Tethered Author: GoldX Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: mainly Theef, all things Category: SRA Key Word: MSR Disclaimer: The stories, concepts and characters of The X-Files belong to 1013 and FOX Television. Not me. Thanks for not suing. Summary: The cases keep marching on. How do the X-files agents hang in there? How do they carve out an existence that keeps them sane? This is a slice of their lives in Season 7. Feedback: Please. Constructive criticism is consumed respectfully. Praise is scarfed like a pint of Ben and Jerry's. Flames go to the porcelain altar. GoldXnChain@aol.com or redthorndream@hotmail.net Archive: Okay. This can go anywhere with headers intact. Please write so I can thank you and visit its snazzy accommodations. Thanks!: Big, heaping ones to the great *fuzzy* one who has been my long suffering beta. She must have thought this puppy would never see the light of day, but she never let on. Thanks to carol for jumping in midway when *I* thought this thing wouldn't see the light of day, tweaking it and patting my shoulder. Thanks to Lilydale for her kind words when she received this as her E-Muse Secret Santa story. And last but not least, thanks to my best friend Mary who supported my efforts sight unseen, and has already driven me about a thousand miles in search of colorful settings for my next opus. Prologue Mulder's apartment, Alexandria, VA What the hell does Scully want from me? Okay, I've spent the evening immersed in video games and prowling the Internet. It wasn't even porn. Okay, I've just wanted to be numb. Numb is good right now. Doncha want some numbness now, Scully? Too much has happened. Too much always happens and I'm fucking sick of it. She wants me to talk about it; she, the queen of the enigmatic silence, wants *me* to talk. Okay. It's simple: my sister is dead. She was abducted, then imprisoned. Now she's free and happy, at least as far as I could tell. This should make me happy, and sometimes it does. But she's gone into the ether. Sometimes I feel the longtime hole in my heart is now bottomless. Numb is better. My mother is dead, simply and suddenly gone. I teeter between sorrow and guilty relief. Perhaps she did, too, at the end. It's all over: my family is dead. It wasn't much of one. In life, I couldn't do much to make it better. And there's nothing to be done for it now. I had a simple mission in life. I didn't ask for much; I wanted to find my sister. Nobody else did. I did. So now I know, at least as much as I'm going to. At least I've seen Samantha. Hell, maybe I'm delusional. Or maybe I've had a religious experience. That's always been Scully's territory. Perhaps that's why she plainly thinks I've gone around the bend. To do her justice, I've always been a cynical bastard about religion. A one-eighty in the middle of an emotional crisis doesn't inspire confidence in my grip on reality. The karma of my past attitude has come to bite me. Scully would probably agree if she believed in karma. I'm free. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Not quite nothing. I listen to the echo of my slamming door and her footsteps stalking to the elevator. I should be saying these things to her instead of to the inside of my skull. She might still be here if I had gathered my thoughts and delivered them instead of blowing her off for Lara Croft. It's sad. I wasn't even playing a new game. So, how many times have I played Tomb Raider in all its permutations? I don't even want to think hard enough to master a new game. So I like Lara's legs. I'm a frigging pig. Langley thinks I am such a video wuss; he's a Resident Evil freak. Or last I heard. Frohike understands about me and Lara. He's likes her legs, too. Two days 'til the full moon and we're off to SoCal to chase another monster. You know, many cops come to view the world as made up of cops and bad guys. Who, besides me and Wes Craven, sees the world as peopled by monsters and victims? I don't have much of a personal beef with the *real* monsters. They are ghastly experiments of nature born into a world with no ecological niche. No, the true, god-awful freaks have names like Pfaster, or Krycek, or C. G. B. Spender. What the hell can a werewolf do in urban L.A.? He isn't even dressed right for the place. Someone will berate him for wearing fur. No, he belongs somewhere in medieval Transylvania, where he could pick off sheep and the occasional peasant. The local populous could have some fun and exercise hunting him down with torches and pitch forks. At least there, peasants and monsters have a place in the scheme of things. Scully's not enthused about tracking a beast in the urban landscape. But she'll come with me, good trooper that she is. She doesn't even want to expend the energy to argue. We're both so sad and tired much of the time. A road trip with werewolves is at least a diversion. Well, at least I'll find it diverting. I'm pretty good at amusing myself with the goofy peripherals of life. Give me a good computer loaded with badass software and a good Internet connection. Add a TV, a VCR and a rental card. Oh, and cable. I'm set. Too bad they're no good in the sack. To get what I want to warm my bed, I need a much better attitude than I've been showing lately. Our timing sucks. Weeks ago I was doing okay. I was in a good place to listen to her. Better than now. I could see the cracks in her composure, her doubts, her unresolved fury at the violation she'd had at the hands of that piece of shit, Pfaster. But she packed her emotions away, my good old, iron-willed Scully. Now I'm left with nothing to give her. It's been weeks and I don't know if the physician has healed herself. I suspect not. But I can't do a thing about it. This french dip would be better if I'd eaten it when Scully had brought it over, hot. No wonder she's pissed off if I can't even show her the common courtesy of stopping to eat with her when she's done me the courtesy of coming over to feed me. Boy, these fries are nasty, cold. Screw this. They feel like lead on my stomach. My emotions must seem like vomit to her. I wonder if she closes herself off because I have enough mental chaos for the both of us. Her moods are like ocean currents, moving warm and cold beneath the surface. I'm bobbing in a little boat and casting for clues to her state of mind. Sometimes I get lucky. But not lately. I'm going back to numb. The Gunmen have sent over some game prototypes. This stuff looks a bit slicker than the usual games their little game-making community comes up with. Sort of a Dark City look. Frohike swore me to secrecy and quizzed me on my current level of firewalls. Please. I protect bigger secrets than the next craze for pimply thirteen-year-olds. I don't think this is going to displace Doom anyway. It's pretty plodding and heavy-handed. FPS logo. Whoever they are, they'd best do better than this. I swear the guys need to get out more. Hello, Lara. Did you miss me? You're great, Lara, but I know a petite redhead who could kick your butt. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Motel 6 in West Hollywood, CA Having resolved the search for my sister, fate has granted me my lost adolescence. How? Fate laughed and delivered me to L.A. Southern California. An x-file in its own right. My joints whine at me and my cuts and bruises moan. I got beaten up by a cyber-babe at First Person Shooter, Inc. What a wuss! But I did get to see Scully kick some cyber-butt. This entire week has been a roller coaster of hormonal rushes: endorphins, adrenaline, testosterone. Probably low on the serotonin and melatonin to judge by my sleep patterns. Three hours a night is pretty bad even by my standards, no dreams but little sleep either. I snag the last bit of cold pizza. Scully won't need it for breakfast. I cased a patisserie down the street (an unusual find in LA) and will provide some rich French concoctions and gourmet coffee, a positively decadent breakfast for Scully. Her morning is good if she gets good coffee. Hopefully this will help prove I've got the right balance of estrogen to go with my influx of testosterone. No, I don't just shoot the crap out of things. I am capable of the thoughtful gesture. Just right now would be a good time to show it. Agents Scully and Mulder have been handling work with their usual aplomb, such as it is. We're still working the kinks out the Scully-and-Mulder friendship thing. I *have* been like a particularly heedless thirteen-year-old and being on the Left Coast hasn't hurried my return to normalcy. I think Scully is ready to forgive my pubescent behavior if I show any signs that this episode is running down. But I don't think I've convinced her that it really is running down. Los Angeles has had a weird effect on me. My deep stuff has gotten shallower and my shallow stuff has gotten deeper. Does that make sense? Where did my quest for the Truth, the Whole Story, and the Big Issues go? Well, hey, dude, lighten up! Life here feels like it's staged on a cheesy, second-string network. I mean, come on! Jade Blue Afterglow? Steve and Edie? Matreya, the virtual, crazed Lara Croft wannabe? Me, a demented Geraldo on reality TV? *Me*, a crazed, Lara Croft wannabe? Nobody would believe these characters. A producer would reject them out of hand. Except maybe on FOX or the WB. If Scully had script control the whole project would have been scrapped, pronto. Finis. But it all seemed reasonable at the time. Jesus Christ! I can't believe I had the delusion that these cases would actually pan out. I, who generally can't even get Scully into the same space as paranormal phenomena, was going to get a camera there, on "Cops" yet. I, who have lost more weapons than most people have lost sunglasses was going to take out a sexy, well-armed, malicious computer program. Oh yeah, right. From the moment we got off the plane, L.A. was one, big, adolescent fantasy. Of course, it was more like one for a virgin who's thinking about it, than a guy who's getting any. We stepped into the world of slasher monsters, impossibly pneumatic babes, candy-haired hookers, and blazing, virtual automatic weapons. Now, I'm tired and sore and twanging with libido like an overtuned instrument. L.A. is the stuff of fantasies but no one really lives here. And I am not getting any because there's nothing adolescent about Scully. Adolescent fantasies don't turn her on. They just make her tired. And boy, does SoCal have her tired just now. Thus the propitiation with the decadent breakfast. Not that I'm expecting any until we get back to D.C, anyway. She frowns on sex while in the field. She doesn't want the locals to get our erotic vibes. And she says she can't concentrate on the job at hand. She ignores the fact that I certainly can't concentrate when I spend days in her presence with no more than platonic touches. Scully, in the field these days, is cool and efficient. She's not one of the boys. Used to be there was time for in-jokes and playfulness. No time allotted for laughter now. Okay, that's not totally true. If the case is light enough she'll let herself go a bit. Sometimes. But the road has been long and each recovery from the darkness longer. I want to throw caution to the wind and plant a big one on those lips before God and the LAPD and suck out all the shadows. Not a chance in hell. If only. If. If. If. Whatever. In any case she deserves one of her favorite breakfasts. Serious. She works like a dog; her back aches; her legs ache. She either eats like a bird, or scarfs junk food that makes her stomach cranky. She stays up 'til all hours, then collapses, sleeps like the dead for five hours, then springs forth to battle the baddies again. There may be nothing adolescent about Scully but there is an occasional glimpse of the childlike. And it usually appears when she's pooped. She gets this sweet, sleepy mien that is irresistible. Then if she doesn't fall asleep on me (often literally) we make long, tender love, her body soft and pliable, her sounds like a sated, nursing kitten. And I surround her and scoop her up, rubbing my face in her velvety flesh. So good! Actually, she's always good. Scully's even good in a bad mood. I have a secret weapon: if I can get her to accept my touch, a firm, full body massage will often restore her mood and her energy. Then she takes me in hand and we thrash and couple and laugh and collapse in a tangle of limbs. Also good, indeed. But not in the field. She likes her bed. I like her bed. I do. I blow my pay on Armani. She blows it on the best mattress, on sheets with thread counts in the higher three figures, on giant, fluffy goose-down pillows. And a big fluffy, goose-down comforter. I sleep the sleep of the blameless in her bed. I think I want to hibernate there next winter, like a bear. Maybe I'll run it by her. Or maybe I won't. Don't want to be victim of the deadly eyebrow. A faint trill next door, and then I hear her voice drifting through the half open connecting door. I start throwing the pizza rinds away and toss my suitbag on the bed. Calls at the crack of dawn are never good. "Yes, sir...requested?...suicide...no?...an x-file ...I'm sure we..." I hear a muffled yawn in there. "Of course, sir. Thank you, sir." She delivers the news. We're in for an unexpected sprint up to Marin County, catching a 7:30 AM flight. Some guy with Marin Sheriffs we met at Quantico last year, who'd taken an inordinate interest in our Tales from the Darkside, heard we were on the coast and sent out a request for us. At least the scene will be fresh. Scully just sighs and acquiesces in the inevitable. She wants her bed even more than I do. Okay, we'll just have to see what kind of goodies we can find at LAX. There's gotta be a Starbucks or a Gloria Jean's. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Alaska Airlines, LAX to San Francisco Morning, Sunshine. That salutation has become pretty ironic. Nowadays, since Pfaster- hell, since Africa- given the chance, Scully sleeps for twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a night, on the weekend. My concern about this she brushes off with some medical b.s. about the importance of sleep to good health. She does manage to get things done; she values her ordered existence. Laundry, house cleaning, the gym. But it has been months since we've gone to a game, seen an in-house movie, or visited an exhibit. Dressed up. Or, come to think of it, indulged in morning lovemaking. I get up, set the coffee maker, and run; she sleeps; I return, read the paper; she nurses a slow wakefulness. We quietly putter through her chores and my chores. Saturday night, let's inject a little romance: we cook for each other, or go out to some bistro that isn't Denny's, Coco's or Micky D's. If we have shepherded our energy, it's time for some good lovin'. Sunday Mass (late service), a visit with her mom, visits with a few old friends she touches bases with. But I don't think she's gone to church for weeks. Hmmmm. Hoops for me, or pizza with the guys. A quiet dinner together, a video, quick sex. I go home. Or she goes home. Then it's Monday. And now it's Saturday and we are on the job in California. The plane lifts out of the miasma of smog and mania that is L.A. Bye, Fox-Mulder-at-Thirteen. Later, dude. Three hours of sleep. It seems strange that I used to be able to function on that little on a regular basis. I wish this was a cross-country flight. First, if it were to D.C. the trip would end in Scully's bed- it *is* Saturday- and we'd get some real rest, then, hopefully some real recreation, and second, if it weren't, we'd still sleep for a couple hours on each other's shoulder. But this flight will be over in 45 minutes. California. California. California. Home of the shallow stuff and the very deep stuff. My sister's spirit lives in a moonlit grove in Victorville, eternally at play. Gossamer starlight and no pain. Happily ever after. Until she walks into another life. May it please Fate to have mercy next time around. And now I'm finding out what the hero does when the quest is over. At forty, one thing he really can't do is take back the adolescence he missed. I'm way too old to be serious with Ms. Croft. I look below me at the clouds burning off on the Pacific coast. Maybe I'll just float away and dissolve. Scully's hand finds mine and those porcelain fingers play over my knuckles, glide down the length of my fingers, smooth over my nails. I don't look at her, only at her hand at play. She turns over my palm and traces its lines. Fate, life. Heart. The tips caress the mounds below the fingers, firm and real. Her hand in mine is the ultimate reality. Nothing else exists. She's so damned sensuous, so full of life. A fire lights my palm. She says she loves my hands. I can't see it; they are tools to me. But I love my hands in hers or on any part of her- her back, her perfect face, the down of her arm. My life with Scully is a continuum. Sex doesn't start or end in bed- or on the rug, or on my couch, or on a blanket under the sky. We've made love from ten feet apart in evidence rooms, across the booth in diners, and over sad and hideous remains in anonymous morgues. While Skinner's droned on about some meaningless transgression against protocol and regulations, we've had intercourse. I've made love to bumps on her back in a small motel in Oregon and consummated our arranged marriage, spilling the words of my life into her ears that night, just hours after meeting her. She makes love to my hand. To hell with the bed. I can wake up and work this case. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Coco's Restaurant, Mill Valley, CA Oh, this is an X-file all right. I've been waiting, seemingly forever, to use my arcane knowledge of mountain magic. Now here it is and it's really textbook. Even the sheriff detective, Lt. New Age saw it, which is why he called us in. Man-shaped dirt on a bed. An old man carefully arranged and displayed, an offering to the old gods of the mountains, the gods who like their tribute raw. Gods like vengeance-is-mine Yahweh. Like Kali or Shiva the Destroyer. Prayers that are a scream to the heavens. Blood poured out on the floor, an unwanted sacrifice in this doctor's home. Somewhere, someone has the crudest tools of powerful magic: a poppet, an image, a bit of hair or a nail paring. And a boatload of hate and belief. We had found the Wieders, Robert, Nan, and daughter Lucy wandering among the professionals in their beautiful home with the glassy looks of the violently bereaved. They walked quickly through their entrance hall, heads down as they pass the wall that screamed "theeF"! at them in a splash of crimson. We joined them in the relative calm of a sitting room. Soon enough they circled the wagons in defense of the family. Everyone loved Nan's dad, Irvin Thalbro. Everyone loves Robert Wieder. Such a meaningless crime must be as random as lightening from the sky. There was no "theeF" in the Wieder home. Save the one who stole Irv Thalbro from them. Scully bites into a turkey, avocado croissant, mulling over the surprising appearance of kuru in an elderly professional. She still smells faintly of the morgue. That's just workaday eau de Scully. She's keeping me guessing. I don't know if she's just been trying to stimulate me- professionally- or if she's really starting to move glacially toward...I don't know, what? A more Spooky outlook? I can't put a box around Scully. Every time I do, she breaks out in some surprising direction. For several weeks there's been distance between us. While I've been on my own cloud, Scully has been stoically ticking through these odd and disjointed cases we've gotten. But now she's getting a mild kick out of this keep-Mulder-guessing game we're playing. She's full of secret mirth at my quizzical response. No arguments for the sake of argument? Hexcraft, sure, Mulder. She reserves judgment; she won't commit but she doesn't split hairs. She waits to see what will unfold. Sometimes I forget what a strange pair we are. How is this an X-file, Mulder? Conjure dust is the least of it. A mentally impaired man in his mid-sixties hangs a rope from a chandelier on a cathedral ceiling? Arranges it perfectly so he hangs as one standing? Cuts his throat *and* writes "theeF" in buckets of blood on a wall fifteen feet away? That's an excellent trick for a suicide. Getting all that preparation done in a house scattered with motion sensors is also an excellent trick for a murderer. That it was ultimately murder, however it happened, was never even a question, in my mind. I bite into a medium rare burger and think about blood on a wall. Someone is attacking this family, probably specifically attacking the handsome, successful Dr. Wieder. He must be the "theeF". He has everything; the murderer has nothing. Dr. Wieder has taken *everything*. Most probably a loved one. Evil creeps in from the holler. Yeah, this brand of magic looks Appalachian. The bright, yuppie family, in its yuppie community, has no defense against this primitive intent. It doesn't even know it needs a defense. "Is anyone else going to die?" Right on cue, Scully has the $64,000 question. "I don't know. But I'm pretty sure it's not over. The "theef" hasn't lost everything." "Dr. Wieder is the "theef"?" "Yeah, I think so. Yeah." "Any ideas?" "Man from the backside of nowhere, older, very introverted, very outside his element here. But very much in his element in what he's accomplishing: fear and despair. He's going to make contact with Dr. Wieder soon. He was in the house. He wants Wieder to know why he's suffering. I tried to get Wieder to accept some protection, but he's wed to the disease/suicide theory. This is outside his world view." "Well, Mulder, it was a disease and it was suicide, at least in a sense." "Don't play dumb, Scully. You saw everything I saw." "I know that, Mulder. I know Thalbro didn't accomplish it all himself. I can just see the straws that Dr. Wieder is grasping." "Straws are not going to keep him afloat. But I'm not really convinced that guards are the answer either. Those are just my own straws." We both turn to gaze out the coffeeshop window at the gray day. That's the worst of our job: waiting for the other shoe to drop. Scully has the disease and the cause of death. I have a semblance of a means, a motive and a vague profile of the UNSUB. We have a somewhat uncooperative potential victim. But no real suspect. And time is ticking. And someone is waiting patiently in the dim corners. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Holiday Inn, Mill Valley, CA I almost grabbed her phone. What time is it? She rolls out of my arms and answers it with economy and monosyllables. And looks at me sternly. "Dr. Wieder. Yes, you were right to call." There really are some good reasons to maintain the sanctity of the field-bed. But it's her rule, and I'm not going to complain if she wants to break it. I had been staring into the darkness for an hour when I heard the connecting door open. She set her cell on the night stand and slipped into my bed. She was there for rest; she cuddled against me, warm under her satin pajamas. We both got some quality sleep. And there won't be any specific erotic radiation. I was good. I was too tired to be anything but. So was she, I think. Of course, Dr. Wieder would call Dr. Scully. He's given up on any sense from Agt. Spooky Mulder. She hits the off button and turns to me. "Mulder, Nan Wieder has come down with some acute skin and tissue disease that has compromised all surfaces including the membranes of her throat and mouth." "Alive, I take it?" "Oh, yes, they've got her stabilized." "Any disease come to mind, Scully?" "No. It's going to be another oddity, I think." "The mark of our UNSUB, Scully. I can't see him thumbing through a diagnostic text. He must want a result and the curse provides the means." She doesn't reply to that; she's not quite sold. "I'm showering. Can we take off in about 30 minutes? USF Medical." "I'm there." No time for pastries. Or croissants. Or doughnuts. And only motel coffee, God help me. Maybe there's a Starbucks near the med center. Hell, there are probably two or three of them. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X North Point, San Francisco, CA Dr. Wieder responded to us, to *me*, just as I expected. If he won't see the enemy, he can't fight it. And the disease is not the enemy here. But it's an enemy with which he's most comfortable. He can't come to terms with the Robert Wieder that could inspire this kind of hate. So we are off to find a weapons store. Weapons for this particular form of attack. If anyone thinks *I'm* strange they should troll these kinds of paranormal stores. They come in several flavors. Two we visit would seem to be transplants from Sedona, the sweetness-and-light school of the spiritual and paranormal. A dozen books on angels. More on romanticized Native American lore, Zen, feng shui. Oh, oh, lookie, tantric yoga. Scully answers my rueful smile with a tiny one of her own. We've tried some of that. I managed to strain something; Scully's as limber as an eel. Rune stones, tarot. Lots of pastels, crystals, and iridescent glitter. Books on Pleideians, aliens as saviors of the world, imparters of ancient wisdom. Bullshit. Cassandra Spender would have been right at home here at one time, poor lost soul. Sweet women and serene, ethereal young men ready to help you with anything, until you bring up the subject of dark magic. Lofty disapproval: that's not keeping your mind on a higher plane, you see. This dark decored one, at first glance, seems more likely. But no go, it's Goth City. Pimply kid in whiteface, tattoos, thickly pierced, is trying desperately to be this latest version of ominously cool. He is pathetically eager to seem knowledgeable and nonchalant. Oh, yeah, he knows a guy who's the real thing. Yeah, man, you can meet him at Serbius on Fridays. Or is it the Darkrose on Saturdays? Well, one of those clubs. Anyway they say he connects with Satan and can do a curse that sticks. Heard this girl pissed him off and he gave her this curse where she's broken a finger, two ribs, and her ankle in one month. Well, it could be that she's been doing hash and ecstasy while knocking back Absolut. But lots of people do that and they don't break bones. "But I'm not into that evil shit. I'm more into the amoral, ancient forces of nature. I do a killer reading with the Thoth tarot. $20? Just takes fifteen minutes. Or I could do a couple's reading for $30. You two got interesting vibes. Okay, maybe next time. Blessed be." Next Santeria. Or some Caribbean mixture of traditions. Wrong brand of magic even if we could sort through the heavy dialect. Gracias. Au revoir. At last, this one smells right, it smells authentic. It's dark and businesslike. Unpretentious, cluttered but clean. Eccentrically organized herbs, candles, used books with lovingly worn covers, secrets in the crannies. Even Scully can feel it. We both walk carefully around the pentagram on the floor. This proprietor looks sharp and very aware. She is. I pull out the evidence bag of conjure dust and she recoils, not exactly in fear, but in caution, as one who sees an novice awkwardly handling a chain saw. She knows her stuff. A charm, the woman says. A charm determines the precision and potency of the magic. I'd heard of that concept in vague terms, but didn't connect it in this case. A charm could be anything, but it would be something infused with passion. What is this guy's passion? I start to get an idea, but play it close to my vest. Why do I still do that with Scully? It's so childish; she knows that I brainstorm and that every idea doesn't pan out. So why don't I share? Sometimes I just like controlling the timing of my revelations. It's part of the Spooky image to pull out of the air startling hypotheses that actually end up as reality. Scully doesn't give a rat's ass about the Spooky image. Just get the job done. But she's accommodated herself to my ways as I have to hers. Actually, she's similarly cautious about committing herself before the facts. But while I do it to be spuriously impressive, she does it in order not to be embarrassed. I don't give a rat's ass about embarrassment. She crosses the t's and dots the i's and couches her reports in cautious language. She's good at protecting our backs from the pencil pushers. She cobbles together some of the unlikeliest cases into the stuff of science. Beat that for impressive, Spooky. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Wieder residence, Mill Valley Nan Wieder's dead. Very dramatically dead. Her last MRI seared her with a blast of radiation. "TheeF" is branded, a maker's mark in her charred skin, and etched indelibly from any angle in her morning brain scans. The hunter is back. Wieder, the hunted, must have seen the scans earlier. It didn't take a doctor or a trained tech to *read* this: literally, "theef" written in shades of gray on the transparencies. How far in denial was this guy? I guess it doesn't matter. He's a believer now and he's clinging desperately to the hope that his daughter can be protected. But even now, Scully has to pry from him the fact that the UNSUB had visited him. Christ, what does he expect us to work with? But I stay impassive. Pushing him now, when he's so close to broken, won't help. Ah, shame has been blocking him. The man has the arrogance found in a man at the top of the medical field, a field that has more of art mixed with its science than he wants to admit. Failure happens to other people. And beyond the arrogance, he is essentially a good man, a good doctor. He really wants to heal every patient who passes though his hands. But that poor, young woman was not going to see any healing, only pain. "First, do no harm." But where's the harm in relieving the suffering of someone on the downward path? She didn't die of a morphine overdose; she died of trauma. But along with the easing of pain, the drug relaxed the body in its futile fight, and she went gently, without a convulsive battle. Well, now we have a name to link to motive and a face to put on the law enforcement net. Lynette Peattie. Jane Doe, a broken body in a bus wreck. Her pa is hunting the thief of her young life if I'm not mistaken. Now it's time to hunt down the charm. Scully takes the trail of Lynnette Peattie's history and her grave. She's much better at wheedling computer wonks to do her bidding than I. I'll just herd Wieder through the process of making a composite. I think the end is in sight. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Oakland, CA This is the dreariest graveyard I've ever seen. I've seen sad; I've seen sinister. This is soulless. This must have seemed like a corner of Hell to Pa Peattie as a place for his sweet Lynette, a place as far as possible from their wooded Eden. I doubt most of the commuters that pass by on that freeway every day even know this place exists, that there is such thing as a potter's field in Oakland. If they notice it at all, it is just a gridded bit of land someone wrested from the urban landscape between the interchanges. Who'd think it was a city-owned graveyard? The name is Orel Peattie, Scully reports. One reference to him and his daughter: an aborted attempt to vaccinate the girl child. Period. They have no other place on the public record map, no property, no taxes, no social security numbers. They lived in a little corner of the nineteenth century, perhaps the eighteenth. Probably born at home on an unmarked country road attended by a local midwife. There was no public schooling. Then somehow, sometime the young bird thought to spread her wings but crash-landed at the other end of the continent before she could really soar. And her pa has come out of the East, out of his mountains to visit his vengeance on the world that seduced her, and to his mind, killed her, all in the person of Dr. Robert Wieder. I'm not so cocky about my unveiling of the charm now. As usually happens, grim reality has set in and I only hope to hurry the end of this before Peattie can rain more destruction on this bewildered family. I hand Scully my umbrella and open the casket. My stomach sinks. Peattie needs to be closer to his charm than I thought. The body is gone. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Hwy. 99 Tulare County, CA What is the speed of darkness? I left the Foster City boarding house on automatic. I will get there. I am in motion. We will nail the sucker. This will happen. I'm one step, two steps behind old man Peattie. I sent the Wieders to the mountains, to the woods to hide. Oh, good move, Spooky. A sheer fluke I caught that news report about his poor landlady. And luck that flesh-eating bacteria is news. Kuru wouldn't have grabbed the lead so easily. Thank God for the composite. A quick ID by the neighbors bought us our warrant. But no Orel Peattie. Lynette's body was tucked in his bed, but oh Jesus! the head was gone. I caught a puddle jumper from San Mateo to Fresno but now I'm stuck in this rented piece of junk. And just how much more can this Detroit reject do on this godforsaken highway? Ninety miles per hour, let the CHP know I'm coming through. I speed through the darkness toward the Sierras. He has the charm. He has the power. He has the head, dammit! The Wieders are sitting targets, drawing Peattie like natural prey do their natural predator. These sad remainders of a family, suddenly out of their depth, trusting to our protection, do not deserve to be sacrificed to the old mountain ways, to be the target of Peattie's rage against a world that took his darling. Scully, Scully, take care. Please. He didn't kill the old woman, I reassure myself. (He maimed her, my mind whispers.) He's not wedded to evil. He sees this as justice. He *knows* that careless evil will rebound, by all he holds sacred. Only the guilty and those the guilty one loves deserve to die. As his beloved died. Unless he's let it all go in a plunge of heedless hate. Fuck, will this thing move?! I think of her hand, tethering me to reality, keeping me from dissolving into nothingness. She is my reality now. These treacherous moments have become harder and harder to handle. Where will it end? In her grave and then shortly in mine? That is not an option. Slow down, breathe. She's as good as anyone at the quick analysis, the correct decision in crisis. Trust her. Trust her brains. Trust the God she believes in. Trust the force of my utter need. As usual, all this ends up bound to my complete self-centeredness. Please let her survive because she deserves to. Amen. She needs me at her back. Dear God. Thirty more miles up the hill to Sequoia. I call for back up, local sheriffs, rangers, whatever's available. Oh, Scully. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Sequoia National Forest, CA The redwood needles crackle under my feet as I quietly emerge from my car. I feel his presence on my skin. I will my skin, my ears, my eyes to seek him out. Scully's car. Oh, shit! Broken glass. Wait. Don't miss anything. No blood on the vehicle, no assault, no abduction. Then what? It springs out at me. A little doll, a burlap gingerbread man, laying on a man-shaped patch of dirt. My heart leaps out of my chest. Nails through the eyes. I know this is not aimed at the Wieders but at their guardian. I pull the bits of iron out and viciously kick and scuff the dirt apart. He still has the charm; will this break the spell? I become aware of muffled cries coming from the dark building as I draw nearer. My teeth grind as I clutch my weapon in one hand and the poppet in the other. The path, the steps, the porch...The head stands as a sentinel at the door. Shots fired! I feel as if I am running through water as I push through into the firelit room. Scully's back is to me, the acrid odor of gun powder comes from the Sig she is slowly lowering. Peattie lies at her feet. She turns the blaze of her gaze on me, pupils dilated to full, no doubt absorbing the remains of my panic face. I offer her the little figure and she takes it. She says nothing, but stares at the puckered holes of the eyes. She checks out Orel Peattie. Alive, barely. I pull out my cell and try to find out where that backup I ordered is. And send paramedics- now. As she turns to go up the stairs to check on Lucy and Robert, I see her shoulders shudder then straighten. And that's it for her. Freaking amazing. Well, I don't care if we are in the field. She's going to have to put up with my needy presence when we get a chance to crash. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X San Francisco Medical Center We've been up for thirty-six hours. A shooting and an arrest can generate a lot of paperwork and a lot of interviews. She's on administrative leave- again. Second shooting in four months. The Fresno SAC looked in askance at this. Is this agent trigger-happy? No, ma'am, we just have a knack of finding friends in low places. What do you think? She got the shit beaten out of her in her own home by a man whose next intent was to dismember her. She shot him. Last night she was disarmed by a wiry, old cuss with a knife, who had killed two of a family, who was actively attacking the survivors. When she recovered her weapon she shot him, too. She's a healer, not a killer but sometimes it plays out that way. I told the SAC the minimum that I had seen, then stopped and shut up. Scully's finally got me trained. Lucy Wieder, bless her suddenly stubborn and intelligent heart, looked SAC Marie Deluccia in the eye and told her that, yes, he was threatening them with a knife. Peattie used the words "an eye for an eye" in connection with the death of a patient, reportedly his daughter. Then her father went into a heart attack. Agent Scully disabled their attacker, rendered aid to her father, and generally saved them both. She even treated the scum who'd attacked them. As far as she is concerned, Agent Scully is guardian angel. So stop wasting her time. Deluccia couldn't argue with that, especially when it took care of a messy case that had suddenly landed in her lap. She signed off on it. There'll be one more hearing in D.C., but it will be a formality. Scully sips her decaf and leans against a doorjamb in ICU, closing her eyes, then opening them abruptly. I want to do my usual routine and get her to talk but I know better than to force it. She'll only share what's going on with her in her own time, in her own way. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Napa Valley, CA It's amazing how easy it is for me to spill my guts, my emotions. Not necessarily in a decipherable fashion, mind you, but it gets out there. What's easy for me is a real flesh twister for Scully. She doesn't ask where we are going. I'd think she was asleep, so motionless has she remained, but I see the glint of moonlight on her eyes. So silent, not even a sigh, seeming to hold in even the sound of her breath. To hell with staying in the Bay Area. As far as the Bureau is concerned, we are tucked in our beds in Mill Valley. I called Kimberly- Skinner was in meetings- and told her that we were taking our weekend tomorrow and the next day. If we are needed we can be reached on our cells. I leave Scully zoning in the car. I register us in the Verdigris Bed and Breakfast, Mr. and Mrs. Timothy Connelly, the pleasant innkeepers. Mrs. Connelly smiles a grandmotherly smile and waves away my apologies for our late arrival. She and her husband run an obviously well-loved place. The cozy room with the king-sized bed and vineyard view in Napa is on my dime. And the bathroom has both a real bath and a real shower. I checked ahead. Packed in my overnight is something I picked up in one of the pastel, New Age shops: a set of aromatherapy bath oils, gels, and a natural sponge. Scully laughed a little at the time. Since when did I take baths? I gave my best impression of her enigmatic smile. Of course, she knew it was for her. But she doesn't take baths while on a case. She won't allow her mind or body to relax. Besides, she hates having this indulgence interrupted as can happen when she's on the job. She's single-minded in everything. Showers have been the order of the day for the past two weeks- quick and efficient. Now the last case is finished. She collapses in a soft, overstuffed chair, her eyes finally closed. I keep my mouth shut and busy myself putting away our overnight bags. "Mulder, so where are we, again?" "Napa Valley." "Why?" She tries for some awareness. "Isn't that sort of out of the way?" "Because we're tired and, yes it is, but I wanted to get away from Marin. As head of this division, I'm assigning myself two comp days. You're on leave." "Hmmm." She doesn't open her eyes. I leave the bedroom and continue with my preparations in the bathroom. This is a nice, big tub; both of us could fit. But this isn't for me. This is for her. I test the flow. Yup. A little hotter than I am comfortable with. Scully even likes her relaxing baths on the edge. Besides, it will cool off shortly. I pull out three varieties of oils: relaxation, spirituality, and romance. Relaxation, no question. I sniff it. There is definitely lavender in here. It reminds me of a summer trip to Provence, a short break from college, when I really didn't feel like going home. France on a hundred francs a day. How about those days before inflation? I'd like to see Scully in a summer dress in the hills of Provence, near Nimes, I think, wandering among the Roman ruins. Like Southern California, it is hot and dry, but without the smog and without the craziness. We've never taken a vacation together. Traveling means work. We both tend to hole up and lick our wounds during any break in the action. Or she travels to see bits of her family. We are both so goal oriented. She's right; we need to get out of the damned car. Into the tub would be a start. I kneel before her and gently start removing her shoes, her stockings, caressing her arches. Then I reach up to her knit top. Ten to one she'll think I'm about to jump her bones. *What the hell are you doing, Mulder?* She knows what a horny devil I am, and it *has* been eleven days. So. "What are you doing, Mulder?" She doesn't say it defensively; she's relaxed and curious. Just keep on guessing, Mulder. "I've drawn you a bath, dear heart." A deep breath. "I'm afraid I'll fall asleep and drown myself." "That's why you were smart and brought along your bath boy." I continue quietly plucking off clothing. She watches dreamily as if it is happening to someone else. I don't even cop a feel, though I can't resist a quick brush of lips on her shoulder. I'm so proud of myself. I've tamed the beast. For the moment. Scully, in any state of hygiene, smells wonderfully. Okay, maybe not after the explosion in the methane plant. But even then, she wasn't as bad as I made out when I teased her about it. I draw in her scent as I pull her out of the chair. If there is such a place, heaven smells like Scully. Scully naked is far removed from Scully clothed. Clothed, she is clearly defined, she is outlined against the scenery, neat and compact. Naked she seems made of light. I've never seen skin like hers; it's probably one of those Irish genetic things, but I like to see it as a Dana Scully thing. In the midst of the joy and awe I feel when I unwrap her, I am again jarred by the sight of the things that mar her: fresh purple bruises from the run-in with that bastard Peattie, an old scar here and there where Scully has fallen, or has been struck, or thrown, fresh red marks courtesy of the Pfaster scum, and that angry scar below her ribs where she took a bullet last year. I can't take the blame for the last, directly. And Scully insists I shouldn't take on the blame for any of her injuries. But I do, for them all. Her relationship with me has defined these spikes in her life. But now I keep it to myself for the most part. She's taken to assessing me five bucks a throw for any remark she deems overly guilt-ridden or needlessly self-deprecating. And she doesn't give an inch. She says she doesn't like to hear me diss her lover. Especially since it's me. The first month yielded a concert at Lincoln Center (Itzak Perleman), orchestra seating. In the second, I came up with the scratch for a very nice dinner at Galileo. Third month, I had beaten it down to the cover and an evening of drinks and appetizers at a jazz club. Now I deliberately throw out a self-wounding barb or two just to get a rise out her and to sweeten the kitty. And when I do, she rolls her eyes and rubs together her finger tips as I get out my wallet. She sways slightly as we step into the bathroom. I turn her and wrap myself around her as she nuzzles into my shirt. I wish I could infuse her with something I've seldom had: trust in the future, some hope and joy. Somehow she got stuck in the car with me, and these things were taken from her. All sorts of doors shut in her face. Sometimes in a mood of bathos, I think that I should tell her to leave me, to go and have a life. But that's no answer. She loves me; that's just the truth of it. The path she's taken wouldn't suddenly dissolve if I kicked her to the curb. The closest I've gotten to pushing a separation was after Antarctica. "You should get as far away from me as you can." She properly gave the idea short shrift. We weren't even lovers then, in the commonly accepted meaning of the word. But she wasn't going to give in to my self-sacrifice, or the Conspirators, or her own doubts. Scully's the strongest person I know and she doesn't even see it. I wish I could demand five dollars for every look of dissatisfaction I catch on her face when she doesn't meet her own standards. I guide her into the bath and she breathes the fragrant steam. She slides bonelessly under the water, her flesh already flushing in the heat. I fold myself up on the floor beside the tub and watch her limbs wavering under the water, her hair curling in the vapors, her breasts rising and falling, the pulse at her neck beating a little quickly: life, blessed life. As intensely as she lives, she's an expert at completely releasing all tension when the moment allows. I float with her in this bit of eternity. It's like the starlit grove, a time and place of rest set aside from the relentless pressure of karma. I don't want to leave this place. I pick up her facial cleanser and a wedge sponge and slowly begin to remove her make-up: shadow, mascara, liner ever so gently. Timeless Scully emerges years younger, the lines drawn by our work smoothing and redrawing into softer form. She looks like a da Vinci, or a Vermeer, suffused with soft light. Blush comes up off the skin but she remains rosy in the heat of the water. A feather kiss on her brow and she smiles faintly, her eyes still closed. Now the gel and the soft, new sponge. I lift her arm from her side and slide the sponge down her slim lines. You'd think she was fragile but she's made of tempered steel physically and spiritually. My hand follows a natural path up and down, over her spine, her shoulder blades. She rolls her head around with my ministrations to her neck, baring her throat, rubbing into my motion. I methodically clean all her surfaces, touching her sensually but not sexually, delighting in doing this simple thing for her. Scented water pours from my cupped hands as I rinse her. Then she's out of the tub and wrapped in a fresh bath sheet. Thankfully, I tossed one into the trunk with the bath things. We've learned certain equipment is necessary on the road. I hate to rub her down with the sandpaper handkerchiefs they call towels in some of these places. She's practically asleep. Good. I've laid out her pajamas, but she shakes her head and tugs at my clothes. "Next to you?" Naked, skin to skin, she means. Sometimes my skin is her comfort. "Sure." I strip down quickly. It's okay. I roll call the troops. Mulder-at-Thirteen is down in L.A. gawking at hookers on Hollywood Blvd. Mulder-Junior is awake and hopeful. Later, guy, later. He settles a bit. Agent-Mulder admits there are no more mysteries to be solved tonight. Paranoid-Mulder grumbles that, yeah, guess we're safe here. Scully's-Friend-and-Lover is the man of the hour and is proud and happy to be there, to have Vulnerable-Scully in his arms. To let the crowd of Scullys rest easy for tonight. Under sweet-smelling, cool sheets- thank you, Mrs. Connelly- we arrange ourselves in a favorite position: her head on my shoulder, torso to torso, her thighs straddling one of mine, my hands on her back and hip. "Thank you." Her words are a whisper. I kiss her hair and listen to the rhythm of her breath as she drifts off. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Verdigris Bed and Breakfast, Napa, CA In the darkness I feel her exploring my skin. I love waking to this in the night. Sometimes unexpectedly we just need to *be* right here, right now, physically. Unplanned. In the eternal now. Or maybe it isn't so unexpected. I think we both need each other's unadorned presence just now. I've been floating, drifting ever since I found my sister. Life has become airy and light and insubstantial. And a little scary. Things have gotten scary for Scully, too. I think Donnie Pfaster still looks over her shoulder, accusing her of all her sins, holding out a hair shirt she's all too ready to wear. And I've been untethered, moving almost out of her reach. I could have lost her in those mountains. I don't want to have to find her in the starlight. But here, now, in this bed, in the dark, we are alive in each other. She needs to take the reins tonight. Events have driven us in the last weeks. I lay there ready to cooperate with her lovely, carnal impulses. What part of me is her flavor-of-the-night? Her lips nibble and pull at my flesh at my collar, my neck, her arms cradling my shoulders and my back. Her lips leave an imprint, soft and warm, then quickly cool as her tongue leaves a moist trail. Her hair is softly scrunched in my hands. Her tender mouth mmm... behind my ear, down my jawline. Yes, my darling, stop a moment at my mouth. She silently obliges. Her hands move and comb and massage my scalp. We kiss deeply and thoroughly, lips, tongues and teeth uniting. Yes. Time disappears. It isn't missing. We've just absorbed it. Now she's moved on. She leisurely traces my abs with her face, tickling me with her nose, hugging my waist like a body pillow. I feel her lips smile and I smile at the dark ceiling. Everything below the waist is ready and willing, but I'm patient. She continues to lovingly tease my incipient paunch; my cock pokes her chin, eager and hopeful. Soon, soon enough her hands slide down under me, and she kneads the round muscles of my ass. She relaxes me as she excites me. Those hands, those lips do a thorough inventory of the flesh of my thighs. Then a breathless moment. Oh, that's good, Scully. I feel like Christmas in her hands and her mouth, enjoyed and cherished. With other lovers, head has often been a tradeoff for future favors. But Scully gives and takes freely. I took some convincing at first, but her words and actions were emphatic: pleasuring me pleasures her. Incredible. Of course pleasuring her pleasures me, too. But that just seems natural. It's been eleven-no twelve-days and I'm not planning on coming in her mouth. No. The pressure is almost painful but I gently cup my hands around her face and lift her off me. We pull ourselves together upright on our knees, pressed closely in thighs, torsos, mouths, and tightly wound arms, rubbing our slick bodies skin to skin in short insistent movements. I've missed this. She pulls me down to the sheets, maintaining our close embrace. I aim to wake up every square inch of her and set off fireworks that will melt her into a puddle on the pillow. Let's take the time to do it right; let's make a good reason for sweet dreams. "Now." Now? Well, I'm ready, but I hardly expect her to be. She's used a deft, satisfying touch with me that has me humming but I don't feel a corresponding quickening in her yet. I've hardly touched her; I had counted on some play time with her body, to suckle and worry her breasts, to kiss her other lips, to love and caress her 'til I hear the sounds of her impending climax. "Please. Now." I reach down and it seems she's wet enough. Somehow I don't think she'll come, though. She seems languorous and her breathing deep and steady. She sighs and presses her lips into the curve of my neck and shoulder. So. This is comfort sex. I can work with that. Just take a moment to kiss her eyes and nose and the rim of her ear. Got to slow down this show even if my body is screaming, "I'm gonna have sex! sex!" I'm about forty, for Christ's sake. Control has to be an advantage. She reaches and guides me in; her muscles squeeze me in a welcoming hug. Thank you for having me, my love. I continue peppering her skin with kisses, then move my mouth over hers again -delicious, I could stay here forever- as I slowly start stroking. I slide my fingers down where they'll do the most good. My mind searches for distraction to keep this from running away from me, when she interrupts me by reaching for the lamp. The dim, warm incandescence throws us into relief. "Just let yourself go, Mulder. I'm fine- I'm good. I just want to watch you and feel you." I look down and swim in her huge pupils. I can't read her. But she smiles faintly, reassuringly, then turns serious and intent. Hard to believe this is all she wants. My rampaging libido and the memories of her sensual intensity on other occasions argue the point, but if this is what my love wants, I'll abandon myself in her, and she can enjoy the show. We have another day and a half, after all. I let my body set the rhythm and let my eyes sweep her expanse of creamy skin and fall into her half-closed eyes. She stretches, then negligently trails a hand around the curve of a breast. Beautiful. This is like a combination of porn and a walk in the Louvre. I'm going to spill myself into Baroque art, a Titian, perhaps. This is a fine art kind of night. My pace quickens as do our breaths. My motion blurs her hair into a fiery halo, her eyes, moving blue sparks. Her hands slide down my back and pull me in deeply, like she wants me to dive into her womb. She grips me fiercely. Harder, Mulder, harder. My mind takes that preternatural clarity I sometimes get before climax. I know her sense of place with me and our work had drifted. Maybe my own spiritual contretemps disconnected us somehow. I try to communicate my "thereness" as I my body wields its urgency. Faster. Deeper. Know that I'm yours, Scully. Know that, always. Yes. Yes! I'm here, Scully. Sudden darkness as my eyes disappear into the warm satin of her neck, and I breathe incoherent words of love and reassurance that buzz her skin. My cry as I give up my seed is more agony than ecstasy. Oh, God...oh, God... "Ah, Mulder, love...shhh...it's good...shhh..." And her lips are erasing the tears, as my heaving breaths are revealed to be fading sobs. Jesus. How did I get to this place? X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Verdigris Bed and Breakfast, Napa, CA The warm brightness and sweet, country air pour in through the French windows. I'm glad I brought Scully here. The morning light illuminates a room filled with antiques and pale, sprigged fabric. Normally this sort of thing holds no attraction for me, but this morning it is a haven. We're as far as possible from the things in DC: a cluttered office, a dank Alexandria apartment, or a comfortable, utilitarian flat. We'll have a day to breathe. Her shadow moves across the sunlight. She is a silhouette in sky blue satin coming in off the balcony. My eyes aren't quite focused, so I can't catch the expression on her shadowed face. Seeing I'm awake, she crosses the room to me. Scully settles on the floor inches from me and runs the tips of her fingers down my side to rest lightly on my hip. She looks calm and at long last rested. "How are you doing?" "Hmmm...good." I reach over and pull her face to mine. She gets the dragon breath; I get a taste of mint. Morning, Sunshine. Sunshine. Wait. I glance at the sunlight on the wall. It can't be later than 8 AM. We're actually awake. And we're off the clock. I start to smile. She looks relieved. Relieved? Oh, yeah, that. Last night seems distant and dreamlike. I know I can't let it go; today we talk, I promise myself. But I want us to taste a little freedom first. This is California wine country, no winter snow, and miracles of miracles, no rain. We're between storms. "Think they serve the local product with breakfast?" "The brochure says 'continental breakfast' but wine would be pretty continental, even for Napa, Mulder. Or were you referring to grapes?" "Just my nonsense. Shall we shower and then see what 'continental breakfast' means at the Verdigris B&B?" "I've already been in the shower. How about if I get dressed and see if I can bring up some coffee and maybe some breakfast. It says they serve until ten." "Okay." Score one for Scully efficiency, zero for the horn dog. I don't sigh until she's left the room. Damn, Mulder, get a grip. We aren't here for marathon sex; this isn't a honeymoon. And last night was good, for me at least, despite my little post-coital episode. I can use the shower to do a little introspection. Clean thoughts now, boy. This is, indeed, a great bathroom. Full-sized soap. Fluffy towels (no sandpaper here). Shower massage. Yeah. I set that head to the perfect combination of spray and pulse. God, that feels good! Yeah, I'll lure her in here sometime today. Although baths are her preference, she does like to shower with me on occasion. This one is exquisitely decadent. I think I even feel human today. Wonder how Scully feels? Probably "fine". And what version of "fine" would that be Dr. Scully? Wonder what she'd think of a five dollar fee on the word "fine"? Probably not worth the contention. However, between the two of us, I'd bet we could afford a weekend getaway instead of just an evening's date. Beyond fine? Where has Scully been while I've been on my little odyssey in the Mulder family Twilight Zone? While Mulder-at- Thirteen has been joyriding on the road away from his past? The short answer is with me, holding down the fort. Making up for my lack of focus with sheer professionalism, And her lack of focus as well. Yeah, hers. Scully can do an incredible job on any assignment with or without enthusiasm. And she's done the job. But I know her spirit is on its own journey and it's not a happy one. This conundrum is going to be a hard one to resolve without any help from Scully. And I can't be sure of any help. It's not as if either of us is falling apart at the seams. I'm just extraordinarily sensitive to all the nuances in our relationship, now that I've shaken most of my own malaise. And I know I've lost ground in my ongoing efforts to stay connected, to stay on her wavelength. Scully is tirelessly self-sufficient. I drop the ball, and she picks it up without complaint. The trick is to get back in the game. I walk back into the bedroom toweling my hair. I hope to God it's just Scully opening that door. Okay. She gives me an appreciative once-over. A little stomach suck and her smile broadens. She walks out onto the balcony carrying a tray festooned with an elegant coffee service and an interesting arrangement of fruit and baked goods. Oh, tough luck, not a McMuffin in sight. We'll just have to make do. And I'd better throw on some jeans unless I want to imitate some psuedo-Greco-Roman garden sculpture. She's pouring me coffee as I join her. I see that besides food she has a collection of brochures on the local sights. Mostly wineries. So, instead of boinking our brains out in this pretty b&b we'll get genteelly smashed in California's finest wine tasting rooms. Whatever the lady likes. This is for her. She picks up a couple of shiny ads. "Do you have any preferences, Mulder?" "In what?" "Wines." "Not particularly. In a restaurant I usually go for something red and midrange. That usually works fine for me." She thinks for a minute. "Then why are we in Napa?" "It's the most scenic, quiet, and close place I could think of, Scully." "You needed a little quiet, Mulder?" Step carefully here. No prescribing her needs. "Well, yeah. I thought we could both use a break. This trip has been pretty frenetic. Three cases in a row- bam, bam, bam! If we went directly home, we'd end up doing something either mind-bogglingly practical like *all* three weeks of our laundry, or mind-deadenly useless like twelve hours of "Doom"." I *would* have to mention games. She regards me expressionlessly for a moment and then smirks. "I know how compulsive you can get over dirty laundry." "And we really need to get your game obsession under control, Scully." Her eyes sparkle at my grin. One small hurdle crossed. And we amicably plan our day. Maybe I've just been projecting my crappy psyche on her. This day is ours. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Entre Nous Restaurant, Sonoma, CA For a guy who habitually eats off of paper products, I get an enormous kick out of dining off fine china across from the most beautiful woman present. Invariably Scully is, no matter where we are. And the higher the high-end establishment we patronize, the more amusing it is to watch the waiters fall over themselves. I know these guys have seen the best the fashion and cosmetic industries can do for a woman and they practically kiss her feet. No question, she's the real thing. It's hard to remember a better day than today. Oh, sure, there have been days filled with the excruciating joy of relief, when the miracle of survival has been a rush in itself. But today has been without shadows, clean and good. We've driven through the valley, tooling along the quiet backlanes between the vineyards. It's been one of the best days of the California winter. In the Northeast this weather would seem like spring, but here it is still unmistakably a time of dormancy, of sleepy earth. Back East the ground we left was hunched under a gray blanket of old snow. Here it nestles easily under a clear, blue sky with a hint of warmth, dreaming. Scully has been so tender with me, it's almost scary. I think, at first, it was her response to the remnants of our lovemaking and my seemingly inexplicable bout of melancholy. But as the morning has passed, we both have seemed to shed the hard years. We haven't talked of work, not one word. In fact we haven't talked at all for much of the time, reposing in an easy silence, letting our contentment speak for us. And we have touched- often. Scully isn't one for public displays of affection. Of course, in DC we prefer not to give any randomly familiar eyes a good show. Let us remain Mr. and Mrs. Spooky, shadowy denizens of the basement. Are we or aren't we doing it? One of the great mysteries of our time. Today in our little vacation bubble, she's reached for me, stroked my back, laid a hand on my thigh as I've driven, slipped an arm around me as we've walked on a winery tour. As we stopped among the casks, I wrapped my arms around her waist and buried my face in her soft, cool hair, with no hint of protest on her part. After lunch at a terraced cafe, we walked down to a stone bench on the overlook, and we sat hip to hip savoring the pristine air, the natural sounds of wind in flora, the tender, verdant hills. In a natural progression, she moved to my lap and molded herself in my arms and we kissed and lightly petted and drank in each other's warmth, long and unhurriedly. The world that has left us so wounded and where death has breathed down our necks has been relegated to another dimension. And now I sit across from her in these elegant surroundings, firelight gracing her features. And I'm happy. Sometimes it seems unreal that amidst all the crap in my life, I have been given this precious gift. The thing is that it isn't Scully, in herself, as precious as she is. Her love for me fills me with awe. But...but the real wonder is that beyond all expectations of myself and of the few who know me at all, *I* have actually learned to love someone. Truly. I love someone real and there and human. The gift is that I can be real and there and human with her. We talk and argue; we snipe and heal each other's hurts. We live in each other's pocket; we drive each other crazy. We misunderstand each other. We like each other. We love fiercely. I'm a workaholic, but never before have I worked so hard as I have these last few years to keep this wondrous thing we have alive. My world would enter an ice age if I let this slip away. When did I, the poster child for cynicism, become such a romantic? X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Verdigris Bed and Breakfast, Napa On the balcony, the first stars are appearing, and lights wink on throughout the valley. I seldom stop to wait for it, but I've always loved the deepening blue of the sky in the hour after sunset. Maybe it's because of my colorblindness. I have no real concept of what I miss that other people see. How could I? Green and red? I guess not. But blue I know I have and I sink into the twilight. Now even more so since that night in Victorville. It comforts me to think of my Samantha, forever young and free, wrapped in the velvet blue of the night. I lean back in the balcony chair. This separate time Scully and I have carved out for ourselves stands still for me. The starlight falls on the quiet evening, and I almost think I could believe in God. I laugh a bit. I have given Scully such grief over the years with my snide remarks about religion, especially Catholicism. Petty of me, but deep down I know it's partly sprung from the grief she's given *me* on my beliefs. She'll believe the secondhand reports by long dead chroniclers of her faith, but then she'll demand a report notarized by Stephen Hawking before she'll accept my eye witness accounts of the seemingly bizarre. Strike that. Truly bizarre. At least, that's how I saw her attitude for a long time. I finally got it through my thick head that it isn't that she doesn't believe me. It is just that her place in our universe is to be the one to wrestle these events to the ground, and pummel their oddity until they surrender to reason. She was sent to debunk me; she turned that around and became the one to fight the good fight for rationality to support our work. But I'm still an idiot and tend to take it all personally. It took me years to sort out the differences in our world views. Scully, girl scientist, embraces a faith developed when the Earth was the center of the universe, when frogs were supposed to spring from the mud in spontaneous generation, and the basic essences of the human body were the four humors. And the Catholic Church and Christianity as a whole never really caught up with Darwin, Einstein and Bohr. Shit, they almost lost it with Copernicus. So they threw up their hands and just said, Believe Us or Burn. It didn't work for Galileo and it sure as hell doesn't fly now. And yet Scully keeps going to Mass. Until recently, that is. While I, who can believe six impossible things before breakfast, can't wrap my mind around an omnipotent, omnipresent, *all-loving* God creating this crapper of a world and the theologically rigged game that the Christians believe is Truth. Even conscientiously ignoring my personal sorrows as prejudicial, there is something seriously wrong with a system that throws endless challenges at a hapless population in the form of disease, natural disasters, and Original Sin. Sin, which as I understand it, was only a matter of free choice for a couple of naive gits in the Garden of Eden anyway; none of their descendants have had a say in it. No one can escape Original Sin. And then the system requires the choosing of the correct faith (Christianity, and more specifically Roman Catholicism) out of the myriad available on the world market, so that the loving God who maintains this mortal coil deigns not to send one to Hell. Like that's an attractive choice. I sigh. This mental rant is really old and tired. Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much. Just the fact that Scully sees a whole different side to her church and her faith has kept me turning the subject round and round. And maybe because there *are* moments when I can almost believe in God, my knee-jerk antagonism is starting to seem a little ridiculous. So religion occupies a demilitarized zone between Scully and me. We just let it lie. Goddamn. Why am I thinking about this now? We've had a wonderful day. I want my glow back. What is she fussing with inside? I want her outside - stars, a velvet sky, romance. Come on Scully. Where is she? She was just going to freshen up, change, pee. Whatever. I become aware of movement and sound in the room behind me. Scully's footsteps: click, click, click. The cadence is familiar. My heart sinks. Her heels express irritation and impatience. What the hell have I done now? The other sounds are the wardrobe opening and closing, bags opened, clothes shaken out with a snap. Christ. Is she leaving? Can't be. I know the violence of movement when she pulls a full blown, I-can't-take-any-more fit. This is more at the level of Kersh-has-pissed-me-off-one-too-many -times. Have I pissed her off, now? Damned if I know how. Wait, schmuck. Don't assume it's about me. Or even if it is, it's not about some random, careless thoughtlessness. Think. We were going to talk. Or I was going to give talk my best shot. Instead we toured, cuddled, drank good wine, and ate delicious food. I can't think that was a mistake; we needed that interval. But the fact remains, we really need to talk. But will she? There's only one way to find out. Yes, she's packing. I watch her from the French windows. Her face is smooth and impassive. Those shoes still crack on the hardwood floor. She's packing briskly, like we have a flight in an hour and a half. We. She's packing my stuff, too. Has she changed our flight for tonight? "What's up, Scully?" She glances up and continues her task. "I'm packing." "You know our flight leaves at 1:45 tomorrow?" "Yes, I do know, Mulder. I, for one, don't intend to leave it 'til morning." I continue to watch and she continues to pack. Jeans. Two more tees. She grabs the suit bag and jerks the hangers over the armoire hook. Then she stops there, leaning with her arm stretched, at rest but not relaxed. Her arm drops, and she stands motionless. Her shoulders droop and she rolls the tension out of her neck as I've seen her do a score of times after long, hard cases. The drill is familiar and I move behind her and slide my hands up her arms and into the tight muscles between neck and shoulders. She sighs and I feel the resistance leave. She lets me dig in, separating the bundles of muscles, causing the pain that will eventually comfort and ease. In tiny increments I feel her relax, and I move down her back, kneading and rolling the firm flesh beside the column of her spine. My left arm encircles her stomach and I know exactly where to press my thumb to ease the vertebrae here, here, and here. She feels relaxed in my arms but she trembles, and instead of the sigh that usually completes the massage, she lets her breath out in a shaky gasp. I wrap my other arm around her, pressing her to me, and lean to rub my cheek against hers. She's crying. Oh, Scully. Let me help you. Let me know what to do. "Scully." She'll either spill it or walk away. She continues to lean. I continue to hold her. "I don't know what to say, Mulder. Nothing's changed but nothing's the same." I turn her around and tuck her head under my chin. "Having you is the only thing I'm certain of." Her voice is a bare murmur. "That *is* certain. What has become uncertain?" I speak as quietly. "Everything. Or nothing. I don't know where I'm going. It just seems endless and God! I'm just so tired." My hold on her tightens. I draw us to the big, soft chair and pull her into my lap. She feels as small as a child, as trusting as a child. Her breathing calms. Despite my resolve to talk, I just sit and hold her. Honestly, I'm afraid to speak or to listen. I told her once that she is my touchstone and she echoed it back to me. I didn't realize what a large burden I laid on her until I bore it in turn. What will I say? What will I hear? What has come undone? "Sometimes I feel I hate the work." She doesn't speak with anger. The snapping energy she had just ten minutes ago has not returned. Whether this is a good thing or a bad thing I don't know. The work, my work. Me? No, get off it. She's turning to me. She loves me. But is she leaving? Does leaving the work mean leaving me? I've avoided examining whether the intensity of our quest is the armature of our relationship. Maybe if that framework goes, the clay that holds us together will fall into dust. These are the moments to practice adulthood. She is unhappy; listen to her. I love her. Act like it. Find out what she needs and help her get it. Don't be a schmuck. "I don't want to leave here. I don't want to leave what I've been today. Unchained. Happy. Worthy." "Worthy? Scully, you deserve it all. You don't know that?" She doesn't answer immediately, but instead shifts herself for more closeness. She's stopped trembling. "Yeah, maybe so." A short laugh. "The x-files unnerve me. Me. Can you believe it? I didn't realize how much I've clung to my ignorance. All those years of demanding hard evidence, knowing that it wasn't to be had. It was so convenient. Everything could be kept at arm's length. I know it must have looked like I was brain dead. I'm sorry." "Hardly," I quickly lay the word over her "sorry". "Hardly brain dead. Someone had to keep me grounded. Someone had to sort the real from the speculative. If that meant filtering out the outrageous so that you could get a clear view, so be it. We done good, Scully." "How much good, Mulder? I think good has been done despite me instead of because of me. I think I've kept you from following things to where they lead." "You already know what I think of that line of thought, Scully. If this is about some guilt over affecting *my* actions, get over it. As you are quick to point out, you make your own decisions. Well, so do I. And we know that nothing and nobody stops me when I start baying after the moon." I smile a little grimly. "Maybe you can comfort yourself with the thought of how often I've left you in the dust. Obviously you didn't chain me to your side. And I handled the resulting fallout." I can't help throwing in that jab. She's stiffened. Zip it, Spook. "Sorry, Scully. You have had a right to be PO'd. I just wanted to point out that you haven't stopped me from doing what I thought I had to do. And I'm just sorry that I've tended to be a chickenshit about it. There's no excuse for not looking you in the eye and telling you my plans. But it's happened." She relaxes and sighs. "I haven't made it easy." "Hey, come on. Guilt is my provenance." I kiss her hair. "Lay some more details out there. My guess is that a lot of this stuff started after you went to Africa. I know that you came back really disturbed, but you never got into the details. I think you were trying to shield me, the poor invalid. Well, I'm all better now. Bring it on." She thinks for a moment. "I'm not really up to giving you all the details. Actually, I seem to remember it as a jumble of images. But what seemed the most real, were the parts that were the most bizarre." Scully searches for where to go from there. "You know the Catholic Church has always been big on relics and holy things. It's not such an important thing in modern day America, but back seven hundred years ago people went on incredible journeys just to touch something holy. Now, so have I. And it scared the hell out of me." "The ship? Yeah, that one little rubbing from one piece of it did a number on me." To say the least. We both tighten our grips on one another. I'm afraid to ask. "What did it do to you?" "I saw the sea boil and turn to blood. I had my own little plague of locusts." She laughs without humor. "But that doesn't tell you a thing. The miraculous is not the clean, bright stuff of the catechism, Mulder. It's raw and ugly. No, it's terrible and beautiful. There were moments when the world as I know it disappeared. There still are. No, not exactly. Shit. This is hard." "I'm not going anywhere. Take your time." I listen to her silence, my senses exquisitely aware or her. She's right. The world of experience and sensation that the artifact opened was as frightening as hell. Literally. I experienced *everything*. There were no boundaries between me and the world. The cacophony of thoughts was only the part I could label. I can hardly hear her. "The world became chaotic. Or maybe my mind finally saw reality for once. It has nothing to do with science. It doesn't look like Church dogma, either. I felt like I was seeing the raw stuff of creation. It was blind and uncaring, Mulder. And it was alien." "Do you see reality that way, even now?" "Not exactly. But something's changed. Before, I always felt an underlying meaning to my life and actions. Now I'm not so sure. I'm not sure of anything. I pretty much put one foot in front of the other and just keep going. But it's hollow. The point of it all seems to be lost. God is lost." It's the sighted describing color to the blind. God has never been here in my world. And I'm at home with chaos. And suddenly I'm blindsided by the obvious. Scientific Scully. Spiritual Scully. The point of intersection is this: order. The ground under her feet is order. God is order. Nature is ordered by natural law. But now she is caught in an empty hole that is as frightening and incomprehensible as the mental blast I weathered in that padded room. While I rode the adrenaline rush that almost burned my mind to a crisp, she is draining out slowly before my eyes. Life has pulled shit on her for years. She took it. And she took it and took it and took it. She continued to look to her God and her science. The X-files shook her science and took the certainty in her own reason. And life has taken all hope and now it seems, her God. What happens when Job silently screams to God and no one replies? I listen but I'm a poor substitute for God. I don't know that I have an answer. Does her God have some sort of deal with Satan? Are they up for a rematch? God took it all from Job: health, family, possessions, and almost the trust in his own righteousness. Scully has lost as much. Seven fucking years! And it doesn't stop. She's punch-drunk from all the blows. What sent her to the mat? The terrible realization that if God even exists, he's hidden in a web of alien lies? That science has mocked her empty womb? That life has so enraged her that she could break the moorings of her morality and shoot an unarmed monster who wears a human face? Her hand reaches up to wipe the tears dropping unnoticed. My tears, not hers. She looks sad and calm. I wish she'd scream at heaven. Maybe I screamed for us both in the night after my mother's autopsy. Catharsis paved the way to finding my sister. I don't think that Scully will have that kind of violent epiphany. Maybe the Pfaster shooting was a warning. Of what? That Scully needs her control? Or that her control has an awful price? "Thank you for today. I need to remember what life is like. And you remind me. I'm feeding off you, now. It's not fair, but there it is." Eat me alive, Scully. You can have it all. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X The Rose and Key Tavern, London, England Crop circles. Something in the computer models woke a latent sense of memory. There was something I recognized in those patterns. Something made me want to see the reality of them. Never mind. The mysterious and intricate designs in the fields, designs I dreamed of showing Scully, never materialized. The algorithms that predicted their appearance must have been missing a key part. Maybe they were missing Scully. They'll continue to miss her. All they got were three local MUFON types, Edward, Jules, and Kirk, and a dour old Yank from the FBI. I used to think the wet countryside of England was beautiful. Ha. The water just turns it gray. The young geeks that spent last night with me in a cold barley field drained me with all their energetic excitement. I was their god. Was I ever that entranced by minutiae? That taken by the seemingly endless possibilities? It hardly fazed them that it was all for naught. The fields were as soggy and pristine this morning as when we put them to bed last night. No crop circles, just crops. I declined their invitation to breakfast. I was nearly rude about it, but I suddenly couldn't take any more of their interest and their optimism. Of course, then their good-natured thanks and good wishes shamed me and I slunk off to London. So I nurse a morning ale and listen to my depressed thoughts. This place is a hole. Maybe it always was. My friend, James, another American marooned at Oxford, brought me here on my twenty-first birthday. Not that it's the occasion in Britain that it would be in most states. But we got "sodding pissed" as our brother in inebriation, Colin, said. He really liked giving us an earful of British profanity; he seemed to think it was part of our education. At least I had friends; I wasn't the high school geek I left behind in New England. I was a college geek in a town that, in an offhand manner, valued intelligent geeks. I look around the place. I'm not imagining it; it has come down in the world. The patrons make it plain that I'm an unwanted intruder here. I ignore them. Somehow I imagine these middle-aged alcoholics drinking here on a Monday morning are the same individuals as the sullen, young drunks that raised a glass with me on my majority. That sounds like dark, poetic justice to me in my present frame of mind. The more we change the more we stay the same. They're still drunks and I'm still a dysfunctional bastard. When I'm with Scully, I feel like my awkward, youthful self grew into a man *worth* the attention of a woman like Scully. If that makes any sense. And so I really wish she were here with me, today. I wanted show her something mysterious and beautiful in the fields, to show her the London I know, the quirky corners of this old and august city. But the thought of being here with me, chasing phantoms, was dust in her mouth. Even the ale here is second rate. Okay, chug it, Mulder. Got to catch a plane. It's still raining, darkening the charcoal gray walls, already dark with the grime of several hundred years. For a moment the street is empty. But here comes a lone taxi, in all its black, utilitarian glory. "Heathrow, please." The cab driver nods. "What terminal?" "British Airways." "Right, mate." I don't think I'll ever get warm. It's been cold ever since I left with Scully's chilly words in my ears. A simple request for a favor becomes an occasion for another round of the dreary bickering of a relationship now teetering. We've each lost our compass. She has lost her control and I feel like I have lost her. When we got back from California she stayed in my apartment, in my bed, for five nights. No sex. We'd get home from work, eat in silence, she'd fall into bed and hit the pillow almost asleep on contact. My insomnia was back with a vengeance. But in the morning, after I had a brief respite, I'd find her still asleep, clinging to me like a limpet. Late on the sixth evening, I was kicked back on the couch mindlessly surfing, Scully long in bed, when suddenly she was there in front of me, naked. In the time of our intimacy, sudden, playful nudity has been part of our sexual repertoire. This was not playfulness. I don't know how to describe her expression. It was anger, pain, and longing. It made me think of the days of her cancer. My heart pounded in my throat. But even so, I was instantly hard. No words were needed for what was happening between us. No caresses. She released me with minimal effort, just opened the fly and mounted me in one decisive movement. Two, three, four strokes and I felt I would explode. And I did. I couldn't have stopped if it meant my life. I was stunned. I could still feel the tension between her legs. Whatever drove her to that impulse had not been placated. She stiffly climbed off of me and withdrew to my room, still without a word. I was struggling for words to even describe to myself what had just happened. The Jungians say that the more you deny your shadow, deny the collection of traits you fear and dislike, the stronger and more diabolic it becomes. Scully's persona is so clean and bright that her shadow is fearsome, as Donnie Pfaster learned to his detriment. Me, she loves. So her shadow just fucked me. That's okay. Come, let the dark thing out to play, Scully. You've seen mine. Does my shadow scare you? It can play rough, too, but it's never seen you afraid. She reappeared dressed, a steel rod up her back, furious. And I knew the fury was aimed at herself. I, however, would bear the brunt of it because I wanted her to stay and she wouldn't. Not while I was the reminder that she had given in to her pain, that she had lost control. Two days later she disappeared. Family emergency, my ass. She phoned Skinner. Skinner. I stood in his office, ready to wrestle that phone out of his hands. Dammit, Scully! Let me come get you, no questions. But she fled down the phone lines, away from me, pursuing this madness. Control. Jesus, Scully! Use me, morning and night, like a sex toy, a punching bag, like a scourge. Don't go off with that nicotine stained bastard on some quixotic mission. What the *hell* were you thinking? C.G.B. Spender is the prince of lies. You know that. Why the dance with the devil? God knows what his ultimate game is now. Always puzzles within puzzles. I don't believe for a minute that that disk she got for him has a goddamn thing to do with a panacea for the world's ills. If Scully was anywhere near her normal form she would have known that. So he's got his hot, greasy hands on the original whatever it is, palming a blank off on Scully like some damned Maleeni. God, I so blew it when she returned with the smell of smoke in her clothes. The anger and fear and hurt roared through me, and it was all I could do to contain it all. So I lost the moment. We stood in that abandoned office. Her eyes flew all around its empty space. All evidence was gone. He used you, Scully. Don't look for anything but self-interest in his sad-dog eyes. That wasn't what she needed to hear from me. There's nothing wrong with Scully's mind; it's her heart that's searching. The cab window blurs. It's either my breath or I'm tearing up again. I feel the fist of anxiety in my gut. It is unrelenting; it wakes with me, such sleep as I get, and puts me down at night. Every minute takes me closer to the need for "the talk", round two. But I think words will just bounce off our walls now. If it comes to it, I don't know that it's in me to leave her. But I think her sense of duty will tie her to the work, hated or not, and to me loved or not. And her spirit will continue to die by inches. That's the thought I can't stand. I love her so goddamned much. Old Smokey. Fuck him and his black lungs. He clings to his tattered illusions of omnipotence and dares to draw Scully back into his filthy games. Cancer Man, indeed. He's a blight, like one of those fungal diseases that kills whole forests. Scully didn't need him waltzing into her life offering a medical pie-in-the-sky, tempting her generous nature. As if she needs that kind of redemption. She just needs to find in herself that small, bright flame, the one I warm myself at. It's there; it's banked but it's there. The cab driver weaves his way easily through the mess that is Heathrow. My chest tightens with every moment that brings me closer to her. I ache to see her; I shrink from what she may say. "This isn't working anymore, Mulder. I don't believe in the work. I don't know that I ever did. I need to get away. I need the life I left behind. I need. I need..." I don't know that I'm enough to fill this void in her. But nothing but she will fill the void in me. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Washington, DC The streets pass me unseen. My mind hasn't turned off for thirty-eight hours and a thousand miles. During the long flight across the Atlantic my mind felt fevered, and it played all the recent, troubled moments with Scully in a continuous loop. I'm at that place where my mind turns over a million possibilities and no solutions. I've lived with pain and self-doubt most of my life. But the past seven years have gotten me past my personal superstition that I'm unlovable. Scully has loved me; I know this. But there can come a point where pain can overcome love. That point hasn't come for me, but I fear it may have for Scully. That we've gotten this far with the loads that we carry, that we've shared a measure of joy and passion, is something that I really never expected and couldn't have imagined before our years together. So I'm way ahead in the happiness department. All my regrets center on where this journey has left her. Her protests not withstanding, I can't imagine that her life wouldn't have been better off without blending it with mine. And yeah, I'd pay any multiple of five bucks on that observation. Even so, losing her would be a bullet through my heart. Christ. I haven't even seen her today and I'm burying our relationship. Think, Mulder. I won't settle for the idea that our relationship is terminal. Okay, things are not good. But irredeemable? Have I blown all this out of proportion, my fear working up momentum like a rat on a wheel? If I let the fear in my gut do all the thinking, I'll make things so intolerable she'll leave in self-defense. Okay, don't jump ahead of yourself, Spook. Maybe these days apart have actually helped things. She certainly seemed to function better on that disappearing prostitute stakeout while I was away sorting out Ellen Adderly's Jeckyl and Hyde problem. At least I wasn't there to rub her raw. I can't say it helped me, but maybe it was something Scully needed. Maybe, hope against hope, a corner will be turned and we'll find a way out of this morass. I find myself turning into the parking lot of Washington National Hospital. Okay, why have I ended up here? There's no reason she'd be at this hospital today. That autopsy report has probably been sitting on my desk for two days with all the loose ends tied up neatly and everything explained. But here I am chasing her down on her *Saturday* schedule, as if no time has elapsed since I last spoke to her. I guess time loses reality for me when we're apart. Pathetic. Well, crap. I don't feel like diving back into the late afternoon traffic. I remember that this hospital's cafeteria isn't the usual black hole. It does have liquid slag for coffee, but hey, given my jetlag and lack of sleep, coffee that growls is probably a good thing. Maybe I can stay awake for a few more hours. It feels good to stretch my legs and walk on a lawn that is relatively dry. And then there is the sun with clouds chasing across the sky. My spirits may be recovering despite myself. Whatever will be, will be. Jeez. I must be looped from sleep deprivation if I'm quoting Doris Day. But, yeah, I do feel a bit calmer. Scully and I have handled worse crap than this... this untamed shadow thing. If there's one thing I know about, it's the beast within. Me and my own shadowy friend have gotten pretty tight over the years. Personally, I was damned glad to see her own beasty show up in the bowels of First Person Shooter. Scully could have drilled Matreya the Bitch Goddess with the sheer firepower of her eyes. Scully looked like a colossus to me, as I lay flat on the ground, watching her weapon spitting virtual death over my head. Yee-hah! Oh, yeah, that was a moment to remember. Fire and power. Seriously, I do see a nameless power in Scully. I might as well call it God. Though I'm slow to admit it, the sheer strength of Scully's response to life is my best evidence of divinity. Then there's that starlit grove, that play yard of innocent souls, which owed nothing to the manipulations of alien mythology. I'd swear on my hypothetical soul that what I saw in the night was both larger and more intimate than any mainstream religion. More truly holy, if you will. For her sake, I think I need to stop my theological nit-picking. She needs her godliness. I need her godliness, too. If all I get in a lifetime is a vision of my sister's spirit and the presence of Scully, that's enough religion for me. So this spiritual warrior is going to fuel up on a cup of joe. Then I'll raise my mighty cell phone and call my personal goddess. Somehow I'll get this right. I head for the lobby doors. "Excuse me!" For some reason I turn without the least sense of surprise. I could be a plant turning toward the sunlight. Scully. "Hey." "Mulder?" She stands there, the most precious, shining piece of my life. "I was just looking for you." I've been looking for weeks. And this moment and place is where she is to be found. "But you're supposed to be in England." "I'm back." "What happened?" "Nothing." I feel a rueful smile coming over my face. "There was no event. No crop circles. Big waste of time." Scully shows no satisfaction in being proven right. She glances down and sighs. "Maybe sometimes nothing happens for a reason, Mulder." "What is that supposed to mean?" Nothing. The negative that defines the positive? She is suddenly smiling, relaxed and happy to be with me. And I thought I'd never be warm again. "Nothing. Come on; I'll make you some tea." X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Mulder's apartment, Alexandria, VA After a quiet and thoughtful drive to my place she started talking. And she's still talking. She's seen patterns. And she can't wait to lay them all out for both of us to examine. Her words tumble over each other and her mind hums with excitement. This is the kind of excitement that a satisfying, scientific solution normally gives her. But what excites her now is her life, its order. The smallest events sparkle like pieces of a mosaic. It started with a misplaced medical chart. And the line of events led to some long buried memories that I can tell still cause her some shame. Participating in someone's adultery has no place in her moral character now. But the shame is finally draining out. Scully has faced who she is and how far she has gone beyond the girl who worshiped the facile self-assurance of her mentor, Dr. Waterson. Daniel Waterson is a loser. Such a trite word for the enormity of the life he's wasted. He's had a brilliant career, his journal articles would pile up to my armpit, and I'm sure his medical society awards would sink a yacht. Oh, and he has loads of money. But a loser he is. Maybe a trite word is appropriate. Other than his career, what does he have but a broken marriage, a bitter daughter, and yearnings after a brilliant, naive student he taught and bedded long ago? Nothing that I can see. He didn't even have the balls to pick up the phone and say, "Hello, Dana", let alone speak his heart. Ten years in DC and not a word. Loser. *She's* not stuck in the past. She's faced down life and death and proved herself their equal. Today's story is told very differently from the orderly way she lays out facts in a case, or even the account of ordinary events. She weaves a tale of mundane elements of her weekend that somehow combine into something miraculous. She got swept up in a series of events that revealed new meaning for her, revealed the order in the chaos. An old lover, a new friend, a wounded, young woman, ready to heal. And the gift of renewal. I hug that knowledge and keep listening. So how did all this splendid, mundane weekend become a pilgrimage? Now she arrives at a little temple with a golden Buddha. Who speaks to her. Or not. Buddha? Not the Blessed Virgin? Not Michael the warrior? St. Jude? No not him; there's nothing hopeless about Scully. Jesus? "Buddha." She looks at me in mock annoyance. And ignores my little interjection. Nothing is slowing her down this evening. "Even before I'd gotten to that point I had the sense that something strange was going on. A couple things. For a while I thought something was happening to my inner ear. Almost like vertigo. Or anti-vertigo. Incredible steadiness. And yet I was a klutz, stumbling, making mistakes, having a near-miss accident. I...I couldn't quite put my finger on it, until I talked to Colleen. She called it a sense of expanded time. More stuff fitting into less time, but the exact opposite of fast motion. Weird, Mulder. But not frightening." "And you followed some woman to that temple, Scully? Now that sounds strange." "Well, that's the other thing. I kept seeing her, a tall blonde. First I saw her at the hospital. Then I'd swear she stopped me from getting totaled on the way to Colleen's. Then when I saw her on the street in that Asian neighborhood, I thought, this is it. No way is this a coincidence. So I try to catch up with her. The expanded time thing is in full force. Suddenly she's gone and I'm walking into this beautiful, enclosed garden." "Tell me some more about your vision, Scully." She stops and gives me an evaluating look. Suddenly she remembers who she's talking to. I smile and raise my hands: I'm unarmed, Scully. "Hey, I'm open to revelation, too. You were kind enough to accept what I told you about Victorville. I'm not going to cast aspersions on your experience. Besides, no one passed an offering plate in this place? That's got to count for something." She smiles and nods. "This part gets tricky. No, I didn't see Buddha, or God in a burning bush for that matter. I am now prepared to give some credence to the old story about your life passing before your eyes when you're drowning, Mulder." Drowning. Not a bad description of her state these past weeks. "Not everything in my life, but in a very short period a lot of aspects of my life linked together. Meeting you, loving you, my family, the abduction, my cancer, Emily. The vision said, This is you. It is all good, all the pain, the doubt, the love, the happiness. Everything came together to be you at this moment. All paths lead to this. This is the meaning." She grasps my hand. "It's like creation. God created it and it was good. And this *is* good, Mulder." I shiver. I have a glimpse of God's finger touching her. I look in her serene face and have no impulse to argue it. Seeing her at peace just makes me happy. However, I'm not particularly at home on the rarefied heights. We get up to get refills. I occupy myself with the practicalities of tea, while she continues telling me about Maggie and her sad-sack dad. Maggie and Daniel. Christ! Scully has such compassion. From my point of view, Scully did her part by exiting their lives as quickly and humanely as she could once she had gotten her thinking straight after med school. Daniel was the one who had broken his marriage vows, who wallowed in his self-pity. And, yes, I do feel some sympathy for Maggie, as Scully describes her, but face it, Daniel failed as a dad as he failed at everything else on a personal level. Maggie is an adult and should get therapy like the rest of us, get on with her life. But Scully is ready to spend the time on closure for her. Maybe I should do something about letting go of this anger. I haven't even met these people. Besides Scully seems to be shedding the old feelings just fine. She has another point to make. "Actually, the experience in the temple didn't just pull me out of this funk I've been in." Funk. Okay, I'll accept that word. As long as she's out of that personal hell, er, funk, now. She continues. "The final product of the event was the realization that Daniel was in greater danger than anyone knew." "Which is when you got Colleen to hook you up with the aura man?" There is a split second of defensiveness in her face, then a flush because there is nothing to defend. I grin and a second later so does she. "Hey, I was right. After Dr. Kopeikan tried to put his foot down, and Maggie vetoed him, something made him order a couple more tests. What do you know? Totally unexpected pulmonary hypertension. Side effect of the med cocktail he was on." We return to the couch for another round of tea and mysticism. Scully's lids are starting to droop, while I'm fired up. On tea? On the sheer, messy exuberance of life. "I just find it hard to believe." "What part?" "The part where I go away for two days and your whole life changes." Stifled yawn. "I didn't say my whole life changed." True. Maybe just mine did. What I say is: "You speaking to God in a Buddhist temple. God speaking back." "And I didn't say that God spoke back. I said that I had some kind of a vision." Adorable nitpicker. "Well, for you, that's like saying you're having David Crosby's baby." Oh, shit. Maybe I *am* too tired for this conversation. But she's smiling. "What is it?" "I once considered spending my whole life with this man. What I would have missed." Fear. Disillusionment. Cancer. No, don't break the mood. What about Frohike's cheese steaks? Steve and Edie? Sex with me? "I don't think you can know. I mean, how many different lives would we be leading if we made different choices. We don't know." "What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong? And there were signs along the way to pay attention to." She's sleepily insistent. "Mmm. And all the... choices would then lead to this very moment. One wrong turn, and... we wouldn't be sitting here together. Well, that says a lot. That says a lot, a lot, a lot. That's probably more than we should be getting into at this late hour." At least for one of us. I'm talking to myself. I pull up my old Navajo blanket to cover her. I can't resist straightening that bright, stubborn lock. She doesn't stir. Spiritual revelation is tiring stuff. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Mulder's apartment, Alexandria, VA Gotta take a shower. I'm wearing clothes I've worn for a day and a half and every irritating pull of fabric on skin is reminding me of that. Scully sleeps peacefully where I left her, her face missing the lines between her brows that she's worn for months. I resist the urge to wake her in Sleeping Beauty fashion. Just because I want her to open her eyes and look back at me isn't a good enough reason to disturb her; just because I want to kiss her. To the shower, Mulder. That just might make me bedable later. It's funny how my sex life seems to revolve around the bathroom again. I think I spent a quarter of my adolescence there. Things are looking up these days; at least sex is not always a solo sport these days. I quietly remove some towels from the hall cupboard, slip into the bathroom, and start peeling off the layers. I left the bathroom in good shape before I flew to England. I went into this cleaning rampage to kill the time between packing and my solitary drive to Dulles. Even I can only play so many computer games and I had started imagining Scully going through Lara Croft's paces. And since on Saturday that was exactly where I didn't want to go, instead, I did something really off the wall: I scrubbed down my bathroom, top to bottom. Almost like Scully does. In her own bathroom I mean. So let's get steam-cleaned tonight; I crank up the hot water tap. My skin flushes and stings but in a moment it feels good. This is a humidity I can get behind. My bones warm up just as they froze in the chill dampness of West England. I am finally warm and clean. Can it really be as easy as this? I search my body and my psyche for hidden corners of darkness. Nada. No fist of tension in my stomach, no tight band around my brow, my lungs expand and fill easily with air; my limbs are free. I'm made of flesh instead of stone. For some minutes I let the hot water beat on my back and shoulders. The light goes out. "Shit!" "Shhh. It's just me." A globe of light floats in the clouds of steam and the curtain twitches away from the tiles. Smiling the smile of a Renaissance Madonna, displaying the body of a Renaissance Venus, Scully holds a fat pillar candle in a dish. The candle's glow warms her face, her breasts and the curve of her belly. She stands, her eyes gleaming with flecks of light, holding the dish in both hands like a gift. She's found the stash of candles where I hid them all after the attack by Donnie Pfaster. Another experience is now in its place. "It's better to light a candle than...?" I say lightly. We both know this is a hurdle crossed, no need to belabor it. She smiles and sets the candle on the counter; she won't place heavy significance on the moment either. "No. I'm not cursing the darkness at the moment." My goddess is now prosaically rummaging through the bathroom jumble drawer. She turns back with her hands full of orange shower gel, a puffy scrubber, a loofa and herbal shampoo. My drawer but her jumble. Now I'll smell like something called Happy, all citrusy. Fine. I'll enjoy messing with Skinner's head tomorrow. If I stick close to her at the AM meeting, we'll be a potpourri of sweet orange, Polo, herbs and Pleasures. But really, Skinner has given up on the speculative looks. He's either made up his mind about us or he just won't give us the satisfaction of showing curiosity. Of course, it's quite possible he just doesn't give a damn. We're not exactly the center of the universe. Scully starts working over my hot, rebellious skin with the loofa and gel. Christ, Scully, not so hard! She's merciless. I think she's convinced that the epidermis is untrustworthy and can't be left to its own devices. Water and soap are not going to cut it. This job needs steel wool! It's gotta be a doctor thing, all that scrubbing before and after the examinations. Oh, but it hurts so good! She's quiet and the rasp of her strokes echo in the stall. We haven't gotten to the point in our sex life to need much in the way of kinky diversions to keep us entertained. Yeah, we've had some fun with Scully's vibrator and our short-lived experiment with the tantric handbook. But no role playing, no fuzzy cuffs, no flirting with disaster in public places. However in the privacy of my own head, I feel a pleasant submission in the bath or shower. She's in charge of my body here. She turns me this way and that, flays my hide, and I'm obedient in a way that I never am in any other setting. She can't reach my head comfortably to wash my hair, so as she reaches for the shampoo, I kneel at her feet. I nuzzle her naval and kiss her invisible treasure trail. Hitting a ticklish spot just as I knew I would, she laughs and squirms away from my lips. She grabs a fistful of hair and pulls my head back, my face slapped by hot water. Her laugh lines crinkle but then they smooth as she bends closer. Now I'm sheltered by her face; her lips are hard on mine, her wet locks clinging to my ears. We suck and chew each others' lips. Our mouths open wide and we grapple with no finesse, barely remembering to breathe. I welcome the pain in my knees, the cramp in my neck because love isn't always sweet and warm. This is my Scully bruising my lips, these are my fingers digging into the cheeks of her ass. It beats the hell out of the phantom-limb pain of love gone dry. "I'm sorry, Mulder." "I've missed you." Said in unison, two lines of music making a minor chord. Her lips soften and her tongue apologetically swipes my lip, then my chin. Her grip loosens on my head; my hands go up to encircle her waist, as I sit back on my heels and pull her down to straddle my lap. My hands start to slide up and down her, shoulder to thigh, making up for the time lost these past weeks. Her skin feels like new territory. How can we waste time on things like second guesses, regrets, and mind-numbing computer games? And I know that she knows that I know that it isn't the rough kisses she's sorry for. "Love means never having to say you're sorry." "If you start quoting 'Love Story' at me I'll have to hurt you." And bites my earlobe to prove it, making me jump. "Besides I'm serious." "I know. So am I, Scully. 'Never' may be too sweeping, but you might as well beg forgiveness for coming down with pneumonia as apologize for reacting to all our bad shit." I sneak up on her ear via her jugular and prove myself the more restrained of us when I refrain from marking her in kind. My tongue traces the whorls and I gently tug on a simple knot earring with my teeth. She likes it. She hums. But she's not totally diverted. "Mmmm...Mulder. Those things aren't equivalent." "Close enough." And I stop the argument by giving our tongues something else to do. I really am serious about wasting no more time. Every inch of her skin, the swells, the textures, the heat, imprints on my own. I feel as if I can read the patterns of her palms from their firm pressure on my shoulder blades. The tips of her breasts push pleasure buttons in my chest. My woman is in my arms and everything else is just crap. Her arms loosen and she sighs. Well, fuck. I try to suppress my irritation; I've had enough of talk, especially of regrets. But... "If you really need to talk, we'll stop and talk." She really doesn't look all that much into talk, herself. She glances down and seems to weigh the sight of my sulking manhood. Some signs of irritation a guy just can't suppress. "So sue me. I'm Catholic, Mulder. Just forgive me, all right?" "Well, yeah, I forgive you." I take a cautious beat. "That's all you need?" "That's it. Anything else I'll take to confession." Poor Fr. McCue. He gets the leftover moral analysis and I get the pleasures of the flesh. It hardly seems fair. I guess it's all in what we each sign up for. The water seems a little cooler and I don't think it's just me. Screw the hair. Thank God we never got around to applying the shampoo. By all indications, I'll need to shower again in the morning anyway. "Screw the hair. We're almost out of hot water, Mulder." We think as one, Scully and I. "Yeah. Let's dry off and get somewhere warm and comfortable. Like bed." I admire the dewy length of her back and thighs as she steps out of the shower. And that firm, rosy butt. She grabs a towel and bends over the sink, buffing a clear spot in the mirror to see how her make-up stands. She starts to work with a cream-soaked cotton pad. I'm just waiting to pounce. Tonight I'm an ass man. I bless Scully's shapely cheeks and her sense in not bemoaning anything about her lovely bottom. I never catch her frowning at the mirror, her chin tucked over her shoulder, worrying about the fit of her slacks. One of these days I'm going to embarrass myself, frozen and staring at the view of her hips retreating down a Bureau corridor. They're just that fine. She's not surprised to feel me press up against her. No part of me is sulking now. She gently arches back into me but doesn't miss a beat in the job at hand. If I want to maintain the mood, I'll respect the process. Scully has serious issues with smudged make-up. Taking up a towel, I stay close and gently mop the moisture off her from the ribs down, taking care not to jostle her arms. I take a moment to blot myself as well. Make-up removal done, freckles revealed, everything revealed, she turns and moves into my arms. Mmmm. Ass man? The front has a lot to offer, too. The cooling-off air and raised arms do interesting things to her breasts in the dim candlelight. As attractive as those effects are, I feel her tiny shivers and would prefer her warm and dry. Just so I'm sure those shivers are for me, understand. I remove her hands from my neck, lightly kiss her, and step out of the bathroom. I return in a moment, arms full of fresh towels (the good ones) and the fluffy robe I bought to reside in my closet. The bathroom light is back on, and her drier and round brush are laying ready. However she's armed with my bruiser that she's dubbed Hurricane Andrew. In manly-man fashion I bought the drier with the biggest amps, the one that can double as a hot leafblower. Hey, it dries my hair in two minutes flat. It's also singed my ears before I taught Scully to keep it at a certain distance. After toweling off her shoulders and her admirable breasts, I hold out the robe and she ceremoniously dons it like a full length mink. I barely get to wrap a scrap of terry cloth around my hips before she's attacking my wet scalp. She's beat my drying time by thirty seconds. I *think* I've still got eyebrows. Once last year, under protest, she allowed me to come at her with Big Andy in the interest of making a plane on time. Never again. I've never heard such bitching in my life. Three days of it in Des Moines, then she returned to an emergency moisturizing treatment at her salon in Georgetown that she scheduled on the airphone for 4:30 PM, an hour after we disembarked at Dulles. I bought an honorable peace by taking her and her newly radiant hair to a swank, downtown eatery. Her hair dresser agreed that it was only right. She trusts me to use the more sedate drier on her up to a point, but takes over to put in those special touches like curl and lift- you know, the actual hair style. Nice. I don't see the point since I plan to do things to her that will make neat hair a moot point. But it makes her happy. Just another little, shiny piece of the mosaic. X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X Scully radiates a sumptuous pleasure as she sways and rocks and twists slowly at our juncture. I'm leaning, helpless, against two pillows and the headboard where she's arranged me. My flesh in her is screaming but the rest of me is mesmerized by the sight of her in the moonlight. My body is drained by lack of rest and my mind is in this sleep-deprived state where I can assert no will at all. My release is at her whim. I'm going to die here, woman! Don't stop. I had used up the last of my reserves ministering to her. It felt like I worked her for hours. She came. She came until she seemed to be in pain; her cries resonated in my ears. Every trick, every touch: I played her, gently, roughly, non-stop riffs up and down the scale. Her body tried to escape the confines of its skin while her thighs anchored me to her, hungry for lips and tongue. I could hardly breathe. I didn't care. A beautiful little death. The day had caught up with me. But by God, she got my best anyway. With a last convulsive arch of her back, we both were still. My face was still pillowed between her legs and I could feel the dying spasms of her release. The silence roared, or maybe it was our heaving lungs. I rallied my last bit of energy and crawled up her body and sealed myself to her side. Cool, damp skin met its mate. The remaining hot, hard, painful bit of me announced its displeasure and I groaned. My hand had pity and reached down to give Junior a comforting grip. There, there. I'll be with you in a minute, Big Guy. And met her hand arriving at the same destination. Ah, Scully to the rescue. I hated giving her such a mundane task as a quick hand job but things were getting bad. Plus she'd take it as a reflection on her manners if I brought myself off at this point. Her hand felt strong and friendly around me but didn't start to stroke. I opened my eyes to find her smiling with no sign of sleep in her face. "If I climb on board will you still be conscious enough to enjoy it?" Hell, yeah. So that's how I come to be dying by inches in the grip of this smiling devil disguised as the goddess of love. "Please." What a tiny, pathetic croak. She must be a goddess after all because everyone knows demons don't have mercy. Great Goddess in heaven, she's speeding up. Halleluia! More...that's it. She's driving hard and deep. My hips spring up to meet hers, over and over, some bit of energy tapped from my libido's secret stash, and finally my shout is swallowed in the mouth covering mine. Man, oh, man. My lungs feel like they've done twelve miles. The last remaining neurons in my brain are firing off in a pretty display. I feel her quiet weight pressing me into the sheets as we lay still and sated for some unknowable minutes. Then she begins to move. Her lips meander over my face and she's whispering something I know I should be listening to. Focus. "This is where I want to be. I love you. I choose the journey...choose this." "You. Choose you. Love..." My tongue is unwieldy. All the words are used up. Just, "Scully." "Yes, Mulder. Always with you." Her weight lifts off me and the bed. Darkness. But not heavy. The darkness isn't heavy here. It floats with little gold and colored pieces that just about make a picture. I'm in a twilight world where chaos reigns, yet it all makes sense. Scully and I live in the same country. This is our land. The one where we float linked to each other by tiny gold threads as the starlit sky wheels around us. Let go of everything but those gold strands. They knit us to the truth. End.