Troy's smile faded. "Let's hope for your sake that 
you're telling the truth after all. You may forget, sir- in our 
eyes, you are not essential to the project."
     "You may forget- but without me there would be no 
project."
     "Where is he now?"
     "On a flight to New York. He should be arriving at 
10:30 PM."
     "What airport?"
     The man smiled coolly. "Well. We can't do all your 
legwork, can we?"
     Troy sneered at the man, but departed.  

9:31 PM

     Scully stared at the computer screen and sighed 
heavily. She had left a rather distraught Mulder at the hospital 
almost six hours earlier, comforting him with the knowledge 
that it might not even be Samantha and that either way, he had 
to inform Gabriel. From the NYPD, she had discovered that 
one of the eyewitnesses had remembered a partial license plate 
number. She now sat at a computer terminal at the New York 
division of the Bureau, going through the numerous list of all 
the owners of vehicles with the license plate beginning with 
LCD in New York State, specifically in the southeastern area. 
     She rubbed her forehead, tiredly. She'd been at it for 
well over four and a half  hours and her eyes were starting to 
bother her. Her hand slid over to the phone, picking it from its 
cradle and dialing an outside extension and a number she knew 
by heart.
     "Mulder."
     "Hi, it's me," she said, rubbing her nose. 
     "Did you find anything?" he asked. 
     She sighed. "Not yet. How are you doing?"
     "I called Gabriel. His flight is due in about an hour. Do 
you want me to swing by and get you before I go pick him 
up?" he asked.
     Scully's face did aerobics as she struggled to satisfy 
the itch. Her nose was really starting to bother her. "Um . . no, 
I've still got some work to do here. I'll call you if I find 
anything, okay?"
     "Sure." He paused, and an uncomfortable silence 
lingered over the extension. "Um, bye, Scully."
     "Bye, Mulder." *I love you*. 
     She replaced the receiver in its cradle, and stood, with 
every intention of heading towards the bathroom. Her head 
began to swim after three steps. Her feet faltered on the fourth. 
Her head pounded as she stumbled towards the door. A trickle 
of blood slipped down from her nose as the door swung open. 
Her mouth opened, but her tongue felt thick inside her mouth, 
unable to complete the necessary words and phrases to ask for 
help. She threw her hands in front of her in a last-ditch effort to 
prevent the inevitable fall.
     And then she was silently, blissfully unconscious.

Chapter 11: Announcing the Jubilee

10:26 PM
     
     When Mulder's cell phone rang almost an hour later, 
he was waiting patiently for Gabriel's plane to arrive.
     By the time it was taxiing onto the runway, he was 
frantic. A doctor had called, explaining that his name was Jack 
Arten and the nurse had found his business card in Scully's 
jacket, after she collapsed. They had downloaded her recent 
medical data from the bureau and found that her four weeks 
had been overestimated. At best she had four hours before 
there would be nothing they could do to keep her alive. Arten 
had calmly informed him that she was comatose in ICU, and 
asked if there was anyone he should notify.
     In a fit, Mulder had rambled off Mrs. Scully's number, 
as well as Skinner's, before hanging up, just as Gabriel was 
walking out of the terminal.
     Mulder quickly grabbed him by the arm. "Come on, 
we'll get your luggage later, I have to get to the hospital."
     Gabriel glanced at the younger man. "What's wrong?"
     Mulder swallowed back an onslaught of tears. 
"Scully's- she collapsed." He licked his lips, looking over into 
the crowd. "They say she has four-" he stopped, shocked out of 
his blubbering as he watched a man approach. A man with dirty 
blond hair and blue eyes as cold as the steel of the tiny weapon 
packaged in his palm. 
     The bounty hunter. The assassin.
     Rage spewed from his gut, so hot and violent he 
believed for one single instant that despite the other  . . . thing's 
strength and abnormal powers he could still tear it limb from 
limb with his bare hands.  
     Instead, he pulled out his sig, aiming directly for the 
thing's head. 
     To his utter surprise, the bounty hunter pulled out a 
gun of his own. People around him began screaming and 
running as the thing's gun went off, landing a slug in his right 
shoulder. He lowered his gun to clutch at his wound, spurting 
hot, fresh blood. Holstering his gun, he clutched at the sleeve of 
Gabriel's jacket. "Run!"
     Mulder's feet pounded on the tiles, running past 
frightened people and security guards rushing towards the 
bounty hunter, who pushed past them effortlessly. He shoved 
the startled Gabriel through the revolving doors ahead of him, 
and out into the parking lot. Mulder saw the bounty hunter 
stepping into a car, the same one that had been used to run 
Sylvia down, as  he backed the car out of its parking space, the 
tires leaving long dark streaks against the pavement. 
     Mulder was driving with one arm, skirting down the 
unfamiliar streets and alleys of New York at a breakneck pace 
in an attempt to lose the dark blue sedan chasing them with 
malicious intent. He winced in pain as he made a left turn, 
accidentally jarring his arm. 
     Gabriel studied him for a moment and then slowly and 
quietly undid his seatbelt. 
     Mulder jammed the car into an alley, hiding it behind a 
large dumpster. He sighed with relief when he saw the sedan  
speed past them, and jumped when Gabriel grabbed his 
shoulder.
     "What?"
     "Be quiet," Gabriel ordered. Mulder felt a rush of 
energy pulse through him, jolting out from his shoulder. Eyes 
wide, he turned to face Gabriel and saw the other man's face 
bathed in sweat. Mulder felt a pulling at his skin and clothes 
and watched in amazement as the dark red blood began to 
bleed up, and back into his shoulder, his shirt coming clean. 
     A moment later, Gabriel sat back, panting with the 
exertion. Mulder unbuttoned half of his shirt and pulled it over 
his shoulder. The wound was gone.
     Mulder's eyes went wide. "You're the one he's 
looking for, aren't you?"
     Gabriel sighed tiredly. "I'm not human, Agent 
Mulder."
     "No shit, Sherlock," he demanded.
     "Take me to the hospital, and I will heal Agent Scully 
and Sylvia,  I'll explain on the way."
     
     Dana had thought that when her cancer hit her, when 
it finally decided to take over her brain, she would be dead. She 
had prayed to be so, had prayed that she wouldn't be alive, that 
she would be unconscious as it destroyed her.
     Unconsciousness, she decided, was worse.
     She was standing in a large circular room. The ceiling 
stretched black forever upwards, blue filing cabinets piling up 
high. It reminded her of a place she'd been to with Mulder 
once. A place in West Virginia.
     What was it they'd said to each other? She struggled 
to remember and suddenly heard voices echoing off the walls 
of the room.
     "Lots of files." Mulder's voice. Strong. Soothing.
     "Lots and lots and lots and lots and lots and lots . . . ."
     The mantra resounded off the filing cabinet walls, 
quietly fading off. 
     "Hello?" she called. "Mulder?" She took a step 
towards one of the walls, and examined the filing cabinet at eye 
level, marked 7-4-76.
     Just like the cabinets in- 
     Her brows furrowed. She knew where she and Mulder 
had found them, she *knew* she did. It was- Wisconsin, no, 
two words, New England. Yeah, New England, she thought.
     "It's not how you would imagine it, little sister."
     The voice was harmony and light and peace and Dana 
knew only one person who could talk like that.
     "Melissa?"
     She whirled around to see her sister standing behind 
her. Melissa Scully, age thirty-five forever. Wearing the same 
floral dress she'd been shot in. Barefoot, as she wanted. 
     "But it suits, you, Dana, it really does. This place is all 
you."
     "Missy?" she asked, her voice growing smaller.
     "When I was at the phase you're in now, I was on a 
warm beach with a forest nearby. Peaceful. But this is the sort 
of place you would dream up."
     Scully took a deep breath. "What are you talking 
about?"
     Melissa rolled her eyes. "You still don't get it, do you? 
You're dying, Dana! You're almost there, almost here with me, 
forever. No more Mulder, no more filing cabinets, no more 
goddam mysteries to solve."
     "What?"
     Melissa reached over and grabbed her sister's hand, 
tugging her across the room. "You still have this one here, 
Dana. It's November eleventh, 1998. You collapsed, Dana. The 
cancer has beaten you!"
     Scully shook her head. "No, what are you talking 
about?"
     Melissa sighed. "In each drawer there are memories 
from different days. This is how you catalog your life. 
Everything in its proper place. I would expect something like 
this would be how your mind is. You are standing in your 
mind, Dana. This is what your mind looks like, these are all 
your memories."
     "Why am I here?"
     "I told you- you're going to die. But you're not dead 
yet. You're not much of anything right now."
     "Why are you here?"
     "To tell you what you need to know. Who did you 
expect, the Tooth Fairy?"
     Scully shook her head. "This is ridiculous."
     "But it's what happens. Oh, everyone always expects 
things to be a little different. Right now, Dana, your body is in a 
coma. There are places and then there are *degrees*. You're on 
a level between life and death, and you've been here before, in 
this degree, but in a different place. I'll show you."
     Scully watched as her sister moved to a filing cabinet 
and opened the drawer, taking out a picture. She held the 
picture up. "A few nights after Mulder disappeared in New 
Mexico. You thought he was dead, for all reasonable purposes 
you'd lost your job, and discovered that something had been 
implanted in your neck. The lowest point of your life. What you 
didn't know, Dana, is that you didn't just go to sleep that night. 
You died."
     Scully plucked the picture from Melissa's hands, and 
suddenly the memory played behind her closed eyelids.
     "I have been on the bridge between two worlds, the 
link between all souls by which we cross into our own true 
nature-"
     Melissa touched her arm. "You laid down to sleep, but 
instead of sleeping you drifted between that place of life and 
death. You were looking for him, Dana. You slipped below the 
life degree to search for him, and he told you he was still alive. 
You went below once before that, too. When the men took you 
and experimented on you, when your were lying in the hospital 
and Mulder sat by your bedside. And once before that. The 
night Daddy died."
     Memory flooded her. "I saw him- I saw him in the 
chair before Mom called-"
     "You were asleep and you realized something was 
wrong. You were still below the life degree when you awoke, 
and you saw him there, before mom called."
     "So I'm here again- to choose?" she questioned.
     Missy shook her head. "No, Dana. You're here to be 
killed."
     All at once, Scully became aware of a faint rumbling. 
She glanced up at the dark ceiling. "What's that noise?" When 
no one responded, she looked for Melissa.
     Her sister was gone.
     "Missy?" she asked. The rumbling got louder. Softly, 
the photograph in her hands began to crumble of its own 
volition. She watched, transfixed, as it crumbled, until all that 
was left was dust. 
     She struggled to remember what the photograph had 
looked like. It had been a picture of Mulder from . . . sometime. 
At the far end of the room, a hole opened up. Her eyes widened 
as red light poured inside. The drawers all began to open, 
papers and photographs flying out of each towards the hole, 
being sucked away into oblivion. Realization hit her like a ton 
of bricks. 
     She was here in her memories, and the cancer was 
coming. To take her memories from her. To destroy them, bit 
by agonizing bit. 
     Her hell had arrived.

     "All right, explain," Mulder insisted once they were 
back on the main roads of New York.
     "I'm a hybrid, Mulder. My people have been coming 
to this planet for centuries, looking to colonize. My father came 
here in 1950. He was an alien. My mother, if you will, was your 
grandmother. Don't look so surprised," he admonished when 
Mulder turned to look at him. "We tend to experiment on every 
other generation, and we never switch sexes. The government 
has been working with us since the early 1970's, when they 
became aware that my father's race was involved in an 
intergalactic war with another species. They provided humans 
for a special project, afraid of becoming entangled in the war. 
The two species technology is extremely advanced- they have 
access to more basic elements and materials that are not 
available on this planet. War refugees from my father's planet 
traveled here and created hybrids, like me, hoping to fit in with 
this planet. It was done for years, until my father's people 
became aware of what was going on in the late 1960s. They 
were enraged that we would dare to pollute ourselves with your 
race. The leaders offered a monetary reward for the death of 
each hybrid. That's where the man that just chased us comes 
in. He's a bounty hunter. Every one of us he kills, the heavier 
his purse becomes when he returns to the home planet. There's 
several others I'm aware of. It's why I moved to the woods and 
went into hiding, so to speak. The war had made people 
desperate for money. The planet was bankrupt, people were 
starving."
     "What's this special project you were talking about?"
     "They experimented on humans for years, finding out 
your strengths and weaknesses, exploiting your minds. You use 
only ten percent of your brain. They opened different parts of 
your mind, to see if you had the capability to take them over. 
Because the sun will explode in five billion years, your race will 
not be able to evolve to our status. However, in the 
experimentations, unique minds were found. Minds that could 
be used on the home planet, if fully exploited. The government 
is allowing the abduction of such persons in exchange for 
superior technology so that we may be able to fight off invaders 
or defend ourselves in case of war."
     "But if they're willing to pollute themselves with 
humans, why are they after you?"   
     "You don't understand. They are evolving humans to 
our status. We all began the same way, but my father's race 
began before this planet separated from Mars billions of years 
ago, long before the human race.
     "I am part alien, but I am also part human- unevolved 
human. It's considered a degradation of their people. They are 
also afraid that our dominant genes will evolve this planet faster 
than nature wants. They do not another enemy to fight in this 
war."
     Mulder pulled up in the parking lot of the hospital. 
"Let's go. You can finish this story after we heal Scully and 
Sylvia."
     Both Mulder and Gabriel were oblivious to the short 
black man who followed them into the hospital, a small shiny 
weapon concealed in his palm. 

     Scully began to grab at the photos whirling around her 
towards the hole, desperately trying to save them. Wind swirled 
around her, drawing both her and the photos closer to the hole 
until she was forced to abandon them. Some of the filing 
cabinets were beginning to fade away, leaving only blackness. 
One photo caught the corner of her eye. It danced on the wind 
like a leaf, turning this way and that, as if it was trying to escape 
the hole.
     She reached out and caught it, staring down. It was a 
picture of Mulder. Her senses assaulted her. From this touch 
she knew everything about him. She could smell the musky 
scent of him all around her, could hear his deep, rumbling voice 
in her head. She knew exactly how his skin felt under her 
fingertips, how his mouth tasted when he kissed her, the way 
his eyes looked when they were darkened from desire. The 
photo was the essence of him, it *was* him, everything she 
knew about him, everything she loved about him. The 
realization made her clutch the photograph to her chest fiercely. 
     I am not going to lose him.

     Troy shifted back into his original form once 
ensconced in the stairwell, Mulder and Gabriel pounding the 
stairs above them. Mulder's hand was on the door to the fifth 
floor, where the intensive care unit was housed, when he heard 
Gabriel cry out behind him. Mulder turned, just as the bounty 
hunter shoved Gabriel up against the wall. A small, sharp sound 
cracked the dull air.
     "Wait!"
     He watched helplessly as Troy shoved the small object 
in the base of Gabriel's neck, letting the hybrid drop to the 
floor. Mulder's chest heaved. He leapt at the bounty hunter, 
knocking both of them down the stairs. Troy picked Mulder up 
as if he was a featherduster, hefting him off the ground. Mulder 
swore and spit and kicked and punched until Troy slammed 
him up against the wall. 
     He moaned. "Why don't you just . . . kill me and get it 
over with?"
     Troy's icy blue eyes paused. "You keep searching, 
asking all the wrong people all the right questions and hoping to 
get some type of truth. You think you've found it with that 
woman. Let me tell you something. You need to keep 
searching."
     Mulder stared down at the man helplessly. "Then why 
did you try to kill her?"
     His nostrils flared. "There was a miscommunication. I 
am not here to murder your race."
     Mulder swallowed. "But you did!"
     Troy's face fluttered and for a moment Mulder 
thought he saw indecision wrap itself around those hard, 
chiseled features. A moment later, the bounty hunter had 
shoved him to the ground.
     "Where is she?"
     "So you can finish the job?"
     "So I can fix the miscommunication, so I can correct 
the error."
     Mulder's mind moved like lightning. "You can heal 
her, can't you? Just like he could have if you would have let 
him."
     "Take me to her."
     Mulder obliged.
     
     There was no escape. The cancer had sucked 
everything out of the circular room. Everything but her and the 
worn photograph of her partner. She fought against the wind, 
walking into the blackness where the filing cabinets had been, 
away from the cancer, knowing nothing except that she 
couldn't let go of this photograph, couldn't give into the 
cancer, which she could feel beginning to give chase. 
Everything looked the same in the blackness, but the sense of 
dread it brought with it alarmed her immediately that it was 
following her, that it was not going to let her escape. Especially 
with that photograph. She turned back for an instant, looking at 
the red lights signaling the cancer closing in like a mountain of 
lava descending upon a Hawaiian village. She felt heat at her 
back and for one single, terrifying instant she thought it had 
surrounded her. She turned and saw a soft, white light up 
ahead, instead. Behind her, the cancer seemed to howl. Scully 
needed no more incentive. Without any qualms, she began 
heading towards the light, carrying the sole reminder of the one 
thing in her life she'd taken a chance on.

     Mulder hadn't prepared himself to see Scully in a 
hospital bed again. They had put her and Sylvia in the same 
room, and the sight of her lying there, as white as the sheets 
beneath her made his stomach roll, his heart clench fiercely. It 
was too much like it had been right after her abduction, the 
respirator hissing in and out by her bedside, the steady beep of 
the life support monitor. He felt as helpless and aching as he 
had that night four years ago. He almost doubled over with the 
realization. Four years ago *exactly* he'd expected her to die 
on him. To have returned only so he could watch her slip 
slowly from his eyes. Four years ago he'd been sitting at her 
bedside, spilling his soul to her because it was all he could do to 
hope to bring her back. And he hadn't been convinced that 
anything as meager as the fact that he needed her, wanted her 
by his side desperately could be enough to bring her back from 
whatever hell she was trapped in. 
     He watched the bounty hunter walk to Sylvia's 
bedside methodically, reaching out a hand just as Gabriel had 
to heal his wounded shoulder. 
     He opened his mouth, his eyes darting from Sylvia to 
Scully in a wide sweep. Trying to ascertain which one he could 
live without. 
     As if he had a decision.
     "Wait," he croaked.
     The bounty hunter turned, his large palm hovering 
above Sylvia's forehead.
     Mulder's breathing became labored, as he looked at 
both women. A woman who could be the person he'd spent 
twenty-five years of his life searching for, the goal of more than 
half of his life, and a woman whom he needed more than he 
needed air to breathe, a woman he would never be able to find 
again, no matter how much searching he did.
     He had no choice. "I want to make a trade," he said.
     The bounty hunter furrowed his eyebrows, and 
glanced at the woman with the pale face and dark red hair in the 
other bed. "I had nothing to do-"
     "But wouldn't it be fitting?" he asked, on the verge of 
desperation. "You only attacked Sylvia because they told you 
she was a hybrid, right? You could say that there was a  . . . 
misunderstanding which resulted in the wrong person being 
healed."
     He paused a moment, considering, before turning back 
to Mulder. "You would trade this woman's life for hers?"
     Mulder took a deep breath. "I don't need Sylvia, and 
truth be known I don't know if I even need Samantha.
     "But I need her," he said, gazing at Scully. "I need her 
more than I've ever needed anyone or anything." He pinned his 
gaze back on the bounty hunter. "Please."
     Troy stood stock still, his eyes flashing with emotion. 
He took pity on the human before him. So played by its 
emotions, making an illogical choice out of some heartfelt 
affection. It astounded him, it disgusted him. It amazed him. An 
incredibly difficult task to accomplish. "All right. I will do what 
you ask," he said, his voice thicker than usual among the muted 
sounds of the ICU ward. Mulder watched transfixed as the 
bounty hunter crossed the room, placing his huge palm across 
Scully's forehead, and giving Mulder little doubt that if he 
deemed it necessary, the creature before him could crush her 
skull like a melon. Troy closed his eyes, adding a short 
afterthought as he began to summon the energy in his body. 
"What you ask and more."

     Scully stood at the precipice of where the white light 
began, guarding her memory of Mulder with her life. She could 
feel the cancer following her, its red lights scanning over her, 
preparing her to become its final meal, and the utter warmth 
and tranquillity of the white light before her. She heard his 
voice echoing around her, an endless mantra of love words and 
nonsense, mindless pleas and tortured cries. He called her back 
to him and the world of the living with all. 
     The cancer crept closer and began licking at her heels.
     "Pleasedon'tdieonmeScullyyoucan'tdieonmedammitI
needyouneedyoumorethanyoucanpossiblyimagineIwantyouher
ebymysidedon'tleavemedon'tleavemenowScullypleasepleasepl
easeIwantyouhereIneedyouhereyou'reallthatkeepsmealiveanym
oreandIcan'tdoitwithoutyouIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIwon't . . ."
     Scully closed her eyes and stepped forward, into the 
light.

     The tall lanky man with a battered heart and a 
wounded soul would never be able to explain exactly what 
happened in the few minutes that passed. It all seemed so 
mystical, so magical that if there was ever a skeptical little voice 
inside him telling him to cool his jets when he encountered 
strange things in life and was more than ready to believe, it had 
just had its larynx mangled beyond repair.
     The bounty hunter was standing over Scully, his eyes 
closed, his body giving up vibes of tremendous energy. The 
space between his palm and her forehead began to glow with a 
fine golden sheen. It started dim, but grew brighter and brighter 
until he was forced to shield his eyes. He felt more than saw the 
flash of energy and light. When he could see again, the bounty 
hunter was gone.
     Scully was standing on her own two feet.
     She glowed. An aura of golden light surrounded her, 
pulsing with energy. She looked like an ethereal being, her face 
placid, her blue eyes as calm and clear as a mountain lake. He 
could scarcely draw a breath as he saw her move with the grace 
of a goddess towards Sylvia's bed. He watched her reach out a 
delicate hand and place it gently on Sylvia's forehead. 
     Mulder's mouth hung open.
     He saw the transfer of energy between the two bodies 
begin again.
     Moments later, Sylvia's eyes fluttered open. 
     Dana Scully was a healer after all.

November 25, 1998
Robert Moses Park, 
Fire Island, New York
8:12 PM
  
     Scully had driven them here, and Mulder could only 
guess why. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to 
Washington with the beautiful and perfectly healthy woman 
beside him. The one the doctors were calling "a miracle", the 
one he called a "miracle-worker". 
     Every miracle but one.
     Sylvia Morris's real name was Selena Talbot. She was 
born on July 18, 1965 to Steve and Jamie Talbot, the fourth of 
eight children. When she was twelve years old the entire family 
had been in a boating accident off the coast of Maine. Unaware 
that her battered, waterlogged body had been picked up by a 
group of fishermen off the coast of Long Island, the Talbots 
had searched for years before the law proclaimed her deceased. 
     
     The agents had left the celebration of Selena's 
homecoming only a half hour ago. Escaping the tiny, cramped 
box houses in the everybody-knew-everybody neighborhoods 
of Islip, Long Island,  Scully had driven them across the bridge 
to Fire Island and Robert Moses Park. The place was practically 
deserted, only a few teenagers forming their own personal 
"polar bear" club on the other side of the island were present. 
     "What are we doing here, Scully?" he asked. "You 
said we were going back to the airport."
     "It's only eight o'clock, Mulder. Our plane doesn't 
leave until nine."
     "It's cold here, Scully," he said, gazing out at the dark 
sky above filled to the brink with storm clouds. 
     "Come on and take a walk with me," she stated. "I've 
only been her once before and who knows when we'll be able 
to come see it again."
     He acquiesced. "All right."
     Scully had to give him one thing, it was cold. The wind 
bit at her skin as she stepped out of the car. But she wanted to 
make a point, wanted to show him and tell him. The entire 
business with Sylvia Morris, aka Selena Talbot had truly 
disturbed him, and rightly so. Samantha was a wound that 
would never heal for Mulder. Scully had begun to accept that 
she couldn't change it about him, couldn't make it all better no 
matter how much she loved him. But she could help him live 
with it. She could help ease the pain, and she could help him 
get through long, guilty November nights like this one. 
     It was going to start now.
     He joined her after a moment, and they walked down 
towards the pier. This side of the island was composed mainly 
of large rocks, the beach area on the side facing towards the 
Atlantic. A lighthouse shone in the distance, white light cutting 
through the night as it spun around and around. 
     Scully began to speak as they made their way down 
the pier, her eyes capturing the glow of the lighthouse. "My 
father used to say that people are like boats," she began softly. 
Her hand reached out and gently clasped his. "We're all just 
scattered on the sea, like those boats out there. And each of us 
is searching for our own private lighthouse to guide us through 
the night. Whether that search is internal or external. 
     "You and Samantha are like those boats, Mulder. 
You've been separated because of a storm. You're the 
lighthouse, sending out the beacon, letting everyone know that 
you're there in hopes that one of those someones is 
Samantha." 
     Mulder turned to stare at her, his eyes huge and 
luminous. When she didn't meet his gaze, he followed her line 
of sight, his eyes fixing on the lighthouse.
     She spoke again, her voice calm and soothing. It 
placated his mind, smoothed over the clench his heart had felt 
when he had seen Selena with her family. Another 
homecoming that wasn't his. Another year without Samantha. 
Another year he'd failed. Twenty-five in a row.
     But somehow, with her holding his hand, speaking to 
him, he didn't feel guilty. He felt loved.
     "And while you're sending out the signal you're also 
guiding other ships to the harbor by the work you do. You're 
leading them to safety as you search. Samantha is one of those 
boats. She's lost and she can't see the beacon yet because of 
the fog. But that fog is going to lift, someday, and you'll be 
together then."
     This time she turned to stare at him, and he looked 
down, catching her eyes. He may be a lighthouse, but she was 
the one who held the lamp up for him when he got tired. She 
was the one who fed him the oil to keep searching. 
     "She's out there searching for you, Mulder, just like 
you're searching for her. In her heart, she knows that you're 
looking for her. And in her heart, she's looking for you, too."
     She leaned up and kissed him, kissed him with all her 
heart, all her soul, her lips moving against his in a chaste, 
passionate rhythm. He reached for her and held her to him, 
reveling in the feel of her small, warm body pressed against his. 
All too soon she pulled away, smiling up at him with her heart 
in her eyes.
     Mulder wished he could give her thousands of roses in 
that single, perfect moment.
     "We'd better get going, we'll miss our flight back to 
D.C."
     She ran her thumb over the back of his hand once 
before turning and heading back to the car.
     Mulder felt the last of his resolve shatter as he watched 
her walk away, leaving him with one sweet, aching thought.
     I love her.

Chapter Twelve: Home is Right Here

And I can tell by the way you're standing with your eyes filling 
with tears,
That it's habit alone that keeps you turning for home, even 
though your home is right here.
Where the people who love you are gathered, under the wise 
wishing tree.
May we all be considered then straight on delivered down to 
the jubilee.
'Cause the people who love you are waiting, and they'll wait 
just as long as need be,
When we look back and say those were halcyon days, we're 
talking about jubilee.
-Mary Chapin Carpenter, "Jubliee"

     
November 26, 1998
11:47 p.m.
     
     It had been a good day.
     Which was unusual, because it was never a good day 
in a cold  November. Especially on the day before the twenty-
fifth anniversary of Samantha's disappearance.
     Scully had opted for Mulder to give her a ride into 
work . . . only for the two of them to realize that this was one of 
their few vacation days and that they were being given a 
mandatory leave of absence to process everything they'd both 
been through. With Sylvia and her cancer.
     The doctors had no idea how to explain her sudden 
recovery. One minute her life hung in the balance, the cancer 
destroying her mind and body together, the next she was not 
only alive, but there was no trace that there had ever been a 
tumor literally looming over her brain, ready to demolish and 
excisccate the life from her. And there were no signs that it was 
ever coming back to haunt her.
     Scully knew exactly what this day was and what it 
represented to Mulder. 
     To millions of other people, it was Thanksgiving Day. 
To Mulder, it was one more day that he had failed Samantha. 
     Unwilling to release him to a day of solitude and 
regrets, she had managed to convince him that she desperately 
needed him to come with her to her mother's for Thanksgiving. 
     Although her brothers had been none too happy about 
Mulder accompanying her, they had behaved themselves after a 
warning glare from Margaret. Her mom was a much more 
threatening force to them than the man who had fallen for their 
baby sister. By the time the meal was being served he was 
grunting about sports with her brothers like they were old 
chums. They'd flirted throughout the meal, their fingers 
rubbing as they reached for dishes, tiny glances and secret 
smiles punctuating their conversation. Mulder had started 
yawning around nine, the nondescript signal that he wanted to 
leave, but they hadn't managed to make their excuses until 
eleven, and even then it had taken fifteen minutes for her 
mother to flutter about, loading them down with enough 
leftovers to feed an army, if one happened to pass through 
Scully's kitchen.
     Which left Fox Mulder and Dana Scully standing in 
her living room staring at each other in a tenuous silence filled 
with unspoken desires. 
     "I'm going to go change- can you make the coffee?" 
she asked, more of a formality than a reality. She knew there 
would be no coffee made. 
     He nodded. "Yeah."
     "Make yourself at home," she said, gesturing to the 
living room before disappearing into her bedroom. Once there, 
she shut the door, breathing deeply. Her forehead rested against 
the panel, and she smiled to herself, a crazy lovesick smile, as 
she flipped on the lights. She shed her clothes rapidly, tossing 
them haphazardly into her hamper, as she rummaged through 
her drawers. It had to be something casual, something that said 
sensuality and sexuality but was still conservative. The peach 
satin nightgown almost jumped out and bit her. She pulled it 
out of her top drawer, and held it up to her figure before 
donning it. She pulled the matching robe over her as an 
afterthought, and tore the top show pillows, stuffing them in 
her closet amidst heels and suits. She was just crossing to the 
door when she heard the chime of the clock in her living room. 
     It was midnight.
     Officially November 27, 1998. 
     Samantha Mulder had been missing for twenty-five 
years.
     She swallowed, hoping Mulder hadn't changed his 
mind as she opened the door to the living room. He was 
standing just as she'd left him, a few steps closer to the door, in 
fact. His black leather jacket was pulled tighter around the blue 
polo shirt he wore, and his hands were stuffed into the pockets 
of his faded jeans. He looked like a rabbit caught in the glare of 
a headlight. 
     His Adam's apple bobbed. "I- I, uh really should be 
getting home, Scully," he said. His eyes caught hers and 
shimmied over her peach-swathed figure. 
     "Why?" she asked softly. 
     He took a deep breath, his voice hitching. "It's 
midnight."
     She nodded, and then turned to the fireplace. 
     From behind her, Mulder bit his lip awkwardly. Scully 
was definitely not dressed for bed. She was dressed for him. 
The knowledge disturbed him, enticed him. His eyes darted to 
the clock. Another year had passed. Another year without 
Samantha. He watched Scully work the fire until it glowed. 
How dare he even *think* about his own comfort tonight? 
He'd failed Samantha. He didn't *deserve* to make love to 
Scully tonight. He didn't deserve to love her. Not after twenty-
five years. Not knowing where Samantha was, what had 
become of her. 
     Mulder had never spent the anniversary of Samantha's 
disappearance with anyone but a bottle of vodka. To do so now 
seemed sacrilegious, it made him feel like a deserter.
     "Scully, I- I have to go," he stuttered, turning for the 
door.
     "Stay." God help her, she wanted to be everything for 
him. His mother, his lover and his very best friend.
     Two out of three ain't bad.
     But three out of three is perfect.
     She repeated her request. "Stay here with me."
     He swallowed, feeling tears reach his eyes. He 
couldn't stay tonight. God, Scully, any other night besides 
tonight, please, he begged silently. He felt like a traitor for 
stopping. Samantha was out there somewhere, hurt and lost 
and lonely and he was here with the woman he loved . . . 
     "Please, Scully, I can't stay here tonight," he said, his 
voice barely audible. She switched off the lamp in the living 
room. He could hear her soft footsteps on the carpet, sense her 
approach. Her hands touched his shoulders, gently tugging until 
he turned to face her. 
     She stared up into his face, her heart constricting. Pain 
and anger flowed into tears on his face. "Why can't you stay?" 
she asked. 
     He shook his head in defeat. "I can't, I just can't. I'll 
call you tomorrow." He started to turn back to the door when 
her hands snapped out and caught his. 
     "That's not good enough for me, Mulder. Tell me. 
Why can't you stay here tonight?" she demanded. He wasn't 
going to get out of this that easily. 
     He bowed his head, his eyes darting back and forth. 
"Samantha," he finally whispered. "She could be out there, 
Scully. Hurt or dead or-" he stopped short, and kicked the side 
of her wall suddenly, vehemently. The sudden display of rage 
made her drop his hands and back up a step. "Twenty-five 
fucking years, Scully. It's been twenty-five years and I *still* 
haven't found her. I was supposed to be taking care of her that 
night and I didn't and I can't stay here and make love to you 
tonight because of her. I don't even know who she is anymore! 
I could meet her on the street and I wouldn't know. I don't 
know what she looks like or what her favorite color is. I don't 
know anything about her, but I can't let her go. I can't just stop 
searching, no matter how much I want to, no matter how much 
it destroys me and the people I love. 
     "But I can't say that I have it worse than she does 
because I don't know that!" he exclaimed. He looked at her, 
slumping against the side of her wall. He slid down, until he 
was sprawled on her floor, his back against the wall. "You have 
no idea how frustrating it is. I've been searching for her for 
twenty-five years, Scully. She's been all I've ever wanted from 
the time I was twelve years old. She was everything to me, this 
fucking crusade was everything in my life," he confessed. 
     Tears boiled to her eyes. She ached for him, feeling the 
all-consuming blackness that dwelled in his soul as real as if it 
was in her own. All centered on one night, twenty-five years 
ago. The emptiness had spread throughout him, licking at the 
corners of her soul. She hadn't healed him at all. She could 
never hope to show him what love was. How could she be so 
arrogant as to think that she could heal twenty-five years of 
pain in five months? It was a stupid, childish hope. He would 
never understand. . .
     Mulder continued, unaware of her inner turmoil. 
"Everything I wanted . . . until now," he whispered.
     Her head snapped up. 
     He expelled a deep sigh. "I want you, Scully. More 
than anything else, I want you. Not Samantha."
     She took a step towards him, and knelt to his left. A 
wary hand reached out and tilted his chin so she could look into 
his eyes. 
     "What are you saying, Mulder?"
     His eyes traveled over her face, finally meeting her 
eyes again. "I love you, Scully. I love you so much I don't 
think that I've ever really  loved anyone before you. I've never 
felt anything this strongly before. Never. Not guilt. Not pain. 
Not duty. And all I want to do right now is stay here and make 
love to you and thank God that we have time. That you're not 
going to disappear in a week or a month." A large palm reached 
out and cupped her face. "But I can't. Because what if 
Samantha is out there? What if she's being hurt or she's dead 
and instead of searching for her, I'm making love to you?"
     Her eyes bore into his. "And what if she and her 
husband are playing with their five children in a suburban 
house in Michigan and are deliriously happy? Mulder, you 
can't do penance for a sin you haven't committed. Samantha 
being taken was not your fault- you know that. You know that 
your father made the choice, that it had nothing to do with you, 
and everything to do with your parents."
     "It's difficult to stop accepting guilt. I'm used to it. I 
was conditioned for it after Samantha disappeared. My parents 
wanted someone to blame and when they couldn't blame each 
other anymore, it fell to me, and I took it. Getting her back is all 
I've ever wanted . . . until you. I don't want to blame myself 
anymore, Scully. I don't want the guilt and the anger and the 
frustration. I don't even really feel it. But it's habit to feel it for 
me. I'm *supposed* to feel guilty and angry tonight. I'm 
*supposed* to want to be alone at home tonight. It's all I've 
ever done," he said, his voice getting softer. 
     She took his hands in her own and stood, pulling him 
to his feet. He came willingly, easily as she led him to the couch 
in front of the fire. "You're not leaving here tonight out of 
habit, Mulder." She pushed the jacket off his shoulders, and 
tugged at the blue polo shirt, stripping him of that, too. "You're 
going to be at home, with me. Here. A home is where people 
love you." She maneuvered his body so she was sitting astride 
him, her thighs on either side of his, her palms flat against his 
chest. Scully caught his eyes and drank deeply from the hazel 
depths, plundering into voids of lust and love. 
     "And I love you, Mulder."
     She kissed him, soft and sweet. Her lips moved over 
his with the gentlest pressure, before pulling away. His brain 
finally began sending messages to his hands, which skated over 
her back in light, teasing caresses. Her back arched in response, 
a maelstrom of desire sliding down her body, spinning through 
her veins. 
     He watched her eyes close with wonder, doubting he 
had ever seen anything more beautiful in his life. Doubting he 
could ever love anyone as much as he loved her right now. She 
knew how he felt. She listened and understood, time and time 
again. She gave everything she was to him and didn't ask for 
anything in return. The utter simplicity of it only demanded that 
he give her the same in return. The more he revealed of himself, 
the more she took, the more she loved. 
     He leaned up and captured her lips, tremors running 
up and down his body as he remembered how she'd felt in his 
arms just weeks earlier. His head slanted, her mouth opening 
for an interior assault. His tongue slid over the tiny opening 
where breath passed between them, as if cementing their 
mouths together. He would do it if he had the choice, he 
realized. He wanted to kiss her forever, never let go of her. His 
hands slid onto her thighs, rubbing them through the soft satin 
of her nightgown. His mouth tickled down her chin, pressing 
light kisses around her throat. Gently, his palms cupped her 
hips, pulling her forwards in contact with him. At the 
unexpected touch, her head bowed and he pulled away to look 
into her eyes. What he saw lurking in the smoky blue depths 
sealed his fate for that night. He was staying with her.
     Two fingers trailed over the tiny  bulge of her stomach 
and down. She shifted in his arms, her hands going to his bare 
shoulders, and sliding down his arms. She watched him work 
his hands over her as if he was an artist molding her body. The 
absolute concentration with which he performed the task made 
a shiver run through her. It was scary and exciting to be the 
focus of all that energy. Before, in the elevator she hadn't been 
the total focus. Then, he hadn't been so completely absorbed 
with her. Not like he was now. A grin slid over her features as 
he studied the way the peach satin shimmered by the firelight. 
He was hers now. There was nothing else for him at this 
moment but her, and the thought thrilled her to no end. This 
was her prize for her complete and utter devotion: *his* 
complete and utter devotion. 
     He was so passionate about the things he loved. There 
was a certain intensity that fairly glowed. He had told her she 
had glowed. When she'd gotten up out of her hospital bed, and 
laid her hands on Sylvia's body. He had described a brilliant 
golden sheen encompassing her body. But he glowed all the 
time. Without the aid of shapeshifters and miracles. For years 
he'd kept that passion sublimated, the lighthouse hidden by a 
lampshade. Now, with all her energy fixated on her, she felt the 
full brilliance of that light. 
     It was fabulous.
     It was miraculous.
     And it was thoroughly arousing.
     His finger skimmed up to her waist, drawing circles as 
they came to the place where two of the spaghetti straps of her 
nightgown were held in place by tiny pearl buttons. He slipped 
them out of their loopholes and the nightgown fell away, baring 
her body to the waist. Her breathing quickened as she watched 
his inquisitive eyes grow dark with heat. Nimbly his hands 
roamed to her breasts framed by the robe she still wore. His 
eyes checked hers and then he leaned forward, his mouth 
lightly running just above her breasts. His lower lip dragged 
over her skin, as her hips shifted restlessly above him. He 
traveled the skin around her breasts, lightly teasing. Two fingers 
slid under the silky fabric, seeking the heat at the juncture of her 
thighs. A low, ragged moan escaped her lips when he found 
her. When his lips finally did close over the dusky center of her 
breast, she cried out, her nails digging into the skin of his 
shoulders.
     Her body trembled as she collapsed on top of him, her 
face buried in his neck. "Mulder," she whispered.
     A moment later he stood with some degree of 
difficulty, holding her limp body protectively against his. One 
arm hooked under her shoulders while the other cradled her 
knees. It left her head against his shoulder, the fine red hairs 
tickling  his chin. The force of her response had left her weak 
and shaken. 
     He headed in the general direction of her bedroom and 
she smiled, kissing his neck in delight. "I love you."
     He smiled back. "I love you, too."
     They slid into the darkness of her bedroom. On the 
way in, Mulder kicked the door shut.

     Outside, it began to snow. 
          
     Scully was still moving.
     Mulder noticed it immediately, and turned to look 
down at her. She hadn't moved in several minutes after their 
release.  One hand teased and tickled its way up and down his 
chest. Her bare thighs slithered around his own equally nude 
body. A silly grin appeared on his mouth. "I love it when you 
touch me," he said softly to her. It didn't seem right to talk, not 
after the experience they'd just had. So he whispered. It made 
the conversation that much more intimate in his mind.  
     "Why?"
     His lover was nothing if not direct. "It makes me feel 
normal. Like we're just two normal people."
     Scully bit her lip in the darkness as a question nagged 
at her. A question that had haunted her since she'd begun her 
crusade to love Mulder. "Could I be just any other woman, 
Mulder?" 
     The stiffness of his body made her shudder and back 
away from him. Blindly, she found the robe she'd left draped 
on the nighstand just previous to their horizontal tango. She 
tucked it quickly around her shoulders, listening to the silence 
of the room. It was time to come clean.
     "What do you mean, Scully?"
     "Mulder, do you remember when I picked you up 
after the Henry Thomas case? And things changed after that. 
We changed. What I didn't tell you was why they changed. I 
made a promise to you that night, right here in this bed. I 
promised you that I was going to teach you what love was, that 
I would show you what it means to be truly loved, because you 
didn't know. You were so full of anger and hurt I don't  know 
if you'd ever felt anything akin to what real love is. I made a 
concentrated effort to show you what love is. What I didn't 
realize was that  . . . in showing you what love was, that I would 
fall in love with you myself, and that you would fall in love 
with me-"
     "Scully," he interrupted.
     "No, let me finish. I feel like I've manipulated you into 
loving me. So what I need to know is, could I be any other 
woman who did this, Mulder? Could I be any other woman 
who decided to do the same thing?"
     He laughed and reached for her, letting the robe glide 
off her shoulders. "Scully, I've loved you forever. I know that 
you've never been just a friend to me." He kissed her lightly. "I 
think I've known that I loved you somewhere deep inside all 
along. I think you just helped me to show it, to say it, to allow 
myself to feel it.
     "Scully, the way I love you is so different from 
anything I've ever experienced. It feels pure, it feels . . . honest. 
It feels like the Truth, Scully. No other woman could manage a 
feeling like that and no manipulation on your part could make 
me feel like this. I know I'm not the best person to be a poster 
boy for the Truth. I'm a hypocrite. I ask for the truth and I 
demand it of others, but I've been hiding it all in for so long, the 
lies and secrets are so mangled with reality and truth that I can't 
tell which is which anymore." He paused, taking her hands in 
his and pressing a soft kiss to the back of her hand, his eyes 
never leaving hers. Her lips trembled slightly. "I've spent my 
entire life searching for Samantha, Scully. She's always been 
the one truth I've wanted. Not to prove the existence of 
extraterrestrial life or that the Cancerman's behind a giant 
conspiracy of silence. It's always been about Samantha. 
Everything I've done, every path I've chosen, every action I've 
taken since the time I was twelve years old has not been taken 
without some kind of fleeting thought of my sister. The 
memory of her is always there, shadowing me in everything I 
do. Distracting me from the life around me. From you." 
Moonlight poured in through the slanted blinds in her bedroom, 
the clouds having cleared away to make room for the brightness 
of the nightly visitor. The sun's reflection illuminated his naked 
upper torso, giving it a slightly bluish look. 
     "What are you telling me, Mulder?" she asked quietly.
     He drew her in for a quick kiss, before whispering his 
words against her lips like a prayer. "I think loving you is the 
only truth I really need."

Epilogue: Jubilee   

November 27, 1998
9:42 p.m.

     The cemetery wasn't cold.
     Even though it was barely thirty degrees Fahrenheit 
outside, the snow had blanketed the earth, providing enough 
insulation to convince Mulder that it might really be fifty 
degrees Fahrenheit.
     Of course, the fact that he's spent a long night in the 
warm bed of Dana Katherine Scully making love to her until 
they'd collapsed from pure exhaustion might have something 
to do with it, he mused. He'd never visited the grave his mother 
had had erected for Samantha. It had been exactly ten years 
after her disappearance when his mother had decided that she 
needed to "put some demons to rest" as she called it. In other 
words, that she was giving up, that there would be no more 
searching for Samantha on her part. That as far as she knew her 
daughter was dead somewhere, and she just wanted a place to 
visit like any normal grieving mother. 
     Mulder had never given up his search for Samantha, 
and it hadn't seemed right to visit the gravesite of a person who 
wasn't dead, whom he knew wasn't dead. Even now, staring at 
the tiny marble headstone that proclaimed Samantha Ann 
Mulder as the youngest daughter of William and Teena Mulder, 
brother to Fox, he got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. 
He'd experienced it before, when he'd gone with Mrs. Scully to 
pick out Dana's headstone. When he'd seen the grave marker 
bearing her name, a Bible quote and the words "beloved 
daughter and friend", he'd sensed that it wasn't right. A part of 
him had gotten sick looking at that gravesite, ill with the 
knowledge that even though her own mother was giving up, 
that Scully was still out there. It was an instinct that hadn't 
failed him over the years. Mulder learned to trust his instincts, 
and Scully's. If Scully actually had died, if something had 
happened to her, he was sure he would *know*. He would feel 
his heart clench, crash and burst, not necessarily in that order if 
she left him alone in this life. 
     Scully stood beside him now at the gravesite, her body 
stiff from the cold. Mulder may not feel it, but the breeze that 
shook through the trees every so often made her shiver down to 
her toes. He knelt in the snow in front of Samantha's headstone 
marker. His jeans soaked up the wetness of the snow, and his 
leather jacket couldn't have provided nearly enough protection 
from the elements of a late November night. But he'd wanted 
to come, even though he'd confessed he'd never been here at 
all. It made her wonder why he'd chosen this night this year of 
all years to come. It made her worry.
     "Do you think she's dead?"
     He turned to stare at her. "It's one of the only things in 
my life I don't want to believe." She turned her face to his and 
saw silent tears chasing each other down his cheeks and to his 
chin.
     Her chin wobbled and her heart ached for the man she 
loved. Without another thought she brought herself to her 
knees in the cold snow, and pulled him into an embrace. He 
came easily, willingly, crushing her against him. Her hands 
soothed over him, and he felt a great peace elope with his soul 
wherever she touched. Her skin against his  healed him more 
than she would ever know. More than either of them would 
ever know. "How did you pay tribute before, Mulder? What did 
you do?" she asked.
     He clutched her body to his fiercely. "Take her file, 
read over it again. Introduce my liver to the wonderful world of 
vodka."
     She breathed against the black leather jacket he wore. I 
want to heal this for you, Mulder, she thought. I wish I could 
absorb all this anger and pain the same way I absorb you into 
my body. Just let it sit with me until I can fight it. But I can't do 
it all, Mulder. 
     Scully knew that given any other circumstances, she 
and Mulder would have been partying. She was alive, she was 
going to live a long life, they had consummated a relationship 
that had been building for years. There was nothing that could 
keep them apart.
     Nothing except the grave of an eight-year-old girl who 
wasn't dead yet.
     Scully supposed that it was only natural that he had 
developed such guilt that it would extend far into his adult life. 
Samantha had been taken at an age when Mulder was fully 
open to suggestion. The perfect timing to ruin a man's life. Age 
twelve was that magical time that made you who you were as a 
teenager and therefore as an adult.
     She pulled back from his embrace, and smiled into his 
face. "Let's see if we can break that habit, Mulder," she said. "I 
think that coming here is tribute enough."
     His face was drawn and sullen. "You think I should let 
her go."
     She shook her head. "I don't think you should be 
holed up with a bottle of vodka and bad memories . I think 
twenty-five long, lonely Novembers are plenty. 
     "I think . . ." she paused, searching until she caught his 
eyes. "I think you need a partner. I think you need to be 
anything but alone. I think that after all that's just happened, 
you're entitled to that much, Mulder. And I think that wherever 
she is, Samantha would agree."
     A zephyr blew over them, rustling the fine copper 
strands of her hair, enhanced to flame by the pale moonlight. 
Subconsciously, he reached out, brushing the silk from her 
face. The fire that shot through his body at the simple touch 
almost knocked him out. It reminded him that early this 
morning she had been kissing his chest, her legs tangled with 
his as they sought to find ecstasy in each other.  Her eyes 
turned liquid, and he swore he could feel the desire radiating 
from her body, more powerful and potent than any drug. He 
became aware of the gentle curve of her breast  caught against 
his upper abdomen, the way her chest was heaving slightly, her 
mouth parted. 
     Mulder wondered how she could do that, yanking him 
from his katzenjammer into a state of almost painful desire. 
With one look, one touch. He yearned to know the secret, all 
her secrets.  He only hesitated  for a moment before his mouth 
covered hers. Soft, hot, sweet. Adjectives sprung to mind 
almost as quickly as he dismissed them. Nothing could explain 
what it felt like to have her mouth against his, her tongue 
teasing his lips open. There was only one word for it.
     Love.
     He must have said it against her lips because she 
pulled away and smiled at him, leaning over to whisper the 
word in his ear like a secret. 
     "Love."
     He grinned at her. 
     "I'm not asking you to give up on finding Samantha. 
I'm asking you to give up on being alone on nights like 
tonight." A velvet-gloved hand brushed against the stubble on 
his cheek. "We will find her, Mulder. Together. Someday."
     He hauled her up from the ground and hugged her to 
him. "Yeah, Scully," he whispered. "I know we will."

     Nearby, a woman stood in the shadows. 
     A woman watched. 
     A woman waited.
     "Someday, big brother. Someday."

The End