From: "Paige Caldwell" Date: Fri, 06 Aug 1999 20:43:54 EDT Subject: xfc: New: Comfortably Numb, MSR, NC-17 1 of ? WIP Source: xfc From: "Paige Caldwell" Title: Comfortably Numb Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: MSR, S Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through season six Archive: Please do, just let me know where. Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it! Author's Notes: See notes at the end of the story Author's Reminder: This is a work in progress...please be patient with me... Summary: There is no pain...you are receding...a distant ship... smoke on the horizon...you are coming through in waves... Your lips move but I can't hear what you say... I have become comfortably numb... Part one (WIP 1 of ?) I am not sure where my dependency began. The term has never been a part of my vocabulary, although I am very articulate in thought and speech. Even as a child, I knew that choices in life were going to be singularly mine. My parents encouraged my autonomous nature and my siblings provoked it. To be one of four, you had to be creative in finding distinction. Your voice had to be strong and certain to be taken seriously. Even if it really wasn't my voice at all... I learned how to pretend at an early age. I became a skilled performer, capable of hiding my insecurities behind a rhetorical facade. I could parley with the best of them, including the champion of wit and sarcasm. My partner. But, now I can barely put two coherent words together. My speech is either contorted with pain or sluggish with my attempts to numb it. I am in the ladies room at work, two floors up from the basement grotto we call an office. I stare at my reflection, cringing from what I see. My hand rises to my face. Tentative fingers touch skin that feels pasty. I try to conceal my pallid complexion with make-up, but the pigment is chalky white rather than ivory. It contrasts sharply with the color of my hair, which in turn clashes with pale lips stained hideously red. I try to force a smile. The result is sadly comical. I see a clown's face staring back at me. For a moment I contemplate the bottle of Percocet, the latest in a series of pain medication prescribed by my doctor. I am tempted to empty them all down the drain. But, the pain is so acute that I feel dizzy from procrastinating the inevitable. Cupping my hand under the sink, I quickly take the pill which now commands me. In the elevator I am alone. It is late Friday afternoon. A time when government employees participate in the unspoken conspiracy of leaving work early. Except we don't. My partner and I are wrapped up in a different type of machination that doesn't break early, even for the weekend. As the pull of the elevator draws me down, I feel the sinking of my spirit. It has been two months since I was shot in the stomach by an overly ambitious agent who mistook his case partner for his case subject. Although my doctors assure me that my injury is healed, I'm still shadowed by the pain of the wound. In the past few weeks, I have undergone tests to isolate the source of this pain. I've been tubed end to end by gastroenterologists. Blood work, CT scans and MRI's reveal nothing. Nothing. My doctor tells me that I'm fine. God, I hate when someone uses my own words against me. I'm not fine. I'm in pain. I'm a doctor, damn it. If you won't help me then I'll find a way to help myself. It's then that I encounter a slight shrug of my doctor's shoulders and a hasty scratch of a pen on a pad. I leave confused and deflated, but clutching a renewed prescription in my trembling hand. I want to tell Mulder about my pain, but I don't. Medication leaves me comfortably numb. Mulder won't offer such relief. He'll prod, poke and profile my pain. I will undergo exploratory surgery for the second time in two months, but this time without anesthesia. Mulder confirms this fear with a scrutinizing look as I enter our office. This all day confinement with him has made me uneasy. I've got to get the hell out of here. "It's getting to be that time again," I say in a hurried voice, reaching for my coat. "Leaving already?" He accuses as he suddenly stands up from his desk. I take an involuntary step back. "It's called the weekend. I hope you have a good one, Mulder." I offer him what I hope is a slight smile. When he does not return the gesture, I turn away to hide what I know is a clown's broken grin. My purse is open. I quickly fold my coat over my arm to hide it. Backing away, I lift my hand in casual farewell before opening the door. "Close the door, Scully," Mulder states firmly. My hand freezes on the door knob. "I need to talk to you." He conveys as he rises from his desk and approaches me. "Can't it wait until Monday?" I make my voice sound impatient. "I think I've already waited too long," he observes. "For what?" I am tempted to roll my eyes at him. In the past, a well-rounded circle of my eyes has been most effective in conveying my exasperation with him. Or, as he sarcastically calls it, "that eye stratagem of yours". "An explanation," Mulder responds as he stops inches from me. I hold my ground, grateful that my skirt hides knees that suddenly feel weak. "I sense a disturbance in you these past few weeks," he says. His choice of words reminds me of Melissa. Or Obi Wan Kenobi. I try to lighten my next words in an effort to deflect him. "Have you been watching Star Wars again, Mulder?" He leans against the edge of the desk and folds his arms. "Why won't you talk to me, Scully?" "Because we don't talk, Mulder, we banter," I answer. "What if I just listen?" he offers. "What if we do this another time?" I cut him off. I have too. Time is running out. I took only half of my dose so I'm lucid enough to drive home. "I'm not going to let you off the hook that easy." Mulder tries to reel me in by pretending concern. "And, I have no intention of being your catch of the day." I bite back. "Have a good weekend, Mulder. You can try fishing again on Monday." I head for the elevator, leaving him speechless and myself, horrified. My own analogy is expanding in my mind. I see myself as a fish frying in an oil slick pan. ********** She's hiding something. I watch her press the elevator button. I start to follow her, but stop when I see the trembling of her hand. I am more than concerned now. I'm stunned. Scully's hands are strong. They're sturdy enough to crack open the ribs of a cadaver with one swift snip of a bone cutter. Yet, the same pair of hands are graceful and certain. They can guide, encourage and soothe me with one touch or gesture. There's something wrong. She's losing weight again. At first, I considered this a normal result of abdominal surgery. The bullet had severed an artery. She had hemorrhaged internally and almost died. But, she recuperated swiftly, returning to work within weeks when it could have easily taken months. I was so grateful to have her back that I chalked up her rapid recovery to typical Scully resilience. There's more. I begin to catalogue each change as if I was a merchant and she was my inventory. Her wardrobe is different. Black is a constant theme, as if she's in perpetual mourning. She looks disheveled rather than professional. Some of her latest getups look like they could substitute for pajamas. It almost makes sense, because half the time she looks like a woman who has just dragged herself out of bed. Today, she took her purse to the bathroom again. Ordinarily I would have attributed purse toting to her period. But, periods don't last weeks, unless you're Phoebe Green and flippantly offer this excuse as a way of withholding sex. Scully's period only lasts 4.5 days. I may not be intimate with this woman, but I'm acutely aware of the length of her cycle. It is the only time of the month that I wish my partner was a man. No, I decide. It's more than just hiding something. A moment ago, she cringed away from my touch as if I carried an alien plague. That thought prompts me to action. I grab my coat and head towards the door. My shoe crunches on something. Bending over, I find several pills scattered across the floor. I pick one up and study it closely. Oh my God, I feel myself shudder. I now know why my partner's hand trembles. ********** I no sooner arrive home and my cell phone is ringing. I am certain that it's Mulder. He is never content to allow me to have the last word. And, he knows me well enough to gauge how long it takes me to drive home. The lapse in time suggests that we are destined to argue and he wants me safely off the road before launching his next attack. His consideration is really touching, I reflect bitterly. "What now?" I snap into the receiver. There is no response, but I can tell someone is there. "Mulder?" I pause and wait for an answer. Suddenly, the other party hangs up. "Fine." I say through clenched teeth. I turn the phone off and toss it on the couch. I glance at my kitchen briefly, knowing I should eat. The thought of food makes me queasy. I move into my bedroom and start stripping away the layers of my clothes. I feel dirty in a sordid way. I want to cleanse this shame away. I want to emerge from the shower feeling pristine and fresh, even if the effect is limited to only my skin. Inside the shower stall, my hands press against the sweaty tiles to support myself. I lower my head beneath the stream of hot water. My eyes are closed. My mouth drops open to inhale the soothing steam. As the water runs through my hair and washes the makeup from my face, I lose track of time. All my thoughts and sensations are trickling down to the drain. I am becoming comfortably numb again. Because of this, I am slow to hear and even slower to react to the sudden invasion of my privacy. As the shower curtain is roughly torn back, I can only turn my head to the side and gape sluggishly at my partner. Mulder. Through the wafting steam, I can see that he is angry. I am exposed. And it has nothing to do with nudity. Mulder turns off the shower with one fierce jerk of his wrist. Goosebumps instantly rise up on my skin. I am chilled by the agitation in his eyes. I feel his fingers circle my wrist. It reminds me of a handcuff snapping in place. He tugs me out of the shower and I stumble forward against his chest. For a moment, he holds me against him. Then I feel him tense and push me away. "Here." He abruptly hands me a towel. I try to wrap it around my body, but my one hand is still imprisoned and the other is useless. The towel drops and I stare at it in odd amusement. The only thing I've manage to cover are my feet. Mulder releases his hold and leans over to pick it up. "Lift up your arms," he instructs. I do so, allowing him to circle me with the towel. As he tucks the ends together, I feel the palms of his hands brush against my breasts. I breath in sharply and close my eyes. "Mulder," I whisper. There is need in my voice. It sounds urgent and pathetic. "What? Is the numbness already fading?" he mocks me. He retrieves several pills from his pocket and holds them out for my inspection. "Is it time for your next fix?" "Jesus, Mulder, don't talk to me like that," I cringe away from him. He meets my anguished gaze with his tormented one. "You've been on pain killers all this time," he accuses, pointing at the pills in his hand. "Your a doctor, for Christ's sake. Don't you know what these things can do to you?" "But, I'm in pain," I whisper. I want to cry. I want him to understand. "Scully," His tone is softer as he reaches out to graze my shoulders with his hands. "Your injuries are healed. The doctors gave you a clean bill of health." "But, I'm in pain," I repeat to him. "And, those same doctors wrote the prescriptions." "It's called professional courtesy," he grumbled. "And, damn them to hell for taking the easy way out." Mulder turns me towards the sink. He directs my gaze to my reflection. "Look at what these pills are doing to you," he pleads. The face behind the clown is revealed. My cheeks are sunken in. My lips, which I once considered full, have shriveled to thin, compressed lines. The most frightening features are my eyes. They can't be mine. My eyes are blue. These eyes are so pale that they hold no pigment, no light, no expression. "What have I become?" I murmur. My reflection in the mirror only mimics my words. My partner leans forward to whisper the unimaginable into my ear. "You've become drug dependent." Hearing these words...hearing them from him...is more than I can bear. My vision fades. Huge, guttural sobs rise from the source of all this pain. I clutch my stomach, heaving against throbs of agony that are splitting my insides apart. My legs stiffen then collapse from underneath me. I feel him lift me. I am weightless, but my arms feel like lead and they fall helplessly to my side. He carries me out of the bathroom to my bed. My towel is removed and I am slid under my comforter. For a minute, he stands over me. Unable to meet his gaze, I roll away from him and bury my face into my pillow. I wait for him to say something, to touch me, to comfort me. He doesn't. He has abandoned me to go off on a treasure hunt. I can hear him rifling the bathroom cabinet, then proceeds to every drawer of my apartment in search of what he believes to be my stash. Gasping, I struggle up to my elbows. He is treating me like a junkie. I've been taking prescribed pain medication, not shooting up like a heroin addict. "What the hell do you expect to find?" I cry out as he tugs open the drawer to my dresser. "Syringes?" "God, I hope not," he says in a strained voice. "Just look at my arms, damn you." I hold them out for his inspection. "I don't need too, Scully. I know you haven't reached that point, yet." That "yet" hangs heavily between us. He sighs and moves back into my bathroom where he spends the next several minutes dumping my medication. As I hear the toilet flush, I fall back and stare up at the ceiling. Hot, humiliated tears replace the cold ones. I feel them stream down my face. The edge of the mattress sinks under his weight as he returns to my bed and sits down. I refuse to look at him, rubbing my slick, grubby face with the backs of my hands. "What do you want me to do, Scully? Cry with you or help you?" His voice is hoarse. Mine resembles a sob, "Both." "Scully..." He grabs my hand and presses it against his eyes. I feel it then. The wet lashes...anguished tears against the tips of my fingers. Oh my God...what am I doing? What am I doing to myself? What am I doing to him? "Mulder..." I raise myself up. The comforter falls to my waist, but I no longer care. I am in his arms and he is in mine. My tears are dampening his cheek. His are trickling down my neck. I am not sure where drug dependency began. I know where it will end. Mulder makes the necessary phone calls to get me into a detox center that night. He balances the phone with his shoulder as he helps me button my shirt. He is gentle, treating me like a child. Despite his attempts at reassuring me, I have the vague, uncomfortable feeling that I've just traded one dependency for another. ****************************** Part two (WIP 2 of ?) I was able to get Scully into a RAND program that night. It was an ultarapid opiate detox program where a drug is administered under general anesthesia to counteract the effect of narcotics. Withdrawal is short lived. That would at least get us in a better position to identify the pain she had been trying to numb. While the procedure was being done, I used the time to both of our advantages. First, I phoned Skinner. I told our supervisor the truth, not out of duty or obligation, but because I wanted him to share in the responsibility of what had happened to her. Neither one of us were to blame for that asshole rookie who pumped a bullet into her stomach. But, we were at fault by failing to see the distress she was in. And, I was the most guilty of all. I had assumed that Scully was infinitely resilient. That she was the perfect little soldier, capable of being wounded time and time again, yet ever rising unscathed. I put it in those exact terms to Skinner. He was a Vietnam vet, quick to understand and even quicker to give me a perspective I hadn't considered. "Drugs aren't always taken to ease pain, Mulder," he told me in a strained voice. "Sometimes they're taken to silence the scream from one trauma too many." I fall silent, gripping my cell phone as the weight of his words settled squarely on my shoulders. My thoughts begin to replay the series of horrible events that my partner has been exposed to. Abduction. Cancer. Death of a sister. Death of a child. Being turned into a living host for a parasitic alien.... "Mulder, are you listening?" Skinner's impatient tone breaks into my thoughts. "Actually, I'm counting," I relay, pressing my forehead against the wall. "And, the numbers don't look good." "Listen, agent, you're partner is in trouble," my supervisor warns. "You don't have the luxury of retrospect right now." "I think the truth to all of this presents itself through retrospect." I argue. "Stop looking for a convenient answer, Mulder. Not everything revolves around your guilt." Skinner is, as always, right to the point. I resist the urge to slide down the wall into a heap of self-loathing because I know he expects it. I begin to match his practical outlook, the one that speaks action and not regret. Together we conspire to keep the truth a secret. He suggests an emergency leave of absence and will cover up the real reason. Drug dependency is not something an agent wants on one's record. It doesn't matter that it stems from a work-related injury. Those who seek to debunk us will distort the truth, even more effectively than Scully has tried to hide it. "I'm going to stay with her every minute through this," I assert. "I don't care if the dust on my desk chokes every Division Head in the Department of Justice." "I'll alert the cleaning staff," Skinner chides me. "Relax, Mulder, you have enough vacation saved up to carry you through the millennium." "Well, here's to the new era." I state firmly before I click off the phone. And, I mean it. This time it's going to be different. I am not going to allow my emotional dysfunction to blind me from the truth. The truth that has been staring at me across my desk with waning, anguished eyes. ********** "Can I help you with that, Scully?" I am digging through my purse for my keys. We have arrived back at my apartment. I have just been discharged from the hospital. The RAND unit. A place where opiate junkies are miraculously spared the physical discomfort of withdrawal. Except I don't feel saved. There is no miracle reaching out to me. Just a new drug pumped through my veins to counteract the affects of another. Miracles don't reach those who writhe in the hell they've created for themselves. I've created mine. Except now, I am exposed to the heat. The pills may have numbed me from feeling its danger, but it was my dignity that shielded me from being scorched. My hand no longer shakes, but it hesitates as I feel a tiny tablet at the bottom of my purse. I catch my breath. Drawing it out, I hand it to my partner. "Guess you forgot to check," I mumble, offering him my purse as well. He shakes his head. His hand closes around mine as the other reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve his set of keys. "I trust you, Scully." It's a simple statement and his tone is sincere. But, I am assaulted by doubt, in him and in me. "I thought our creed was to trust no one," I point out. He gives me a brief, discerning look as he unlocks my door. "The creed doesn't apply to those who share it," Mulder responds. He opens the door and stands back to allow me to enter. I stand frozen in my steps. I don't want to go in. "Home, sweet, home," he announces in a voice too chipper to be convincing. "It's prison, Mulder," I remind him. "Just with all the frills and fancy trimmings." My partner bows his head for a moment. I can tell that he is processing my words, trying to come up with a catchy phrase to reassure me. I can see that he's struggling to keep his caustic humor in check. I'm impressed. But, I'm also cynical, especially when I feel vulnerable, so I fill the silence with my own retort. "Well, I guess having you as a cell mate beats Large Marge who spends all afternoon lying on my couch reading Gertrude Stein." Mulder can't resist grinning. He, too, remembers that line. "Come on in," I sigh, beckoning him to follow me. I stop in the livingroom, immediately noticing his suitcases by my couch. There are two of them. It signifies more than a few nights stay. I feel irritation creep up from my staggered soul. I demonstrate it with my hands on my hips. "Mulder, exactly how long is my sentence?" "I don't know, Scully." His answer is noncommittal. "How long will it take for you to pardon yourself?" "Are you saying that it's up to me?" I ask, startled by his question. "When it comes to choice, it always has been," he responds in his philosophical tone. "Why change that now?" Oh God. I am incarcerated with Oxford graduate in psychology. A "wanna-be" shrink. A profiler turned pontificate. As he closes the door, I sense the same panic a prisoner must feel as the bars are clanged securely in place. A cold sweat beads across my forehead. A tremor of pain begins to swell in my stomach. The pain. It's returning. It is not my imagination as he thinks and as the doctors in the RAND unit assure me. It's real. It's virulent. It's... "An anxiety attack..." Mulder assures me as he leads me to the couch. He eases me down onto the cushions and starts to pat my back as if he expects his touch will heal me. I flinch away from him. Clutching my stomach, I snap at him. "It's not gas, Mulder. The pain's not going to go away with one big burp." "I know, Dana..." I stick a finger in his face. "Don't patronize me," I snap. He looks hurt. "This is one's brain off of drugs" I tell him smugly, distorting the message of a well advertised commercial "Get the picture?" Mulder says nothing. As I hunch over and bury my face in my hands, I feel insistent fingers tug at my shoulders. He pulls me back against his chest and wraps his arms around me. Together, we rock through waves of pain that dampen my eyes with tears. I relax in his embrace and allow myself to be lulled by the comfort he is trying to offer me. I don't protest when I am turned to face him. Smoothing back my hair, he gives me a look I don't understand. It suggests regret and hints at tenderness. Without a word, he lays back on the couch and draws me on top of him. If I wasn't so tired, I would either be amused or offended by such intimate contact with a man who has no intention of becoming intimate with me. Our bodies are aligned like lovers. I struggle to feel hope, but realize that it died the moment I learned the truth about Fowley and Mulder. Intimacy between partners is not the forbidden fruit that I'm led to believe. It all comes down to a matter of taste. His. Why settle for a tart Granny apple, when you've experienced the dark, exotic juices of a pomegranate? It doesn't matter that the fruit is full of seeds. Maybe that's where his stupid habit actually began. But, harvest time has come and gone. This apple has rotted. Worms of pain have devoured whatever sweetness ever flowed under my waxy skin. I don't want to feel sorry for myself. I just want to escape from this despair. I want to be another metaphor. One that isn't trampled on the ground, but floats high above it. I visualize a balloon. I can drift towards the lofty sky, yet still remained tethered to my work and my partner. Except he can't reach my heart. He might occasionally tug at my string, but the wind will blow me away from his painful grasp. I smile. As I settle my cheek in the alcove between his neck and shoulder, I sense a shifting of his body underneath mine. For a moment, I think the unimaginable. No, it must be stress that is distorting my perception. What feels inflated is only the balloon inside my head. I try something else. Something that will allow me to drift towards a warm, fuzzy nap. As a child, I counted sheep. I try to do so now. One sheep...two sheep...Mulder's a sheep...He only wants to be my friend...three sheep...four... Then I feel it again. God damn him. My fluffy sheep has got an erection the size of a nuclear warhead. No wonder he can't hop that fucking fence. This is so typical. I am no longer hovering, but plummeting to the ground. I've been popped by a prick. What a coward. What a sheep shit. There is desire for me. He's just hiding it under a fleece. I'm tempted to roll off him and direct him to my bathroom where he can jerk off this deceit. He can even use one of my new towels. The one that has my initials embroidered on it, a joke gift from Christmas. It's perfect for Mulder. He can gratify himself with a symbol and then clean himself off like it never happened. My thoughts sink to a level of dark design that is equally cruel as it is thrilling. No, I have a better plan. After all, he's always been the one hell bent on exposing the truth. ********** My arm is going numb. Even worse, I've got the stiffest hard-on from the woman who is lying on top of me. It no longer matters that she's my partner. This is my Scully. The woman I love. From the minute I felt her body relax against mine I knew I was in trouble. Scully's acceptance of me is a potent aphrodisiac. She wreaks havoc on my senses without even knowing it. Even in sleep, her hips unconsciously shift against mine. The fact that we have not acted upon this magnetism suddenly seems ridiculous. I want to be chivalric, but instead I feel fucking stupid. I am not her knight in shining armor and from the stories I've read, fair maidens don't crush their hero's ego with biting, analytical retorts. Scully lifts her head briefly, but her eyes are still shut. Is she still asleep? Is she dreaming? If she is, I want to invade whatever fantasy she is having right now. She parts her lips slightly to moisten them with her tongue. I feel her nipples through both of our shirts. The friction of our jeans rubbing together is torturous. Oh shit, I groan to myself. As tempted as I am, I will not take advantage of this woman's vulnerability. I try to maneuver her off of me, careful not to wake her for the sake of her embarrassment and mine. Suddenly, her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Don't," she murmurs. It is then that I realize that she's awake. I am paralyzed by the sound of her voice and the way her body moves against mine. The pressure of her strokes is enough to send me over the edge. I grip the back of her jeans to pull her away, but she begins to gyrate. Suddenly, hands which want to deter her are actually prodding her on. "Scully..." my voice cracks. "This thing between us," she reaches down and squeezes the bulge between my legs. "Is it me or just a remnant of my drug induced imagination?" "It's you," I gasp. "It's always been you." "Prove it." Scully's fingers are at the fly to my jeans. I catch her hands and hold them tightly. Her eyes are wide open now. They glimmer dangerously into mine. "Scully, what's gotten into you? "Nothing yet," she smirks. "But, here's to hoping." Shit, this is weird. One minute, she's crying about feeling imprisoned and the next minute she's trying to hump the guard. I begin to flip rapidly through the pages of my mental textbook on psychology. My attempts to read her fail. As always, the pages that reference Dana Scully are glued shut. "What's wrong Mulder?" She interrupts my thoughts with a voice that drips more acid than seduction. "Is the woman you've exposed threatening your illusion?" "Stop it, Scully," I growl. "Is your Scully a little too sullied for you now?" "I said stop it." "Doesn't my dirty hand feel good?" She cups me through my jeans. Her fierceness sends a jolt all the way to my balls. Sensing it, she begins to churn harder. I feel her hip bone through the barrier of our jeans. She's beginning to pump against me like there is no tomorrow. And, from the look in her eyes, I realize that there may never be a tomorrow. The hard, determined glint fades into such a hollow look that I begin to feel pain rather than pleasure. Everything screeches to a halt with sudden realization. I am allowing the woman I love to believe that she is only an object of my lust. "No," I grit my teeth as I push her off me. "Not like this, Scully. Never like this." She lands on her feet beside the couch. She is panting, breathing hard with exertion and anger. She stares at me heatedly, revealing the true nature of a woman scorned. If she carried her weapon, I think she'd shoot me. Without a word, she spins around and stalks to her bedroom. I struggle up onto my elbows in time to see the door slam shut. As I hear the lock being turned, my thoughts spin, reeling towards shock, startling at what had been our first sexual overture. Neither one of us was going to be comfortably numb again. To be continued..... Part 3 of ? (WIP) I slump against my bedroom door, clutching my chest. Humiliation is a powerful current. My heart contracts as if it's been shocked by fully charged paddles. It beats with a frantic, furious pace, reminding me that attacks on the heart are not limited to those with cardiovascular problems. Previously sluggish, dulled by the stupor of medication, the muscle resuscitates with a vengeance. It surges liters of blood through my veins, leaving me flushed and feeling scalded. I clasp my cheeks which are both hot and wet. Tears of shame slide through my fingers and course down my hands. I try to suppress my sobs by pressing my palm against my mouth. It doesn't work. The sound begins in my throat, like a loud, uncontrollable moaning. The whimpering of the afflicted. The death knell of the wounded. "Scully..." I hear his insistent voice and feel the door knob rattle against my back. My head falls against the wood frame in exasperation. I forgot that a locked door draws Mulder like a magnet. I can almost see him unsheathing his lock pick right now. "Scully, please." His voice takes on a pleading tone. "Open the door." "And deny you the pleasure of probing inanimate objects?" I sneer in a loud voice. He doesn't respond. The corner of my mouth lifts into a malicious grin. That one got him good. I think I'm feeling a little better. I wipe the tears from my eyes and stand back from the door. Staring at the knob, poised for the first sign of movement, I hold my breath in anticipation. Nothing. Seconds drag into minutes. My eyes finally blink. I press against the door, listening, trying to sense his nearness. Nothing. Curiosity makes me release the lock. I crack the door open to see if he's there. He's not. I shuffle out into the hall, my feet deliberately noisy against the floor to let him know I'm coming. I find him in the livingroom, tugging on his jacket. His bags are already by the front door. "Where are you going?" There is fear in my voice. I can't help it. I know he's leaving. "I'm going home, Scully," Mulder says, not bothering to look at me as he reaches for my portable phone on the coffee table. "You can't leave," I protest. "You heard what the doctors said. I shouldn't be left alone." "Call your mother," he suggests in a bland tone. He tosses me the phone. I let it fall to the floor, giving it a quick glance as the receiver cracks open. "Oops," I shrug nonchalantly. "I think you broke it." His eyes meet mine. They are cold and uncompromising. I realize then that I've gone too far. He pulls his cell phone from his jacket and begins to punch in some numbers. Holy shit. He's calling my mother. Panic sets in. I rush forward to grab the cell phone from his hand. He lifts it easily over my head. I actually jump for it several times before I recognize what a fool I'm making of myself. I'm acting like a child and he's the babysitter who's had enough of my naughty behavior. "Hang up the phone, Mulder," I beg him. I don't want my mother to know about this drug dependency. The bastard actually lets it ring twice. I gasp and cry out, "Mulder, please." He clicks the phone off. I exhale slowly with relief. "I'll stay, Scully," he tells me in an icy voice. "But, no more fucking wise cracks about what you think is my sex life." "I'm sorry," I whisper. "You're damn right you are," Mulder snaps. He is still fully goaded. He vents his outrage in a torrent of words. "You want to talk about inanimate objects? Then let's talk about you, Scully. You're the one who tried to numb yourself into not feeling. Now that the drugs are gone, you're trying to claw through your pain by sinking your nails into mine." I am too shocked to speak. His words feel like antiseptic on an open cut. The sting is so sharp that it snaps me back to reality. I take a deep breath and steady myself. I scavenge through my cache of dignity, but the reserve is too low. There's not enough to cover this degradation, so I settle for pretending. "I'm sorry, Mulder," I try to sound contrite. "I didn't mean what I said." For a split second, his eyes thaw. Then they ice over again. "Nice try," Mulder sneers as he reaches for my purse. He tugs out the discharge papers that I had stuffed inside the minute my foot stepped outside of the hospital. "The RAND unit gave you a list of therapists," he reminds me. "Here, pick one out." "I already have a therapist," I protest, refusing to take the papers from his hand. "Who? Your little friend at the Bureau?" He shakes his head. "No, Scully, not this time. This isn't about being comfortable, anymore. It's about exposing the truth." How ironic. His choice of words rub together like flint against my brittle nerves, sparking my temper. I'm tempted to fling the papers back at him. I don't. My mother's anguished face is a powerful deterrent. "What's wrong, Scully?" Mulder prods further. "Is the truth more than you can handle?" "Actually, Mulder, I think you're the one who can't handle the truth." I retort. I open the crinkled paper to scan the list. I already know the name I'm going to chose. ********** The next day, I find myself waiting outside the office of Dr. Vandervanak. A multi-syllabic name for a therapist who is sifting through my partner's multi-faceted mind. The therapist is a woman, which doesn't mean much to me, but seems to mean alot to Scully. I squirm restlessly, flipping through magazines that are as uncomfortable as my chair. Articles entitled "When Partners No Longer Communicate", "Why Your Man Doesn't Hear You" and "Sex: The Ultimate Bond in a Loving Relationship" are screaming accusations at me. I toss the magazines aside and stare at the floor. I begin a more useful activity of counting its honeycombed tiles. By the time I reach two hundred, the door opens and Scully steps out into the waiting room. I slap the sides of my thighs and spring out the chair, anxious to go. I don't notice the sullen expression on her face until we're inside my car. "You okay, Scully?" I ask. She nods and turns her head away from me. She focuses her attention out the window as I start the car. I drive several miles, frequently taking my eyes off the road for a quick glimpse of her. Although I am only presented her profile, I see that her lips are moving as if she's talking to herself. Leave her alone, I remind myself. When she's ready to talk, she'll let you know. And, shit, does she. As I'm braking for a traffic light, she states in a toneless voice, "Dr. Vandervanak thinks I should resign from the Bureau." My foot drops as heavily as my heart. The car screeches to a stop. Gripping the wheel, I try to resist the urge to steer her away from this conclusion. I wait for the light to change, then proceed cautiously. "Maybe your doctor is right, Scully. But, you don't have to resign from the Bureau to leave the X-files." "It's not the X-files I need to leave. It's you." Her admission almost kills us both. I almost rear end the truck ahead of us. Scully gasps and grabs my arm. I jerk the wheel and the car swerves to the side of the road. For a minute, we're both too stunned to speak. I am shaking with adrenaline, but not from the near collision. My voice is raspy, quivering with emotion. "This new doctor certainly cuts to the chase." "Mulder," Scully closes her eyes and sighs. "This isn't the first time I've seen her." "Excuse me?" "This summer I had a number of sessions with Dr. Vandervanak." "Funny how your partner is always the last to know." "I didn't tell you because it was about you." It's my turn to lapse into silence. I gaze through the car window just in time to watch my world fall apart. "Mulder?" I don't answer her. I can't. "You okay, Mulder?" "Yeah," I choke out. Shifting the car back into drive, I look for traffic before I pull out to the road. After several miles, Scully asks me, "What are you thinking?" "Right now I'm focusing on my driving." I'm a lousy liar and she knows it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her bite her lip. Scully's lip chewing can mean only two things. Regret or contemplation. God, please let it be regret. I brake for the next traffic light. Both of us stare at it, tensely waiting for it to turn green. "Why can't you talk to me?" She breaks the silence first. "Because we don't talk, we banter," I remind her, tossing my head sarcastically. "Light's changed," she comments dryly. "You want to know what I'm thinking?" I suddenly release my anguish because I can't contain it anymore. "I'm thinking about the women in my life, Scully. Those I love always find a way to leave me." "I didn't know I belonged to such a distinguished group," she says in a hurt voice. "Scully, you're at the top of the list." "Oh..." She is quiet for a moment. Then her tone changes into one of curiosity. "Who else is on the list?" "Jesus," I grit my teeth. "I just told you that I love you more than anyone else. Instead of acknowledging my feelings, you'd rather scrutinize them to make sure they fit your standards." Scully doesn't answer. She drops her gaze to her hands which are clasped tightly on her lap. I park the car in front of her apartment complex. Cutting the ignition, I turn to face her. "What's this pain all about, Scully? Is it about us?" Scully turns back to the window. "There is no us, Mulder," she says in a bleak tone. "Bullshit." I explode. "We both know better. And, so would your therapist if you told her the truth." "And, what truth is that?" "That you hide from your emotions instead of dealing with them." I tell her. "I've been watching you do it for years, Scully. Rather than show your feelings, you conceal them under an impassive mask." She doesn't answer. I watch her lips pinch together and realize I've finally touched a nerve. "What happened Scully? What made you switch from hiding to numbing?" "It's not that simple, Mulder." "Nothing ever is," I scoff. "And, I think you prefer to keep it that way." "Wow," she snorts bitterly. "Who needs a shrink when I have a profiler?" "Stop it," I catch her hand. I feel her nails dig into my skin. "Damn it, I said stop it." Startled, her fingers relax in my hold. "Tell your therapist the truth, Scully." I plead. "If the bottom line is about us, we can start seeing her together." "No..." Her cry sounds tortured. Twisting away from me, she bolts out of the car. I almost break the handle of the door in my agitated efforts to get out of the car. I sprint after her, catching her before she enters the building. "Why?" My voice cracks under the strain I'm feeling. When she refuses to meet my gaze, I lift her chin so that her eyes are level with mine. "Why?" I whisper hoarsely. "Because...there...is...no...us." Scully jerks her head away. She continues in a sober voice. "At one point, I thought there might be. But, I was wrong." "Scully," I sigh as my eyes squeeze shut. "We can work this out. Your therapist can help us both deal with this." "No," she states firmly. "I've discovered another way, Mulder. I don't need to explore it. I don't have to numb it." Her eyes meet mine. "All I do is walk away," she concludes vehemently. The tension between us suddenly snaps, as does my control. "Before you do...," I grab her arm and propel her towards the door. "I think it's time I show you another way of dealing with this pain of yours." ********** We barely make it through the front door of my apartment before Mulder is dragging me to my bedroom. Literally. The minute I realize his intent, my feet go into brake mode. Four inch heels dig lines across the hardwood floor. Ignoring my protests, he lifts me up. Before I can even clutch for support, I'm dropped onto my bed. When I try to rise, I find myself pinned down by all six feet of a him. His mouth lowers to mine before I can speak another word. His lips are unrelenting. He pulls at mine, trying different angles to gain entrance past my clenched teeth. My fingers dig into his shoulders as I try to push him off me. I think I'm about to suffocate when he lifts his mouth from mine. I gasp for air and turn my head away, pleading, "Not like this, Mulder, please...never like this." "Are you ready to admit it?" "Admit what?" I choke out. Mulder speckles my neck with his lips and I feel his fingers unbuttoning my shirt. I freeze, paralyzed by sensations that are both frightening and thrilling. I cry out when he pushes aside the fabric cup of my bra. His fingers lift my breast to his mouth. He begins to suckle me, teasing my nipple with the tip of his tongue. Oh my God... I almost explode with pleasure. An involuntary moan rises from my throat. Suddenly, he lifts his head. "Say it," Mulder prompts me. "Say what?" I pant. "That there is an us," he insists in a low, threatening voice. "There is an us..." I whisper as I close my eyes. I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue this exquisite assault of my senses. He doesn't. I feel his weight shift off of me. My eyes pop open to find him sitting on the edge of my bed. His face is buried in his hands. "Mulder," I whimper his name. "This isn't the way it's supposed to be," he murmurs in a broken voice. I struggle up to a sitting position. My hands tug at his. "What's it supposed to be?" I cry out. He turns his head, his eyes revealing his anguish. "An expression of love," he says softly. "Oh...." My voice trails off, taking with it the last of my frenzied want. "Scully?" His hands gently draw my blouse together. "The next time your therapist encourages you to leave me, will you remind her that there is an us?" "Mulder," I press my forehead against his. "The next time my therapist makes that suggestion, we'll both be there to remind her." To be continued.... Part 4 of ? (WIP) I stand in the doorway to the bathroom, glancing impatiently at my watch while Scully performs her latest face painting ritual. We're going to be late. Our appointment with Dr. Vandervanack is scheduled in thirty minutes, and I can't tell if my partner is being nonchalant or simply stalling. Had we been on our way to a Gap clearance sale, she would have already been in the car, honking the horn. "You know, Scully," I say diplomatically. "Your beauty is the type that doesn't need makeup." Perhaps it's my tone. Maybe it's the fact that my eyes are glued on my watch. When I glance up, her gaze meets mine in the mirror. The distance of her eyes is haunting. With one look, she conveys all that remains unspoken between us. Doubt, the decline of trust, the cool gaze of a woman who no longer believes me. I can't move. I'm stunned by the fact that I've lost something that I never realized I had. Scully's trust. How could this have happened? How did we ever reach this point? "Scully..." She pushes past me without a word. We travel silently by car. I battle a gnawing sense of dread while she chews thoughtfully on her crimson bottom lip. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I expect to see blood drip from the deep indentures she is creating. "Here, try this," I say, reaching inside my jacket for a pack of gum. I am prepared for this session. My pockets are filled with tissues, lifesavers and even a pack of cigarettes that I found hidden in her lingerie drawer. That she occasionally smokes is no surprise. Hell, there's been times that only a quick jog or a handful of sunflowers seeds have stopped me from returning to a habit long ago abandoned. What she doesn't know is that years back, during one of my "dark" periods, I was as chain smoking as our nemesis. Only the near incineration of my couch, while I slept on it, led me to kick the habit. I'm seriously tempted to light up one right now. "Mulder, there's something I have to tell you," My thoughts scatter, replaced by warning lights and the blast of sirens. I shake my head and hold up a restraining hand. "No, you don't." I admonish. "Just because we're in the car doesn't mean that it's confession time." "It's just that I need to explain...." "Nope," I cover my ears. "Not until I'm safely harnessed in on my side of the couch." "Fine." Her teeth graze her lip as she lapses back into silence. By the time we enter the reception area of the therapist's office, my apprehension is in overdrive. Safely harnessed, my ass. I have the uneasy feeling that I'm a crash dummy who's about to be loaded into a test car. The obstacle course is perilously waiting beyond the therapist's door. "Good morning," Dr. Vandervanack appears from her office and waves us inside. Scully's therapist is a small, thin, sharp-featured woman with a heavy German accent. I do a double take, convinced that the stress of the moment is distorting my vision. Nope...the similarity is too striking to be just a disoriented perspective. I almost roll my head back and laugh. She looks just like Dr. Evil's assistant in Austin Powers, a classic "shagadelic" romp of a movie that should only be my life. But, I'm no swinging secret agent, and although my partner wears black, she ain't no Mrs. Kensington. Not that I mind. I never liked the look of the woman anyway. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Fox," the woman's voice hisses the "x" sound of my name. I want to say "you, too, Frau", but I don't. I take my seat on the couch next to my partner. We sit closely together, our shoulders bumping as we adjust ourselves on the crinkling leather surface. When I slide my arm casually across the back of the couch, I feel Scully shrink away from my touch. "He prefers to be called Mulder," she informs Dr. Vandervanack matter-of-factly. The therapist lifts one of her narrow, painted-on eyebrows. She says nothing until she's takes her seat opposite us and folds her hands primly on her lap. "Why is that, Fox?" Her "w's" sound like "v's". I'm so diverted by her accent that my own droll "vit" slips out before I can stop it. "Vell..." I begin. "Try walking around with a name of an animal that's conventionally thought as sly or deceitful...or even worse, slang for a man who slinks around with his shirt unbuttoned, trying to pick up chicks in discos." "I see," the therapist reaches for her pad to scribble down a few notes. "That's relevant?" I lean forward to see what's she's writing. "That's asinine," Scully answers. She gestures with her hand and continues, "Just write down that he prefers to keep the membership to the "Fox Club" exclusive." Whoa...I crane my head towards my partner. Where did that one come from? "Care to elaborate?" I nudge her with my arm. "Not even my parents call me Fox." She sarcastically tosses her head with each word. Oh shit. I did feed her that line, didn't I? "C'mon, Scully," I try to deflect her. "It's common practice at the Bureau for partners to address each other on a last name basis." "Unless you're having sex with them," Scully retorts. Wham. I've just been hurled into the first test wall. The obstacle known as the "Fowley barrier" is one I'm already aware of. Scully's animosity is one sentiment she's incapable of hiding. And, because it's based on jealousy, I've never tried to deter it. Maybe I should have. Call it a weakness. Call it a pathetic attempt to elicit some type of emotional response from a woman who'd rather suppress her feelings than show them. But now, I'm not appreciative. I'm indignant and embarrassed. Sitting up straight, I look around me and ask, "Hey, doesn't this couch come equipped with an air bag?" "Excuse me?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts, obviously confused by my remark. "He's trying to be funny," advises Scully, who is flicking invisible dust from the armrest with her fingernail. "But, what he thinks is humerous is really the psychological equivalent of a brain fart." "What a classical assessment, Dr. Scully," I interject, suddenly irritated. "Jeez, had I known that med school was handing out psychology degrees, I would have cancelled my enrollment at Oxford." "Now, he's trying to impress you with his credentials," Scully continues smoothly. I fall back against the couch and lift my hands in exasperation. "Am I allowed to speak for myself or am I just supposed to sit back and enjoy the ride?" "Go ahead, Fox." Dr. Vandervanack prompts me. "Oh, I'm sorry...go ahead, Mulder." "Don't give in to him." There is a noticeable anger in Scully's voice. "It's bad enough I did." Her barbs are sticking to my skin, pricking me, piercing my composure. Granted, I may not be the most mature, self-assured man around, but I'm not going to be scolded like some juvenile. My temper ignites like spark plugs as I reciprocate, "Scully, are you headed in any particular direction with this joy ride, or are you just spinning out of control?" "Control is what it's all about, isn't it Mulder?" "Yours or mine, Scully?" I fling back. "Cause, if it's yours then you better re-read your FBI manual about driving while impaired." Scully jerks her head back as if I've just slapped her. Her cheeks are tinged pink, the first natural pigment I've seen from her skin in days. She swallows several times then says in a rasping voice. "That was low, Mulder." "Yeah it was," I nod, trying to shake off my regret. I feel like an asshole, but it's better than being made to look like one. "Look, I didn't come here to exchange insults. And, I certainly didn't come here to discuss why I dislike the use of my first name." "Why did you come here?" Dr. Vandervanack interrupts. "Finally!" I lift my hands up in mock relief. "The therapist jumps in." "Mulder," cautions Scully. I ignore her and turn to vent my frustration on her doctor. "I'm here because you told Scully to walk away from me." I shake my head in agitated disbelief. "Don't misunderstand, Doc. I have enough guilt about Scully and the trauma's she suffered to keep you in business until you retire. But, since when do psychologists encourage their patients to run from their problems rather than face them?" "Hmmm..." Dr. Vandervanack rests her pen and pad down on the table beside her. Her attention shifts from me to Scully. For a moment, she studies my partner closely. Her pointed gaze hints that something is wrong. I follow her direction and glance at the woman seated next to me. Scully's profile reminds me of a statue. The tinge of her anger drains from her cheeks, leaving her skin the color of alabaster marble. She stares vacantly ahead, paralyzed, impervious to our penetrating looks. "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses her gently. "Do you remember our last session? My recommendation was quite the opposite. I suggested that you ask your partner to come here so I might help you both address the issues between you." She lied. God damn her. She lied to me. I feel my own breath being crushed from my lungs as I'm smashed into another wall on this road test we call therapy. Except this obstacle is one Scully has created through manipulation and deceit. "You played me, Scully?" I growl, unable to contain my fury. "Give her a moment," says the therapist, holding up a restraining hand. "Why? To give her time to fabricate another lie?" "Don't try to analyze Dana, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack cautions. "That's my job." "Then do your job, Dr. Vandervanack," I snap back. "Stop mollifying her. If you lack the sufficient experience to get into her head and figure out what the hell is going on in there, then step back and let me do it." "Excuse me, Mr. Mulder, but you've already proven to be ineffective when it comes to communicating with your partner," responds the therapist crisply. "Stop..." Scully suddenly interrupts. Our heated debate ceases as our attention is returned to its source. "If you're both going to talk about me as if I'm not here, then I might as well leave," she announces, rising from the couch. "Scully..." I grab her arm. She jerks away from me and hisses, "Back off, Mulder." "Dana, please sit down," urges her therapist. "I knew this was a mistake," Scully says through clenched teeth. "I should have listened with my head instead of my heart." "Maybe you should try letting me into your heart before you make that decision," I reproach her. "I can't do that," she dismisses me with an dispositive flick of her wrist. "Don't think you can just brush me off, Scully," I tell her determinedly. "I'm as imprinted on you as you are on me." "Well, don't start dusting for prints quite yet," she snaps. "The match you're looking for may not be there." I spring to my feet. We face off like adversaries. Had we worn them, I think both of our guns would be drawn at this point. Her eyes clash with mine. They are no longer dull, but alive. Brilliant, blindingly blue, shooting off sparks like the flash of a sword. As enraged as I am, I can't help but feel a rush of adrenaline for this woman. She challenges me, electrifies me, stimulates me not just to anger, but sexual excitement. "You know, Scully. If we ever make it to bed, I think you'll find that we're perfectly matched." "So typical...," she rolls her eyes and exhales sharply. She shakes her head at Dr. Vandervanack before leaving the room. ****** I can't believe what a fucking asshole he is. I am humiliated and furious over his behavior. How did I ever fall in love with such an immature, egocentric man who thinks the only way to my heart is through his prick? My mind must really be unhinged. Rage is a powerful amphetamine. As a doctor, I can easily recite the effects of stress hormones. But, as a former junkie, I merely appreciate the surge of energy that my anger provides. Unwilling to wait for the elevator, I smack open the stairwell door. I am going to escape this fiasco my doctor calls "couples therapy". I'll walk home if I have too. I don't even care that several miles of pavement will mostly likely grind down the heels of my new Calvin Kline boots. "Scully!" I hear Mulder's voice boom from above. He's following me. I'm two flights of stairs into my descent, so I feel confident enough to stop and lean into the cavity of the stairwell and shout back, "Fuck you, Mulder." My voice reverberates off the walls. It sounds foreign. I am using profanity I only think and never say. But, now could let loose a stream of obscenities that would curl the straightest hair. My teeth clamp down on my lower lip as I try to fight this crude, undignified impulse. I hear Mulder's steps quicken and remember that long legs often overtake short ones. My boots clump heavily down the stairs and I have to grasp the hand rail so I won't lose my balance. As I reach the fourth floor landing, I hear the screeching of his shoes as he rounds the corner of the fifth floor. "I'm really getting tired of chasing you," I hear him threaten. "Then don't." I yell back. Suddenly, Mulder vaults over the railing and lands right behind me. It startles me so much that I lose my footing on the steps. I teeter, almost falling backwards. He catches my arms and tugs me towards him. He steadies me while I glance nervously over my shoulder at the cement stairs that hazardously drop below me. "Thanks," I murmur, pushing away from him. "You're bleeding," he observes, tugging a kleenex from his pocket. I've bitten my lip too deeply. Without a word, he gently dabs the blood from my mouth. "I'm fine," I assert, taking the kleenex from his hand. "You're not fine, Scully," Mulder says softly. "Then again, neither am I. But, we've already acknowledged that there is an "us". Let's not throw away what might be our last chance of discovering what that can mean." "Don't get melodramatic on me, Mulder." I respond. "It's simply a matter of compatibility, or rather a lack of it." "No, Scully, you're wrong. We wouldn't have made it through six years if we weren't compatible." "That's work, Mulder. I'm talking about life. In that venue we're too different to make "us" happen." "Haven't you ever heard that opposites attract?" "Opposites also repel," I argue. "I think we just proved that." "What we proved is that it's going to take more than one therapy session to straighten things out between us." He asserts strongly. "Why do you even want to?" I cry out in frustration. "Don't make this thing between us your new obsession, Mulder. I can't stomach being an object of your dysfunction." "How can loving you be dysfunctional?" he asks solemnly. "Because it's damaging to us both." I lower my gaze. I don't want to look at him. I'm afraid to. "Are you saying we should stop?" "I'm saying you should. I...I already have, Mulder." "Prove it." He suddenly cups my face with his hands. His voice chokes with emotion. "Look me straight in the eyes and tell me that you don't love me." My gaze meet his. The tears in his hazel eyes draw my own. God help me. The lie is poised on my lips, but the agony in my heart silences it. My vision mists over with bittersweet realization. Despite my attempts to flee, distort and deceive, I am as bound to him as he is to me. "No," I whisper, closing my eyes. "I can't say that I don't love you, Mulder, because I do. It's just that I want it to be something other than an affliction." "Does this feel like an affliction?" He murmurs as his lips brush against mine. It is the kiss I've been waiting for. Soft, tender, devoid of lust, not provoked by anger or desperation. An acknowledgment of our feelings. A renewal of our commitment. My hands slide up to his shoulders and twine around his neck. My lips glide over his. His circle mine. Gently, our mouths caress and linger against each others. As the intensity increases, we withdraw, careful not to destroy the tranquility of what is finally good between us. Oh...how many times have I dreamt of this moment? I used to imagine it over and over, filling my mind with it, allowing it to wash over my body and drown out the pain. The pain...when they came for me...when the tests began...when the... "What did you say?" Mulder breaks away from me suddenly. "What?" I ask as I open my eyes. "You imagined us together when the pain started?" He chokes out in an incredulous voice. "When the tests began?" "What are you talking about?" I gape at his puzzled expression. "Scully, you just said..." "I didn't say anything, Mulder." I interrupt him. Or did I? Did I speak my thoughts aloud? "Oh my God," he mumbles, pulling me against him. His embrace is fierce and protective. For a moment, my face is pressed against the collar of his shirt. I cringe when I see drops of blood from my lip soaking into the material. "Why can't I stop bleeding?" I gasp, clutching his arms in panic. "We'll find a way to stop it," he promises in a strong, certain voice. He knows. He now understands that my wound goes deeper than this relationship. When I look up at him, I see my blood smeared against his lips. I suddenly feel dizzy. My thoughts are spiraling, caught in a whirlpool of fear and uncertainty. Must I bleed on him? Does healing involve sharing the pain? I cling to him as he leads me out of the stairwell. His arm is securely around my waist as he guides me towards the elevator. "I can't go back upstairs," I plead with him, thinking that he intends to return to Dr. Vandervanack's office. "We're not," He assures me. "We're going home." Home. The way he says it makes me want to believe, reminding me of the poster that hangs once again in our office. I want to believe. Not in the X-files, not in the paranormal, but simply us. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My need to know the truth about Scully's pain conflicts with my need to protect her from it. And, taunting me even more is the desire to physically express a love that words have only managed to damage. Balance...I need to find some balance here.... Scully.... I get up from my chair and sit down on the side of her bed. Even the distance of a few feet is too much. I need to be near her. She's been napping for hours. This morning's session with Dr. Vandervanack must have really exhausted her. Morning clouds give away to afternoon sunshine. The winter sun feels tepid against my back, but its rays stream brightly across the room. The light falls on Scully's face, bathing her pale skin with a golden glow. In sleep, her features are relaxed. No lines course her forehead, no tension collects around her mouth. She really is beautiful. Next time, I'll make sure my eyes express what my voice fails to convey. I delicately trace my finger across her swollen lower lip before pressing it to mine. Earlier, I tried to absorb her blood with my kiss. I wanted to sponge away her pain and anxiety. If only I could bleed for her. Then my blood would finally be well spent. Oh, Scully... "Your wound runs deep, doesn't it? It's not only about us. Our tortured relationship is but one piece of your jigsaw pain." But, maybe...maybe if we finally glue ourselves together, we'll be able to put the pieces of this puzzle into place. I rub the side of my jaw in tired agitation. Stop analogizing and focus. She gave you the biggest clue in the stairwell. The pain...the tests... Her abduction. She's having flashbacks. "How long has this been going on, Scully? What triggered it? Did it start when that ass wipe of an agent blew a hole into your stomach?" I do a mental search, trying to associate one type of pain with another. The pain of an abdominal wound, the well categorized stories of alien abductees. There has to be a link between the two. For some reason, I think of Duane Berry and how his body was riddled with implants. They were drilled into his teeth, inserted into stomach... Holy fucking shit... I lift the edge of Scully's shirt and stare at her stomach. The incision from her surgery is healed, but the scar is jagged. It resembles a stark red line across her creamy skin. Although I'm no doctor, I begin to palpate her abdomen like one. In my fear, I examine her for some tell tale sign of an implant. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Scully's eyes are open, wide and pale blue in the sunlight. I immediately jerk back, caught in an act that could be easily misconstrued. "Sorry, Scully..." I clear my throat. "I was just..." She catches my hand. "It's alright," she whispers. "I want you to touch me." Screech.... I slam my brakes for what I perceive to be another flashing red light. No way...don't do it, pal...you'll be sorry... "Do you love me, Mulder?" she asks calmly. "You know I do, but..." "Prove it," she responds in a sedate, no-nonsense voice. Oh God. The voice of my Scully is back. Cool, rational, allowing for no compromise or misinterpretation. My palms suddenly feel as sweaty as a teenagers. I think she senses my apprehension. Releasing my hand, she begins to unbutton her blouse, pausing at the third one down. She gives me an expectant look. When I don't respond, she takes my hand and guides it to her breast. Whoa.... Well...maybe it's not a red light after all. Maybe it's yellow...the signal that says proceed with caution. My thumb begins a slow circle around the silk of her shirt. I feel her nipple harden under my touch and the sensation nearly topples me off her bed. A cold perspiration teases the back of my neck, making the collar of my shirt feel itchy. When I try to loosen my tie, she sits up suddenly and whispers, "Let me do that." I can smell the fresh scent of her hair as she leans into me. Her fingers are busy, tugging off my tie, unbuttoning and stripping off my shirt. I'm so mesmerized that I can't move, much less breathe. Her hands glide up my torso, caressing and massaging the muscles of my chest. "Oh God, Mulder," she murmurs in an appreciative voice. "You really are worth the trouble, aren't you?" "Nothing you haven't seen before," I shrug, unable to keep my nervousness under control. "Not with the vision I have now," Scully conveys. Her eyes are so clear that I can spot tiny gold flecks surface from their azure depths. No longer strained in confusion or dulled by pain, they reflect such certainty that I'm able to find my own confidence in them. My hands regain their agility. The buttons to her blouse draw me like a magnet. I hold her steady gaze as I glide the silky material down her back. Skimming her neck with my fingers, I twine them in her hair and lift the strands to the light. "Your hair shines like amber in the sunlight," I murmur. I'm hardly a poet, but she makes me want to try. ******* He's hardly a poet, but I love him for trying... And, I'm ready to show him. A minute ago, he was scared. Paralyzed. Like a deer caught in the headlights of a car that had tried to plow him down earlier. Men...they really can be such silly creatures. Especially this one. He may not understand the timing, but that's because he's Mulder. He's always in a sexual ready mode. He has yet to comprehend this difference between us. This man is the physical to my mental. What I perceive as an argument, he considers foreplay. But, the other Mulder...the one who breaks off a kiss before it spins out of control...who watches over me while I sleep...who sheds tears of grief because of my pain...this is the Mulder I can make love to. Waking up to his pawing my stomach like an agitated puppy does more than tug at my heart. It restores humor to a relationship that has been so bitter lately. But now, my amusement and comparison to cuteness stops as my own hands course his chest. This is a man. And a virile one. Strong, athletic, muscular in all the right places, deliciously lean in others. The afternoon sun only accentuates his tawny perfection. I can't help but travel his body with appreciative eyes and eager fingers. As I remove the rest of his clothes, I explore him with all my senses intact, awakened and revitalized. Neither one of us wants to rush. His touch remains sensual, drawing goosebumps from my skin and tingles down my spine. Each layer of my clothing floats off as gracefully as a veil. He traces the outline of my body as if he's about to commit my figure to canvas. This man may not be a poet, but I think I'm about to discover that part of him which is an artist. He kiss is so gentle. He circumvents my lower lip, focusing on the one above it. I think he's afraid he might hurt me, that the cut might not be healed enough to sustain the pressure of his mouth. I'll have to put an end to his fear. I open my mouth, encouraging him to allow his impulse to take over. His tongue swirls around mine, pulling, tasting, savoring. He retreats only long enough for me to catch my breath before beginning again. My hands roam the expanse of his back and shoulders. As his lips lower to the arch of my neck, my fingers fan out across his skin. Joints extend and nails begin to scrape in almost feline delight as his mouth slides down to my breasts. I hear a sound forming in my throat.... Please don't let it be a purr..... It's comes out as a moan. Quiet acceptable. And, appropriate, considering what he's doing. While his tongue teases one nipple, his fingers entice the other. My breasts are no longer mine, but his. Oh...he really does know what I like... By the time he parts my legs with his hands, my knees are shaking. Despite myself, I tense. This is intimacy at its worst or best, depending on your viewpoint. And, your partner. "Relax, Dana, I won't bite." he says in an amused voice. Keep it up, buddy. Take a good look at the bite mark on my lip and remember what I'm capable of. "I'll keep that in mind," he responds, chuckling. Can he read my thoughts? Jesus, Mary and Joseph....I hope not.... Relax....I'm being ridiculous. And, I'm being careless. The slip-up in the stairwell was bad enough. If I keep speaking my thoughts, he'll know.... Mulder inches his lips down my thigh. Oh God... I hold my breath as his fingers spread me open. Let my thoughts be replaced by this... The first flicker of his tongue makes me gasp. Like an artist's paint brush, each stroke draws hues of exquisite pleasure. My head falls back to the pillow. Skillful and creative, he is painting with watercolors, filling my mind with Monet inspired analogies. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light. Don't look... I close my eyes. I feel his finger dip into me, drawing out another hue of arousal. Colors blend into pastel splashes of delight. He swirls and blends, fingers and tongue, to complete what is becoming the portrait of my desire. "Mulder, please...." I whisper urgently. "It's about us, remember?" He stops before it's too late. Raising his head, he agrees softly. "Us...." I feel his hands caress my hips before he gently raises them. With one fluid motion we are united. We sway together, slide into each other, merge and meld to a indulgent, slow rhythm. His lips find mine. Each kiss deepens, enhancing what is destined to be our mutual gratification. When my breath becomes to rapid to sustain the tiniest of gasps, he lifts his mouth and pleads, "Scully, open your eyes..." "I can't...the sun's too bright..." "Scully...please look at me...now...please..." The sound of his release discharges my own like a bullet from a gun. It thunders in my ears as pleasure crackles like lightening through every nerve ending. My back arches and my eyes fly open to witness what should be the most profound moment between us. Except it's not. I can't see him. The light... It's blinding me...it's sizzling white...laser sharp... The scream that follows is not one of pleasure. ******* I fight the temptation to clamp my hand over her mouth. Jeez...I never figured this woman to be a screamer. Not that I mind... I just don't want the neighbors to think I'm killing her. When I see the terror in her eyes, I realize that I should have known better. Scully might be passionate, but never...ever...does she lose control. Control is taken from her. It's happening again, right now. "The light...the light..." she cries hysterically, pointing to the window. I roll off her, scrambling to my feet. I'm met by such a massive head rush that I almost fall down. Staggering to the window, I yank the blinds closed, shutting out the sunlight. In the dimness of the room, I see her shadow bolt from the bed. She races for the bathroom, but is so disoriented that she collides with the bedroom door. Her trembling hands pattern the wall, guiding her like a blind woman to her destination. "Scully..." I call after her. I begin to follow, but stop when I stub my toe on the corner of her bed. Shit...the pain is sharp enough to send me hopping. By the time I bounce into the bathroom, Scully is scavenging through her vanity cabinet like a wild woman. Her fingers frantically search for something. Jars of makeup, a tube of toothpaste, her brush....all come flying over her shoulder. Only a bottle of pills stops her frenzy. She stares at the label then shrieks in frustration. Tylenol... She's obviously looking for a stronger pain reliever. "Scully...stop." I grab her shoulders and whirl her around. "Make it stop..." she wails, clutching my arms. "Only you can make it stop," I yell back at her, clasping her face in my hands. "Tell me what happened, Scully. Tell me about the light." Suddenly, she squeezes her eyes closed. Her grip on my arms relaxes as she pants out the last of her hysteria. "It's gone..." she exhales, slowly. "It's over." "It's not over," I insist. "It'll never be over until you confront the truth." "What truth is that, Mulder?" "The truth about your abduction. You're having flashbacks, aren't you?" "I don't want to talk about it." "You have to, Scully. You're incapable of repressing it anymore. It's coming out whether you like it or not. But, Scully...stop lying about it...stop disguising it as pain." "What I could really use is something to numb it," she ignores me, voicing her thoughts out loud. Her eyes widen and nervously meets mine. "I didn't mean that, Mulder." "Sure you did," I release her. "And, you'll find your way back to drugs unless you break the hold this trauma has on you." Scully's eyes swell with tears. They don't fall, but freeze over into an icy stare. Her hands begin to unconsciously rub her thighs. They are sticky from our lovemaking. "I need a shower," she whispers, turning away. "Go ahead," I tell her abruptly. "You might be able to cleanse yourself of me, but don't think you can scrub away the truth about yourself." Scully steps inside the shower stall and draws the curtain on me and our conversation. Gritting my teeth, I pace the bathroom. As the steam of the hot water fills the air, I lean over to pick up the bottle of Tylenol. Angrily, I hurl the bottle into the hallway. The lid pops open and scatters pills across the hardwood floor. So much for intimacy. She may have offered me her body, but her heart is still miles away. Worse yet, I think she's inches from relapsing. Title: Comfortably Numb Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Part 6 of ? (WIP) He's gone. I realize it the instant I step out of the shower. I stand naked...dripping...stupefied...as I watch the last of the steam curl out the bathroom door. The emptiness of my apartment is like a vacuum. It not only sucks the humidity from the air, it evaporates the feeling of him as if he was only a vapor. Maybe he never was there... It would not be the first time I imagined him... My partner...my fantasy lover...my apparition... For years, I've kept my desire a secret. Hidden in a maze of secrets, which now twist and turn like a labyrinth of confusion. No...I had proof. Moments ago, the essence of our lovemaking glistened on my thighs. But, fear made it sticky. I washed it away, thinking I could scrub him and his accusation off of me. I was wrong. He is more than just an imprint on my skin. He's as vital as any organ. Without him, my systems start to fail. Each one shuts down, leaving me struggling to breath in an existence that's as cold as the void of space. I need him... Oh God...what a time to discover that my dependency is no longer limited to drugs. Drugs.... The floor of my hallway is pebbled with Tylenol. They slide under my feet as I shuffle to my darkened bedroom. The analogy is not lost on me. The road to my desolation is paved with pills. Mulder's bags are open on my bed. His clothes are recklessly strewn inside. Maybe, in his haste to leave, packing took too much time. Better to abandon it all. To leave it as a symbol of how I managed to disarray our love. I lift the shirt he wore earlier and press it against my cheek. His scent still lingers on the material. I inhale it deeply before slipping my arms through the sleeves. I wrap myself in an imaginary embrace, trying to substitute his skin with the fabric of his shirt. When I spot the stain of my blood near the collar, my illusion clouds over with tears. I've soiled our long awaited love with my deceit...my refusal to acknowledge the truth... "I'm so sorry, Mulder," I cry into my hands. My fingers slide down my face as a sliver of light peers through the crack of my venetian blinds. The light... It's taunting me. I can't escape it... It sears into my skin...incises my abdomen...takes that part that made me a whole woman... I smack the blinds repeatedly, trying to shut out the light and the horror that it illuminates. But, somehow my delirium turns to anger. I grapple with an awareness that is more pivotal than frightening. The light not only robbed my fertility... It stole my control... Now, it wants to ravage the only thing I have left... My ability to love... God damn it...no more...no more... In a fit of rage, I tear down the blinds and confront the source of my pain. ******** So much for a breath of fresh air. It proves to be more chilling than invigorating. I stand at the entrance to Scully's apartment complex in only jeans, t-shirt and Reeboks. No jacket to protect me against the northerly wind or socks to cushion my feet. Scully... I almost walked out on her. In a frenzy that rivaled her own, I began to pack up my frustration, stuffing clothes into my bag. Scully... I stopped. I knew I couldn't leave her. But, I could distance myself from her, if only for a moment. And now, I'm out here exposing myself to the elements rather than the heartache that waits for me inside. How did the best moment of my life turn into the worst? It's my fault. I should have know better. Where did I find such audacity to think my touch could heal her? In her eyes... They reflected such certainty...such clarity... "No, you stupid fuck," I say aloud in a harsh voice. "You saw what you wanted to see..." My own need to feel whole... I scuff the pavement with the sole of my sneaker. My breath comes out in heavy, tormented grunts. It infuriates me that I'm incapable of making a genuine sacrifice. I accuse her of deceit when I'm equally as duplicitous. Rather than focus on her emotional pain, I exploit it. I use it as a gauge of our relationship, measuring love with trust. I've been doing that all along... No wonder she turned to drugs... Better to find relief in a controlled substance than in a man who has no control...or substance... Staring at the ground, I watch my shadow fade into nothingness. It is eclipsed by another, the silhouette of a woman who stands in the sunlight trying to absorb both of our agony. My head jerks up with clairvoyant intuition. Scully.... Racing back into the building, I burst through the front door of Scully's apartment. The pills on the hallway floor crush like dust under my feet. I find her by the bedroom window. The blinds that effuse the sun's rays are crumpled on the floor. She stands immobilized, transfixed by the incandescent beam of the sun. It permeates her eyes, bleaching them, fading color into a pale, spectral glow. Tears stream down her face. My forehead beads with sweat as I watch her confrontation unfold. And, my own. There is a part of me that wants to scream her name, to free her from these flashbacks, to shield her from a light that returns her to such darkness. But, I don't. Instead, I stand by her side, hoping that my presence signals my willingness to be there for her...to share her suffering...to be her partner in pain. "The light is a laser," she sobs. "I can see it. Feel it. It controls and dissects me at the same time." I both physically and mentally cringe at her description. Dissection is a pathological term, not a medical one. Her hand fumbles for mine. "I thought you left me, Mulder..." I take it and squeeze it tightly. "I'll never leave you, Scully." "Why can't I see you?" "I'm here..." my voice breaks. "Why can't you find me?" Her whisper is like a stifled scream. "If anyone can save me from this, you can..." "I tried, Scully...I tried." A moan tears from my throat. The sound of my sobbing cuts off her own. "I know..." she murmurs. Like a blind woman, her hand fumbles for my face. The tips of her fingers caress the slits of my eyes. I'm speechless, humbled by her gesture. Even in her agony, she reaches out to comfort me. Suddenly, her hand drops. Her body sags towards me. "Mulder...I think I better sit down." When I ease her to the bed, she whimpers, "Somewhere dark..." I nod, still muted by my grief. Scooping her up in my arms, I carry her out to the livingroom where it is dimly lit. She weighs virtually nothing, but the weight of my remorse is so heavy that I collapse onto the couch. At first, her body is curled up like a tight ball on my lap. Slowly, I feel her relax. Her arms wrap around my neck. Her cheek rubs against mine, absorbing my tears. "I'd give my life for you," I whisper, trying to sound sincere and not just melodramatic. "I know..." Scully sighs. Her breath feels soft against my skin. "I think they knew that, too. That's why I was chosen." "To stop me?" I gurgle the question. "I was assigned to the X-files to stop your work," she explains. "Except, I didn't deliver..." "Neither did I..." I can't help the groan. "Oh Scully, I knew it was dangerous and I didn't tell you. I failed you, just like I failed to deliver you from this atrocity." "Mulder..." She begins to agitatedly wipe away her own tears so I won't see them. "Don't do this." "What?" I ask, not understanding. "Don't let your guilt defeat us," she pleads. "It's hard, Scully." "It's more than hard, Mulder," she sniffs, then states flatly. "It's your addiction." Ouch.... "I'm not the only one in danger of relapsing," Scully continues. Her voice becomes desperate as her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Please, Mulder, don't revert to what you were." "What was that, Scully?" "A man afraid to love...to express his love..." "Oh, Scully..." My head falls against the back of the couch. "If only it was that simple." "Make it that simple," The edge to her voice makes me lift my head. "Because if you can't, don't expect me to." "What's that supposed to mean?" Scully takes a deep breath and says, "I won't continue a relationship where sharing is limited to pain." Trust Scully to bottom line me like that. "You exorcise your demons and I exorcise mine?" I ask glibly. She reaches for the portable phone on the coffee table. "Who are you calling?" "I'm making another appointment for us to see Dr. Vandervanack," she informs me. "The Vander...quack?" "Mulder..." "Sorry," I mumble. I begin to stroke her back reassuringly. "Okay, Scully, if you think we need an exorcist." Of course, I don't tell her what I'm thinking. I'm having a premonition about Linda Blair and pea green vomit flying into my face. "We've got the first appointment tomorrow morning," Scully says as she clicks off the phone. "Bright and early?" I cringe at the thought. "Don't worry," she reassures me. "I'll wear sunglasses." To be continued..... Part 7 of ? (WIP) The next morning we find ourselves back on the therapist's couch. This one is not nearly as comfortable as the one in my living room, but Mulder doesn't seem to mind. Maybe, it's because the doctor's not "in" yet. She's on the phone in the waiting area playing the double role of therapist and receptionist. Apparently, I'm not the only one dragging my feet through the office door today. I watch Mulder flop down on the couch like he's right at home, stretching his long legs out in front of him. There isn't even a hint of nervousness on his part. While I'm as tightly knotted as a child's shoelace, he's relaxed, even cozy. I sit on the edge, my back braced by a steely rod of tension. My fingers adjust the dark sunglasses that keep slipping down the bridge of my nose. Borrowed from him, in a last minute precaution as we leave me apartment. The sun shines brightly today, and the last thing I need is to be "dazzled" by its radiance. Dr. Vandervanack joins us in her office. She gives me a suspicious glance before delivering a condemning one to my partner. I scratch the side of my neck, release a dry chuckle, and try to explain. "It's not what you think, Dr. Vandervanack," "What do I think, Dana?" Mulder interrupts before I can answer. "That behind those spiffy Raybans you're sporting a real shiner." "Very funny," I smirk at him before I turn to my therapist. I quickly lift the glasses to prove that I'm not. "I must admit that I was concerned by the urgency of this appointment," relates the therapist. "The first session for couples is a difficult one. It can trigger an unpleasant reaction, even a physical altercation." My hand clamps down on Mulder's knee when I hear his snicker. Clearing my throat, I state in a prudent voice, "Actually, Dr. Vandervanack...that is, in part, why we're here." "Really?" the woman eyes open wide, as she lifts her pad and pen. "Which part?" "Well...," I toss my head, debating my words. "How should I put this...we...ah..." "We got physical, Doc," Mulder chimes in, "and that may have triggered her unpleasant reaction." "Mulder," I gasp. "That's not what caused it." I feel hot embarrassment tinge my cheeks. As, I poke my sunglasses back in place, he leans forward and whispers, "Your blushing, Scully." His fingers tease the back of my neck. I flick him off like a pesky fly. "I'll remind you of that later," he promises in a bawdy tone when he sees that I'm using my middle finger to "flick". "Try it, Mulder, and I'll show you the true definition of an unpleasant reaction," I hiss back. Dr. Vandervanack studies us both closely. Her mouth works itself into a tight line. I can't tell if she's amused or offended by our sexual banter. "Perhaps, for now, we should limit ourselves to this," she suggests, waving her finger at my sunglasses. I exhale loudly, nodding, beginning my reluctant narrative, "There was this light..." "A light..." my therapist scribbles down my words. "Actually," I lean forward to correct her. "It was the afternoon sun coming through my blinds." "Got it..." Dr. Vandervanack crosses out a word and replaces it with another.. "...in her bedroom..." Mulder chirps in. "That part I already assumed, Mr. Mulder," Dr. Vandervanack points her pen at my partner. "But, thank you." "Anyway," I give him another scowl before I continue. "Well...during...ah...how should I put this? Well..while we were being intimate..." I'm interrupted again, this time by snorts of his laughter. "Would you excuse us a moment?" I say, giving my doctor a polite smile. I jerk Mulder to his feet, which is quite a accomplishment given our height/weight ratio. After I drag him out to the waiting area, I confront him angrily, "Why are you doing this?" "Doing what?" "Acting like such an asshole." "I'm sorry, Scully," The corners of his mouth curl up into a mischievous grin. "I guess you really do bring out the devil in me." This is, of course, is his attempt to belittle my "exorcising our demons" analogy. "Or..." he pauses, arching an eyebrow. "It could be just an unpleasant reaction to how you're behaving." "Which is how?" I question him impatiently. "Like you've got a bug up your ass," Mulder ridicules. "Lose the Polly Puritan attitude, Scully. This is couples therapy, not a Quaker sewing circle." "Fine, Mulder," I grit my teeth and turn away. "But, you had better stow away that little pitchfork of yours." "Consider it done," he opens the door, his arm swooping low to gesture me inside. Once back inside, we take our seats. Dr. Vandervanack scrutinizes the tip of her pen as she prompts me, "You were saying, Dana?" I respond in my most clinical voice, "While we were engaged in intercourse, a flashback interrupted my orgasm." Mulder's half-strangled gasp is such a sweet reward. Serves him right... "Let's try focusing on the flashback," my therapist recommends. Good idea. That will, at least, give Mulder a chance to crawl back up to the couch. "The intensity of the sunlight prompted the flashback," I relate, smoothing the creases of my slacks. My fingers don't quiver. They flex out comfortably, relaxed, certain.... "The intensity...hmmm...." Dr. Vandervanack begins to write down what she thinks is a reference to something else. "Of the sun..." One finger lifts from my thigh to emphasize this critical factor. "Intense...sunlight." I'm suddenly back on my feet, yanked up by my partner. "Excuse us a moment," Mulder says to my therapist. The tone of his voice prompts me to keep two feet ahead of him as we leave the room. "What the hell are you saying?" He demands in a heated, but hushed tone. "Are you trying to tell me that your orgasm wasn't intense?" "I didn't say that," I give him a wide-eyed, innocent look. "You're implying it," he growls. I sure am. And, I doing it deliberately. I want to make sure his pitchfork shrinks down to the size of a salad fork. The territory I'm about to explore is a dangerous one and I don't need his swaggering ego to distract me. "Don't worry," I pat his arm with mock reassurance. "This isn't about sex." "Then why do I suddenly feel like I've just been fucked?" It isn't his choice of words that softens me, but the blended misery of his gaze and voice. My cynical edge crumbles instantly. My fingers slide down to his hand, coaxing him to accept the touch of my apology. He jerks his hand away. "Mulder..." "Let's just get this over with," Mulder snaps, opening the door to the office. This time he doesn't join me on the couch. He finds his place in a corner, brooding, arms folded like a petulant child. Just like a child... I hate it when he does that.... I poke my sunglasses back into place. The lens are fogging over with the heat of my agitation. I don't want to mother him... I'm not the mothering type... I never was... I grasp the cushion of the couch as another flashback fills my mind. This time, it expresses itself in the most poignant pain... Emily... I see her, touch her, smell her... Delicate baby's breath in my fallow garden... Her eyes, the same color as mine, silently communes a look of unconditional trust. I sit on the edge of her hospital bed, holding her waning gaze, stroking her hand as it grows cold in mine. Oh God... My child is dying... The pain is more than I can bear... My vision suddenly goes dark. I don't realize I'm hyperventilating until I feel the pressure of a hand pushing my head between my legs. My lungs struggle to breath. I gasp, choke and shudder against this feeling of suffocation. "That's it, Scully, take it slow..." Mulder's breath fans the side of my face. He's crouched over me, holding me, urging me out of this state of asphyxia. I turn slightly, inhaling his presence as if it's air. Mulder nods, giving me a slight smile of encouragement. "Is she alright, Fox?" Dr. Vandervanack leans over with a paper cup of water. "I think so," he says, taking the cup and placing it to my lips. "Thanks, Doc." I push the cup away, my hands agitatedly patting my eyes. The sunglasses are gone. "My glasses..." I gasp. "You tore them off, Dana," my therapist tells me. I feel her sit down on the couch next to me. "You were calling a name over and over....Emily...." "Her daughter," Mulder conveys sadly. Hearing someone actually say those words helps bind the wound. My daughter... "She was mine, wasn't she?" I mumble, clutching his hand for support. "Emily will always be yours, Scully." "So will this heartache..." I groan. "Dana," Dr. Vandervanack addresses my solemnly. "These flashbacks...they're not just limited to the light, are they? I shake my head. "And, they're increasing in frequency, aren't they?" I nod slowly. "Could it be that your subconscious is trying to jump-start your emotional awareness?" advises Dr. Vandervanack. "If it is, then I have one hell of a cruel subconscious...." my voice cuts off into a jagged cry. "Dana, often the subconscious absorbs what the conscious mind can't accept. Although you may not understand it now, you will in time. What triggers these flashbacks, whether it be the symbolism of a light, the agitation of an argument, even the intensity of a certain moment...the real mechanism is you." "I don't understand." "You don't want to understand, Scully..." Mulder expands on my therapists' analysis. "What you weren't capable of rationalizing, you repressed. And, when that stopped working, you numbed yourself with drugs." I shake my head. I don't want to accept this. It makes me feel so weak. "Dana, it's not a weakness given the number of serious traumas you've undergone." Dr. Vandervanack tries to clarify. I realize that I've once again spoken my thoughts. My therapist continues, "To survive, I believe you've emotionally detached yourself, viewing each one as fact rather than an experience." "How do I stop it?" "You can't. And believe or not, you don't really want to." "Care to expand on that?" I squint my eyes at her. "You want to connect...and that's where Mr. Mulder comes into play." "Are you saying that I'm the cause?" Mulder asks. "No, Mr. Mulder." Dr. Vandervanack give us both a knowing look. "You're not the cause...you're the incentive." ******** "You're supposed to be resting on the couch," I tell her when she comes into the bedroom. "How am I supposed to nap with all this noise," Scully rubs her eyes. I'm trying to fix her mini-blinds which keep falling down. What should be a simple task is not. The brackets were torn down with enough force to leave deep gouges where the screws go in. I reinstalled them, but within twenty-four hours the blinds have twice collapsed to the floor. Finally, I get the idea. Drilling fresh holes, I install the brackets, but the blinds won't cooperate. "Damn," I curse under my breath. "I must have mis- measured," "Maybe we should call the maintenance man," she suggests in her practical tone. "I think I can handle it," I glower back. "Here, let me help you," Scully drags over a chair and climbs up on it. She takes one end of the rod as I lift the other. "The brackets are uneven," I grumble. "Shit..." "They're aligned just fine," she persists. "Just ease it in, Mulder." "It doesn't fit, Scully," I protest, wiping my forehead with the edge of my sleeve. "It's a perfect fit, Mulder," Scully assures me. "Try coaxing it." "Too much tension," I shake my head, "It might fall." "It won't. It's a lot stronger than you think." My eyes glide over to hers. "We're not talking about these friggin' mini-blinds, are we?" I ask. "Try it again," she urges. Her voice holds all the motivation I need. I snap my end into place. The blinds hold, each panel rippling down to closure on the window sill. "See?" she smiles. "A perfect fit." "Yeah," I take a deep breath as I approach her. "Think so, huh?" "Know so..." Still standing on the chair, she reaches down to course her fingers through my hair. My hands glide up her legs and skim the curve of her hips. I play with the drawstring of her sweats, twisting it, tieing it, tugging it... Without a word, she guides my fingers to the waistband and together, we peel off her sweats and underwear. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she daintily steps out of them. Like a goddess, she stands before me on her throne. Even if she's nude only from the waist down... I know where to begin my worship. I press my face into the softness of her abdomen, kissing it when I hear her stomach gurgle. It sounds like bubble of hunger, but it has nothing to do with food. This sexual fast may have lasted almost twenty-four hours, but she's not dehydrated by it. I feel her wetness even before I taste it. It glides over my tongue with the texture and sweetness of honey. Scully balances on tip-toed socks so I don't have to bend over too far. How benevolent my goddess is, I muse, alternating the flat moistness of my tongue with flicks of its tip. I hear her hand smack against the blinds as she grapples to support herself. I pause, turning my mouth away to say, "Tear those blinds down, Scully, and I swear..." "Is that drill bit of yours hard yet?" God, I love a woman who thinks and speaks in dirty metaphors. "Pick a wall," I unzip the fly to my jeans. "A wall?" she gasps. "Ever do it up against a wall before, Scully?" I taunt her as I strip off my clothes. "Does the wall of a pool count?" "Scully..." I chuckle as I pull her off the chair. Her legs wrap around my back, ankles clicking into place. "Have you been holding out on me all these years? Is Dana Scully really capable of fun?" "Just pick a wall," she whispers into my ear before giving it a playful bite. Afterwards, after we fall crumpled and wasted to her bed, I lift the edge of her sweat shirt so I can study her nipples. I may be no poet, but I've proven to be a handy carpenter. At least, I think so... Yup....hard and turgid as nails... "What are you doing?" Scully gasps, still shaking from what I think was her "intense" reaction. "Just checking to see if I really am a master carpenter." I touch each nipple to calibrate my assessment. "You need to check?" she moans, twisting away from my fingers. "You were pretty quiet this time, Scully." "No, Mulder...you were just loud." I lean over to kiss her with a sound smack of my lips. "No flashbacks this time," I smile with relief. "Nope," Scully grins back. "Well, unless the little fantasy trip back to my high school carpentry class counts." "You took carpentry in high school?" "It was that or Home Economics, and I had no intention of being domesticated," she laughs. "That explains your cooking," I nuzzle her neck. "And, the instructor was such a fox..." She sizzles the "x" sound of the letter. "God damn name," I grimace before lifting my head. "Hey, wait a minute...exactly what was your little fantasy about?" She just laughs. And, because it's been so long since I've made her laugh, I decide not to prod her further. Well... At least not with questions.... Later, while I'm trying out my culinary talents in her kitchen, Scully sits at her desk sorting through her mail. I'm making spaghetti. Hell, anyone can make spaghetti. A little boiled water for the pasta...a little nuking of a jar of pre-made sauce... "Don't forget the garlic bread in the freezer," she calls over her shoulder. "And, a mixed salad would be nice." "Not only wanton but greedy..." I chuckle as I open the freezer. "Just starving...and I'm..." her voice trails off. "You're what?" I ask, tugging out a loaf of frozen garlic bread and closing the door. There is no answer. At first, I'm too much of a bon vivant to notice. I preheat the oven to 400 degrees and pull out a baking tray. Opening the end of the tinfoiled bag to vent, I drop the loaf onto the pan. Chef Boyarde, meet your match.... "God damn you to hell, Mulder..." Whoa....what did she just say? I turn to find Scully standing, shaking violently by her desk. Her chair is toppled over to the ground. In her hand is what appears to be a photograph. "Scully?" I approach her, noticing the large manila envelope which is crumpled at her feet. "What is it?" "Proof of your enduring love," she snarls, thrusting the photograph into my hands. Oh my God.... It is a photograph of a kiss. The kiss Diana gave me the night I broke into her apartment seeking evidence that she had betrayed me. A kiss I misinterpreted...strategically delivered as well as captured by a hidden camera. My forehead beads with sweat... "You know what they say," I hear Scully sneer as she scrutinizes my reaction. "If you can't take the heat...get out of the kitchen." My eyes meet hers. "And, my apartment," she adds bitterly. "Scully, I can explain..." "Can you? Go ahead, Mulder, but while you're fabricating your lie you'll need to weave in Fowley's other gift." She reaches behind her and produces a vial of pills. My legs go weak at the knees. "Percocet, Mulder." She hisses. "Seems that your lover knows your partner's call brand." "There's got to be a mistake," I shake my head. The runner not only stumbles, he falls... "A mistake? Talk about an understatement," Scully seizes the vial back from me. "Here, I'll keep those..." "Scully...." "You can keep the photo..." She pushes me out of her way and storms into the bathroom. My wobbly legs enable me to reach the bathroom door as it slams in my face. I pound against it, flooding with panic as I hear the sink being turned on. My worst fears are being imagined...she's cupping the water in the palm of her hand...tossing a pill into her mouth... "Don't do it, Scully!" With a burst of frantic energy, I crash the door open with the brunt of my shoulders. Scully stands over the sink, trickling the pills into the basin, washing them down the drain. She looks up at me with deadened eyes. "Don't worry about a relapse, Mulder," she tells me coldly, "you're not worth it." To be continued..... Part 8 of ? (WIP) He said he'd never leave me... He certainly picked a lousy time to prove what a liar he is... I collapse onto the couch with a wet rag pasted across my eyes. They don't burn with tears, but a series of hot flashbacks that involve my abduction. The connections are popping off like overcharged light bulbs. Each repressed memory explodes into my consciousness like glass shattering, revealing the filament of my apocalypse. Oh God...I cry over and over, writhing on the couch in agony. The inhumanity of the tests are horrifying. Because the laser heals as fast as it incises, anesthesia is not deemed necessary. Pain is believed to be limited to consciousness and perception is supposed to be suppressed by the pulsating beam. But, there is darkness creeping into this light. At first, it is a shadow among other dim figures, an outline of a person known, but unknown. I concentrate on the image, pushing back fear that paralyzes me like invisible restraints. I reach out to touch it, to add substance to a vision still unclear. I feel it then. A hand colder than ice. Jerking away from me as if I'm a corpse that has just opened it's eyes. "That's right....I'm alive..." I scream my indignation. "You may dissect me like a cadaver, but my blood still runs warm." My eyes reflect the light like a prism, illuminating the face of the woman who hovers over me. Fowley.... Oh God...it's her.... She wears an uncomfortable expression, as antagonism competes with shame when confronted with another human being's suffering. She was there... The cold chill of my anger dulls my pain more effectively than the drugs she so obligingly sent me. My hand fumbles for the portable phone on the table. "Mulder..." His voice sounds expectant, as if he's been waiting for my call. "Your lover was there..." I seethe maliciously into the receiver. "Scully?" "She was there...observing...monitoring the tests conducted on me." There is silence on the other end of the phone. How dare he be speechless... The sound of my front door being unlocked makes me jump up from the couch. The washcloth drops from my eyes and my legs collide with the coffee table. Balance lost, I tumble backwards onto the floor. "You've been out in the hall the whole time?" I grimace, rubbing my backside. "I told you I'd never leave you." He says this to the door as he softly closes it. I hear the stifled click of the deadbolt being slide into place. "Well, you gave one hell of a simulation." "And, you ran into the kitchen, eyeing a knife like you intended to slice off something other than a piece of garlic bread," Mulder remarks turning around. "Are you calmed down enough to talk?" "Do I look calm?" "You look knocked off your ass." He moves around the couch and offers me a hand. "You would be, too," I smack it away. "I am, Scully. Trust me...I am..." Mulder grabs my forearm and hauls me to my feet. "I no longer trust you, Mulder." I remind him. "And, you certainly don't look upset." "You want to see upset?" His eyes flash with a sudden anger as he releases me. They settle on the closest breakable object, which just happens to be a crystal vase on my end table. I gasp as he hurls it against my fireplace, shattering it into a spray of glass. "Is that upset enough for you?" He bellows furiously. I nod in stunned dismay. "That was a gift," I whisper. "You want to talk gifts? Let's discuss the ones Diana sent you." Mulder seizes the photo from my computer table and thrusts it in my face. "Do you finally understand why this picture was taken? "Because it was a Kodak moment?" I scoff, refusing to look at it. "To add it to her scrapbook of memories?" "No, Scully, to stop yours." "What do you mean?" "The kiss was staged, Scully. The photo was taken with the intent to send it to you one day. That day came when you stopped taking painkillers." "She wanted to provoke a relapse?" "More than that. She wanted to stop your flashbacks... which included her." I sink down onto the couch, weighed down by his crushing analysis. "You said it yourself. It was her job to gather data on you." Mulder fumes as he stalks to the window and peers out the blinds. "Apparently, she still is. She must have gotten her hands on your medical records from the RAND unit." "Do you think she's out there watching me?" I crane my head to the side to see what he's looking at. "No," he shakes his head, letting the blinds snap shut. "She wouldn't dare come this close knowing I was here. No, she strikes from afar, this time courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service." "It's not about me, is it?" I ask him directly. "It's about you." "It's about us," Mulder relates, inching towards me. My hand shoots up, flagging my warning. "Wait a minute..." I object. "Are you implying that she was more than just an observer during my abduction?" "I think she was involved in your abduction," he reluctantly tells me. I see the dread in his eyes. The tension between us thickens like a fog, obscuring my sight and discernment. "I don't understand," My voice falters. "Is it because I was your partner?" Mulder stares at his feet which shift restlessly. "You were more than that to me..." His jaw begins to quiver with emotion. "She must have sensed it." "The intuition of a ex-lover?" I ask, holding my breath. "The intuition of an ex-wife." His says slowly, his eyes lifting to meet mine. ******** I think I'm having a flashback... The face I see is Scully's, but it reminds me of another time and another place. We are seated around a table and Modell is telepathically ordering me to shoot my partner. As I lift my gun and aim it at her eyes, I see them glaze over with tears of disbelief. One trickles down her cheek, flooding me with such anguish that I want to scream... Run...Scully...run...as far and fast as you can. Run from the pathetic fuck-up that I've become, shackled by a past, by a bitch whose fucked up my life...and now wants to fuck up yours... She must sense my thoughts, because she acts upon them even as I think them. Panicked, I lunge for her as she springs up from the couch. She fights me, twisting...slapping...letting loose such a stream of obscenities that I visualize the "good ole boys" down at the Bureau rising up from their chairs to salute her. I pin her back down onto the couch, but only to keep her there. I make my body and face easy targets for her hands. Only physical pain will alleviate my emotional agony. And, by not stopping her assault, I give myself a fighting chance... If I can get her to injure me as I have her, then maybe we can start over... Start over... A fresh, clean slate, where no secrets smear the writing of our future. I'm sorry...sorry...sorry... The third slap draws blood. I can feel it on my lower lip, taste it as it drips into my mouth. Let me bleed for you, Scully... Suddenly, she stops and gapes at my face. I can tell that she's horrified by what she's done. Profanity may be occasionally acceptable to this woman, but violence is not. To her it is repugnant, a crude reaction, a compromise of her intelligence and dignity. To me, it's simply hope. I think, finally, my blood is well spent... "Mulder..." Her cry is so fractured that only now do I wince with pain. She traces the rim of my lip, staring at the blood on the tip of her finger. Her wet, luminous eyes lift to mine. They impart more than just an apology, they flicker with sudden understanding. Like me, she realizes the symbolism of our blood. Too much of it has been shed at our expense. And, now we're becoming the expense. Her lips absorb my blood like a soft sponge. The taste of salt turns to the taste of her. My mouth gropes for hers in desperation, wanting her to heal me. I need her breath to restore me, her lips to cleanse away the sourness of my guilt. Scully pulls away to gaze solemnly at me. She swallows once, then says in a thick voice, "I shouldn't have done that." I'm not sure if she regrets slapping me or kissing me. I scramble for an excuse, for an apology, for words that might breach the gap between us. Instead, my voice comes out like a groan. "Scully, you have every right to hate me." "I don't hate you." "I should have told you." "Yes, you should have." She pauses and considers her next question. "Why didn't you?" "There are so many reasons that I've lost count," I mumble. "Then limit it to one that involves us." I turn my head away in shame. "I wanted you to be jealous of Fowley," I confess. "I needed validation of my feelings, some type of emotional response from you." "Is that all you thought I was capable of, Mulder?" She asks in a hurt voice. "Jealousy?" "Actually, it was more than I deserved." I respond meekly. "If you knew the truth of my relationship with Fowley, you'd feel only pity." "Why?" "Because it wasn't the type of marriage you think." "What type was it?" "The worst type," I respond hesitantly taking her hand. "Why?" "Because similar ideas and beliefs doesn't guarantee a perfect partnership." I say with certainty. "Diana always expected more, always demanded more than I was capable of giving." Scully doesn't respond. I'm not sure if she's being tactful or just doesn't want to know. "In every aspect, Scully." I hint. "You don't need to explain further," she says, trying to withdraw her hand from mine. "I want to," I grip her hand firmly. "I...I need to, Scully. Diana made some...well...uneasy alliances while we worked on the X-files. She refused to identify them, taking the lead in investigations, making contacts behind my back." "What contacts?" "I wasn't sure, until now." I admit. "Because of you, Scully, your memories, the pieces of my puzzle are coming together." "Are you saying..." "Let me put it to you this way." I interrupt her. "The last night of our marriage, she came home at 3 a.m. Her face was flushed and her clothes were disheveled." Scully drops her head, unable to meet my gaze. "Scully..." My fingers twine through her auburn mane, lifting a gingery strand to the light. "Her hair smelled like smoke..." ******** I now understand the worst conspiracy of all... The one that has eluded us for years... A conspiracy of emotions. A collusion of secrets which were buried by him and repressed by me. We allowed fear to beguile our hearts, cloak our perceptions and distort our trust. No more... We're both victims, but more to ourselves than to those who exploited us. I'm not willing to be a casualty of my own war. And, I'm not going to let him be one, either. "I love you, Mulder," I tell him, lifting my head. "What?" He stares at me with incredulous eyes. "I love you," I repeat, lifting my mouth to kiss his. "Scully..." His cry changes to a moan when I open his lips with mine. His hand clasps the back of my head, first pulling me towards him, then grasping my hair tightly to push me away. The conflict of his response doesn't surprise me. Nor will his guilt deter me. My fingers have developed an expertise of their own. They tug at his jeans with a singular purpose, to expose that part of him that I intend to lavish with attention. Up to this point, I've allowed him to make love to me. Not that I wasn't an eager or responsive participant. But, now I want to take the lead, to show him that I'm capable of giving, and not just receiving intimate alternatives. I slide to my knees in front on the couch, taking his jeans and boxer shorts with me. My hands stroke his calves, his thighs, spreading his legs open with such certainty that he gasps with awed delight. Oh Mulder, don't you think I know what you like? I prolong each touch, my fingers trailing the creases that adjoin legs to torso, skimming the dark hair in between. Lowering my head, my lips follow the descent of my fingers. They open to him so he can sample the warm, wetness of my mouth. My tongue circles the tip of him, slides down him, explores the part of him that tightens in the cup of my hand. "Scully," he murmurs my name. I hear the crinkling sound of my couch cushion being gripped by his fingers. "You better stop before I..." There is no way I'm going to stop. I guide him deeper into my mouth, urging him, relaxing my throat to receive him. This last gesture is really more symbolic than it is sexual. I want him to know that I accept all of him, that there will be no more secrets or hidden desires between us. And, I think he know it, too. He allows the moment to carry him away for the same reason. Only by acquiescing control is surrender complete. Moments later, when he gathers me into his arms, I realize that his release is more than physical. His eyes are no longer strained with uncertainty or shadowed by the culpability of his past. "I love you, Scully," Mulder whispers. "I love you, too," I murmur back. He eases me down to the couch so I'm lying on my back. My sweats are glided off by the gentle pull of his hands. I sigh, extending my arms over my head. This is one couch session that is destined to end well. ******** "Hello Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone at home? Come on, now, I hear you're feeling down. Well I can ease your pain, Get you on your feet again. Relax. I'll need some information first. Just the basic facts. Can you show me where it hurts?" "What is that song, Mulder?" "I forget the title. Something by Pink Floyd," I respond, crouching in front of her stereo as I tune the station in. "I think I've heard it before," she comments, sliding two plates of re-heated spaghetti onto the kitchen table. "Classic rock, Scully," I say, gyrating my hips as I saunter towards her. "Classic...my ass..." Her eyebrows lift to emphasize her point. "Yeah...classic..." I slide my hand down the back of her sweats to squeeze the soft cheek of her backside. "I thought you said you were hungry," she protests. "What I said, Scully, was that I could eat you all..." Scully clamps a hand over my mouth before I can finish the sentence. Chuckling, she allows me to pull her chair out for her. But, as the song plays on, her laughter dies. Because, I feed off her smile, I try to tease another from her. "Now, that's what I call fine suction," I say as I watch her slurp down the spaghetti. All I get is her abstract gaze. She twirls pasta around her fork in concentrated silence. I lean forward, intent on deciphering her expression. The haunting melody seems to distract her. She cranes her head towards it, her eyes growing vacant as the refrain plays on... "There is no pain you are receding A distant ship, smoke on the horizon. You are only coming through in waves. Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying..." "Scully?" The fork drops to her plate. "Scully...." I rise up from my chair. Suddenly, she gags and clasps a hand over her mouth. Grabbing her arm, I try to steer her towards the kitchen sink. She shakes her head frantically. Pushing me aside, she races for the bathroom. Is it a flashback? Is it my cooking? Oh, God...please don't let it be one of those long-delayed gag reactions to what she did earlier. I arrive at the bathroom in time to find her hunched over the toilet. For a minute, I am tempted to back away. I've paid homage to the "Ceramic God" too many times in my life, and watching her vomit triggers my own putrid flashbacks. But, she looks so pathetic...kneeling and clutching the sides of the toilet. Her hair keeps falling in front of her face. Sighing, I lean over to pull the strands back. I circle her hair with one hand as I stretch the other to grab a towel. "I'm never going to want spaghetti again," she presses the towel to her mouth as the spasms pass. "Me, either," I chime in, helping her to her feet. "Mulder," she grips my arm with sudden panic. "Was it a flashback?" I ask. "There was a voice...it was..." She stops and eyes me warily. "Well, it doesn't matter whose voice it was. What matters is that I think I know where I developed my taste for drugs." "Your abduction?" I gasp. "They fed you painkillers?" "It wasn't part of the protocol. Neither was anesthesia." Scully relates, "I think she did it because she began to feel sorry for me." Her eyes widen as she realizes her mistake. And, I realize mine... I tried to forget the hideous truth about Diana. I wanted to focus on Scully, on her love, embracing it like a precious gift. Yet, this other gift still torments me. My former wife knows no charity. All she gave was a twisted mockery of pity, a promise of relief from the same hand that inflicted the pain. A gift that keeps on giving... I storm out of the bathroom. "Mulder..." I grab my jacket and car keys. "Mulder, what are you doing?" "Something I should have done a long time ago." "You're not..." Scully tries to block the front door. "Are you armed?" "You think I'd bring a gun in here?" I push her aside. "No Scully, I'm not armed." "Mulder, don't do this," she pleads in a desperate voice, tugging at my arm. "Let it go." "I can't." I jerk away from her and unlock the door. "I won't..." "Mulder..." I try not to shove her. But, I do. I flinch as she trips and falls back to the floor. "I'm sorry, Scully..." I can tell that she's not hurt, just stunned and frightened. I give her an apologetic look before I turn away, slamming the door behind me. As I stalk down the hall, my thoughts turn dark and deadly. I'm not armed, but I will be... It's time...way past time... Time for my marital status to change from "divorced" to "widowed"... To be continued... Part 9 of ? (WIP) He's going to kill her.... Fowley.... Every fiber in my body thrills to this sentence of death. Like an avenging Angel, he will suddenly materialize and strike her down without warning. The flash of light will not be a celestial sword, but the white, sizzling explosion of his gun. Kill her, Mulder... My vindictiveness resounds in my ears. I chant words of approval, allowing them to rise in my mind to the pitch of a bloodthirsty mob. Kill her...kill her...kill her.... But then I smell it. Not the burnt flesh of a bullet wound, it's more like a putrefied odor. It's the decaying of my soul.... My need for revenge is infesting me like maggots. My beliefs and values are being devoured by worms of hate. Hate... Not only for what she has done, but for what she was.... His wife.... Jealousy decomposes me like a corpse left out to rot. Rancor mixes with rage. It bursts from every pore of my skin, beading my forehead with the clammy condensation of a cold maliciousness that I thought not possible. Killing out of revenge digs more than one grave. By not stopping him, I am digging mine. I scramble to my feet and grab my phone. When I dial his number, there is no answer. My breath mimics the frantic beat of my heart as I search for shoes and car keys. It pounds so loudly that it sounds like a drum, mimicking the tempo of my panic. Stop...Mulder...stop before it's too late.... The chime on my mantle clock begins its allegorical tolling. My hand freezes on the knob of the front door. For a moment, I'm transfixed by each pulsating strike. It's midnight...the witching hour...where good turns to evil and all is lost in one vengeful moment. I yank open the door.... Fowley.... Oh my God.... It's the witch, herself. Pushing into my apartment, poking me back with the point of her gun like it was the handle of her broomstick. The ring of my clock reverberates through me like a death knell. Sarcasm turns to an icy fear as Fowley nods to the clock, saying, "Ask not for whom the bell tolls...." Her finger tightens around the trigger. "It tolls for thee...." she proclaims in an austere voice. I feel my legs hit the back of my couch. My eyes dart around for my weapon, a way to fight back. There is none. Mulder removed my gun a week ago. I'm defenseless. Licking my lips, I try to distract her with my response. "That's Hemingway, isn't it?" "Actually, he stole the line from John Dunne, a 17th century poet." Fowley reaches behind her back to close the front door. "Hemingway was a thief and a drunk. Distasteful, wouldn't you say?" There is only a hint of inflection in her voice. Her features are completely relaxed, even composed despite her deadly intent. Or, maybe it's because her intent is... deadly..... "Distasteful," I agree, sliding along the back of the couch. "But, then one must wonder what prompts addiction in the first place." "Weakness, Agent Scully." Her dark eyes glitter ominously. "It is the same characteristic that defines the thief." "Are you implying that I stole something from you, Agent Fowley?" "Don't be flippant. That only plays well when it comes from your partner." She advances on me again. I stop in my tracks. "How could I steal something that wasn't yours to begin with?" I ask, trying to goad her into anger. I know it's a mistake to provoke her. I'm a federal agent, well-versed in hostage negotiations. But, so is she. And, as much as I would like to consider myself a hostage, I have the uneasy feeling that I'm soon to be a victim. Her victim.... She confirms my supposition with a smile. When I see the perfect gleam of her teeth, I know what I'm dealing with. A dangerous, calculating woman. A woman who has no scruples or fear. A member of the Consortium. I've underestimated her. So did Mulder. She expertly manipulated us both. The photo... the pills... the reactions she knew each of us would have.... "Well, Scully. I must say that I admire your tenacity... and your audacity." She laughs at her own rhyme. I'm starting to regret my earlier thoughts about being a corpse. She's going to kill me. "You're going to kill me." I remark, trying to keep my voice strong. "No," Fowley shakes her head. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a bottle of pills, saying, "You're going to kill yourself." Oh my God.... "Consider yourself lucky, Scully. You managed to live a lot longer than the other women abductees. You beat the cancer that silenced the rest." I'm too stunned to answer. "But, it was stolen time," Fowley adds softly. Her voice pretends regret. I know she has none. Her eyes dart quickly to the clock. "Now that your flashbacks have started, time's up," she announces crisply. I start to lunge forward, but she reacts by thrusting the end of her gun against my breast. My head whips back as I hold my hands up in surrender. Fowley shifts her weapon to one solid grasp and wedges the bottle in my trembling fingers. "The drug addict overdoses, huh?" I say, shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant. "Like I said, Agent Scully, I admire you. Unfortunately, I can't allow personal feelings to interfere with the Consortium's agenda." "You're a liar." I can't help my scoffing tone. "I'm not on the Consortium's agenda, just yours." "Don't test me, Scully," the woman cautions. "I'm extending you a professional courtesy." "No... you're extending me death." She prods me with her gun, until I pop open the cap. "He was mine... first," she remonstrates bitterly. "He... is... mine... last....." I emphasize each word. "Overdose or bullet. Which is to be?" "Both are equally lethal," I calmly advise her as I empty the pills into the palm of my hand. "Except one manages to kill more than just my body." "You're stalling." Fowley's finger teases the trigger. She's right. I'm stalling. And, I'm not calm, I'm petrified.... "Take the pills," she demands through gritted teeth. "Suicide will kill his belief in me...." Her eyes finally betray her spiteful delight. "Exactly." "So much for you altruism," I sneer. "You're dead, either way," she tosses back. I'm out of time. Survival is no longer an option. The only choice left is the type of memory I leave behind. I let the pills slip through my fingers. "I may be dead... but in dying I prefer pain to being comfortably numb." My voice does not sound afraid. It's triumphant. Enraged, she forces me down to my knees. When I feel the cold metal of the gun press against my temple, I close my eyes. His face.... The last thing I want to remember is his face.... Mulder.... I jerk convulsively as the blast of gunfire fills my ears. The explosion tears through my body. "There is no pain... you are receding.... A distant ship... smoke on the horizon...." I feel as if I'm drifting. Through the mist, I can see him. "You are coming through in waves... Your lips move, but I can't hear what you say...." His stark, frightened face hovers over mine. At first, his words are intelligible, drowned out by echoing noise inside my head. "Dana..." I must be dying. He's calling me by my first name. "You're not dying, Scully." I'm not dying.... I'm in shock...jumbled thoughts are turning to words.... Mulder gathers me into his arms and holds me tightly. His breath comes out like sporadic bursts of air, contorted, almost strangled. Fowley.... I lift my head from his shoulder. I see her then. She's dead.... She's immersed in a pool of blood. It seeps through her long, dark hair. A single bullet to the back of her head.... His bullet.... Oh my God.... "Scully...." Mulder's voice is urgent. I try to listen to what he's saying, to wake from this concussion of alarm and confusion. "I need you, right now...Scully...don't lose it on me...." I shudder, closing my eyes, burying my face against his neck. I try to immerse myself in the warmth of his skin, to shelter myself in the security of his arms. "Scully...." He takes me by the shoulders and forces me away from him. "We've got to move fast." Like an obedient child, I nod, allowing him to haul me to my feet. "Listen to me, Scully." He lowers himself so that his eyes are level with mine. "We can't let anyone know about this. We've got to get rid of her body." My legs almost go out from under me. He wants to cover this up.... "Mulder, we can't hide the truth," I find my voice, but it stammers. I'm shaking so hard that my teeth actually chatter. "We have to...." "It's makes us no better than those who conspire against us." "Scully, there will be no us..." His fingers dig into my shoulders. "If the Consortium finds out what's happened here tonight... there will be... no.... us...." "Mulder...," I start to argue, but stop suddenly. Oh my God.... He's right..... But, we're too late.... The Cigarette Smoking Man's habit proceeds him. It announces him. I smell him even before I see his dark, lurking shadow. When he slithers around the corner of my door, I recoil with fear. But, Mulder doesn't. He whirls around, ready to strike. Shielding my body with his, he aims his gun at CSM's head and hisses, "Willing to join her, old man?" CSM takes a deep drag of his cigarette. He first gives Mulder a scoffing look before his gaze drops to Fowley. "Well," His voice drips sarcasm like venom, "It appears I'm not the only one who is willing to sacrifice a former wife for a noble cause." Like a snake sizing up his prey, his eyes narrow in on mine. To be continued..... Part 10 of ? (WIP) It will have blood, they say... Blood will have blood... And, I will spill more gladly.... I raise my gun to the level of my eyes. Adrenalin courses though my veins like liquid fire. It incites the beating of my heart and flares my consciousness past debate. There's no dousing effect of thought or reason... no cooling of an impulse ignited moments ago... Nothing else exists other than my need to protect her. Scully... Not my wife by law, but more of a wife than the one who lies dead at my feet. I killed her. Without hesitation, warning, or even a split- second wavering of my resolve. This executioner feels no regret. I intended my shot to be lethal. Had it not been, any fragment of life that remained in my ex-wife might have been spent jerking the trigger of her own gun. Her last reaction... her final revenge. My finger holds the same promise now. With my last breath I will defend Scully from harm. If I'm to fall, her assailant will fall with me. CSM's eyes shift from Scully to the end of my gun. Although it's inches from his face, he appears unperturbed by my threat. He doesn't flinch. There's no tensing of his jaw, no sweat sliding down the cavernous wrinkles that prunes his features. He is as cool as I am deadly. This makes for a dangerous combination. "Relax, Agent Mulder," he snickers. "I'm here to thank you, not kill you." "Yeah, right," I scoff, raising my gun so it parallels his eyes. "You've crossed a threshold," CSM remarks. "And, I'm not talking about the one that involves marital bliss. Although, I must admit you given the `til death do us a part' an interesting twist." "Consider it an annulment," I tell him. "No marriage ever existed." "Consider it done," he grins, lifting his cigarette to his lips. "By this time tomorrow there will never have been a Diana Fowley." "Why?" Scully's voice is heard behind me. It shakes, but I sense her inherent strength trying to rebound. "What's in it for you?" "Revenge..." CSM's voice cuts off as he takes another drag. "The woman betrayed me." "The adulterer feels betrayed?" I sneer at him. "Agent Scully was not the only recipient of Ms. Fowley's calling card," the man exhales a stream of smoke. "Her camera was not the only one hidden in her apartment that fateful night." CSM cautiously reaches into his coat pocket... not for a gun... but for a photograph. "Like they say, Agent Mulder, a picture conveys a thousand words." I'm not impressed or surprised. "Well...picture this," I threaten, extending my arm to gouge his cheekbone with my gun. "If you ever cross this threshold again, you'll be popping up daisies for dogs to piss on. And, that goes for your cohorts. I will hunt down every single member of your so-called consortium and show you the true meaning of revenge." "Speaking of which," CSM pauses to clear his throat. Two men appear at Scully's doorway. I hear Scully's movement behind me. My partner, my first lieutenant, reports for duty. She bolts to my side, aiming Diana's blood drenched gun at the expressionless goons who await their orders. "Call them off... you black lung son-of-a-bitch," I threaten. "Or only one of us walks away, and my gun says it ain't gonna be you." "They're not assassins, Agent Mulder," CSM smiles with genuine amusement. "Just a clean-up crew. They wear gloves, not guns..." "Check them out, Scully." I wait, my finger poised on the trigger, while Scully pats down both man. She nods confirmation and steps back. "Do you remember the saying, Agent Mulder... what is trash to one... is treasure to another?" CSM's reflects. "Well, sometimes trash... is just trash." CSM turns his head to the men. "Dispose of it," he says tonelessly. Speechless and stunned, Scully and I stand aside. The two men "borrow" the carpet from underneath her dining room table and roll Fowley's inert body it. Between the two of them, they lug it out the door and disappear down the hallway. Talk about pulling the rug out from under your feet.... CSM crushes his cigarette in the palm of his hand. His action is grossly symbolic. He's a man who feels no pain, other than betrayal. I think I've discovered his Achilles's heel. And, he has obviously found mine. "The Consortium has no intention of causing Agent Scully any harm," he advises. "Like you, Agent Mulder, we have discovered her value." "Which is?" I ask. "Ask her..., " His eyes slide over to Scully as he continues by addressing her. "Agent Scully, your flashbacks must not be silenced. Not by your attempts... or by another's personal agenda." "Why?" I hiss. "Enlightenment," the man proclaims. "The truth, Agent Mulder. What has been your obsession, is her destiny." Her destiny.... "To do what? Reveal you for the slime bucket that you are?" My voice rises with indignation. "To uncover the of her abduction, the inhumanity of the tests conducted on her and other women?" "History will decide who the war criminals are, Agent Mulder," he reflects. "And, the voice that will be heard will not be yours. It will be Agent Scully's." CSM looks at Scully. I see the gleaming appreciation in his eyes and shudder with revulsion. He speaks with a tone that allows no interpretation. It's certain and hopeful. "It will be you, Agent Scully. You will be the one to vindicate me in the end." "I think....not," she states with equal conviction. "It is the voice of rationalism that will re-write the course of history," insists CSM. "It is her science... her experience... her exposure... that will pass judgment on the necessity of these tests." "Judgment day is already here," Scully counters. "Would you like to hear my pronouncement?" "Reserve your judgment for another day, Agent Scully," advises CSM. "One that is close at hand. Or... as to quote the dead..." He backs up to the door and lights up another cigarette. His eyes squint past us, focusing on the mantle clock. "The bell tolls for us all...." His words permeates the air like the series of smoke rings he leaves behind. He's gone. Scully.... My attention focuses on his prophecy. The non-believer turned revelator. "Mulder," her voice now trembles. Closing the door, she slumps against it and wearily raises her finger to the clock. The clock.... "Try smashing that against the fireplace," she tells me. I don't need further prompting. I hurl it with a force that fractures glass and dents the brass chimes. I scavenge through the rubble, looking for more than just an electronic device. Somewhere in this ruin, maybe I'll find the proof to make her finally understand. "Is it bugged?" I hear Scully ask. "Yeah," I say grimly as I retrieve the bug. Scully says nothing. Her eyes are shadowed by stress and fatigue. She rolls her shoulders along the door to push herself back on her feet. Once on solid footing, she trudges to the kitchen. I roll the bug between my fingers as I contemplate my own "enlightenment". Scully's flashbacks represent more than repressed memories. Her recollection is history in the making. A series of events... beginning with her abduction, the tests, the stolen ova to create a human/alien hybrid.... And, the most critical incident of all. Scully's exposure to the alien virus made her the first recipient of the vaccine. Not only did it save her life... it's immunized her.... Scully will survive the holocaust. As a scientist, grounded in fact and schooled in logic, she will be the one to justify the means to an end. She will causally relate survival of the human race to the evil manipulations of the Consortium. Because she was their victim, her voice will be well received. Scully has become the Consortium's hope for absolution. She's also become my only hope.... Through her, my truth will live on.... Scully comes into the living room dragging a steaming bucket that reeks of ammonia. Her shoulders are slumped as if the weight she carries is not limited to the pail of water. She kneels beside the puddle of blood and studies the gun in her hand. It sticks to her skin, glued by the same bodily fluid that she now seeks to mop up. "I have blood on my hand," she whispers. I wince when she plunges her hand into the hot bucket. "It's alright," Scully gasps, clenching her teeth. She withdraws her reddened hand and lays the gun carefully on the coffee table. "Let me clean this up," I offer as I crouch down beside her. "No..." she shakes her head fiercely as she thrusts her hand back into the bucket. "I have to do it." "Why?" I ask, catching her wrist. Her fingers curled tightly around the sponge. She meets my eyes and pleads with the same intensity as her voice. "I have to scrub this away, Mulder. All of it... I need to disinfect it... to... to sanitize it...." Oh God....the "voice of rationalism" is quickly dissolving into a cry of hysteria. "No, Scully," I try to pry the sponge from her hand. "It's not the blood. You're trying to wash away the truth." In our struggle, I knock over the bucket. It floods the floor, mixing blood with hot, soapy bubbles. "Do you see what you've done?" Scully screams at me with sudden fury. "Do you see the fucking mess you've made?" "Of what?" I bellow back. "Your floor or your life?" She jerks away from me and springs to her feet. "I'm not doing this..." "The truth, Scully... " I rise up before her. "What is the truth?" "I won't say it." She shakes her head frantically. "I won't believe." "You already do," I insist. "One doesn't have to be telepathic little boy named Gibson to realize it. You believe, Scully. You just don't want to admit it." "I will never say the words to exonerate those Nazis," Scully declares hotly. "Just say the words to me," I plead with her. For a minute, she contemplates me. Her lips open slightly as if she's about to speak. I find myself holding my breath, growing dizzy with hope that she's finally going to say the words I've been waiting to hear. For six agonizing years.... Now... She'll say those words... now... Please, Scully.... Suddenly her mouth clamps shut. She gives me a withering look before making a blitz for her bedroom. I can't take her denial anymore. "See... Scully... run...," I yell after her in a scathing voice. "You can't run from the truth anymore. It's got you cornered. You can't stay comfortably numb... and I won't let you live your life pretending to be comfortably ignorant." Her response is true to form. Another fucking door... slammed right in my face. ********** Cringing from the cold, I lie alone in my bed. Naked, I've chosen to expose my skin rather than the truth. I turn to the bedroom window that I've opened, waiting for the frigid air to freeze me into oblivion. It doesn't. An hour passes to the tune of his cleaning. I can hear my maid through the bedroom door. The muffled swishing of a sponge... the bristles of a broom sweeping up broken glass... the grinding motor of my vacuum... even the clanking of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink.... Fox Mulder.... Special Agent turned House Frau.... And, the "voice of rationalism" lies cowering in her bed. My mind shakes with demented laughter.... I wonder what Frau Vandervanack would think of us now? Fear is a powerful force. It's driving me to the point of madness, where sanity no longer holds any attraction. If I can't escape this horror he calls the truth, I will elude it another way. I will not be the blasphemer of my own convictions.... I'd rather die.... I feel so cold.... I want to feel cold.... The addict in me responds instantly. Lifting my head from the pillow, I kick the covers off the bed. I embrace the chill, gulping mouthfuls of the icy air, willing it to numb my thoughts as it does my body. "What the hell are you doing?" I hear Mulder's voice. I open my eyes to see him hovering over me. "Are you trying to freeze to death, Scully?" He growls, crossing the room to close the window. "I hope so..." I whisper. His hazel eyes stare into mine. I see the tug-of-war expression in them. Anger pulls against concern. Each emotion tries to jerk the other across the finishing line. "Damn you." Frowning, Mulder strips off his clothes and slides into bed beside me. With a forceful tug, he draws me into his arms. I feel his body heat permeate my flesh, melting the numbness, awakening my dulled senses. "Damn you, Scully..." he says again in a tight voice. "How can you do this to yourself? How can you do this to us?" He's crying.... My cheek is pressed against his chest which shudders with muted sobs. I slide my hand up to his face and try to wipe away his tears. He pushes it away, but holds me tighter. Afraid to accept me... yet reluctant to let me go. His obsession isn't only the truth. It's me... or what I represent. The eternal skeptic... the one he has to make believe. He doesn't cry for "us". He cries for himself. Denied validation, he's suffering his own type of withdrawal. Here, Mulder.... Let me give you a quick fix.... A different type of opiate.... Shifting myself over him, I spread my legs open in silent invitation. "No, Scully...," Mulder's voice cracks. I begin to stroke him, tease him, guide that part of him that responds easily to my touch. Suddenly, Mulder grabs my hand and rolls me onto my back. "I said no...." he states emphatically. I want to scream my frustration. I need to vent this fear and panic that is eating me alive. Digesting me.... I can feel it.... My eyes open wide with horror. I can't move. I'm paralyzed, frozen in a cryopod that has become my coffin. Green liquid pours around me, shrouding me, lowering the temperature of my skin and the beating of my heart. I'm intubated by a tube that is not rubber, but organic. It pumps putrid liquid down my esophagus, sustaining me for one purpose only. I'm a host.... To an alien life form.... I believe.... To be continued..... Part 11 of 11 I'm losing her... She's not breathing... Panic floods me as I see the pupils of her eyes dilate and fix into an oxygen deprived stare. Her throat begins to convulse with rhythmic spasms like she's trying to expel a foreign object. Her frozen, horrified expression propels me to another time and place. Oh my God.... The Profiler has studied too closely.... In my attempts to get into her mind, I find myself trapped in her most petrifying flashback of all.... I return to the cavernous, alien craft that is buried under the polar cap. The cryopod... that stores her like a refrigerated meal awaiting consumption... has finally cracked. Green, icy slush collects at my feet. When she chokes, I frantically pull the tube from her mouth. What should be less than a foot seems more like a yard. It stretches out like an unfurling intestine in my hands. Holy shit.... She's still choking. This bizarre paroxysm is killing her.... Scully.... I pry open her mouth and force my fingers to the back of her throat. She gags when I try to clear her airway. Her chest lurches forward and I have to press my knee against her ribs to hold her down. I probe for something I'm not sure is there. Nothing.... There's no physical hindrance to her breathing.... I call out to her, tipping her head back to initiate CPR. Just as I lean over to cover her mouth with mine, she jerks away and fills her lungs.... And screams.... The room fills with the sound of her terror. I yank her up by her shoulders, shaking her, trying to break through her wall of hysteria. "Scully...." I drown out her screams with my own. "Tell me what you see." "Creatures...," she shrieks. "They're trying to claw their way out...." Shuddering, she clutches her stomach and groans. "No, not in you," I yell back. "It never gestated in you." "The others are not dead," Scully cries, twisting in my arms. "They feel the pain. They're being slowly digested... bone... tissue... blood... but the tube silence their screams...." I finally understand the link to her stomach pain.... The gagging, the choking, the vomiting.... Her creature is horror. It has been gnawing at her for months, mauling its way through her denial, disguising itself as physical pain. I cup her face with my hands, forcing her to meet my gaze. She squeezes her eyes closed in a desperate attempt to shut me out. "Scully, open your eyes and look at me." "I can't...." "Damn it, look at me," I bellow. "Speak the words, Scully... before they really do eat you alive." My analogy finally hits home. Her eyes fly open and she screeches, "Aliens... they're aliens!" The vision in her eyes explodes into a million pieces. Her gaze is no longer frozen in muted fear. Ice melts to tears. They spill down her cheeks and onto my hands. The feel of them washes me with relief. "It's over, Scully." I tell her excitedly. "The flashbacks. They'll stop now." "What do you mean?" she sobs. "It was more than just your emotions trying to connect." I explain. "It was the truth struggling to break free." "Oh, Mulder...the truth will enslave us all." "Not you..." I emphasize, squeezing her tightly. "You're the one who was successfully vaccinated. That's why the Consortium wants you safe. Because the future courses through your veins." "Well, it better include you in it, or I'll slice through those future holding veins." I close my eyes and steel myself to her weeping. "There is a better use for your blood than to spill it for me." I remind her. She collapses against me and continues to sob. "I won't live without you," she sniffs. "Hey... don't write me off just yet." I make my voice light, trying to tease her out of this inordinate, melodramatic mood. The "voice of rationalism" is rapidly turning into the "voice of dependence" and this transition scares the hell out of me. I may not be there for her.... This is the terror of my truth. "Don't you understand why you must live, Scully? You're not only capable of rewriting history. You're capable of changing it. It's the vaccine. The key to its effectiveness is in your blood." "I want to believe...," she stops as she recognizes the impact of her own words. She edits herself and continues. "I want to feel hope." "That's okay." I press my lips against her forehead. "Right now, I have enough for both of us." Scully exhales slowly, sagging against me. Her energy level is gone, depleted by an endless night of trauma and revelation. The flashbacks have done more than just strip away layers of denial. They've sandblasted her endurance, leaving her physically drained and emotionally scathed. I offer her what comfort I can. Easing her back to the bed, I blanket her body with my own. I limit my touch to soothing caresses. I repeatedly kiss her cheeks, mopping her tears with my lips. Her lashes flutter against mine as fatigue overtakes her. Nestled in my arms, she drifts off quietly to what I know will finally be a dreamless sleep. *************** When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse Out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone I cannot put my finger on it now The child is grown The dream is gone.... I stand by the bedroom window, parting the blinds with fingers that are no longer dull, but feel sharply sensitive. It's late morning according to my clock, but the sun is hidden behind heavy clouds that predict more than just rain. They forecast the futility of my future, the bleakness of my days to come. Mulder says he has hope enough for the both of us.... That's good, because I have none.... I'm no longer comfortably numb.... I'm painfully aware.... Does he sense my anguish? He wakes the instant my thoughts turn as grim as the overcast sky. His hazel eyes snap open with a sudden alertness that suggests that this "thing between us" is a connection more profound than a joining of our flesh. I startle, as does he.... Both of us seek the other's gaze. His shines with the light of our newly shared belief. Mine only reflects the shadow of my despair. Can I thread hope through him? Do you feel me, Mulder? Is this bond, this unspoken communication between us so strong that it can transcend time and space? "Mulder," I whisper the question. "What made you come back last night?" He shifts up onto his elbow and studies me thoughtfully. "Did you hear my voice inside you? Did you turn around because I was crying for you to stop?" I see the debate in his eyes.... I guess my stomach's not done churning after all.... "Did you sense that I was in danger?" I add in a desperate voice. "Did you change your mind about revenge?" Still no answer. "What was it, Mulder?" I let the blinds close behind me. "What brought you back to me?" "It was your phone," he answers reluctantly. For a minute, the seriousness of his voice competes with the absurdity of his answer. "What?" "You kept ringing my cell phone," Mulder explains. "I finally answered." My phone.... I remember dropping it when I opened the door.... "You overheard...," my voice cuts off with a gasp. "Every sinister word from the junkie's mouth," he relates caustically. "Offering you sugar coated pills. A prescription known as suicide." "Oh...," I swallow hard, almost choking on this tablet of reality. It was a coincidence. A twist of fate. I turn back to the window, focusing my attention on the void of what my world has become. "Scully...." I hear the shuffling of sheets and comforter as he gets out of bed. "I can't lie to you, even if it means giving you hope." "I know," I murmur sadly. "There is another way," he suggests as he approaches me. When I feel his hands graze my arms, I cringe from what I perceive to be a sexual overture. "No." I push him away and reach for my robe on the bottom of the bed. "Don't you want to hear what I have to say?" "Not if you intend to regale me with your body," I retort. "Jesus... is that what you think?" Mulder shoots back, sounding both deflated and suddenly angry. "Or, is it what you've become?" "What are you talking about?" "Last night, you spread your legs open in an effort to distract me." I tie the sash of my robe around my waist, pulling it into two tight knots. "Well, maybe I need more just a distraction in return." I state coldly. Mulder scrutinizes the knot before meeting my gaze. His eyes darken with a menacing challenge. "You know, Scully, I could untie that with my teeth." "Not if you don't have any left." Mulder rubs his chin, remembering how I almost knocked his jaw off the night before. He gives me a scoffing look, saying, "Well, then I'd have to use my tongue." "Save it, Mulder. Find a better use for it. These legs are definitely closed." I watch him reach for his jeans. "Then try listening to what my tongue has to say," he berates me. "What I was trying to suggest is that we use our Bureau resources to isolate this vaccine. To stop investigating X-files and start pursuing our future." He yanks his shirt over his head and continues, "But, I can see that you'd rather wallow in self-pity, turning everything good between us into something sordid." He sits on the side of our bed, digging his sneakers out from underneath it. "And, I know why, Miss Numbness. That way, if anything happens to me, you can anesthetize your pain by making the loss insignificant." I watch him tie angry knots with the laces of his sneakers. Oh God.... He's forcing me to acknowledge another horrifying truth.... This one is not about aliens.... It's about my attempts to alienate my feelings. I rush to the side of the bed and drop to my knees. My fingers fumble against his. I try to grab the laces and loosen the knot, equating it with how I've twisted our love. "I'm sorry...," I mumble, trying to tug the knot free. When it refuses to give, I feel a rush of anxiety crash over me. Biting my lip, I try again. "I can do this." For the first time, I hear hope and determination in my voice. Mulder catches my hand in his own as he says to me gently, "We can do this." His fingers guide mine as we untie his sneakers. My hand escorts his to the sash of my robe. "Together...," I whisper against his lips as my robe falls open. I think I've discovered a better definition of dependency. The one that prescribes hope. And hope, through him, is the most profound comfort of all. The End. I'd like to thank all of you who have read and shared your thoughts about this story. So many of you guided me along this angst filled path, keeping me focused and inspiring me to a new level of appreciation. My never-ending thanks to Kimberly of Clinique's Hidden Gems, who is a diamond in my treasure chest. To Galia, who very graciously designed a page for a Paige. My special thanks to Exley_61, my beta whose own writing shines like the evening star...first...brilliant...enduring.... From: "Paige Caldwell" Date: Wed, 27 Oct 1999 13:07:45 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: Smoke on the Horizon, MSR, NC-17 1of ? (WIP) Source: xfc From: "Paige Caldwell" Title: Smoke on the Horizon Author: Paige Caldwell Feedback: paigecaldwell@hotmail.com Classification: MSR, S Rating: NC-17 Spoilers: Through season six Archive: Please do, just let me know where. Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, damn it! Author's Notes: Sequel to "Comfortably Numb". And, yes it's another WIP... Please see notes at the end of the story. For previous installments, including "Comfortably Numb" you can find them at http://members.xoom.com/galias/paige.htm Summary: A distant ship... smoke on the horizon... now that the truth about colonization is revealed, Scully struggles to find hope in a future that may not include Mulder. Part 1 of ? I told her that I'd never leave her.... I made this promise to her before we were lovers. Before she admitted the truth about extraterrestrials. Before I learned that we finally shared the same belief. And, apparently, before she was ready to make the same commitment. She's gone. No parting kiss... no poignant farewell... Okay, it's Scully. She may be articulate, but her expression is as eloquent as a doctoral thesis. Melodrama is not her style. She is concise in thought and methodical with words. And, apparently frugal with explanations. I should have seen this coming. The thread between us been tenuous, lately. One that I've stretched past the point of endurance, not realizing that each gossamer strand was intricately woven around my heart. Now that it's severed, blood red ribbons of fear and regret threaten to rip through my chest wall. I crawl out of bed, naked and dizzy. Falling to my knees, my hands press against my temples which pound with the fury of a recent hangover. My symptoms are strangely similar. A queasy stomach, a tongue that refuses to budge from the roof of my mouth, an insatiable thirst... Except I wasn't drinking. I fumble for the glass on the night table. There's only a swallow left, but I tip it to my lips like a man who has crossed the desert and found a water hole. That's when I see it. A white, powdery substance that films the side of the glass. My finger scrapes a sample which tastes as bitter as my realization. A drug.... Anguish turns to anger. God damn her... Damn her to hell just long enough to realize the hell she's putting me through. The recovering addict has drugged me. It takes three cups of coffee and a scalding shower to erase the haze that has permeated my brain. Standing in front of the vanity, I angrily wipe the steam from the mirror. I study my reflection, noting the shadows under my eyes and the gauntness to my stubbled cheeks. In my frantic attempts to make her healthy, my own well- being has been crippled. Physically and psychologically. A month's worth of mental somersaults, backflips and cartwheels has taken a serious toll. What is supposed to be her "renewal" period is turning out to be nothing other than a "withdrawal" phase. This disparity perplexes not only me, but our therapist. We continue to see Dr. Vandervanack once a week. Sessions that were once as charged as a pair of jumper cables now seem disconnected. Scully sits on the therapist's couch as silent and unmoved as a dead battery. When our therapist asks her what she's staring at, she responds in a low, prophetic tone. "There's smoke on the horizon." I recognize the lyrics immediately and regret ever having introduced her to Pink Floyd. She has taken her theme song a bit too literally. "Comfortably Numb" has become her haunted melody, a tribute to her former state of mind. Rather than cringe from the etude of drug addition, I'm beginning to think she mourns it. As destructive as it was, it was her insulation from the truth. Granted, the truth pursued her like the dogs from hell. In a series of flashbacks, the memories of her abduction hounded her, chased her, nipped at her until she bled with pain. Because I wanted her to accept "my" truth, I didn't bandage her wounds. Instead, I tore them open each time they tried to scab over. I debrided her cuts like a surgeon who diagnoses gangrene. The infected tissue of denial had to be severed for her to heal properly. And, if there were ugly scars, I could always use my skin to graft hers. "Is that what this is all about, Scully? Does the feel of my skin chafe you? Did you run away to lick your wounds or to pick away at a new epidermis that you find uncomfortable?" Whatever the reason, I'm going to find her. When I do, I'm going to show her the true meaning of pain. Pain is the cold, razor-edged betrayal of trust. Because I'm a federal agent, I'm not without resources. But, for the same reason, I'm reluctant to use them. Rather than taint her Bureau record with "drug dependence", Skinner falsified his report to say she was on a "leave of absence". And, I was allegedly tapping into my supply of unused vacation. Now that we've been back to work for two weeks, after personally assuring Skinner that Scully was fit for duty, I realize that incompetence has more to do with my assessment than her condition. Instead, I summon my trio of sleuths to help me find her. "Mulder's Angels" hardly compares to "Charlie's", but they do materialize within the hour. And, Langly's hair would resemble Farrah Fawcett's if it was layered rather than stringy. Sex appeal comes in various forms and I'm as turned on by their technology as I would be by a string bikini. My "Gunbabes" transform Scully's apartment into their base of operation. Within an hour, her phone is bugged and her computer is hacked into. We scour her e-mail and search her internet history folder in an attempt to defrag a clue as to her whereabouts. "She's been downloading a lot of abstracts from PubMed," Langly comments. PubMed is a database of the most recent articles from medical journals. I lean over Langly's shoulder and stare at the screen. He scrolls through pages of what appears to be studies on the efficacy of vaccines. "Mulder, I think you'd better take a look at this." I hear Frohike summon me from across the room. "Okay... okay..." I mumbled, crossing over to the window where he stands. He pulls open the blinds to display his find. Two strips of tape form an "X". Oh God.... Like one of her "flashbacks", I replay an argument we had two days ago. Having returned to our basement hovel, we were skimming through an assortment of X-files that had landed on my desk during our absence. I was settling back into my job with more enthusiasm than my partner. While I was immersed into the intriguing tale of clairvoyant janitor who swore he could hear the beating of other peoples hearts, she was otherwise occupied. That is, if you could consider pacing the room an occupation. "You gotta hear this one, Scully," I told her. "This dude gives Edgar Allan Poe a real run for his money." "You promised that when we came back to work, there would be no more X-files," she stated bitterly. "You said we would focus on isolating the vaccine, on securing our future." "What would you have me do, Scully?" I interjected, feeling self-conscious and irritable. "Have me stand outside the Hoover Building holding a sign that says `ET, call home'?" "You had no problem taping your little x's to your apartment window," she countered. "That's when there was someone to answer the call," I reminded her. "No, Scully. As frustrating as it is, we're right where we're supposed to be." "For what? The next breadcrumb of a lead?" "Exactly." I gave her arm a reassuring pat. "And, together we'll follow it. Together, Scully. Remember?" I should have known better. Scully was never the type to be condescended to. Nor, was she willing to wait for me to take the lead. Apparently, she made the call, herself. "Mulder?" My three angels hover over me. I'm on the couch, having collapsed with the impact of what she's done. Byers is fanning me with a copy of Scully's Scientific American and I snatch it from his hand irritably. With a burst of fury, I hurl it towards her taped beacon. The window doesn't break, but the blinds clatter to the floor. Figures... Another fucking set of mini-blinds to be replaced. "I guess the Scully chick has done more than just flown the coop," observes Frohike, scratching the back of his neck as if he has fleas. "More like a coup d'‚tat," I grimace. "She drugged me last night in order to make her rendezvous" Byers sits down on the couch beside me. He's a man of quiet reserve and is as reluctant to pass judgment on Scully as he is on the wacko, Suzanne Modeski. With a sober expression, he asks me, "Mulder, are you sure that it was Scully who drugged you?" "What do you mean?" I snap. "Are you sure she left here willingly?" "Are you suggesting that she was kidnapped?" "Maybe..." Frohike jumps right in like a loyal dog to a mistress who feeds him kibbles-n-bits. "Maybe she got in over her head..." I snort at his supposition. In a scornful voice, I answer, "She's not in so deep that she forgot to drag her designer luggage with her." When the phone rings, we all startle. I quickly gesture Langly over to the taping equipment. On a silent count of three, I answer the phone and he begins tracing the call. "Mulder?" It's Scully. I nod to Byers, who rolls up his sleeve to time the call with his watch. "Where are you, Scully?" I demand. "I can't tell you that, Mulder," she states firmly. "I'm sorry." "Are you equally sorry that you drugged me?" "What?" she gasps. "The incredulity in your voice is very convincing," I sneer. "What was it, Scully? Percocet?" "I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder," Scully relays in a tight voice. "When I left, you were sleeping... snoring actually." "I don't snore, Scully. You do. And, I have a glass that is coated with what appears to be your call brand." There is silence on the other end of the phone. Frohike leans forward and whispers into my ear. "If you don't stop acting like such an asshole, this is going to be a very short phone call." I glance over at Byers who's still staring at his watch. His eyes meet mine briefly and he shakes his head. We need more time. "Scully," I change my tone and speak softly, "If you didn't drug me, then who did?" I hear a sound that resembles a sniff. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick with emotion. "I can't believe they did this," "Who, Scully?" "I'm so sorry..." Her words drop off into a whisper. I can tell she's crying. The sound of her tears completely unnerves me. I jump up from the couch and move away from the Gunmen. Cupping the receiver, I murmur into it, "Scully, I love you. Please... oh God, please tell me where you are." "I can't," she insists. "I made a deal." "Listen to me, Scully. Whatever deal you made, the other person has obviously broken it. So the deal's off." "The deal's our only hope..." Her voice breaks again. "Scully...." "I love you," she tells me. There is a terrifying pause after she speaks. She's hanging up. "Scully...." The line goes dead. The sound of it reminds me of a heart monitor flat-lining. My heart.... "Do you have it, Byers?" I shout across the room. "Got it." The man wipes his sweaty brow with the back of his sleeve. "It's a D.C. exchange, Mulder." ****************** I'm not a Buddhist, but I'm chanting like one. His name. Mulder. Over and over I intone his name like a prayer, hoping to meditate past this uncertainty and fear. Betraying his trust punishes me like a peptic ulcer. My stomach burns with a stream of acid that regurgitates to my throat. Neither Peptol Bismal nor my litany fails to coat the acridness of my despair. By acknowledging the truth, I am forced to see the smoke on the horizon. It looms like an impenetrable fog, as thick and green as a bowel of pea soup. Aliens. Colonization. A future where mankind's role is limited to that of a living digestive or slavery as a human/alien hybrid. The smoke has manifested itself like a series of stale, smoke rings. Cigarette Smoking Man. Our vile nemesis turned soothsayer. He predicts that I will survive this Armageddon, hinting that the vaccine has given me immunity to the alien plague. It's his hope that I become his post-apocalyptic vindicator. He wants me to validate the inhumanity of the experiments, knowing that the voice of a former lab rat will be believed. As horrifying as his prophecy is, my real fear is that I may have to face it without Mulder. Ironically, this same anxiety also irritates me. I may no longer dependent on drugs, but I've become acutely dependent upon him. I've lost my autonomy. Without it, I'm no longer capable of free will, of navigating my destiny, of finding my own way back to the comfort of hope. Unconditional trust is an alliance difficult to maintain. It requires balance between partners, and lately both of us seem to be teetering a tight rope of communication. My footing may slip, but his seems stuck. We wobble unsteadily like two inexperienced circus performers. Except, I'm tired of being the clown and he's reluctant to be the ring leader. So, I quit the circus. By taping an "X", I advertised my willingness to try out my solo act. And, I found someone more than willing to audition me. Under the guise of grocery shopping, I met CSM in a neutral territory. He's the one who ridiculously suggested a supermarket. While I nervously pushed my shopping cart down the produce aisle, I caught a whiff of his signature stench. Or was it the fish? Either way, he waited for me by the seafood counter. The old fool was actually grinning at a tank of lobsters, snorting as they clawed each other seeking their escape. "You know, there is a sign in here that says no smoking," I glanced around to make sure no one was present to overhear us. When my eyes returned to his, I saw them crinkle with amusement. As he pressed the unfiltered cigarette to his lips, I noted his tobacco stained fingers and added sarcastically, "Not that you pay any attention to the rules of society." "Actually, Agent Scully, I make them." "Yeah, I know. You've watched presidents die, you turn the tide of history, yadda...yadda..yadda," I yawned, pretending boredom to disguise my apprehension. "But, it is you that will turn the tide, Agent Scully." He smiled and tossed the cigarette into the lobster tank. For a moment, both of us watched the lobsters clamor towards it, believing it to be food. "See how they scramble to preserve that which they need to survive?" CSM chuckled, delighted to have found a suitable analogy. "Even when the situation seems hopeless." "They're crustaceans. I'm not impressed." "You should be," He paused to pull out another cigarette from his pack of Morleys. Tapping it against his hand, he explained, "They will do anything to survive, whereas mankind hesitates for the sake of morality. I wonder what society will say when it finds itself on the bottom tier of the food chain?" "Ouch, that hurts?" I offered flippantly. "So the voice of rationalism does have a sense of humor," he commented, lighting his cigarette. I was surprised he used a lighter when he could simply strike a match off of his coarse, leathery face. Some things never change. As always, he repulsed me. But, he was my only hope. "The voice of rationalism needs some answers," I told him. I took a deep breath and asked the critical question, "Am I immune to the alien virus?" When he blew smoke into my eyes, I didn't blink. My hands tightened around the bar of the shopping cart, but I held my ground. Lifting an eyebrow, he answered my question with another. "Are you willing to find out?" "Are you willing to hinge your hopes on a muted voice?" "Touche, my dear," he replied. His sinister tone was accentuated with puffs of smoke. "My colleagues and I believe that the vaccination grants immunity to the original virus. However, in its mutated form we only have speculation and no proof." "I can be that proof," I offered firmly. A moment of silence followed my proposal. Not because he was surprised, but because a gaggle of shoppers were clucking their way past us. CSM leaned over the tank to tap the glass and taunt the lobsters. I lifted the store's circular and flipped through the coupons. "Of course, my cooperation comes with a price," I add. CSM straightened up and gave me a smile, saying, "I imagine the costs involves vaccinating your partner." "Consider it a bargain." I assert. "Two historians for the price of one." He snickered and beckoned the deli help over to the seafood counter. Pointing at the lobsters, he said, "I'll take two..." This is how our deal was made. Over lobsters. He knew the fragility of my shell when it came to my partner. I, in turn, offered my blood like drawn butter. Does my DNA hold the recipe for salvation? By tomorrow, we'll know for sure. In the morning, the experiment is scheduled to take place. To be continued.... Part 2 of ? Rather than accept CSM's gracious offer of accommodation, I find my own. Because I'm a willing participant, he doesn't see the need to detain me. He knows I'll be back promptly at 8 a.m. Just as he realizes that this is one assignment I have no intention of sharing with my partner. But, he insures my end of the deal by drugging Mulder. The one person capable of stopping me from resuming the Consortium's lab rat. I want to run. I want to tuck my tail between my legs and scamper home. I don't. I sigh, drawing the curtain to the window of my motel room. Kicking off my heels, I fall back onto the king size bed and close my eyes. There are no "magic fingers" to pulsate me to sleep tonight. And, I'm not talking about a quarter eating machine that generally find their way into such tacky motels. God, I miss him... When I hear the knock on the door, I roll off the bed and reach for my wallet. A mushroom topped pizza will not fill the void, but it may stop the queasiness of my stomach. As I open the door, I realize the mistake I've made. Not about the pizza, but about the delivery man. It's Mulder. Without a word, he pushes me back and slams the door. In my nebulous haze of being both thrilled and terrified to see him, I don't realize that what grips my wrist is actually the cold metal of a handcuff. He jerks me towards the bed and clicks the other cuff to the headboard. I don't think he has a titillating experience in mind. Actually, all he intends is a tirade and for me to be his captive audience. He rants on about my behavior as he wears a path along the frayed carpet. I try to explain, but he's not willing to listen. Each time I start to speak, he cuts me off with another round of belittling accusations. By the time I've heard "reckless" and "irresponsible" for the third time, I'm irritated. It's like the pot calling the kettle black, except I'm chained to the overhead stove hanger. When his big, oafish feet almost trip over my shoes, I frown. "Hey," I exclaim. "Those shoes cost me a day's pay." "Wanna raise?" Mulder snaps his fury. "Why don't you ask your new boss for one?" "He's not my boss, Mulder," I clarify. "I'm a volunteer." "You're a fucking lunatic, Scully," he retorts. "Smoking Man isn't to be trusted." "You didn't have a problem trusting him to dispose of your ex-wife's body." I must be a lunatic. I'm taking a situation that still haunts him and am throwing it into his face. "I had no choice," Mulder bellows, advancing on me, trying to block me with his body. Where in hell does he think I'm going to go? Under the mattress? "Choice in what, Mulder? Killing her or covering it up?" "You really can be a bitch, Scully," He hisses, inches from my face. I gaze at his turbulent mouth and fight off my temptation to lick it. I can't help myself. My emotions are in turmoil and the closeness of his body sends a current that's capable of short-circuiting all my senses. He must feel it, too. Like the pull of two magnets, our lips fuse together. When he tears open my mouth, my tongue is more than happy to do battle with his. Over and over, we clash like warriors in an arena of control. I'm not willing to be subjugated and he's tired of being my doormat. The second knock at the door makes me groan inside his mouth. "That will most likely be the pizza." "Don't go anywhere," he snickers as he gets off the bed. The expression of the delivery boy is priceless. He gapes over Mulder's shoulder at my disheveled clothes and wrist securely cuffed to the headboard. Shifting uncomfortably in his shoes, I can tell that he's debating whether he should take his money and run... or simply run. "It's okay," I call over to him. "We do this all the time." "You sure, lady?" He eyes Mulder suspiciously. "It's how I work up an appetite," I grin back. When Mulder shuts the door, he shakes his head slowly. As hard as he tries, he can't suppress the laughter that ripples across his body. "You're hopeless," he chides me, balancing the pizza in one hand as the other tosses me the keys to the handcuffs. "Not any more," I relate, unlocking the cuff. "But I'm willing to share my pizza and my definition of hope." We sit cross-legged on the bed like two Indians on a buffalo skin. Steam rises from the pizza carton as if water has been poured over its ceremonial slices. Each of us inhale it like a peace pipe. Mulder and I have always been respectful towards our ritual of food. As I slide my hand under the largest, mozzarella dripping slice, Mulder grabs my arm and says, "I thought all good Catholics confess before they break the fast." "Not since we've had a pizza loving Pope," I tell him, hunching over to drag the cheese off with my teeth. I almost choke on a mushroom when he pushes the sleeve of my blouse past my elbow. He twists my arm over and studies the pin pricked, bruised skin. Tracing my vein with his finger, he shakes his head in disbelief. "What have you done, Scully?" "I donated a little blood," I pull my arm away. "It's more than that," Mulder snaps. "Don't lie to me, Scully. You didn't go sneaking off in the middle of the night to just give a blood sample. And, Smoking Man didn't drug me to prevent only your so-called donation." "Like you said, Mulder, the future may course through my veins," I advise. "The same vaccine you injected me with could eradicate this alien plague." "The vaccine was formulated with the original virus in mind," he reminds me. "Not the mutated form. For all we know, there may be no defense." "Without my cooperation, we'll never know." "Then I guess we'll never know," Mulder growls back. "That's not a decision that you get to make," I retort, seizing a paper napkin and sopping the grease from my fingers. For a minute, he contemplates my stubborn expression. Lifting another napkin, he gingerly wipes the daub of sauce from my lips. "I thought we were partners," he comments in a hurt tone. "We are partners," I insist. "In all perspectives," he clarifies. "Well, we're better at some angles then the others." "I'm talking about parallel minds, Scully, not horizontal bodies." "Mulder," I flip the lid down on the pizza box and shove it aside. Arguing with him may stimulate my mind, but it can also ruin my appetite. "If I cooperate, then we'll have a future where we can explore every linear line of our relationship." "Define cooperation, Agent Scully." "My exposure tomorrow to the mutated virus," I tell him, bracing for his reaction. What I really need is bomb gear. The force of his explosion almost knocks me onto my back. I'm not sure which makes me more dizzy, his wave of obscenities or that he's back on his feet, circling the carpet like a top out of control. "I'm not going to let you do this," he yells. "You can't stop me," I say, frowning when I realize that I sound like a petulant five year old. "Then I'll find someone who can," he threatens. Once again, my lover turns into my baby sitter. "Don't you dare call my mother and involve her in this." "Actually, I was thinking of Skinner and protective custody," he remarks dryly. "But, I like your idea better." "Mulder...." "Look, Scully," Mulder says, taking me by the shoulders. "I'm too exhausted to keep up with this mental marathon of yours. Every time I think we're close to the finish line, you go sprinting off to do another lap. Well, this time, I need to pass the baton to another runner." I squint at him resentfully. "And, to think you call yourself a long distance runner," I sniff. "And, to think the Consortium considers you the voice of rationalism," he retaliates. "Where's that steadfast logic of yours? Rather than err on the side of caution, you're plunging headfirst into danger. It's reckless, it's irresponsible... it's..." "Exactly what you would do..." I cut in. "If our roles were reversed, you'd ditch me in a flash and offer yourself up like a sacrificial lamb." "Yeah? Well, that lamb isn't as proverbial as you think." Mulder responds. "If the vaccine doesn't work, then you'll be lying on that altar with your gut torn open and your entrails half-eaten." "Stop sugar coating it, Mulder, and tell it to me straight." I try out his classic witticism to deflect him. "Try this, Scully. Your blood will be spent for nothing. Nothing other than confirming or denying their speculation." "You call it speculation," I argue. "I call it hope." "It's called being played, Scully." Mulder's hands skim up to my face. He forces me to stare into his hazel eyes, which shift from green to brown, from agitated to disappointed. "Cancer Man has read you like a open book. He's taken this latest chapter called "fear" and has monopolized on it." "Are you saying that I'm being set up?" "Look at this way, Scully. If the vaccine works, it works. It was introduced into the biological system of that ship when I injected it into you." "What are you saying?" "If the vaccine is a reliable defense, then it's already contaminated their plans. If it doesn't, then the vaccine was never a valid hope to begin with." I close my eyes. The weight of my head drops into the palms of his hands. "I never thought of it that way," I sigh heavily. I feel his fingers twine through my hair. He smooths the strands over my ears, trying to either placate me or ensure that I'm listening closely to his next words. "I know the truth scares the hell out of you," Mulder murmurs. "It scares me, too. But, my real fear is no longer limited to death." "What do you fear most, Mulder?" "Losing your trust, Scully," He admits sincerely. "Without it, life means nothing. Love is only caricature of what it's supposed to be. And, death would be a blessing in disguise." "Oh..." I can barely speak, much less argue with him. He has a way of making me despise my actions, which now seem thinly veiled good intentions. "I trust you, Mulder." "Prove it..." His breath feels hot and desperate against my lips. I try to cool his impassioned mouth with mine. The tip of my tongue slides around the perimeter of his lips, silently pleading to accept and forgive me. But, he pulls away and says, "That's not what I meant, Scully." It's my turn to cup his face in my hands. I steer his gaze to meet mine. "I won't go through with it, Mulder," I assert. "I won't let one truth defeat the more important one." "Which is what?" He holds his breath this time. "That unconditional trust and love spans more than a lifetime," I tell him. Because, this is Mulder and melodrama pales in comparison to derisive humor, I add, "And, I have no intention of waiting several reincarnations while you toy around with that Confederate girlfriend of yours," Mulder's response is somewhere between a gasp and a chortle of laughter. "Don't tell me that you believed all that regression crap," he says. "Oh, now you call it crap." I roll my eyes. "I knew it was crap the first time I kissed you," Mulder confesses, easing me back against the pillows. "Why is that?" "Because it was the first time I got close enough to see my soul in your eyes." Trust Mulder to come up with a line so poignant that I want to cry. And, trust Mulder to wring my heart like a rag one minute, then have me writhing with desire the next. While I'm blinking back tears, he's popping open the buttons to my blouse. The sound in my throat resembles a gurgle, the strangled cry of a woman who wants to express herself, but doesn't know how. I've never been the type to convey my emotions through words. I think he accepts that, but seeks reassurance in the only language we don't banter in. Body language. But, this time it's different. Maybe, because I feel different. He's not only stripping away layers of clothes, but levels of anxiety that have been suffocating me like a shroud. Released of this oppressive cerement, I take the first of several deep, clean breaths. The acrid smell of smoke is replaced by the scent of him. The subtle mixture of adrenaline and cologne reminds me of the sea air, both refreshingly salty and sweet. Even the tone of our lovemaking is changing. What is generally a pattern of give and take is weaving itself into a tapestry of mutual pleasure. Neither one of us loses eye contact as our lips gently caress each others. When his fingers slide between my legs, mine find their way to ease down his pants. Mulder and I are like two pieces to an intricate puzzle. Apart, we are as abstract as two disjointed individuals. Together, we create a perfect landscape where the horizon only promises a brilliant sunrise. I can feel its glow against my skin, illuminating the darkness ahead of me. Hope is now. It's the feel of him inside of me. It's the sensation of lifting upwards, of hips swaying together in a rhythm distinctly ours. It's his fingers twining around mine, the depth of his eyes, the resonance of his voice as he calls my name. The moment doesn't define us. We define the moment. I greet his cry with my own. I think we've defined the meaning of trust. When I wake the next morning, I discover the definition of deceit. He's gone. After a night filled with passion, I feel as disillusioned as if I've just had a one night stand. It's worse than that.... The coldness that grips me is not just despair. It's handcuffs.... It may not have been a one night stand, but I'm certainly cuffed to one. God damn him! What happened to unconditional trust? I told him I wouldn't go through with the experiment. I even admitted that I was wrong and he was right. That confession alone should have bought me eternal salvation. But, I'm not dealing with the Catholic Church. I'm dealing with Mulder. And, although his creed may begin with "I want to believe...", the rest of the dogma should read "... but, I'm too paranoid to do so." At least he could have left my clothes within arms reach. Being cuffed to a table is one thing, being naked and trying to hook my underwear with my toes is another. While I wait for him to return, I stare at the ceiling and fantasize about my partner. But, not the type of fantasy he would drool over. After this humiliating gesture, I seriously doubt if I'll be able to be in the same room with him, much less share the same bed. How easy it is to imagine his contrite expression as he offers breakfast as a token apology. Because he accuses me of "distorting my vision", I do so now. I imagine his coffee splashed shirt after my agile foot kicks it out of his hand. I see donuts flying like little alien saucers around his startled face. I imagine a certain part of his anatomy as two eggs that I'm ready to boil, scramble or fry.... Within thirty minutes, my stomach is growling from my menu of analogies. Where the hell is he? My answer comes in the muted chirp of my cell phone. It's buried somewhere in between the tangled sheets and tattered blanket. My free hand digs under the covers to retrieve it. When I do, I vent my fury into the receiver. "You have less than five minutes to get your ass back here, Mulder, or I swear you'll be wearing more than just the imprint of my heart." "Scully..." Mulder's voice is unusually serious. "I want you to listen to me closely." "Mulder..." "Don't talk," he hisses. "Just listen." His curtness not only startles me, it silences me. I draw up the blanket in an effort to cover a nakedness that now feels more vulnerable then embarrassing. "In a couple of hours, the maid service will come to clean your room," he advises me. "When they do, tell them that the keys to the cuffs are in the top dresser drawer." "Where are you, Mulder?" "I'm on my way to buy you hope, Scully," he informs me in a dull tone. "The experiment will go on as scheduled. But, you're not going to be the Consortium's lab rat. I am..." I clutch the phone frantically. It begins to slip from fingers that seem wet with perspiration, but are really tears sliding off the side of my cheek. "Don't do this, Mulder," I begin to whimper. I no longer care if I sound weak. "Please... oh God... please, don't do this." "I have to, Scully. There really is no choice." For a minute, all I hear is the sound of my own sobs. When his voice cuts through them, I detect a hardness that I never thought possible. "Stop sniveling, damn it. Your a federal agent, for God's sake. Start acting like one." Before I can gasp enough air to respond, the line is cut off. "Mulder..." I scream his name. Panicked, I dial his cell phone only to find that he's turned it off. Oh God.... After everything he said about the vaccine and the experiment, how can he do this? Mulder made me believe. He twisted my perspective, trashing my resolve with an argument more powerful than skepticism. He convinced me that hope is now. That faith in our trust and love is more compelling than any fear of the future. He lied to me. Last night was only an effort to divert me. This morning was his way of detaining me long enough to.... Oh God... to replace me... to offer himself, instead. I wipe my eyes angrily against the edge of the blanket. Like most hotel linens, it smells as stale as the recirculated air in a sealed off room. It smells like... Wait... I know this smell.... Like a bloodhound, I lift my nose and take a whiff, immediately detecting the foulness in this atmosphere I call deceit. Except it's not Mulder's.... Someone else was in this room recently. His stench still lingers in the air. Cigarette Smoking Man.... I realize then what Mulder was trying to tell me. His abrupt manner should have been my first clue. But, his words were meant to be more than an attempt to intimidate me. They were "smoke" signals... a distress call... a SOS that at first, I was unable to decipher due to the static of my own insecurities. Unconditional trust not only begins with the willingness to believe. It's knowing someone so well that what fringes on deceit is only a curtain drawn over the danger he's in. I think I finally understand his communiqu‚. As I punch another number into my cell phone, I acknowledge the most terrifying message of all. When it comes to the Consortium's experiments, there are no "volunteers". To be continued.... Part 3 of ? "An Emmy winning performance," CSM tells me as I click off my cell phone. I'm not interested in his critique of my acting ability. All I can think about is Scully's reaction to it. Had there not been a gun pointed to my head, I wouldn't have lied to her. My dialogue was pre-written and I was forced to make this call of deceit. I tried to ad-lib a few lines at the end, hoping to prompt Scully into a different interpretation. But, finding herself handcuffed to an empty bed must have been as stark as my "wake-up call". She perceived my action and words as a betrayal of trust, an unforgivable cruelty after last night. Under the cloak of darkness, we reached out to each other more than once. All it took was a reluctant sigh or a restless shift of limbs to remind us that this was no ordinary night. While I covered her body like a blanket, she cushioned mine like a soft, downy pillow. Words often thought, but seldom said, fell easily from my lips. Her low, dulcet voice murmured in return, offering me the reassurances I needed to hear. She loved me.... She trusted me.... The sound of her... the feel of her... it was both poignant and potent. I had already discovered passion, but this... this was rapture. It was the texture of her skin that rippled with delight as my fingers and mouth sought out her most intimate places. It was the sensation of our hips swaying together, the slow ascent of her legs to my shoulders, the resulting depth and increased pleasure. It was the abandonment of her cries and the echo of mine as I filled her over and over. We were no longer just lovers seeking comfort or gratification. We were two souls trying to unite. The smoke on the horizon wasn't just anxiety about the future. It was the fear of giving ourselves completely to each other and our vague attempts at unconditional trust. Now that we were on the brink of succeeding, our faith was being tested once again. And, it was my fault. I had made a classic mistake. Rather than respond to the danger we were in, I let my guard down. I was more concerned in protecting our relationship than our safety. I should have known that sunlight would bring forth the shadow of the Consortium. Exhausted, both of us failed to wake when the door to the hotel room opened. The phone call was CSM's idea. Like a dialogue coach, he made me rehearse my lines. And like a director, he warned me that my performance better be convincing or it would be my last curtain call. I wish I sucked as an actor. Judging by her sobs, which were as startling as undeserved applause, I didn't. Oh God.... I should have chosen death over the demise of her trust. The pain of this loss is far worse than the crushing impact of a bullet. My sour mood intensifies into cynicism when I try to roll down a window to filter out his smoke. It's locked. We're in a black limo, whipping through morning traffic as if we're late for the ball. Except the driver looks more like a thug than a coachman, and my fairy godmother waves a Morley rather than a magic wand. "Relax, Agent Mulder," CSM conveys. "Once the sedative wears off, Agent Scully will undoubtedly find a way to free herself." "You drugged her?" I gasp in disbelief. "Sprinkle...sprinkle..." He flicks his ashes like fairy dust onto the floor of the limo. "And, it wasn't the Parmesan cheese." The pizza. Like a fucking drug lord, he poisoned us both. "Why?" I snap my fury. "Why play Arsenic and Old Lace, when you already had Scully lured into your trap." "Because she wasn't the prey. She was the bait." "You were after me all along, weren't you?" "Don't look so shocked, Agent Mulder," he grins so wide that the smoke filters through his teeth. "Actually, you should be honored." "Honored?" My voice rises with sarcasm. "Why?" "Because you're being offered the role of a lifetime," CSM says. "You've always been ideally suited to play the martyr." "Well, if it's really an offer, I think I'll pass," I retort. "Would you rather see your understudy take your place?" he challenges. "You'll full of shit, old man," I counter. "You never intended Scully to be exposed to the mutated virus." "You really are a quick study," CSM replies. "But, my intentions for Agent Scully are quite different than you imagine." "What I imagine is that the blood you sucked from her has nothing to do with this experiment." "Right, again." He smiles at my words, his face brightening with an almost perverted delight. "What I can't imagine is why you're bothering with this experiment in the first place." I cast this observation like a fishing rod, hoping to snag more information from this wriggly, rotten fish. When he doesn't respond, I bait him further, "Unless, you're assuming the vaccine will fail." "You know what they say about those who assume," he snorts. "Yeah, I do," I respond. "If the vaccine fails, it makes an ass out of you and a main course out of me." "Then neither one of us can afford to be so pessimistic," CSM reminds me as he inhales another healthy dose of nicotine. "The vaccine may work." "Not to tax those oxygen starved brain cells of yours, but how do you expect to test the vaccine on someone who hasn't been vaccinated?" "You were immunized two nights ago." CSM studies the cremating edge of the cigarette filter. "That drug induced sleep was more than just a my guarantee that Agent Scully would able to leave undetected." "Okay...," I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the knot of fear that's creeping up my throat. "So, the lab rat's prepped. Now what?" "If I gave you all the answers, then what fun would it be?" he taunts, crushing his cigarette in the palm of his hand. I cringe as he flicks off ashes and deadened skin to the floor mat. The limousine pulls down a narrow alley and stops in front of what appears to be a series of abandoned warehouse. It's not what I expect. At least, until we get inside. A freight elevator takes us down into a cavernous underground facility. Tunnels shoot off like five points of a star. In the center is a security station that's equipped with technology that makes Ft. Knox look like a piggy bank. "Welcome to the Consortium's version of the Pentagon," announces CSM, puffing out feathers of smoke like a proud peacock. "Do I get the grand tour, or am I to be taken straight to my cage," I sneer back. I'm in more trouble than I thought. I'm in a facility whose security is as airtight as a Zip-locked bag. My partner is chained to a bed, most likely relapsing into a desensitized state of distrust. And, my captor no longer fears my martyrdom. He's planned it all along.... ************ What have I done? I may be handcuffed to a cold, empty bed, but what really imprisons me is fear. It always has. For years, I tried to suppress it. I distorted it until it manifested itself as pain. Then I used drugs to anesthetize my terror, not understanding that the side effect were emotional numbness and addiction. Although I'm supposed to be emancipated by the truth, I'm still shackled by my inability to deal with it. How easily I slip my wrist into my former handcuff of anxiety. But, it was never the drugs as much as it was the addict. It was me... the one who pretended to be unafraid, while cowering inside like a frightened child. I think Mulder knows my secret. Perhaps that's why he chases after me like a hen, desperate to protect a wayward chick. Not only have I lost my sense of direction, but once again, I've managed to wander off towards danger. He's right. It's time for me to stop sniveling and start acting like a federal agent. Maybe if I resume the role, I'll be able to revive those characteristics I miss the most about myself. Logic... rational thinking.... a solid sense of self.... Each one was stripped away in an effort to reconnect my emotional awareness. But, these qualities made up my armor and I need them to combat the Consortium's latest threat. I also need back-up and an arsenal of technology. The Lone Gunmen.... They arrive at my hotel room within a half-hour of my phone call. One look at me, chained to a bed and obviously naked under a thin sheet, sends the trio into a parody of the "Three Stooges". Byers instantly flushes as red as Larry's bozo hair. He stumbles backwards into Langly, who, in turn, trips over my shoes and knocks Frohike over my suitcase. But, I don't laugh. I'm embarrassed. And, the discomfort of a full bladder is adding more than edge to my perspective. Of course, Frohike's the first to recover... both his composure and the key. Like a little toad, he hops from the dresser to the side of the bed, as if I'm a fly who's landed on one of his lily pads. "Put your tongue back into your mouth, Frohike," I reprimand him as he releases my wrist. "I'm not your catch of the day." "From what you said on the phone, Mulder is." Langly chirps in, crossing over to the window to peek through the slit of the curtains. "Yup." I wrap the sheet around me like a toga. "And, we're going to get him back." The strength of my voice impresses me. Despite feeling tired and humiliated, I sound as charged as the Energizer Bunny. Impressed with my own analogy, I spring to my feet only to fall on my cotton tail. My legs have no substance and my head begins to pound like the damn rabbit's drum. "Scully...," Frohike leans over to help me up. "You okay?" "I...I think so...." Gathering my sheet and the loose ends of my dignity, I waddle off to the bathroom. Inside, the fluorescent light confirms my suspicion. My eyes are as glassy as two marbles. Oh my God... I think I've been drugged.... "Okay, guys... let's put together our game plan." I take another sip of coffee while Frohike helps me with my boot. Granted, he's taking his sweet time coaxing the zipper up my calf, but I can't do it myself. Every time I bend over, I get dizzy. And, despite those toe flexing exercises earlier, my feet actually feel numb. "Welcome back...," the voice of the addict greets me. "Shut up," I snarl to myself. "Scully?" Byers gives me a questioning look. "Sorry," I frown, shaking my head. I've got to pull myself together. Too much depends on my ability to stay lucid. Taking a deep breath, I describe the underground facility where they've taken Mulder. The Gunmen listen attentively to my narrative. Not only am I aware of their complex security system, but I'm able to describe the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city blocks. "That's impressive for just one visit," Langly adjusts his glasses and studies me closely. It's not impressive... it's another flashback. I'm not sure if it's his words, the drugs or my heightened fear for Mulder's safety which triggers it. But, the series of memories aren't as frightening as they are informative. I remember the underground facility. Not as a visitor or a recent blood donor, but a lab rat trying to escape. In every frame, I'm awake and trying to detect a weakness in my caged environment. The problem is that my recollection is fragmented. Each time I come close to completing my plans, a syringe sedates me past the point of comprehension. "Air ducts...," I say suddenly. "What did you say, Scully?" Frohike asks. I look down at the man squatting at my feet. I grasp his shoulders and give them a firm squeeze. "That's how we're going to get in," I advise them excitedly. "Sounds like a tight squeeze to me," comments Langly. "We've been in tighter," responds Byers calmly, tugging the knot of his tie loose. "Let's go, then," Frohike says, hauling me to his feet. For such a small man, he sure has a strong grip. "Let's go show these assholes what `Three Men and a Little Lady' are capable of." *********** I don't know what's worse. Being strapped to a table or wearing a hospital gown that no one thought necessary to tie up in the back. Bare assed and bound... Next thing you'll know, Krycek will show up and I'll have to pray that his farewell kiss was a Russian custom rather than a demonstration of his sexual proclivity. I've been in this examining room for several hours. They injected me with a sedative to keep me "calm", but my stomach churns with the apprehension of a man waiting a rectal exam. I'm almost forty, a time of life when the snap of rubber gloves takes on a different meaning. Unless, of course, the hands belong to a little red-haired doctor. Then, it might actually be fun... I squirm against the restraints, trying to free myself of the straps and the kinky vision of my partner. "Mulder..." Shit...this is really bad. Not only am I fantasizing about Scully in a most inappropriate way, but I'm adding sound to the mental pictures. "Mulder... up here." My eyes dart up to the ceiling. What hovers over me isn't an angel, but she sure looks like one. I can barely see her face behind the metal screen, but there's no mistaking her red-gold halo. "Scully...." "Hang on babe, I'm coming..." she promises, as the screen is tugged aside. Babe? Jeez... which one of us is on drugs, here? Her or me? Either way, I'm mesmerized by her term of endearment... and her new found agility. Like a gymnast, she swings herself down from the opening in the ceiling. I hold my breath as she prepares to drop to the floor. This is no gold medalist, but Scully... a woman who easily stumbles over her own two feet. I exhale with relief when she lands solidly on both. "How did you get in here, Scully?" "I'll explain later," she murmurs. Her steady fingers unfasten the straps. Once freed, my hands pull her on top of me. She writhes impatiently in my embrace, trying to both push me away and pull me towards her. Unable to make up her mind, I do it for her. I tear open her mouth with mine, silencing her protests with my tongue. She gurgles with exasperation, but her body collapses against mine. Okay, the experiment is over. She's still mine. "Hey, babe..." I abruptly push her off the gurney. "We better get the hell out of here." "You're such a jerk, Mulder..." "That's better," I jump to my feet and lift her towards the vent. "C'mon Nadia, show me your stuff." Suddenly, the door to the examining room crashes open. As two guards rush in, I frantically shove Scully up. But, instead of pulling herself into the air duct, she lets go. Fighting me, her legs hook around my neck. I lose my balance and we both tumble to the floor. "What the hell was that maneuver called?" I snap at her as the guards haul us to our feet. "It's called the `I'll never leave you' maneuver," Scully says stubbornly, twisting her arm from the guard when he tries to restrain her. "I call it fucking stupid," I shoot back, lunging for the guard when he gets rough with her. "You want to know what I call it?" A sinister voice comes from the doorway. The guards release us both. They don't need to detain us when the sight of the old gargoyle is capable of turning us to stone. CSM suffocates my hope of escape with a stream of smoke filled words. "I call it... two for the price of one..." To be continued.... Part 4 of ? "The experiment will proceeding according to plan," CSM announces in a low, prophetic voice. "Exactly as I have foreseen it." It may be the effects of the sedative... it may be my warped sense of humor... but I swear he resembles the evil Emperor of Star Wars trilogy. He doesn't walk towards us... he actually glides, rubbing his long, clawed fingers together with diabolic success Scully and I stand like two fatigued Jedi Knights, awaiting pronouncement of our destiny. I lean down to her, brushing her shoulder with mine, murmuring, "This must be the part where he asks you to come over to the dark side." My little Jedi says nothing, but her eyes slice through me like a light saber. She turns them on CSM and states in a sizzling voice, "You deceived me." "You deceived yourself, Agent Scully," CSM responds. "It was your fear... your anger that led you to me, just as I knew it would." This is really getting bizarre. Granted, we're dealing with an intergalactic conspiracy, but Scully's not supposed to be Luke Skywalker... I am.... Maybe it's because she's the one wearing pants and I'm draped like Princess Leia in a white hospital gown. "Your future has been predestined." CSM circles her like a dark, menacing phantom. His voice drops to a beguiling whisper, "You've been chosen.... just like the before you." "Oh, for God's sake," I interrupt him. "Can we just cut out the Star Wars crap and come to the point?" Both of them give me a startled look... like I'm on drugs or something. Then I remember... I... am... on... drugs. The sedative... I give myself a rough shake. I've got to snap out of this. This isn't a movie where good inherently prevails over evil. We're in danger... She's in danger... "... predestined... like the one chosen before you..." Oh my God... Panicked, my heart begins to pound with a frenzied beat. It pumps the last of the sedative's effect from my brain and infuses adrenaline into my voice. "Don't listen to him, Scully. He never meant to test the vaccine on you." "He's right of course." CSM slithers back, allowing my partner enough space to turn her head and give me a questioning look. "You're far too precious to be sacrificed in the name of science." "But, I thought my name was science," Scully protests. "No, Scully...," I practically scream so that she finally understands. "They want your name to be Cassandra...." Scully takes a quick, startled breath. Her realization sparks like the lighter that CSM flicks before our eyes. Although she holds her ground, I can feel her mentally recoiling. The color drains from her face, giving her an almost cyanotic glow. It's as if her body already understands the metamorphosis which is about to take place. Her pale lips tremble as she asks, "A human/alien hybrid?" "We prefer to call you the genesis of a new race," CSM conveys. "Call someone else," Scully snaps. "I'm not interested." "But, a deal is a deal, Agent Scully," he insists. "I held up my end of the bargain. Your partner has been vaccinated." "It was a fraudulent conveyance," she retorts. "That negates my obligation." "Then I'll have no choice but to obligate your partner," CSM shrugs indifferently. "Like you said, my dear, there is no hope in a muted voice. One way or the other, the Consortium must have proof that you will, indeed, survive...." Both Scully and I are speechless, horrified at what CSM is implying. "We are the Creators, Agent Scully. And, as such, we give you free will. You must choose your fate, which in turn will decide Agent Mulder's." Suddenly, I'm infuriated by the dilemma my partner finds herself in. Pulling her towards me, I shield her body with my own. "There is no choice," I growl. "Scully won't agree to your terms." "Free will, Agent Scully," taunts the old man. "Not his... not mine... but your own. You'll agree to be our voice of the future in exchange for guaranteeing Agent Mulder's life." "I'd rather die, Scully," I plead with her. "You know that. Better that my blood is splattered than for yours to be changed from red to green." I don't know if she flinches from the my gruesome description or the severity of my voice. But, as she disentangles herself from my arms, I experience the most chilling revelation of all. She's no longer mine... to influence or protect.... Was she ever? Probably not. From the beginning, she was a woman who defined herself by her autonomy. Dependence on another was a term foreign and disturbing to her. That she became reliant on pain killers was just a bitter irony of what she really was. Better to seek the relief of drugs than the comfort of her partner. Better to regress to a solitary voice if the joined one spoke an uncomfortable truth. The real dilemma is the one going on inside of her mind. She's become a paradoxical mix of trust and skepticism, of pushing and pulling, of need and the resentment of needing. "Scully," the tension threads through my voice. "If you do this, you won't save me. You'll kill me." "Mulder, it's my fault this happened...." She inches away from me. "That's the addict in you talking, numbing logic with guilt," I explode, grabbing her wrist. "Don't distort what's taking place here. He's using you, making you believe that you're a necessary sacrifice..." "I have to be," Scully interjects. "I won't let them destroy you." "If you do this, Scully, you'll still destroy me. Remember Cassandra... how she begged me to kill her once she realized what she had become. You'll do the same in the end, either pleading for me to kill you or turning a gun on yourself." "This is why exactly why we chose Agent Scully for the lead role," CSM chides me. "You've always been too melodramatic to be convincing." "This isn't a theatrical, old man, it's a farce," I lash out at him. Turning back to Scully, I try again, "Scully, listen. Don't believe for an instant that he's going to let me go. He's been directing this little opus all along. You may play the role of the hybrid, but I'll still play the role of the host." Scully's averts her attention to our nemesis, stating in an uncompromising voice. "You will release him first." CSM bows his head in agreement. "Then I agree to your terms," she accepts in a monotone voice. "Brava, my dear," he smiles. "Noooo...." My shriek is stifled by the sound of applause. It's not applause... it's gunfire. The lights flicker and go out. The facility becomes a cavern of darkness, where only the illumination comes as a beacon of death. A scream can be heard in the distance. It's the type of noise that curdles one's blood, that foreshadows the talons of a beast clawing its way to the surface. Icy dread pricks my skin and sharpens my senses into a keen alertness. "The facility has been infiltrated," CSM crushes his cigarette on the floor. "The Gunmen...," Scully whispers to me. "I don't think it's just the...," I begin, but my voice is cut off by another scream. "What is that?" she cries as her body tenses against mine. Whatever it is, the sound of it turns the facility into instant chaos. There's another blast of semi-automatic weapons, followed by footsteps. Those who are firing are now swiftly retreating. The guards abandon their post, more terrified by the approaching threat than the intimidation of their superior. "Mulder...." A voice can be heard from the air vent above. I glance up quickly, momentarily blinded by the beam of a flashlight. Frohike turns the light on his face to identify himself. He reaches towards us with his outstretched hand and urgent voice. "Langly hacked into their security system, but I think he did more than just trip the locks." "The containment field has been breached," CSM snarls. As a siren howls through the corridor, he moves through the darkness to slam the door, trapping the three of us inside. "The alien creature," I gasp. "You've had it all along?" "Not it... Agent Mulder. Them...." CSM pushes the examining table so that it's positioned under the vent. "Five inches of steel has allowed us to study them, to house them as we search for a way to destroy them. As you can see, we haven't been successful." "Holy shit..." I yank Scully by her collar and propel her towards the examining table. "Climb up, Scully." "The steel to this door is only an inch wide, Agent Mulder," CSM prompts in an urgent tone. "You've got to get her out of here...now!" Our enemy turns ally. He holds the table while I clamber onto it. Lifting Scully into the air vent, I grab the rim to follow her. As I hoist myself up, both she and Frohike grab my arms. "Move, you two..." I prod them with my voice. As they crawl up the shaft, I lift the screen to the vent. Hesitating, I peer back down into the examining room. CSM lights another cigarette and leans casually against the examining table. The glow from his lighter reveals his face. There is no fear, not even concern. Stunned by his composure, I can't help but call down to him, "You're not even going to try to escape, are you?" "Agent Mulder, you have yet to comprehend who I am," he says cryptically. "But, you don't have time to find out. The facility is compromised. Those who remain will follow protocol. Within minutes, there will be a series of detonations that will collapse the tunnels and level this underground structure into a cave of debris." "And, you along with it?" I ask. "Let that be your hope, Agent Mulder," he snickers softly. "But, don't neglect your partner when she discovers hers..." His words are ambiguous as usual. But, he's right. I don't have time to decipher his innuendos. Already, I sense the tremors of the first detonation. It shakes the facility, causing the air way to roll unsteadily. I turn away... from him... and his perverted altruism. I'm no longer interested in why he's helping us to escape or whether he'll survive the finale he's staged. Scully and Frohike are one level above of me. I scurry after them like a rat, grateful that my bare tail is behind them rather than in front of them. I can hear the echo of their startled voices as another discharge shakes the passageway. Smoke begins to filter into the vent. Choking and gasping, I flatten myself onto my stomach. I can hear Scully crying out my name. I don't stop to answer her, but continue to creep forward. When the third explosion crushes the air shaft behind me, I maneuver the rest of the distance in an army crawl. Elbows and knees dig into hot steel. My eyes close to narrow slits, trying to focus on the light ahead of me. I can't breathe... the air is ignited with a burning heat. I feel it scorch my lungs. Below me, the facility is collapsing, but the energy of the demolition is propelling me upwards. Either that... or my fear of fire is launching me like a rocket. Two pairs of hands catch my arms and tug me through the opening to the air vent. Langly and Byers are waiting inside the Gunmen's van. We make a run for it. Like the tremors of an earthquake, the ground shakes beneath us, cracking pavement and street. When I stumble, Frohike grabs the hem of my hospital gown. Like a bulldog, he jerks me along, growling that he'll bite my ass if I don't move it. Once we're safely in the back of the van, I fall weakly onto the floor. Scully leans over me, examining me for burns. Her soot darkened face is streaked with tears. They feel cool as they drop onto my face. "Is he burned?" Byers kneels down beside us. "No," she answers in a strangled voice. Her fingers push back my hair which is sticky with sweat and ashes. "Just a little singed." "Should we head towards the hospital?" "Just take us home," I answer gruffly. Byers nods and turns discretely away. He, too, can see the emotional breakdown on Scully's face. She's crying... harsh, guttural sobs of shame and self-loathing. Her body shakes over mine. The intensity of her remorse is demonstrated by her hands. She attempts to touch me, to soothe the injury that she thinks she's caused. But, as her hands skim my face, she abruptly pulls them back and stares at them. Uncertain, she clenches her fingers tightly, whispering, "What have I done?" My hands close around hers. I meet her gaze, pleading with my eyes and my voice. "Scully, it's okay." "No, it's not okay," she chokes out. "We're not okay..." "Let it go...." "I can't...," Scully pries her fingers from mine. "And, you won't. You may think you can forgive me, but in time you'll view my choice as a betrayal. It'll eat away at you..." "Hey," I reach up and grip her shoulders. "If you and the Gunmen hadn't come after me, it would have been my intestines that were eaten away." "But, Mulder...." Her whisper sounds like a self-invoked curse, "... who created the danger in the first place?" When I don't immediately respond, the pupils of her eyes withdraw into a obscure, vacant stare. She shrinks from my hold, receding to the farthest corner of the van. I want to follow her, to pull her into my arms and cradle her against me. But, I'm exhausted. Physically and mentally. And, she's right. I hate to admit it, but there is a part of me that resents the choice she made. Not her sacrifice, but the futility of it. It was offered out of guilt, not love... because had it been love, she would have never done it. She would have known that there are some sacrifices that should never be made... not under any condition... and certainly not at the price of our trust. But, I love her. I'll never stop loving her. Whatever her destiny may be, I already know mine. It's to be with her. I don't care if we have to fight every inch of the way back to each other. I'll even drag her kicking and screaming into therapy, if necessary. I won't let her be defeated by her guilt or allow her to withdraw into denial. There is light beyond the smoke on the horizon. I've seen it in her eyes... felt it in her touch... heard it in her voice. The hope she seeks is already there inside of her. She's just doesn't realize it yet. ************** I fumble through the darkness of my own despair. We're home now. The Gunmen have left, taking with them the last of my edged determination. We've accomplished our mission, saved the day and rescued my partner. But, instead of triumph, I only feel defeat. I may have won the battle, but I think I lost the war.... Mulder turns to me, waiting for me to speak. The look of forgiveness in his eyes only accentuates my guilt. It makes me want to run, to add as much distance as possible to the chasm I've created. "Scully..." I spin around and stumble towards the bathroom. Once inside, I strip off my clothes, the smoked-filled vestments of my attempted sacrifice. The heat of the shower doesn't compare to the hot torrent of tears that pour down my cheeks. Rather than turn my face into the spray of the water, my head drops forward. I gasp for breath. This time steam doesn't relax me. It only heightens my feeling of suffocation. A blast of cold air hits me when the shower curtain is yanked back. Mulder is suddenly behind me. He doesn't try to pull me from the scalding water, just reaches over my shoulder to turn down the temperature. Closing the curtain, he secures the location. His body stops mine when I try to retreat. His muscular arms become a barrier... his chest a wall... I spin around, disoriented and intimidated by his presence. I almost slip, but he catches me easily. Without a word, he glides a soap filled sponge down my back. The scent of bath gel mixes with the smell of smoke. The combined odor reminds me of burnt roses. I gag on the putrid fragrance, visualizing the petals as the cremated remains of our love. But, Mulder isn't affected by my reaction. He continues to bathe me, turning me around to move the sponge down the front of my body. The soothing motion of his hand slowly eases my nausea. Small circles of soapy bubbles increase as he kneads my belly and breasts. I don't think he intends more that an sensual cleansing, but it's not long before I do. I've discovered more than one way to numb my pain. I take the sponge from his fingers. Pouring more gel onto it, I begin to lather his skin. I massage his shoulders, chest and narrow hips. He stands motionless, allowing me to wash the dirt and soot from his legs, tensing when the sponge slides between his thighs. Mulder grabs my hand. "Is this all we've become, Scully?" "Your erection seems to think so, Mulder," I say before I stand up on my toes to nuzzle his neck with my lips. I don't want his philosophical attitude. I want physical altitude. I want to be raised to a different level of comprehension... where pain becomes pleasure... where the emptiness of my soul is filled by the feel of him inside of me. Mulder sighs and lifts me so that my legs can hook around his waist. He pins my back against the shower wall, entering me with one solid thrust. Rather than feel elevated, I'm being plunged to a lower level of despair. This is wrong.... My hair is sliding up and down the slick tiles like the frayed ends of a rag. Because my emotions are as spent as a tightly wrung wash cloth, I feel nothing. Nothing other than the coldness of the surface behind me and the soapy residue of my ill intent. "Is this all we've become?" Mulder asks again. "No... never this...." He pulls out of me then. When I slip down to the bottom of the stall, he turns off the shower and steps out. I draw my knees to my chest, curling up into tight ball of humiliation. "Why?" I moan. "If you knew, then why did you..." I can't even finish my sentence. The words clog in my throat. "Because you'd rather find the answers on your own. You don't trust me enough to help you find them." I gasp with sudden clarity and meet his gaze. There are tears in his eyes. And, mine. He nods slowly, reaching for a towel from the vanity shelf. When he offers it to me, I take it. I finally realize what he's trying to do. He's trying to teach me how to trust. To be continued.... Part 5 of ? I told her that I'd never leave her. Of course, that didn't mean that I wouldn't take a little vacation from her. Just one night.... I returned to my apartment to nurse my own wounds rather than let her play doctor. Her offer of sexual healing was highly unethical, even for me. So I left.... I was trying to illustrate a point about trust. But, it was hard to be a beacon of truth when one's erection was at full salute. So, rather than explain my own lack of scruples, I tucked that tail between my legs and scampered on home. And, here we are. Disjointed partners, in every aspect of the word. It's the following afternoon. We've been summoned to Skinner's office to give an explanation about our "questionable activities". If he only knew the extent of it.... Seated behind his desk, our supervisor rubs his temples as if he's trying to massage away a headache. He's just read my report, and although Skinner is too seasoned by now to be surprised, he reacts with typical exasperation. "I don't know what to say, Agents," he addresses us both. "You're both back on the job for less than a week and already you're knee high in..." "I was drugged," Scully interrupts. "So was Agent Mulder. Neither of us were willing participants in the Consortium's latest scheme." He gives her an incredulous look behind his wire-rimmed glasses. Talk about a poor choice of words. "Well, that's open to interpretation, wouldn't you say, Agent Scully?" I squirm in my chair, trying to adjust to my discomfort. Not only am I sore from sleeping on my couch, but I'm uneasy with the decision I made while tossing restlessly on it. Banning myself from Scully's bed is one of several steps that will either estrange us or bring us back together. The second one involves work, or what I perceive as her inability to function with good judgment. Ordinarily, I wouldn't hesitate to understate my report if it meant sparing Scully. But, not this time. My narrative is vivid with detail, not so much about the Consortium, but her reckless determination to deal with them. I admit it. I'm scared. The recovering Scully is as frightening as the addicted Scully. While one skidded off the highway, the other has been racing towards a head-on collision. Although our roads never ran parallel, we always managed to be there at the intersections, warning each other like flashing red lights. But, she's become oblivious to traffic signals and I've no choice than to set up a few road blocks. "Agent Mulder," Skinner addresses me in an unyielding tone. "You'll be working with a task force that's been assigned to sift through the wreckage of the facility. Local law enforcement is handing it over because they suspect domestic terrorism. The obvious firepower used to level the facility knocks it into our ball park." I nod silently, tensing for the real detonation. "Agent Scully," our superior removes his glasses to give her an unobstructed view of his steely eyes. "You are being temporarily reassigned." "To where, sir?" There is a growing suspicion in her voice. "Home," Skinner concludes. "I'm placing you back on disability leave. This time make the most of it." Scully rarely loses her composure. Her facade, which is as stoic as a Gothic cathedral, now crumbles as if mortar has turned into sand. "What exactly is in Agent Mulder's report, sir?" she asks in a trembling voice. "Enough for me to determine that you're not fit for duty," he responds, replacing his glasses and shifting his focus to his paperwork. "That will be all, Agents." Scully takes a breath as if she's going to speak. Suddenly, her mouth clamps shut and she bolts for the door. Her departure is less than dignified. What should be the crisp sound of three- inch heels actually scrapes off floor varnish. "I better...," I grimace and motion with my thumb over my shoulder, indicating that I should follow her. "Do better, Agent Mulder," Skinner admonishes me. "More than just your working relationship depends on it." The hallway is congested. When the 5 o'clock bell rings, government employees are like cattle stampeding towards a grain elevator. I press forward, trying to spot my roan stray among the herd of piebald business suits. But, the round-up doesn't include her. I realize it the minute I pass by the ladies room door. Sighing, I steer myself into the bathroom. Scully might be corralled in a stall, but the wagon train analogies stop there. She's sick to her stomach again. Oh God... Maybe I should wait outside.... But, the site of her heels peeking under the door stops me. It fills me with pity and remorse. So, I pinch my nose and push open the swinging door. "You okay in there, Scully?" She's not so incapacitated that the door doesn't come slamming back into my face. "Jesus," I flinch. "you trying to knock me off my feet?" "No, Mulder..." she manages to croak a few words between bilious gasps. "you're the one who does that." "Scully...," I move over to the sink and grab a handful of paper towels. Turning on the water, I moisten them into a rag. "I don't think this stomach thing of yours is psychosomatic." "I'm not interested in your diagnosis, doctor," she sputters a response. "I think you're sick..." Squatting down, I pass the paper towels underneath the stall door. "... physically sick." "As opposed to what?" sneers Scully. "Mentally?" "You're not losing your mind, Scully, just your lunch..." I try to humor her. "I didn't eat lunch." "Okay, your breakfast," I substitute. "I haven't eaten all day." I jump away from the door when she propels it open. "So much for your ability to clinically assess me," she snaps. "You should have left it to the experts, Mulder, and definitely left it out of your report." I give her a wide berth as she crosses over to the sink. "Okay, so let's consult an expert," I suggest as she turns on the faucet, trying to divert her from that "report" reference. She gives me a acrid glance before lowering her head to the sink. Cupping water with her hand, she rinses out her mouth. When her hand fumbles for a dry paper towel, I quickly grab one for her. "I can do it, myself," Scully retorts, pushing me away. "Yeah, right...," Frustrated, my voice absorbs some of her sarcasm. "God forbid you listen to me. That would require an element of trust, wouldn't it?" "Fine," she says between gritted teeth. "I'll make the damn appointment." "Good," I nod, watching how she crumples the paper towel into a tight wad. When she discards it into the trash can, I wonder if she intends on throwing me out along with it. "Let me take you home," I offer. "I don't need a chauffeur, Mulder," she says reluctantly. Sighing, she drops her head and tries to smooth the wrinkles from her skirt. "What do you need, Scully," I reach out to rub the back of her neck. "I need you," she murmurs. Soup... Campbell's chicken and noodle... An old fashioned remedy... wholesome... good for you.... When I enter the bedroom, balancing the tray, I notice that my napping partner has shifted under her night shirt. What should be covered is not. Think soup, Mulder... not sex... She's naked from the waist down.... Damn.... How am I supposed to focus on Campbell's soup when all I hear is the jingle "mmm... mmm... good...."? Scully's eyes drift open and meet mine. Rather than frown, she actually smiles. I catch my breath, like one enchanted by the brilliance of the sun. Granted, it's a small, languid beam, but I've been in the dark so long that I've forgotten what it's like to feel warm. "Hey," I greet her with what must be a silly, eager grin. "How ya feeling?" "Better... and hungry." "Now, that's a good sign," I hold the tray while she props the pillows behind her. "Just soup, though. And, a few saltines." "Perfect." She takes the tray and settles it onto her lap. Her eyes slide up to mine, and she teases, "This isn't another one of your tests, is it Mulder? I certainly hope that I'm allowed to feed myself." I reach down to pass her the spoon. "I don't know which one of us is really being tested, here." I sigh. "Maybe we both are," Scully answers. She pats a spot next to her on the bed. "Come lie down next to me, Mulder. I promise to be a good girl if you try to get some sleep. You look tired." "I am tired," I admit. Careful not to jostle the bed, I stretch out beside her. "But, never tired enough to wish for you to be a good girl." "You made the rules," she reminds me gently. "Stupid rules," I yawn, closing my eyes. "Well, you know what they say about rules," Scully begins, gingerly sipping her soup. I turn my head and gaze expectantly at her. She gives me a side-long glance and continues, "They're made to be broken... or was that trust?" I stifle my angry retort and roll over. That's when I hear it. God damn her! She's slurping her soup and all I can imagine is how her mouth looks as it puckers around a noodle. ********************* The day Mulder practices what he preaches will be the same day I convert from Catholicism. I think my rosaries are quite safe.... Actually, they're buried somewhere in my lingerie drawer. They're probably either twined around a pair of garters or crushed under a stale pack of cigarettes. Talk about blasphemous! But, at least I'm not the only sinner. In less than 48 hours of celibacy, Mulder's scruples are being threatened by his hormones. Of course, he won't admit it. And, that is the most profane response of all. So, while he pretends sleep, I slurp soup. By the time my spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, Mulder rolls back over and grabs my hand. "You're driving me crazy," he moans. "I'm just enjoying my dinner," I protest. "You're enjoying it too much." "You're the one who insisted on fasting." "I just don't want you to replace one addiction with another," Mulder asserts. "Don't flatter yourself," I snort, insulted by his remark. "I'm not," he tells me. "The compliment is all yours. I'm in love with you, Scully. What may seem as an act to you is an expression to me." The spoon drops from my hand. I gaze into his hazel eyes, seeing for the first time how susceptible he is. Exhaling my regret, I say softly, "Mulder, I'm sorry about what happened in the shower. But, I can guarantee you that I wanted more than sexual gratification. I wanted to feel you... to lose myself in you. And, if that's not an expression of love, then...." My voice breaks off. Once again, I'm being strangled by a clump of emotion. "Scully..." "Hmmm?" "Lose the tray..." I shift it over to the night table. Mulder tugs me into his arms and kisses me deeply. Oh...... My breasts are so sensitive to his touch. It really is remarkable how he affects me.... The next morning, Mulder re-enacts his role of "Rob" to my "Laura". He comes into the kitchen whistling cheerfully as he straightens his tie that is as putrid green as I feel. Standing by the stove in a bulky white bathrobe, I almost gag. My stomach is flipping in rhythm with the pancakes. Nauseous and irritable, I'm tempted to hit him with my spatula when he kisses the back of my neck. "And, a good morning to you, too," he chuckles. I grimace and stare at the mess I'm making. The formula...ah...recipe on the box instructs me to add two eggs, milk and a little oil. It promises fluffy, mouth-watering pancakes. Instead they're flat in the pan, bloated and disgusting. Or is that me? Well, at least Mulder and I have found common ground. With one look over my shoulder, he cringes and backs away. "Thanks, Scully, but I think I'm late." "What do you mean, you think?" I growl. "You're either late or you're not." "Okay," He eyes me cautiously. "Let's just leave it with... late." "Fine...." I snap. "You're late. I'm late..." Suddenly my throat is as clogged as my pancake batter. Oh.... my.... God.... "Don't forget our appointment with the Vanderquack." He reminds me, making a dash for the door. "Appointment?" I choke. "Our therapy session, Scully," Mulder opens the door. "Three o'clock this afternoon, remember?" I nod, silenced by the buzzer of my internal alarm clock. When he leaves, I stagger over to my wall calendar to scan the month for my symbolic "dot". Holding my breath, I flip back to the previous month... then the one before.... I can't be.... It's impossible.... There's got to be a mistake.... Two hours and three home pregnancy tests later, I'm making another appointment. This one is with my gynecologist. The nurse sighs as I nervously ramble on about my infertility. I recite every medical improbability that exists. When I pause to breathe, she interrupts me. "Ah...Dr. Scully...why don't we just bring you right in?" "It has to be a false-positive," I diagnose. "All three tests, huh?" There is a hint of amusement to her voice. "Look. There is no way I can be pregnant." "Well, let's just use a quote from one of my favorite movies," the nurse responds. "Nature... finds... a way." "That's from Jurassic Park," I fume, slamming down the phone. To be continued.... Part 6 of ? I'm pregnant. Pregnant.... Seated on a park bench outside my doctor's office, I try to regulate my breathing before I start to hyperventilate. My skin feels flushed, almost feverish. Because I'm afraid I might pass out, I dump the contents of my complimentary "Now that You're Pregnant" goodie bag onto the bench. Holding the bag to my mouth, I lean over to inhale the stale, plastic air. Eight weeks pregnant.... How did this happen? In my haze, I visualize my high school biology teacher who is trying to persuade a class of sniggering sophomores that sex is only "a merging of genetic material". Well, Mulder and I had been doing a lot of "merging", but neither one of us saw the necessity of birth control. We both knew I was as barren as a wasteland. What he didn't know was that infertility wasn't just limited to my body. It was a state of mind, where hope had dried up and scattered to the wind. Until now... A baby.... My hands drift to my abdomen. Mulder's baby.... The thought of bearing his child awakens such joy that my anxiety attack quickly passes. My struggling lungs fill to capacity. I turn my face to the sun, allowing its warmth to caress my face. The breeze is cool and refreshing. It's Spring. A time of rebirth and renewal.... Oh, I want to believe.... I want to subscribe to the nurse's remarks that "nature finds a way". But, I don't want to be reminded of Jurassic Park, where life is drawn from a fossilized piece of amber that is too similar to my hair color. I'd rather compare nature's wonders to a soft, fuzzy movie biosphere... like... like Bambi..... No... no... bad choice.... Bambi's mother was killed, hunted down by those who claimed superiority over nature. Try something else.... Suddenly, a shadow eclipses the sunlight. Try reaching for your gun.... With one swift movement, I drawn my gun from the waistband of my slacks. It's not only the action of a well-trained agent, but the instinct of a new mother, sensing an immediate threat to the baby she carries. Cigarette Smoking Man.... Blinded by the darkness of his ominous presence, I determine to fire randomly. I will penetrate his cloak of deceit, spill his blood rather than let my blood be compromised. As my finger tightens around the trigger, I hear the sound of his amused voice. "I see you found your hope, after all," he snickers. "And, I see you've managed to crawl out of the rubble," I retort. "But, of course." He shrugs, unimpressed by the warning of my gun or my expression. "If only to be here long enough to congratulate you on the blessed event." He knows! The realization is a chilling one. His words imply that this pregnancy is not a miracle, only another omen that has been signed, sealed and delivered by the Consortium. Bolting to my feet, I align my gun with his chest. "You're about seven months to soon. But, you're just in time for an event that God will certainly bless." "My death?" CSM gives me a condescending smile. "I am God where you're concerned, Agent Scully. The life inside of you is my gift. My benediction to your desperate prayer for hope." "You're the blasphemy of hope," I answer, lifting my gun higher so it will fire into the crag of his mouth. "And, if you're trying to tell me you're responsible for my pregnancy, then start saying your own prayers." The bastard actually does. The litany drools from his fangs like the venom of a cottonmouth. "I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth... of all things seen and unseen...." CSM stops only to bestow his pious gaze, but it only looks reptilian. "Don't be so skeptical, Agent Scully. Just because you don't believe what you see, doesn't mean that it isn't there. It's a matter of faith." "In what...you?" I snort. "I returned to you that which was taken," he says in his typical oblique style. "How?" I demand. "With the same technology utilized before," CSM replies. He sits down on the bench and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. "Remember that drug intervention known as the RAND unit? While you were under anesthesia, another procedure was performed besides your detoxification." "Why?" "Because I know better than to put all my eggs into one basket," he answers. "Unlike your partner, I realize and appreciate your need to have hope." What the hell is that supposed to mean? Although I don't ask the question, he eagerly gives me an explanation. "Didn't Agent Mulder tell you about the fertility clinic where your ova were stored? How he broke into that carton of eggs and slipped a few into his pocket?" "You're a liar," I snap, my hand tensing around my gun. "Ask him, yourself," he suggests. "Mulder had the ability to return hope to you all this time." "I don't believe you." "You don't want to," CSM corrects me. "Because if you believe me, you'll no longer trust him." "I'll always trust him," I assert. "If what you say is true, then he had good reason not to tell me." "What do you consider a good reason?" He asks, lighting a cigarette. What indeed? My mind scrambles for an acceptable answer to reassure my own soft-boiling doubts. "My addiction to drugs," I state flatly. "Not to play on words, my dear, but what came first, the chicken...or the egg? Had you known that he possessed a vial of your ova, would you have fought harder to accept the truth? Would you have numbed yourself to pain if you knew there was a way to replace one of your losses?" "I don't need you to play shrink," I retort. "I already have one." "And, you also have a profiler," CSM adds. "One capable of discerning your thoughts and motivations. Yet, he either overlooked your obvious need or didn't trust you enough to allow you to make your own decision." "I think I've heard enough about Agent Mulder's motivations," I interrupt him angrily. "Right now, let's focus on your own." "You are... and will continue to be... my hope for the future. My vindication depends on you." "You tried to blackmail me into becoming your next hybrid." "To ensure your survival," he insists. "You came to me, remember? Like I said before, Agent Scully, I'm not foolish enough to put all my eggs in one basket. I presented several alternatives to allay your fears, but time has run out. My facility is leveled, the labs have been destroyed and the beasts that were contained are most likely scouring the sewers for their next meal." CSM's crinkly eyes leave mine to focus on something in the distance. They glaze over with an umbral sheen, appearing both gloomy and prophetic. "The smoke on the horizon is closer than you think," he continues in a morose tone. "Take your hope, Agent Scully. Take it and run as far and fast as you can. Stay away from populated cities. Don't let Agent Mulder dissuade you from bearing your hope to fruition." "Wouldn't it be his hope, too?" I counter. "That is, if the child is his and not an implanted alien/human hybrid." "Relax, my dear. The child is his. What I've given you is sufficient incentive to accept your primary role and choose survival over sacrifice. Mulder, on the other hand, has yet to consign himself to playing a subordinate part. He sees himself as the savior of mankind. He won't flee from what he believes is his destiny." "You're wrong," I insist. "He'll try to convince you to stay," the man predicts. "To assist him... to follow him... to believe in him... In his mind, you've always played the secondary role. Don't you understand? The fact that he never told you about his egg snatching is just another example that he demands trust, but isn't willing to give it in return." My eyes narrow in on him. So does my gun. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Try trusting yourself for a change," he prompts, rising from the bench. "Don't allow yourself to become dependent again, Agent Scully. Your strength has always been your autonomy." ************************* I'm fully fueled for a confrontation by the time I reach Scully's apartment. My level of anger has been simmering all day. Scavenging through a mountain of rubble for proof of the Consortium's plans has left me frustrated and dirty. I wheeze dust all the way over to Dr. Vandervanack's office only to discover that my partner is a "no show". "Where the hell were you?" I demand, tossing my grimy jacket onto the couch and unsnapping my shoulder holster. My domestic goddess is hard at work. Not in the kitchen, where dirty breakfast dishes are still piled in the sink. Instead, she's seated at her computer. Glasses perched on the the bridge of her nose, her hand scrubs the mouse over it's pad as if she was cleaning the counters. I yank my tie loose and cross over to where she sits. Glancing down at the computer screen, I discover that she's online. Not surfing, but trading...actually selling stock that I wasn't even aware she had. "This is more important than our therapy session?" I snap. "I need to convert my assets into cash," Scully states firmly, not bothering to meet my incredulous gaze. "Why?" I ask. "I told you that I would cover your expenses while you were on disability leave." "Yeah," she scoffs. "I just didn't realize that being a kept woman meant being kept in the dark." What the fuck is she talking about? When my hand closes over hers, Scully jerks the mouse away from me. Confused, I grab the arms of her chair and turn her towards me. Leaning over, I try to see past the lenses that have fogged over. "Care to enlighten me, Scully?" "I'm busy selling, Mulder." "Consider me one of your buyers." I reach over her shoulder to turn off her monitor. "Name your price." "An honest answer," she snaps. "In comparison to what?" I retort, insulted by her innuendo. "Your cheap offer?" "You're the one with all the resources," she conveys bitterly. "And, you certainly have no problem managing mine." "Is this another clue, or just your attempt to build up suspense?" I ask. My temper is already ignited. Her cryptic remarks are only inciting the flames further. "What happened to the vial containing my ova, Mulder?" She fires her question with deadly accuracy. It penetrates my heart and tears open an old wound that I've spent two years trying to heal. Sweat drips from my skin like blood, pooling under my arms and soaking into the fabric of my shirt. Seeing my reaction, she removes her glasses and reveals her own. Her reddened eyes confirm my worst fear. "Scully," I gasp her name. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you." Her lips drop open to speak, but agony has silenced her cry. Clutching her throat, she mouths a one worded question. Why? "I found the ova the night that Penny Northern died, the same night you rediscovered your will to live." I try to explain. "But, you had cancer, Scully. As much as I wanted to believe that we would find a cure, I also knew that we might not. To return the ova to you at that point seemed cruel." "Cruel?" she manages to whisper. "I was scared, Scully. You said it yourself, you needed to leave something behind, even if it was only the dignity of your memory. But, what if I gave the means of leaving something more... a child? Would you have made the choice of in-vitro fertilization over chemotherapy?" "You decided to make the choice for me?" "I delayed the choice for you," I clarify. "I found a cryogenic lab in Richmond and had the ova frozen." A solitary tear squeezes from the corner of her eye. She impatiently flicks it from her face, saying, "I've been in remission for a long time now, Mulder." "And, during that time you were abducted again, exposed to an alien virus, shot in the stomach and then addicted to drugs." I replay history not to hurt her, but to make her understand. Suppressing my own regret, I continue, "At what point would you have tried to become pregnant?" "None of the above," Scully flinches at my inference. "And, if you really knew me, Mulder, you would have trusted me not to be so irresponsible." "Well, trust is a tricky thing, Scully. It needs to be nurtured between two people. Lately, it's been more like a sporadic impulse." "Are you speaking of me or yourself?" "Both of us," I sign, kneeling before her chair. "We've lost so much of it this past year, Scully. What happened? There was a time when we never second-guessed each other like we do now." "I lost hope... and you.... you just ignored the warning signs." Scully says in a dull tone. "The X-files took precedence over the chromosomal "x". You blinded yourself to the woman because all you wanted to see was the partner." "No...." I shake my head, reaching out to clasp her shoulders. "No.... you're wrong." "You fell in love with Scully the partner, not Dana the woman. Because it was impossible to physically separate the two, you found a way to keep the one by delaying the choice of the other." Her words smart tears from my eyes. When they begin to trickle down my face, I wait for her fingers to catch them. Even in our worst moments, she's always been the one to absorb my pain and heal my insecurities. But, not now... Her hands are folded tightly on her lap and her expression is apathetic. "I needed the one to help build the future for the other," I choke out. "Only Scully could help me find a way to give Dana the life she wanted." Suddenly, she gasps as if my words have breathed life back into her dying soul. Her fingers tremble as they tentatively reach out to touch my face. I quickly grab her hand and press her palm to my lips. "Mulder, I have something to tell you," she murmurs. "Just don't tell me that we're done," I plead. "We're not," Scully says, gently withdrawing her hand. She brushes the tears from my eyes so that I have a clear view of her face. "We're going to have a baby, Mulder. I'm two months pregnant." It's my turn to gasp. Scully slides off the chair and kneels in front of me. Wrapping her arms around me, she holds me steady so I don't topple over with shock. "Scully...," I press my chin against her hair. "How?" I can feel her breath quicken against my neck. When she begins to shake, my awe transforms to apprehension. "What is it, Scully?" "There's more that I need to tell you...." Scully may be the one pregnant, but she hauls me to my feet. Leading me to the couch, she encourages me to sit. "So, I don't fall down?" I squint at her nervously. She nods and joins me on the couch. In a solemn voice, she describes the positive pregnancy tests... the examination... the ultrasound, which gave her final proof and a first glance at our developing baby. Her manner is so circumspect, that I begin to wonder why she hasn't attached any emotion to it. Only when she tells me about the reappearance of our enemy do I understand her clinical approach. This conception is no modern miracle... only the manipulations of the Consortium. "What?" I bellow, springing up from the couch. "Please sit down, Mulder," she says quietly. Her hand moves to her stomach protectively. "Whatever the source, this is our baby." "What makes you so sure?" I regret the question even as I speak it. She winces as if I've just slapped her. Dropping her head, she replies, "Because, according to the ultrasound, this child was conceived at least two weeks after I was discharged from the RAND unit." "I'm sorry, Scully." "I understand, Mulder," she murmurs. "Like you, I'm aware of the implications of the Consortium's involvement in this pregnancy." "It's just the timing is...." "A little too convenient... I know...," Scully lifts her eyes to mine. "At first, I was afraid that Cancer Man had me impregnated with an already developed embryo." "Like Emily?" "A hybrid," she admits. "But, the gestational age would be much older now. The ultrasound definitely places the baby at eight weeks gestation." "Are you saying it's impossible?" I ask. "I'm saying that it's improbable," Scully answers. "Can you live with that, Scully?" "Can you?" "It's your choice, not mine." "It's ours, Mulder." Scully's gaze shifts to the window as if she's distracted by something outside. "What is it, Scully?" "Mulder, I know this is sudden and unbelievable. But, I have this feeling inside of me... I don't know if I can't explain it properly... but, it's like a rising sense of fear." "Well, it's not unusual for a woman in her first trimester of pregnancy to experience a certain amount of emotional instability," I try to reassure her. "No...," she shakes her head. "It's not the baby." "What is it?" "They're coming, Mulder," Scully says in a urgent, frightened tone. "I sense it... feel it... Cancer Man only confirmed my suspicions. He told me that I should leave D.C. as fast as I can." "He's a fucking liar, Scully," I growl. "Don't let him make you paranoid. Remember what he's capable of." "He also told me that you would try to prevent me from leaving." "Did he?" I scoff. "And, did he also tell you to hurry home to log onto e-trade and sell your stock? Or, was that your idea?" "Don't do this, Mulder," "Do what?" "Prove him right," she says in a contorted voice. Oh, shit. I've made her cry again. Sinking back down to the couch, I tug her into my arms. She buries her face against my chest. Her tears feel like acid rain. Hot and astringent, they seep through my shirt and burn my skin. What scalds me is how she's willing to trust that liver-lipped soothsayer. Like a charlatan, he's deceived this woman into seeing an illusion. His vision of the future... not mine. "Scully, listen to me," I pry her hands from my shirt and clasp them in my own. "There is no proof that colonization is imminent. In fact, there's proof to the contrary. Don't forget how the introduction of the vaccine sent that spaceship hightailing it out of here. And, don't ignore that there's another force at play, the Resistance, who's primary objective is to stop colonization." "How could I forget, Mulder?" Scully asks. "I'm living proof of both side's objectives. Immunized by one and almost incinerated by the other. Well, I'm not going to stay here and speculate which side will prevail. I can't. Not when our child's safety depends on it." "If it is our child," I add reluctantly. For a minute, Scully says nothing. She gazes at me with wet, forlorn eyes which silently convey a new prediction. "You're going to leave me," I whisper, turning away to hide my pain. "I'm not leaving you, Mulder," she responds mournfully. "Just D.C...." "I don't believe this," I shake my head, stunned by her defection. "That's been the problem all along," Scully states in a hurt tone. "You'll accept any version of truth as long as it coincides with your own." I return my gaze to hers. There is such depth to her eyes... why haven't I noticed that before? Probably because I never tried to see past my own reflection. I needed her trust like a stamp of approval...validating my truth...sanctifying my quest...even if it meant ignoring her's. Maybe the smoke on the horizon is my own creation. I've been obscuring her vision of hope because it didn't fit into my agenda. I didn't want her to be a voice of the future... just the present... endorsing my actions, not the Consortium's. Maybe the time has come. Not to pursue what I thought was my destiny, but to share Scully's. If that distant ship is closer than I think, then I need to focus on keeping her safe... and our child. Our child.... I can't think of a more noble cause. Neither can she.... The only thing I abandon is the couch for the computer chair. I flip on the monitor and begin typing. "What are you doing?" Scully reaches over my arm to retrieve her glasses. I catch her about the waist and pull her onto my lap. "Mulder...." "Just a little electronic banking, Scully," I advise. "Did I ever tell you that I inherited quite a bit of money from my father?" "No," she answers, her eyes widening when my portfolio scrolls across the screen. "Oh my God, Mulder... you're really rich, aren't you?" "I always considered it our nest egg," I murmur into her ear. "But, I think it's time we leave D.C. to find one further north, don't you?" Scully doesn't respond. Actually, she can't. She's crying so hard that her tears are dropping onto my hands. "Stop raining, Scully.... you'll short circuit the keyboard," I tease, pulling her against my chest. My hand settles on her stomach. Her hand covers mine. I think we've found balance, at last. To be continued.... Part 7 of ? Handing Skinner our letters of resignation turns out to be much more than I expect. He reads each one carefully before lifting his solemn gaze to my face. But, the facade is expertly painted into place with makeup. When his eyes lower to my stomach, I resist the urge to fold my arms over it. While it's too soon for me to show, I feel as bloated as a beached whale in my gray skirt and blazer. The waistband is already tight, yet I can't blame it on a first trimester pregnancy. It's the result of last night's MSG feast, courtesy of China Town....which delivers Sesame Chicken and water retention in forty-five minutes or less. My eyes slide over to Mulder's. Arching an eyebrow, I give him my "what the hell did you say" look. He ignores my stare, preoccupied by his own agitation which is being tapped out like bongo drums on his knee caps. Decision made, he's ready to move on. He's mentally cleaning out our office, planning on what he wants to take or leave behind. Knowing him, packing light means bringing those things he treasures the most.... which translates to boxes of X-files to be stuffed next to my grandmother's china in the back of the car. "Your resignations are not accepted," Skinner's words jerk my attention back like a yo-yo. My mind clicks into place, although my emotions are as taut as string that has been stretched beyond the point of endurance. "Excuse me, sir?" "You have both invested too much into Bureau to just walk away," he states firmly. My arms immediately cross in silent defiance. I wait for Mulder to take the lead, to respond with something trite or cynical to spare me the discomfort of confronting our boss. He says nothing..... "That is...without this," Skinner adds, handing me a envelope. My fingernail cuts through the paste of the envelope like a letter opener. It's a marriage license.... For Fox William Mulder and Dana Katherine Scully.... Staring at the document, I shake my head in disbelief. "How?" Skinner breaks into a smile that almost stretches his lips to the point of cracking. In the seven years of working for him, I don't think I've ever noticed how straight and white his teeth are. "It's time for the Bureau to give back," beams Skinner. "Immediate access shouldn't always be limited to undercover operations or conspiracies." "I think I detect a little of both," I comment, glancing over at Mulder. "A marriage license requires a blood test and a signature." "Remember that Ford lease I had you sign yesterday?" Mulder gives me a suggestive look before grinning. "Gotcha... gotcha good." "But, what about the blood test?" "Hell, you've been donating enough blood around town that getting a sample was the easy part," he responds. "Well, what about the proposal?" I don't mean to sound antagonistic, but I can't help it. My level of agitation is spiraling as high as my hormones, and this marriage is as contrived as any shotgun wedding. Except I'm the one whose pregnant, not Mulder. He should be the one dragged kicking and screaming down the aisle... not me.... "I could have saved you both a great deal of effort," I comment in a flat voice, rising from my chair. "Would you excuse us?" Mulder is instantly on his feet. Taking me by the elbow, he ushers me out into the hallway. "Listen, Scully...." He drops his head so that his eyes are level with mine. "We really don't have time for this," "Time for what?" I snap back. "A simple question? We had plenty of time to shop for that Ford Explorer yesterday, to clean out our bank accounts and to hit the mall for your new pair of Reeboks. I would think sometime during the day you would have found an opportunity to at least ask me to marry you." "When?" he retorts. "While you were pushing pedal to the metal, test driving our new truck? Maybe I should have asked at the bank while we were arguing over the choice of travelers checks verses cash. Or, maybe I should have popped the question while you were in Barnes & Nobles, searching for that "what to expect when you're expecting" book which, by the way, is rather silly considering the fact that you're a doctor." "Pathologist," I correct him. Glancing down at my feet, I stare at my swollen ankles and sigh. "Scully...." I feel his fingers brush the hair over my ears. "I'm sorry if this seems awkward or unromantic. I guess I was just considering the practical aspects, given our time frame for leaving town. Skinner helped me cut through the red tape and even offered to witness the civil ceremony this afternoon." "This afternoon?" My head jerks up suddenly. "I can't get married looking like this...." "Like what?" He gazes at me in confusion. "Like a Beluga whale," I whine loud enough for passerbys to notice. Or is it his laughter, which literally bounces off the walls of the hallway? Either way, Mulder knows how to harpoon me and reel me in. He reaches into his pocket and produces an exquisite velvet box. Inside are two wedding bands. His is plain gold, but mine is circled with brilliant diamonds. Speechless, I gape at the rings, trying to focus on the sentimentality of the gesture rather than visually estimate the carat weight of the gems. "The jeweler told me that it's not a standard wedding band. He called it an eternity ring and well, I liked the sound of it." "Oh, Mulder..." I press my trembling fingers to my lips, feeling tears sting my eyes. What is it about this man that he's capable of transforming the most annoying moment of my life into a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie special? "It's...it's beautiful," I tell him softly. "Want to try it on?" He takes the box from my hands. "Ah...," I hesitate only to sniff loudly. "Okay... sure..." The box snaps shut. "Then get your Beluga dorsal fin into gear, Scully. We've got a judge waiting for us." If this is his idea of a marriage ceremony, then I can hardly wait for the honeymoon. ***************** "I now pronounce you husband and wife...." I lean over to give Scully a long, memorable kiss, but am granted only a chaste peck before she's whisked away by her three bridesmaids. Figures. I always knew the Gunmen would side with her in the end, even if it only meant her side of the wedding aisle. While Byers studies her ring with a squinting eye that resembles a jeweler's glass, Frohike practically dips her to the ground in a Casanova-type embrace. As he slobbers a kiss over my bride's astonished, and unfortunately open mouth, I'm left standing with my best man.... Skinner. "You have envelope I gave you earlier?" he murmurs with quiet urgency. Before the ceremony, our supervisor slipped me a overstuffed envelope containing our badges and FBI credentials. It was his wedding present, a way for us to re-activate our status and accessibility to the Bureau should we need it. "Got it...." Patting my jacket pocket, I take this moment to address him with all the respect I denied him over the years. "Sir, I'd rather see you focus on your own plans to leave town then worry about us." "In the works, agent." Skinner advises. "Earlier this morning the Bureau was placed on alert. A number of field offices have reported some disturbing events that has caught the attention of FEMA, not to mention the military." "Are you saying..." "What I'm saying is that you had better skip the champagne and congratulatory handshakes, Mulder." "Maybe the first, but not the latter," I reply, staunchly offering my hand. "It was a honor working with you, sir." "I'll remind you of that someday," Skinner clasps my hand briefly. With his eyes, he signals my attention to Scully who is sniveling her goodbyes to the Gunmen. She presses her small bouquet of white roses into Byer's hands, whispering something into his ear. "Take good care of her," he reminds me. "Don't worry," I tell him. "She's a lot stronger than you think." "I'm not worried about Scully. She's a survivor. What concerns me is you, Mulder, and that obsessive nature of yours." "My wife is my obsession, now." Nodding his approval, Skinner moves over to Scully and takes her small hand into both of his. Blinking back tears, she stands on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. While it's highly unprofessional, her gesture is charming and poignant. Unable to speak, the Assistant Director offers her a contorted grin before turning to leave. I lean towards Langly, who's wiping his fogged over glasses with the hem of his black t-shirt. "Time to saddle up, Tonto... and take the Lone Rangers with you," I prompt him. "By the way, I would suggest riding off before the sun sets." "The Pinto van is ready to roll," Langly answers. "Okay, then," I reach out and yank Scully by her sleeve. "Get over here woman, and let me make a sandwich out of ya." Scully buries her face into my shirt, using the end of my tie to dry her eyes. "I wish my mother could have been here," she whispers. "No you don't," I try to console her. "We both know she's safer with Billy the Kid out in California. He's the type to shoot first and ask questions later." If she's insulted by my off-handed remarks about her brother, she doesn't show it. In fact, she seems reassured by my lethal observations. Maybe she realizes that Billy Boy's killer instinct has merit now that it's not directed solely at me. "So, where are we to spend our wedding night?" Scully asks, studying her ring out of the corner of her eye. "It's called the honeymoon highway," I tease her, draping my arm around her shoulders. "We're leaving tonight?" she gasps. Her red-rimmed eyes narrow with suspicion. "What aren't you telling me, Mulder?" "I'll even let you drive." I pull the keys to the Explorer and dangle them in front of her nose. "I know how much that eight cylinder engine turns you on, Scully." "I think I'm going to throw up," she responds, clutching her stomach. ****************** Our marriage is off to a fine start. I'm in a public restroom inside the court house. Hunched over the toilet, I try to shake off spasms of nausea that produce nothing by dry, gagging heaves. Once again, I've gone almost an entire day without eating. Anxiety conflicts with appetite. My stomach, which was once capable of digesting iron nails, is now sickened by the mere thought of food. I try to mentally divert myself by staring at my ring. Even in the dim light of the bathroom, the diamonds sparkle. I'm astounded by Mulder's taste which I thought was limited only to his own wardrobe. His gifts of the past taught me well. But, this was different. Not only did he open his wallet for me, but apparently his heart. And, that is the one thought that finally eases my physical and mental discomfort. Married.... Granted, it was as tacky as one of those Los Vegas ceremonies, but I'm leaving with one hell of a souvenir. And, I'm not talking about the ring.... Mulder.... Standing up, I smile and triumphantly flush the toilet with the tip of my shoe. That's when I see it.... The toilet isn't filling with water. The liquid that swirls around the bowl is black and thick.... like motor oil. Someone in the next stall suddenly screams. Oh my God.... I stumble back, crashing open the door to the bathroom stall. The toilet is overflowing. Black oil is spilling over the rim, streaming onto the floor... not puddling, but snaking towards my feet. Gasping, I retreat from it as if it was a corrosive acid. By the time I reach the hallway, a fire alarm is blaring and people are making a mass exodus of the building. They're not running from what is surfacing from the underground pipes, but what has apparently arrived to stop it. And, it's not a team of plumbers.... Faceless, torch-bearing men appear at both ends of the hall. The Resistance. They're igniting everything in their path as if hell fire is the only means to salvation. Terrified screams and the smell of burnt flesh overwhelm my senses. I try to run, but as I turn around I collide with a man who has no intention of letting me pass. It's Mulder. He grabs me around the waist and tugs me back into the bathroom. Already, he's assessed our predicament and realizes that we'll never make it through the panicked crowd. Our escape is to be through the bathroom window, which he yanks open with a vengeance. As he hoists me up to it, I peer over his shoulder and cry out. The woman who had been in the stall next to me is now approaching us. Her eyes are glazed black and her hand is stretched out to make contact with Mulder's skin. Instantly, he whips out his gun and shoots her. He doesn't hesitate or aim to disable her. The bullet shatters her skull, spilling dark-tinged blood against the wall. It really is a mercy killing compared to the fate awaiting her, but I'm shocked nonetheless. "Move, Scully..." Mulder shouts at me. "Move!" I drop to my feet outside the building, grateful that we're on the first floor. Mulder scrambles out after me, shutting the window behind him. Taking my arm, he leads and I follow. This time, I'm more than happy to play the subordinate role. He maneuvers us through the alley, shielding me from shards of hot glass which are exploding from the windows above. By the time we reach the parking lot, sirens are closing in on the court house. Within minutes, the street will be inaccessible because of emergency vehicles. Because of this, I run at full speed, ignoring the teetering of my high heels. When I trip, Mulder catches me. Lifting me into his arms, he carries me the last twenty feet to our new Explorer. Depositing me into the passenger seat, he gives me the keys while he races around to the driver's door. "Mulder!" My partner... my husband... is intercepted. A featureless figure in black spins Mulder away from our truck. He's thrown with enough force that he lands roughly across the hood of the car next to us. Screaming his name, I crawl over to the driver's seat and start the engine. When the Resistance Fighter takes a step back to lift his torch, I jerk the gear into drive. Pedal to the metal takes on a whole new meaning.... All eight cylinders kick in at once. The impact knocks the fighter off his feet. Whatever type of life form he is no longer matters to me. I want him dead and am determined to make sure of it. Slamming the breaks, I throw the gear into reverse. I back the Explorer over his body, gritting my teeth with determination as I feel the tires crush his bones like a tin can. "Scully..." Only then do I notice that Mulder is hanging on to the driver's door, banging against the window to get my attention. I drag him back a few more feet before hitting the button to lower the window. "Grab his torch, Mulder," I bark. "We may need it." Mulder gives me an incredulous look but follows my directions without protest. I slide back to the passenger seat as he climbs in. When he hands me the weapon, I clutch it like a trophy. Only when we pull out of the parking lot do I begin to shake. "Have I told you today how much I love you?" Mulder asks in a tense voice, gripping the wheel as he accelerates the truck down the street. I can't answer him. I'm speechless with terror and a sharp sense of exhilaration over my road kill. Dear God....what have I become that they taste of death is suddenly satisfying? The ring on my finger catches the light from the window. What have I become? A wife... and I'll be damned if I let anyone, or anything, threaten me with the vow "until death do us part".... "I love you, too," I say strongly. To be continued.... Part 8 of ? Welcome to the doomsday derby.... My driver's reflexes are quick and alert as I maneuver the Explorer through the congested streets of Washington, D.C. What began as a late afternoon traffic jam quickly disintegrates into bumper-to-bumper chaos. The road to suburbia has become the passage to safety. But, getting there is the tricky part. Panic, rather than fuel, propels cars... into each other. "So much for leaving in an orderly fashion," I scoff, jerking the wheel to spin us down an abandoned alleyway. "Well, this is no fire drill." Scully remarks, bracing herself as I slam on the breaks. The government responds with its usual inefficiency, blocking the road ahead of us. Military convoys creep along the city street as if their heading towards a Veteran's Day parade. Maybe it's the floating ash that reminds them of ticker-tape. Because I already know what their up against, I roll down my window and yell in my most Trekker voice, "Resistance is futile....run!" "Mulder..." My navigator is tugging at my arm, trying to show me a road map. Even in this worst moment of our lives, Scully is reacting with cool, rational composure. Instead of being overwhelmed by the danger of our situation, she's busy plotting out our escape route. God, I love this woman.... When there is a break in what I consider our military's death march, I screech the truck to the other side of the road. "Which way, wife?" "Don't wife me, now...just turn left at the next street." We may be married less than an hour, but the honeymoon is definitely over. Another explosion rocks the pavement under our truck. Behind us, buildings are crumbling like they're made of matchsticks. Gas lines burst and ignite the city scape with fire. Sweat drips down the side of my face, saturating my collar and staining the front of my shirt. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, I yank off my tie and strip off my jacket. "Mulder, look!" Scully is pointing towards the on-ramp to the beltway. I shift the gear into overdrive and the Explorer lurches forward in response. Tires shriek and the smell of burnt rubber mingles with the acrid air of gaseous destruction. The truck sways as I swing it through a sharp angled turn. For a second, I think the stress on the frame is going to make the truck roll. But, it's tonnage settles on all four wheels and we speed up the incline of the ramp. Those who are fortunate enough to make it this far are rewarded by a relatively clear highway. It helps that there's no oncoming traffic. All eight lanes are heading in one direction... the "get the hell out of Dodge" direction. I drive near the edge of the road, ready to use the shoulder, the grass... whatever it takes to get us to Interstate 95. For the next hour, neither one of says a word. Both of us are listening to the radio, searching for a station that delivers more than just a heart-stopping beat of the Emergency Management System. Scully repeatedly punches numbers in her cell phone, trying to make contact with Skinner and the Gunmen. At first, the circuits are busy, but soon the lines sizzle to a charred silence. All we can do is drive... and hope.... Scully shifts around to place the Resistant Fighter's torch in the back seat. I take a moment to mentally snap a picture of my bride. While my memory already contains a vast portfolio of Scully looks and expressions, the one she wears now is worth framing. Never have I seen her more alive. Her blue eyes flash with an almost menacing vitality. Despite the perspiration that beads her upper lip, her mouth is set in a thin, controlled line. She's already in survival mode, calibrated to react with instant certainty and equal threat. No longer will this woman be a victim... to either her own fears or the manipulations of others. I'm damn lucky to have her by my side.... "You were right, Scully," I tell her. "About everything... I'm sorry I ever doubted you. You've saved us both." "Well, not quite yet, Mulder," she responds solemnly, but the corner of her mouth lifts up slightly. "Of course, if we do manage to survive, I'll expect a very generous reward." "What might that be, Mrs. Mulder?" I try to tease a full smile from her lips. "A few more carats of diamonds to dangle from your wrist?" "I'd rather have a few more decades of you." "Aw, Scully... you're not going to get all sentimental on me now, are ya?" "I think I better, just in case...." I reach over to take her hand. "You don't have to say anything, Dana." I murmur. "I know how you feel." "Do you? Do you know how much I love you, Mulder?" she says in a impassioned voice. "I'm the one who should be apologizing... for not telling you every single day." "We'll have those decades together, Scully," I promise her, sealing it with kisses on the back of her hand. "There may be smoke on the horizon, but I think it's going to stay there." "What do you mean?" "The black oil surfaced from beneath the city's streets," I explain. "The court house was within a few miles of the Consortium's underground facility." "Do you think there's a relation?" "I think those creatures were doing more than slumming the sewers. And, I believe the Resistance was there to stop their attempted oil spill before it spread any further." "But, Mulder... those fighters were incinerating everybody, whether they were infected or not." "Call it damage control." I offer. "Just on a cosmic scale." "I don't know, Mulder." Scully shakes her head. "Granted, the Resistance appears determined to stop colonization, but mankind is a little too expendable for me to be appreciative. You would think that given their vast technology, they would find a better way." "Well, I think they've only found a faster way." I point at the dark, gathering clouds ahead. "Tell me that I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing." "Oh my God...." she gasps. A distant ship.... No... it's more than one... and they don't resemble the gigantic ship I saw in Antarctica. They look like small, deltoid lightening bugs...buzzing with electromagnetic radiation and a speed that breaks the sound barrier. Thunderous waves shake the earth around us. "Get down, Scully!" I yell, pushing her to the floorboard of the truck. I swerve off the side of the road to avoid a collision with the vehicle in front of us. Cars are spinning out of control. Clutching my ears in pain, I throw on the emergency brake and hurl my body over Scully's. I must lose consciousness, because I wake to find myself in the passenger seat. It's dark now, but a strange glow illuminates Scully's profile like an aura. She's crying, grasping the steering with one hand while she wipe her eyes with the other. "Scully," I call out her name. She doesn't turn to meet my gaze. Peering closer, I realize why. There is a fine trickle of blood seeping from her right ear. And, both of mine. I can feel the stickiness along the sides of my neck. Our eardrums have been injured... our sense of hearing deafened by the roar of the alien crafts. I sit up and squeeze Scully's arm, signaling to her that I'm awake. She gives me a sidelong glance, before motioning with her eyes towards the rear-view mirror. I turn around and instantly shudder. What I thought was the sunset is actually the fiery maelstrom of our former capitol. Gone.... D.C. is gone.... The whole skyline is in flames and the presumed loss of life is staggering. Although the power used to annihilate the district wasn't nuclear, the force of destruction appears to be massive. My heart begins to pound with a delirious rage. I pound the dashboard with my fists, hoping to dent my horror with physical pain. I know I'm screaming enough obscenities to break the vulgarity barrier, but I don't give a fuck. No one can hear me, anyway.... When my knuckles begin to bleed, Scully pulls the truck off the road and cuts the ignition. She reaches for me, tugging my into her arms. In the shelter of her embrace, my own tears begin to flow. They mingle with hers and both of us clutch each other, spilling our agony and desolation in hot torrents of tears. Scully is the first to stop crying. The nurturer... the healer... once again she ignores her own pain in an effort to ease mine. In the flickering darkness, her lips sponge the salty wetness of my face. Instead of being comforted, I'm incited by the warmth of her breath. I tear open her mouth to inhale her breath... to imbibe the last of life's sweetness. Call it profane... the desperate act of a man who is being asphyxiated by his own lack of hope.... Call it whatever you like... At least, I can call it mutual.... Scully practically swallows my tongue in her own frantic need. I lower the passenger seat as she climbs onto my lap. Her shoes are already gone and her stockings are so tattered that they peel away like tissue paper. As I jerk down the zipper to my fly, she slides off her panties and hikes her skirt above her waist. We consummate our marriage with an intensity that tests the shock absorbers of our truck. Although I can't hear her, I can feel her moans against my mouth. I unbutton the front of her jacket. Her back arches as I push aside the lacy fabric of her bra. When I fill my mouth with her nipple, suckling it with the moist pull of my tongue, she climaxes instantly. Her hot, tight tremors triggers my own orgasm, which feels like an 8.8 on the Richter scale. Without meaning to, my hips launch her like a rocket, propelling her into the midnight blue felt of the truck's ceiling. Talk about an ejection.... I pull her head towards my face, rubbing the back of her head and mouthing the words "I'm sorry". She's shaking with laughter, hinting that we're either shell-shocked or deranged. It doesn't matter. We're both grinning now... if not with post- coital happiness, then with absurd humor of how we've turned the front seat of our truck into a wedding bed. ****************** By midnight, my hearing returns. Oddly, the world is quiet. The only sound I hear is the steady hum of the truck's engine. Mulder is driving now. He glances nervously at the gas gauge which is close to empty. We're going to have to stop soon, to refill the tank and hopefully allow me the chance to relieve my bladder. Not that I'll ever grace a toilet again. I'd rather squat in the woods than be blasted off the seat by an oil gush. "Can you hear me yet, Mulder?" I try speaking for the first time in hours. "Yeah," he responds, nodding. "Both you and your stomach growling." "We're going to have to pull off the highway soon and find a gas station." "Not to mention a McDonalds. How does a filet of fish sound to my little beluga?" "Well," I counter, eager to hang onto this thread of easy banter. "Not all of us can afford to survive on love... as romantic as that might sound." "Especially the mother of my child," he says softly. "You're eating for two, now." "I really do love you, Mulder," "That's the second time you've said it today, wife. Careful or you'll spoil me." "Then drive faster, slowpoke... I'm starving." We're deep into the farmland of Pennsylvania. Finding a gas station takes us time, especially locating one that's open. Finally, we pull into a station that boasts a convenience store. There is only a single attendant left. He doesn't bother to offer to fill our tank with gas, just sits morosely behind the counter listening to the static on the radio. "Help yourself to anything you want." He waves us off when Mulder tries to pre-pay for the gas. "By tomorrow, money won't mean shit to any of us." "Why are you still here, then?" Mulder asks, leaving the twenty dollar bill on the counter. "Got no where to go. The sky is falling....so sayeth the Chicken Little of CNN." "It seems pretty quiet around here," I offer. "That's because even little green men need their sleep," snickers the gas attendant. "Come morning, we'll see more than just the White House leveled." "What about the other major cities?" My voice sounds shaky. I want to mention L.A., but fear for my family stops me. " How about New York?" "These aliens have taste. Who the fuck wants a bite of the big apple when the core is infested with the worms of humanity. Nah... all the dens of iniquity still stand." "Ah... okay...." I nudge Mulder before I hobble towards the restroom. My shoes are ruined. One heel has fallen off, but the thought of walking around in my bare feet scares me. It takes me several minutes to work up my nerve to straddle the toilet. Once done, I wash my face and neck in the sink, scraping the dried blood on my neck with my fingernail. The pain inside my ears has settled to a dull ache, but my injury seems minimal. At least on the surface.... Actually, my surface looks pretty shabby, too.... I glance in the mirror and study my wan reflection. Lines of tension crease my forehead and my eyes are speckled with broken blood vessels. I pull the lids up, checking for minute fragments of ash. There are none. The condition is either stress related or sex related, depending on one's viewpoint and definition of explosive encounter. There's a discrete knock on the bathroom door. I turn around to find my husband and one of my suitcases. "Thought you might want to change while we're here." Mulder says, closing the door behind him. "I like how you think," I respond gratefully, reaching around my waist to unzip my skirt. "What the hell is wrong with your eyes?" "Just a little eyestrain," I mumble, lowering my head. "Nothing to worry about." But, he is... I can tell by how his instant shift of demeanor. His hazel eyes take on the classic "I know more about medicine than you" look. It's almost as annoying as being lifted up to the bathroom counter so he can tie my sneaker laces. When I open my mouth to protest, he reaches up to gag me with his hand, saying, "Don't Mulder me right now...." Muted, I roll my eyes which is the worst thing I can possibly do. It gives him a circling tour of my blood stained eyes. Before I can tuck my shirt into my jeans, I'm off the counter and into his arms. He carries me out of the bathroom, through the convenience store and into the semi-darkness of the parking lot. Hanging onto his neck, I try to coax him down from his teeth-gritting agitation. "Is this your idea of carrying me over the threshold?" "No more fun and games, Scully. You need you to rest." "Fun and games? Exactly what is your definition of that? Highway humor or intercourse on the interstate?" "Jeez, Scully..." He flinches at my description. "Why can't you just humor me for a change and let me protect you." "Because we're partners...." "We're more than just partners," Mulder relates as he eases me into the back seat of the Explorer. "We're prospective parents. I just want to keep it that way." Who can argue with such sweet, paternal silliness? Dana Scully, M.D. might... But, Mrs. Fox Mulder can't... She's reduced to tears by her husband's anxiety over the welfare of their child. "Don't cry," Mulder whispers, making a pillow out of his jacket so I can rest my head. "I don't want to upset you." "I'm not upset," I snivel, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. "I'm just in love...." To be continued.... Part 9 of ? The entire country is vacillating between profound shock and deep mourning. Except the media.... They hover over our former capital in helicopters, broadcasting live updates as the death toll rises. It doesn't matter that martial law has been imposed. Disasters pull in ratings and the networks feed off the public's panic as if they were buzzards devouring road kill. Scully and I have no choice but to stop our journey the following night. To douse the flames of alien-induced hysteria, curfews are imposed and enforced with the full might of the military. It seems our Forces have little left to do other than flex their muscles at the populace. Maybe it reminds them what it once felt like to be a superpower. Capitol Hill has effectively become Capitol Hole, a gorge deep enough to give to the Grand Canyon a run for its money. The energy used to topple the seat of government was of an undefinable level, a firestorm so massive that it turned D.C. into a crematorium and the Potomac into a lava flow. Yet, the fiery pit did have a rim. And beyond it, the rest of the country remained unscathed. This led me to believe that the Resistance chose depth over width. They toppled a city to unearth the sewers beneath it, to ignite oil with fire in an attempt to "purify" the pathogen within it. Who was the Resistance? The enemy... or just an intergalactic clean-up crew? There was a point that my need to know outweighed every other factor in my life, including my own safety. But, I'm no longer a federal agent or a "free agent", for that matter. I'm a married man, a father-to-be... and unlike those before me... my family will come first. Scully and I now sit in our motel room, planning our migration north. My little beluga is submerged under the bedspread, chomping on her sandwich as if I just tossed her a tuna. When I pass her a carton of milk, she frowns and reaches to the nightstand for my coffee. "Think calcium...not caffeine," I gently elbow her. "Which one of us is the doctor, here," she gripes. "Pathologist..." I remind her. Spreading a road map across the bed, I study alternate routes to the Adirondacks in upstate New York. These honeymooners aren't heading for Niagara Falls, but Lake George. Waiting for us is a cabin that once belonged to my fly-fishing, alien-hunting father. It's rustic in terms of charm, yet functional with modern amenities that include plumbing and electricity. He spent a small fortune renovating it, tapping into a nearby power plant and installing back-up solar panels and generators. What I thought was to be his retirement haven was actually a refuge. Isolation meant safety, and he deeded the cabin over to me in his Will. Perhaps he knew that the end was near, and like the "Last of the Mohicans" he feared his son would be the last of the "Mulders".... But, I'm not.... Scully has extended me more than a branch of the family tree. She has given me a dream... a woman to love and a child to hope for. And nothing, not even the answers I sought for over a decade, will lure me away from my last chance at happiness. "Mulder," Scully calls to me in a soft, appealing voice. I lifted my eyes from the map to find her patting the pillow beside her. "Put the map, away. It's time for you to get some sleep." Love... honor...and, although Scully would snort with laughter at the thought... I obey. I toss the map to the floor while she turns out the light. Reaching for each other, our legs twine together like living vines, drawing us into a embrace that is peaceful and secure. She rests her head next to mine on the pillow, soothing the singed hair away from my temples. Crooning words of love and reassurance, I drift away to the sound of my wife's lullaby. Of course, she can't sing worth a damn...but I can dream, can't I? In the middle of the night, the dream turns into a nightmare. I wake to a blinding light that streams through the curtains, piercing through the crevices of the door like a laser. Instinctively, I dive for my gun. I push Scully off the bed, screaming for her to hide as the door rattles on its hinges. The floor trembles beneath my feet as I race to block the entrance to our motel room with my body. It's useless.... The door crashes open, throwing me back against the wall. Gun lifted, I squint into the beam of light, ready to pump bullets to penetrate the shadows that approach us. As my finger tightens on the trigger, I hear a sound behind me... the noise of a flame igniting... the preferred weapon of choice these days.... Scully.... She stands fearlessly in the shaft of light. Her hands swing up the Resistance's torch as if it was a light saber. Once again, it's Princess Leia to the rescue... her fierce countenance poses as much threat as the firesword she wields. Even, Darth Vador would think twice.... Her side-kick, Fox Chewbacca can only howl for her to run.... not fight. But, these storm-troopers don't wear masks...or faces, for that matter.... It's the Resistance.... They must have tracked us down, to either vindicate their tire-squashed comrade... or to less than politely ask for his light saber back. Suddenly, my warrior princess lowers the torch and cuts the flame. Her eyes fill with tears, recognizing the figure who stands in the doorway. Oh my God... it's Lady Vador.... Or, more popularly known as Cassandra Spender.... "I knew I'd find you," Cassandra smiles at Scully, reaching over to place a soft hand over mine. "Lower your gun, Agent Mulder. We're not here to harm you or Dana." "Why are you here?" I ask in a disbelieving tone, jerking my head towards the battalion outside. "And, why are you with them?" "To deliver a message," she says calmly. "I speak on behalf of those who seek to preserve our world as we know it. The Resistance is not our enemy, Agent Mulder. They're here to stop what the others have started." "Colonization?" I ask. "More like an evolutionary paradox," the woman relates, closing the door so that the light doesn't blind our vision of her sincere face. "Mankind isn't the only race threatened by the spread of this prehistoric oil. The Colonists have dug a bit too deep... they've unearthed more than then they bargained for." "What they excavated is the threat of their own extinction." remarks Scully, drawing Cassandra's gaze to her. "These creatures are to them what the dinosaurs were to us." "Yes, Dana." The woman's aqueous grey eyes brighten with admiration for my wife. "How far you've come from the days of being a non-believer." "My conversion was far from comfortable," relays Scully. "But, it is complete." "You've suffered a great deal," Cassandra comments sadly. "I can remove the source of your pain." "You can't," I wag my finger in front of the woman's face to show her my wedding ring. "She married me two days ago." "Mulder," Scully sighs, shaking her head. "You've never been the source of my pain... well... other than a pain in the neck, sometimes." "Actually, the source is embedded in your neck," relates Cassandra. "The micro-chip, the last fragment of the Consortium's control over you." "You can't remove it," I protest. "It's the only thing that keeps Scully's cancer in remission." "It is also the means by which the two of you can be tracked down," Cassandra advises. "And, the Consortium will eventually try to find you." "Why?" I ask, tensing at her implication. "To steal the hope they gave you," she imparts. "Your child, Dana. You have conceived more than just an ordinary child." Scully's frightened eyes meet mine. I reach down to clasp her hand and ask the pivotal question we've both been avoiding. "A hybrid?" "No." Cassandra holds up her hand to allay our fears. "The child is yours, Agent Mulder. But, as Dana's child, the baby will receive a natural immunity against the alien virus. Or so, they expect. They will want to test their theory." "What am I not surprised?" I scoff the question. "He planted the eggs, Cassandra," Scully gasps. "He warned me to leave D.C., that an attack was imminent." "Only that your child would survive, Dana," insists Cassandra. "Don't you understand what a monster he is? He will stop at nothing... not even murdering our son... to ensure his ultimate victory." "So much for being the voice of rationalism," Scully snorts with contempt. "I'm back to being the Consortium's latest lab rat." "Remove the chip, Dana," urges Cassandra. "Don't let them find you seven months from now when your baby is born. My ex- husband is more than deceptively ruthless. He's the Mephistopheles of the modern age. He'll trick you into a state of being comfortable, playing on your worst fears or most hopeful dreams." "How do you know all of this?" I demand, reluctant to trust anyone at this point. "Because I was his unfortunate bride... and then his neglected wife... only to be treated with the same type of apathy he reserves for his latest lab rat." Cassandra says vehemently. "I know what he's capable of. He murdered his own child... my son. I make it my business to know, Agent Mulder, and I have spent these past months developing certain skills that enable me to do so." "Can you read minds, Cassandra?" Scully's voice has dropped to a desperate whisper. "Can you read mine, now?" "Yes, Dana." The woman reaches out to touch my wife's face. Her fingers fan across Scully's cheek, crossing the bridge of her nose to close the lids of her eyes. "I can take away the cancer, Dana. But, only you can believe that I've done so." I hold my breath as Cassandra cups Scully's face in her hands. The woman's eyes roll back into her skull like some type of voodoo practicing priestess, except she's not chanting out loud, only in her thoughts. I can't hear them, but see the signs of focused concentration, of healing hinged on faith... both hers and Scully's. But, I'm a pagan. The closest thing I embraced to religion is Scully, and I'm not about to test Cassandra's "developing skills" by removing the one thing proven to keep my wife's cancer in remission. "He was hoping you'd think that way, Agent Mulder," Cassandra murmurs, opening her eye to acknowledge my thoughts. "Who? The smoking Beelzebub?" "Now's not the time to turn into a skeptic," she cautions me. "You can open your eyes now, Dana. Hopefully, you'll be able to persuade Fox to do the same." "Leaving so soon?" I can't help the level of sarcasm when I see Scully's moist, grateful gaze follow her to the door. "Are you off to host the next oil baron's ball?" "Mulder, shut up," Scully hisses. She hurries after Cassandra to embrace the woman in farewell. "Next time you and your faceless friends want to drop by, tell them to lower their headlights," I yell, smirking at the sewn-shut faces of the Resistance. Of course, I do this knowing full well that they can't stick their tongues back at me. Scully slams the door, almost taking my nose along with it. Scowling at me, she crosses to the closet and fumbles through the darkness for her medical bag. It's dark, now... The Resistance leaves with what can only be described as the speed of light... which is a term I toss sarcastically to Scully. But, rather than swim over to catch my latest offering, she only looks ready to bite my head off. My cute beluga has transformed into an orca...a killer whale whose cold, blue eyes warn me that one false move and I'm fish bait. I stand back, allowing her to drag her bag over to the night table. Scully turns on the lamp and begins to dig through her stash of pre-natal vitamins. She draws out a small lancet and a tube of lidocaine, which I instantly recognize as a topical anesthetic. "Scully...no!" I hurry over to grab her hand. "Don't do it." "I'm not," she says through clenched teeth. "You're going to do it for me." To be continued.... Part 10 of 10 There was a time that faith was a matter of convenience. I believed in God, but practiced my religion out of habit and an occasional yearning for the child-like comfort it gave me. As I grew older, science became my creed. I chose tangible facts over ethereal concepts, appropriate for what I considered to be my educated and sophisticated mind. Yet, now I'm clinging to faith like a zealot... Not in God, but in Cassandra Spender... a human/alien hybrid who with one touch has vanquished the dark cloud of cancer that has dimmed my horizon. And, she has delivered a message, a prophecy that I'm more than willing to accept. Our child...Mulder's and mine... will be the first of a new generation... biologically immune to the alien plague. Hope is inside of me. But, so is the gauge by which I have cautiously measured it. The micro-chip embedded in my neck, programmed to keep my cancer in remission, has a dual purpose. Like a homing device, it enables the Consortium to monitor my movements, to track me down and steal my hope from me. Because of this new threat, I'm an instant convert, no longer willing to debate science over faith. Unfortunately, Mulder is content to remain an excommunicate. His recites cynicism as a creed, a studied theologian of distrust. "I won't do it!" He throws the lancet down as if I just handed him a scalpel. "I'm not asking you to perform exploratory surgery, Mulder." "No, you're asking me to believe that Cassandra Spender is some type of psycho-healer." "Don't you mean psychic?" "Nope." Mulder retorts. "She may be flying over the cuckoo's nest with the Resistance, but she still belongs there." "You're afraid, Mulder," I state flatly. "Damn right, Scully." Mulder snaps. "We know the chip keeps your cancer in remission. It's unrefuted, hard evidence. As a scientist, you know that, yet you're willing to chance your own health... and our baby's... on what? The affinity you feel towards Cassandra? The sisterhood of the chip?" "Mulder," I murmur, dropping my head. "Why is it that, after all these years, you're still incapable of seeing the forest through the trees?" "Maybe because you're asking me to play lumberjack with your neck," he retorts. "And, don't ask me to hack away on my tree of life." Only Mulder can expand a metaphor to make it both harsh and poignant at the same time. I lift my face to his, beseeching with my eyes which have always conveyed more than I'm capable of speaking. But, the articulation of my soul seems lost upon him. He cringes away, hurt and disillusioned by what he thinks is a hybrid of my trust. "Please try to understand, Mulder," I tell him, reaching for the lidocaine and lancet. "I won't bring our child into this world to be hunted down as a congenital lab rat." When he turns away from me, I sigh and go into the bathroom. Leaning over the sink, I rub the back of my neck with the lidocaine. As the lancet sinks into my skin, I suppress a cry of pain... more emotional than physical... for in the mirror, I see Mulder's reflection. Tears are sliding down his face in silent protest. A sob catches in my throat, but I continue prodding for the implant. Blood begins to trickle down the side of my neck. Unable to feel the contours of the tiny chip, I stab for it repeatedly, digging deeper into the epidermal layer of my skin. I can't find it. Shoulder's tensing, I stop to grip the edge of the sink and take several deep breaths. I'm not only losing my nerve, but dexterity... "How am I to isolate a minuscule piece of metal that I can't see or feel?" I moan in frustration. "I can't fucking watch this..." I hear Mulder swear under his breath. Just when I think he's going to leave, he steps behind me and takes the lancet from my bloodied fingers. Pushing aside my matted hair, he lowers my head so that the light of the vanity falls on my torn flesh. Within seconds, it's over. The chip is removed and washed down the drain with his tears and my blood. "Thank you," I whisper in relief. "Don't thank me," Mulder's voice cracks. His hand acts as a temporary bandage as he reaches for a washcloth. "Just promise that you won't die on me." "I promise," I sniff, finally allowing tears to dampen my eyes. "I want to believe...," he quotes his own worn-out motto. "Unconditional trust, Mulder," I remind him, turning around to press my forehead against the solid warmth of his chest. "In Cassandra?" Mulder's voice is tight with apprehension. "A bug-eyed Yoda wannabe?" "In me... and the force of my love for you." *********** Being a skeptic of Scully's hope is hard, time-consuming work. Especially when I see her thriving with health, blossoming like a rose in the mild heat of a northern summer. Pregnancy suits her well. Her face, now absent of makeup that once masked her discontent, shines with a glow that is remarkably youthful. In the three months that we've spent at our cabin in the Adirondacks, time has erased the stressed-induced signs of her premature aging. I can't help but want to be young with her.... Sighing, I glance out the window of the cabin to watch her. While I've spent the majority of my days by the radio, listening for news of another catastrophic event, Scully traipses through the forest like some type of woodland fairy. Although we have enough food and provisions to last us into the next century, she scavenges the countryside daily. I think she's looking for nature's edibles, hoping to tempt me from my fast in life. Today, she carries a bucket of wild strawberries, half of which have made it into her mouth. Peering closer, I'm instantly aroused by the vision of lips stained red by crushed berries. It doesn't matter that she'll spend most of the afternoon futilely trying to bake a pie. A gourmet cook she's not, but right now she looks as tasty as croissant. Already I'm imagining the warm texture of her buttermilk skin, the sweetness of her juice-filled mouth. Oh, Scully... I want to break the fast.... Like you, I want to believe.... Scully no longer searches the horizon. To her, the dim fog in the distance is only the mist on the lake. While I wait for the next attack, bristling with anxiety when I sniff smoke in the air, she only shrugs and reaches for a fishing pole. When I accuse her of returning to her "comfortably numb" state, she shakes her head slowly and says, "No, Mulder. I've only chosen to live in hope rather than fear." It's time for me to join her. The world has and always will be an uncertain place. Whether the destruction of D.C. was the beginning of the end, worrying about the future won't change it. I can't martyr myself to the unknown... not now. Not when my reason for living... Scully... has found balance at last. Not to mention that she's promised to take me fly- fishing.... I turn off the radio and my melancholy. I can hear her steps on the porch and feel the lifting of my heart as I open the cabin door. She's here. My wife... wrapping her tanned arms around my neck, pressing her berry flavored lips against mine. "You're home early, Nature Girl," I greet her between kisses. "There's something I wanted to show you," Scully replies. Smiling, she takes my hand and places it on her belly. Through the thin material of her shirt, I feel a small flutter. When I startle, she only laughs and pushes my hand back. "Is that what I think it is?" I gasp. "That's you child saying hello," Scully says softly. "Would you like to say something back?" Grinning, I lower my head to Scully's stomach. "Message received, little one," I murmur gratefully. Hope has found me, at last. The End....