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DISCLAIMER: For the most part, the characters included
within this work of fiction belong to Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen Productions, and the Fox Network. I mean no
infringement.
Warning: Adult language and situations.
This is a Pre-quel to 12 Degrees of Separation and takes place
within the same universe. You will find notable discrepancies
between this piece and 12 Degrees as I have incorporated third
season story developments into the canon of the 12 Degrees
Universe.
A special thank you to Kathy Nahill for her medical expertise--
if you see something wrong with the medical terminology, etc.
it's MY fault, not hers. :)
Now...on to the show....
12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#1: "Reevaluation"
by Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com
Part a:
January 20th, 1998
Chevron Food Mart
Washington, D.C.
7:22 p.m.
He cradled her body tightly to his as they lay side by side
on the floor. Gently supporting her neck in the crook of
one arm, he pressed his other hand hard against her
thigh, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
"I can hear the sirens now," he murmured into her hair,
hardly recognizing his own voice.
"I'm c-cold...."
He tucked her more firmly against his body, trying to
envelope her in his own heat. "Just a little longer,
Scully--almost there--"
Fox Mulder was barely aware of the other people in the
convenience store. He was barely aware of anything at all
beyond the slow, shallow rise and fall of Dana Scully's
chest, the hot, wet feel of her life seeping out between his
fingers.
Where the hell were the paramedics?
"Here." A man crouched next to him, holding out a rough
woolen blanket. Mulder spared him a grateful glance and a
nod, and the man put the blanket over Scully's shivering
body, tucking it tightly around her.
Mulder touched his lips to the curve of her ear. "Better?"
She didn't answer.
"Scully?"
He didn't feel her shivers anymore. And with the blanket
over her, he couldn't tell if her chest continued to rise
and fall.
Fear as primal and shattering as anything he'd ever known
shot through him. "Scully?"
She stirred slightly, and he sucked in a long, shuddery
breath.
"Come on, Scully, you know the drill. Gotta stay focused,
okay?"
"Mulder...." Her voice was faint and thready.
"Just a few more seconds, Scully--help's coming." He
pressed his fist harder into her leg and she moaned.
But he didn't release the pressure. It was the only thing
keeping her alive. "I know, I know, Scully--you hate when I
try to play doctor." He ventured a chuckle, but it was a
wretched, watery sound.
"Mulder...I don't think I can...."
He clutched her to him more tightly. "Damn it, Scully, I
won't put up with this bullshit! You hear me? I won't put
up with it." He whispered the words into her hair, his lips
brushing her temple. "I won't."
Her hand fluttered under the blanket, finding where his fist
crushed the make-shift compress against her spurting gunshot
wound. She lay her palm over the back of his hand, her
touch frail, her fingers cold. "I'm sorry, Mulder...."
"No, Scully!" He looked around wildly, gaze barely skimming
across the crowd of on-lookers, the toppled candy display,
the broken bottles of soda still fizzing quietly across the
dirty tile floor of the food mart. "Where the hell are the
EMTs?" His hoarse shout broke through the low, excited buzz
from the crowd surrounding him. "What's taking so long?"
He'd been hearing sirens for what seemed like hours but the
EMTs were no closer to arrival.
Damn it, Scully, he thought, turning his attention back to
his dying partner, why did you do it?
Why'd you take my bullet?
The kid had aimed the .22 at him, not Scully. The bullet
had his name, his fate, his shit-for-karma written all over
it. She could've gone for her gun instead of diving into
the line of fire. Hell, knowing Scully, she probably could
have apprehended the shooter AND saved his own life without
breaking a sweat.
"Why did you do it, Scully?" He didn't realize he'd
spoken aloud until he heard her soft, raspy wheeze.
"I had to...." She tightened her hand over his
convulsively, and he realized she was in the throes of great
pain. His own body spasmed in empathy. "My....job...."
He pressed his lips into the soft hair at her temple, loving
her in that instant with a power that blazed from him like
pure energy. "Bad call, Scully." His voice caught, choking
him. "Gotta learn to prioritize better. Cover your own ass
first--it's the better ass."
She made a soft, strangled sound that he could swear was an
attempted laugh. A coughing fit seized her immediately, and
her tiny body racked, her breath coming in horrible,
wheezing gasps.
The sirens he heard grew exponentially louder and louder,
and he lifted his head toward the sound, excitement surging
through his tense body as he realized he could see the
flashing strobe of the paramedic van's revolving red bubble
light. "Here's the cavalry, Scully. Must be your lucky
day."
A pair of Emergency Medical Technicians crouched beside him,
equipment and supplies in hand. "Whadda we got?" the female
queried, lifting the blanket.
"Gunshot wound, upper thigh--I think it nicked an artery. .22
caliber semi-automatic--" Mulder recited the words like he was
reading a script, while a huge, relentless part of him shrieked
with mindless, wordless terror.
God oh God she's dying and I can't stop it and what if they
can't stop it either oh God don't let anything happen to her
take me instead take me and leave her oh God if you're
listening listen now I can't lose her I can't can't can't
can't....
The male E.M.T. pushed Mulder's rigid hand away from the
bullet wound. The paramedic whistled softly through his
teeth as a gout of blood spurted from the wound, his face
almost expressionless as he glanced at his partner and shook
his head slightly, even as he went to work controlling the
blood flow.
Mulder had the inexplicable urge to knock the paramedic's
teeth down his throat. Didn't he know what he was so
blithely implying--what he was seeing as Dana Scully's
lifeblood gushed away heartbeat by heartbeat?
Didn't he know he was watching the whole world come to an
end?
* * * * *
N.E. Georgetown Medical Center
8:38 p.m.
Margaret Scully burst through the front door of the
Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, her air somewhere
between purposeful and panic-stricken. She ignored the
information desk and headed toward the corridor leading to a
bank of elevators. Eyes darting from side to side, she
looked for someone--anyone--who looked like he knew what was
going on.
She caught sight of a dark-haired young woman in a white
coat turning the corner. She took a couple of steps toward
her, oblivious to the nearest elevator sliding open or the
tall, powerfully built man emerging.
Only his voice, tight and commanding, stayed her from her
intended course. "Mrs. Scully."
She stopped, her head whipping around to look at him. She
recognized the strong, handsome features behind wire-rimmed
glasses, the impressive width of his shoulders and imposing
bulk. Dana's boss, Mr. Skinner. "Where is she?"
"In surgery." He put a hand under her elbow and gently drew
her back toward the elevator he'd just vacated.
Her stomach flip-flopped, and she could barely draw a
breath. "What's her condition?"
"We don't know yet. She's lost a good bit of blood."
She pulled away from him, sagging against the wall of the
elevator as he pushed the button for the fifth floor. She'd
felt a tight, scared feeling all afternoon, just as she had
at other times when her family was threatened. The frantic
dream that had awakened her in time to hear her husband's
gasping goodbye the night he died. The horrible dream that
had eventually led her to Dana's apartment in time to see a
stunned Fox Mulder standing amid the broken glass and
detritus of a life interrupted.
The horror that preceded her vigil at Melissa's deathbed....
"What happened? An accident? A...." She swallowed
convulsively, unwilling to voice her fear, her certainty
that what had happened to her daughter had been no accident.
She told herself she was inured to the dangers her daughter
and Fox Mulder faced daily, but the truth was, she'd never
get used to it.
She wasn't SUPPOSED to get used to it.
Walter Skinner stood across the elevator from her, studying
her through slightly narrowed eyes. "Your daughter and
Agent Mulder walked in on an attempted robbery of a gas
station, Mrs. Scully. Dana was shot in the upper thigh. I'm
sorry--I don't know much beyond that."
She looked up at him, sensing there was something more he
wasn't saying. "How did she get shot? What happened? Did
she try to take the robber into custody?"
He sighed. "Details are sketchy--"
"She took a bullet for Fox, didn't she?" A faint, curling
sensation rippled through her stomach. She didn't need to
see the confirmation in Walter Skinner's dark eyes.
Instinctively she knew the truth.
"I"m sure he wouldn't--"
She waved off his attempted defense of Fox Mulder. "I know
he'd never have put her in danger willingly."
The elevator reached the fifth floor with a muted "ding."
The doors swished open and Mr. Skinner glanced at her,
obviously waiting for her step through the doors first. She
put out her hand, clutching his thick forearm. "Wait...."
He looked down at her, his expression a mingling of
expectancy and wariness.
"How is Fox?"
He stared at her a second, his lips parting slightly in
surprise. "Not good," he said finally.
She closed her eyes for a second, sucking in a deep breath.
Then she stepped out of the elevator. She let Walter
Skinner lead her toward the surgical floor waiting room. On
a Tuesday evening, the place was almost deserted--a young
couple sat huddled together at one end of the room, while an
older woman and two middle-aged men sat together on the
bench by the picture window overlooking a small courtyard
garden.
And in the middle of the room, with an edgy energy that was
exhausting to behold, Fox Mulder paced back and forth in a
tight half-circle.
He stopped immediately when he caught sight of them. His
gaze met hers, haunted eyes glittering like smoky jewels for
one taut moment before he looked away, shame and fear
wrestling for dominance over his features.
She closed her eyes for a second, interrupting her silent,
unceasing prayer for her daughter's safety long enough to
lift a prayer for this dear, haunted man who loved her
daughter so. Opening her eyes, she abandoned Skinner's side
and went to Fox Mulder, stilling his renewed pacing with a
gentle hand on his arm. "Fox."
He couldn't meet her gaze. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully--I'm so
sorry--"
She squeezed his forearm. "Mr. Skinner told me most of what
happened."
He shook his head, his features like stone. His mouth
worked silently as if he were trying to find words to utter
something that burned like fire inside him. But in the end,
he simply shook his head again and looked down at the
rust-colored spatters staining the dark brown leather of his
shoes.
She resisted the urge to pull him into her arms. He wasn't
ready for her forgiveness, much less her comfort. And he
was in no condition to offer her any comfort of her own.
Everything was too fresh, too raw. She looked him over,
taking in the rumpled, stained shirt and dusty trousers, the
redness that covered his right hand from fingertips to mid-
forearm.
Dana's blood on his hands--
She pushed away the unbidden thought as quickly as it had
arisen. None of this was Fox Mulder's fault. He'd have
given his life a hundred times over to prevent even one
of the events that had plagued her family over the past few
years. He loved her daughter, even if he and Dana wouldn't
see it, wouldn't admit it. They were connected, integrated
halves of a dynamic whole. She knew that if her daughter
died, Fox Mulder wouldn't survive the year.
Fate and maybe something more divine had brought them
together, set them on a path that had led them to a truth
more profound than any they sought. Margaret wouldn't allow
herself to contemplate the idea that her daughter might not
live to recognize this truth.
"I'm so sorry." Fox's voice was broken and breathy like a
child's.
She touched him again, not offended by his instinctive
flinch. She tried to relax, tried to let the right words
come into her heart and mind so that she would know how to
comfort the young man. But before she could speak, the
doors to the waiting room swung open and a handsome black
man in pale green surgical scrubs entered.
All heads rose to greet the doctor. After a second, the
other two clusters of people sharing the waiting room looked
away, obviously not recognizing the young surgeon. He
didn't spare them a glance as he closed the distance between
himself and Fox Mulder.
Fox stared at the doctor, his eyes wide and panic-stricken
in a face that was as cold and expressionless as stone.
"How is she?"
The doctor waited until Margaret and Walter Skinner closed
the circle. "The bullet was small. It didn't hit a bone and
didn't do much damage beyond the entry wound and the nicked
artery. She lost a lot of blood prior to her arrival--the
artery was
pretty compromised and it was touch and go, trying to repair it
before she bled out."
Fox's lips tightened with impatience. "Is she going to be
all right?"
The doctor met his wild-eyed gaze with admirable calm. "We
were able to repair the damage and replenish Agent Scully's
blood supply with relatively little difficulty. She's going
to be very weak and very sore for a couple of weeks, but
barring any complications, she should be all right. I'll
send someone to get you as soon as she's out of recovery and
into the intensive care unit."
Margaret expelled a watery sigh, weak with relief. To her
left, Mulder sagged, groping for the back of a waiting room
chair to steady his balance. He closed his eyes and lifted
his face toward the ceiling as if offering up a benediction.
The surgeon started to leave, then turned back to Fox. "You
were the one on the scene, weren't you? You administered
first aid." The surgeon's dark eyes took in Fox's
disheveled appearance, saw the blood staining his clothes
and skin. Though Margaret could tell the doctor was
well-schooled in maintaining professional detachment, she
couldn't mistake the compassion in his voice.
Fox nodded slowly.
"You saved her life." The surgeon gave a little nod, the
briefest of smiles, then turned and walked out the waiting
room door.
Fox stared at the doorway for a long moment, his expression
void. Then he closed his eyes and slumped into the nearest
chair, sagging forward as if every nerve in his body had gone
suddenly, blessedly numb.
Margaret's eyes stung with the tears she'd been fighting
since she'd gotten the call to come to the hospital. She
sat in the chair next to him, sliding her arm around his
shoulder. He didn't resist when she gently drew his head
against the curve of her neck, stroking his hair with gentle
fingers. "Thank you for taking care of my baby girl."
A soft, hitching sound escaped his throat.
Margaret rocked him gently, murmuring sounds that
communicated nothing but comfort and love. Out of the
corner of her eye she saw Walter Skinner cross to the bank
of payphones in the corner, moving with an air of confidence
and power that was intriguing and comforting at the same
time. Margaret added his name to the prayers she continued
to lift to her God, grateful for Walter Skinner's concern
for her daughter--and for Fox.
After a few moments, Fox drew away from her, taking a deep
breath as if to compose himself. Margaret left her hand
against his back, soothing him with the same gentle caress
she'd used to calm her children when they were babies.
"Maybe you should go home for a little while, get cleaned
up. Dana probably won't be out of recovery for another
hour--"
He shook his head with a violent side-to-side motion. "I'm
not leaving 'til I see her."
She rubbed his back. "At least you need to clean up a bit."
He stared down at his right hand, where Dana's blood had
begun to dry and darken on his skin. His eyes narrowed with
a slight twitch, as if he could hardly bear the sight.
Unbidden, a memory sliced into Margaret's mind--Fox Mulder
with his hand outstretched to her, blood glistening on his
fingertips as she stood, stunned and terrified, in the chaos
of her daughter's wrecked apartment. She drew a sharp,
shaky breath, reliving the horror of that first, fateful
meeting with Fox Mulder.
At the sound, Fox turned to look at her, his hazel-gray eyes
haunted. Without words, they shared that moment again,
understanding the import of what had happened the night
Duane Barry kidnapped Dana, what truths it had revealed to
them both.
Fox looked away first, his gaze returning to his
bloodstained hand. "I'll see if I can borrow some scrubs or
something, get myself washed up. I don't want her to see me
like this." He rose, his movements slow and stiff, and
wandered over to the courtesy desk, where an older lady in a
pink uniform sat. The woman lifted compassionate eyes to
him, smiling and nodding at his murmured query.
Margaret closed her eyes, trusting the attendant to help
Fox. Adrenaline seeped away, enervating her, turning her
limbs to jelly and her mind to fog. She felt the warmth of
another person's body next to hers, heard the soft scrape of
the chair against the wall as he sat, but she didn't open
her eyes.
"Are you all right, Mrs. Scully?" Walter Skinner's low
voice tingled down her spine.
She forced her eyes open, turning to meet his concerned
gaze. "Yes. Just a little shaky." She sighed. "I can't
tell you how sick I am of hospitals."
An expression of pain flitted across his craggy face,
tightening his jaw and darkening his eyes. Margaret felt a
quick rush of embarrassment and regret, remembering that Mr.
Skinner had lost his wife barely a year ago. A brain
aneurysm, Dana had said--a complication from a severe head
injury Mrs. Skinner had suffered in a car accident several
months before her death. "I'm sorry, Mr. Skinner--I should
have--"
He shook his head quickly, his expression already back to
normal. "I'm going to check on Agent Mulder--maybe I can go
get him a change of clothes. Will you be okay?" He spoke
in the same gentle, concerned voice he'd used almost three
years earlier when he'd stood with her in another hospital,
at another bedside.
She closed her eyes against the fresh surge of pain from the
old wound, then opened them again, meeting his gaze. "I'll
be fine. Take care of Fox for me."
A smile almost made it to his mouth before evaporating.
"I'll do that."
Margaret watched him leave the room, his broad shoulders and
purposeful stride reminding her of another strong,
complicated man she'd known, a man she'd loved since she was
seventeen years old. She closed her eyes again, thinking of
William, knowing with utter certainty that he was watching
over their baby girl, keeping her safe for another night.
* * * * *
January 21, 1998
Northeast Georgetown Hospital
4:13 a.m.
Fox Mulder slipped back into the intensive care unit after a
quick bathroom break, ignoring the disapproving glare of the
night duty nurse. He'd shamelessly used his credentials to
bypass hospital rules and stay at his partner's side through
the night. Scully had awakened only briefly since her
surgery, long enough for the doctors to ascertain that she
was lucid and not suffering any complications from her
surgery. But mostly, she slept, aided by the Demerol and
the shock her body had suffered through.
As for Mulder, he contented himself to watch her sleep,
heartened by the color slowly returning to her ashen cheeks,
the steady sussuration of her breathing, the even beeps of
her EKG monitor. Dr. Ramsey, the surgeon, had dropped by
several times during the night to check on her, confessing
his satisfaction with her rapid and steady improvement.
Night swallowed the ICU, purple-black shadows relieved only
by the soft glow of light over each bed in the unit. Mulder
pulled the chair closer to Scully's bed and took her hand in
his. He lifted her knuckles to his cheek, taking courage in
the increasing warmth of her flesh. He was gentle, careful
not to awaken her. It was enough to know that in the
morning, she WOULD awaken and look at him with those
startling blue eyes. Scold him, perhaps, for the circles
under his eyes and the day's growth of beard. Order him to
go home and go to bed.
He relished the argument to come.
Matter of fact, he relished the thought of having a future
to spend with her, listening to her low, modulated tones as
she debunked all his theories with passion and conviction,
watching her fight laughter in the face of his best jokes.
The sheer joy of knowing that tomorrow or the next day he
would hear the familiar words, "I'm fine, Mulder."
Men his age often claimed disatisfaction with the
predictabilitiy of their lives, but Mulder longed for
predictability. Stability. Knowing that there was a
constant in the world, something that never changed, no
matter what.
For him, Scully was that constant. Fierce, loyal, honest,
brave, compassionate--she was the whole foundation of his
life now. She held him steady, prevented his collapse,
protected him from the shifting sands surrounding them.
Being without her was inconceivable.
He gently brushed her knuckles against his cheek, careful
not to let his beard stubble scratch her skin. "You scared
the shit out of me last night, Scully."
Her chest rose in slow, steady rhythm, soothing his still-
frazzled nerves.
"I'm the one who's supposed to wake up in the hospital,
atoning for my foolhardy ways. I don't know how to act on
this side of the bed." He lifted her fingers to his lips,
kissing her knuckles with the lightest of touches. "Don't
make a habit of this."
He closed his eyes, weariness finally beginning to catch up
with the adrenaline that had seen him through the ordeal to
this point. He bent forward, resting his head on the bed
next to her hip. He held onto her hand, needing even that
simple touch of her skin against his.
He was so tired. Tired of holding her at arm's length,
tired of putting his life--their lives--on hold while he
searched for his sister and the truth. He'd always counted
the costs of his quest and found them worth the possible
rewards--but not this time. Not this cost. When he'd lain
on that dirty convenience store floor and watched Scully's
life draining away in front of him, he'd felt the full
weight of his sacrifice. So much he would never know--the
warmth of her lips against his own, the taste of her, the
mysteries that made her Dana Scully--all the things he'd
never let himself consider consciously for fear that he'd lose
himself in her and never find his way back.
But right now, losing himself in her was all he wanted.
Over the past few hours, he'd reevaluated his life, taken
stock, weighed the goals against the sacrifices. And
nothing was worth what he'd almost lost tonight. Not even
the truth.
Not even Samantha.
* * * * *
Dana Scully awoke to a faint buzz of pain in her right thigh.
She shifted slightly and froze as the pain blossomed,
ratcheting through her whole body.
When she was able to draw another breath, she opened her
eyes and processed her surroundings. A hospital room, she
recognized immediately. IV's, EKG monitor, soft sounds of
voices, antiseptic smells. Her right hand stung where the
IV needle pierced her vein; she felt the unaccustomed tug of
adhesive on the flesh of her inner thigh.
Her mind was fuzzy, a bit off center--Demerol, she thought.
Maybe the after-effects of anesthesia. Maybe both. She
breathed carefully, acutely aware of the looming pain in her
leg. Cautiously, she turned her head to her left.
And saw Fox Mulder's face.
He was hunched over the side of her bed, his head butted up
against her hip, his face soft and boyish in sleep. His
right hand curled around her left hand, his fingers loosely
intertwined with hers. His jawline was blue with a day's
growth of beard, and his hair was spiked in a dozen
different directions. Gently disentangling her fingers from
his, she reached down and smoothed his hair, indulging
herself in the luxury of touching him without consequence or
question.
Memory seeped back into her mind, sounds and sensations. A
gunshot, impossibly loud for such a small weapon. A ripping
pain in her leg. Mulder holding her, twisting his tie around
her upper leg, pressing his hand to her thigh to stop the flow of
blood. Her growing certainty that the paramedics would
never reach her in time. The hard ache of sorrow at leaving
Mulder behind, the burgeoning fear for him, for what her
death would do to him.
She remembered the touch of his mouth against her hair, the
soft, desperate words uttered like a prayer.
Just a few more minutes, Scully. Help's coming.
He'd saved her life. Without a doubt. And not for the
first time.
She stroked his hair gently, tears pricking her eyes. What
he was to her was so much more complicated--and simple--than
just a colleague, just a friend. He'd taught her to believe
that there were greater truths in life than what the eyes
could see or the ears could hear. He'd helped her open
herself to extreme possibilities--sometimes kicking and
screaming all the way.
She loved him utterly, mindlessly. What use was there in
trying to categorize or compartmentalize those feelings?
He stirred. She lowered her hand to the bed as his eyes
blinked open and met her gentle gaze. A smile broke over
his face, full and beautiful, and she could hardly catch her
breath.
He sat up, wincing a little as his limbs apparently
protested the movement. He waggled three fingers in front
of her. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
She bit back a chuckle. "What are fingers?"
"Ha ha." He caught her hand in his. "How're you feeling?"
"Like I got shot in the leg."
"What a coincidence."
"How long have I been out?"
He glanced at his watch. "Off and on for about seven
hours."
"The shooter?"
"Cooling his heels in the city jail." A grim expression
darkened Mulder's face.
Scully tightened her grip on his hand. "Did I see my
mother? I vaguely remember--"
"She's catching some sleep in the waiting lounge. I
promised to look after you."
"You're not supposed to be in the intensive care, Mulder.
I'm pretty sure these aren't normal visiting hours."
He grinned, unrepentant. "Creds will get you anywhere,
Scully."
"Roast beefed 'em, did you?" She tried to look stern.
After all, it was against Bureau policy for an agent to use
his badge to brook favors. But she had no room to scold
him--she'd done the same thing herself more than once when
he was in trouble.
He cradled her hand between his own and lifted it to his
lips. Lightly, he touched his mouth to her knuckles. The
open caress surprised her--but not as much as the look of
bold determination in his eyes as his gaze met hers. "I'd
break any rule for you, Scully. You know that."
Her heart thudded wildly, making her feel a little dizzy.
What had come over her partner, the man who hid even the
mildest of compliments behind a mask of humor? The man who,
when she'd returned to the living after three lost months,
bypassed flowers and gave her "Superstars of the Superbowl"
as a get-well present?
Secretly, she'd dreamed of having this man look at her this
way, his heart in his eyes, in his voice.
But now, was she ready? Could she really face the risks of
stepping outside the comfortable bounds they'd set for
themselves from the beginning? The rewards--God, the
rewards could be incredible.
But there was also so much to lose--
Fortunately, she was granted a reprieve by the arrival of a
slender black man in a white coat. He smiled at her, nodded
at her partner, and flipped open the chart at the bottom of
her bed. "Good morning, Agent Scully. I'm Dr. Ramsey. I
was the vascular surgeon assigned to your case when you
arrived last night, and I'll have to say, you're making me look
like a genius." He smiled at her again. Scully liked him
immediately.
"So, what exactly did you do to my leg, Dr. Ramsey?"
He explained the surgery, the repairs to her artery and the
surprisingly slight amount of collateral damage. "You're a
lucky woman, Agent Scully. Lucky that the wound wasn't as
bad as it could have been--and that you had somebody looking
out for you on scene." He glanced at Mulder.
Scully looked at her partner, not hiding her affection for
once. "Yeah, well, I taught him everything he knows."
Mulder looked up, meeting her teasing look with a little
chuckle.
"Your vitals are excellent, considering the condition you
were in when you arrived. If they remain constant over the
next few hours, I'll see about getting you in a private room
around lunch time." The doctor smiled. "Deal?"
She nodded. "Any idea on recovery time?"
Dr. Ramsey shrugged. "You're in good health. The damage
wasn't as bad as it might have been--maybe a month?"
A month? She frowned, thinking about how much damage Mulder
could do to the office on his own for a month. "How quickly
could I return to office work?"
"Scully--" Mulder began.
She cut him off with a look. "Well?" she asked the doctor.
"You're going to be here for at least two or three more
days, and you'll be sore for two weeks minimum. The blood
loss you suffered compromised your body's ability to fight
infection, so you may well have to fight off a bug or two.
I'd suggest you take the whole four week recovery period and
not try to rush things." He gave her a stern, doctorly look
before he left the ICU.
Standard doctor answer. Which meant that if she was lucky--
or good--she might be back at work in three weeks. And she
could probably access the Bureau's mainframe from her home
computer, so she could be back in business in a week--unless
she could talk a techie into helping her figure out how to
use the hospital phone lines to hook up her lap top. Maybe
Pendrell--
"There's nothing we have going on that's worth risking your
health, Scully." Mulder's voice gently broke into her
thoughts.
"The Fiedler case--"
"--can wait," he insisted. "It's not like Fiedler can get
any more dead, Scully. And besides, you said there was
probably nothing paranormal about the man losing his head in
a time-locked bank vault, even though we couldn't find the head
anywhere." His eyes twinkled.
Bastard, she thought affectionately, he had a lot of nerve,
turning her words on her. But at least the doctor's visit
had distracted him from his earlier, uncharacteristic
display of unpartnerlike affection. She needed more time to
process things, to figure out what she really wanted--and
more importantly, what would really be best for her and
Mulder in the long run.
Like any person in the world, she longed to have it all--
friendship, love, passion, affection. And if there was a
man in the world who could give her all of that, surely it
was Mulder. But what they already had was so good--better
than anything she'd ever known before. They were connected
on levels she hadn't even known existed. They shared a
devotion that was singular, intense, exclusive. No other
man in the world would do for her--that much she knew.
But what if they were being greedy, wanting more even though
they already shared so much more than any two humans had a
right to hope for? What if the punishment for that greed
was the loss of everything they already had?
She closed her eyes, suddenly bone tired. She didn't want
to think about this anymore. She didn't want to think at
all. She simply wanted to lie here in this bed, with Fox
Mulder by her side, holding her hand, and drift back into
dreams unmuddied by doubts or questions.
She felt his hand move lightly over her cheek, caressing
her, soothing her. His touch was gentle, undemanding.
"You want me to leave so you can get some sleep?" His voice
was close to her ear; she felt his breath stir the hair of
her temple.
She shook her head. "Stay until I get to sleep, okay?"
"Okay."
"But promise me that you'll go home after that and get some
rest," she added.
He chuckled. "Yes, ma'am."
With his fingers playing lightly in her hair, she drifted
off to sleep.
* * * * *
January 24th, 1998
Dana Scully's Apartment
12:23 p.m.
While Fox Mulder and Margaret Scully brought Dana's
belongings inside the apartment, Scully sat gingerly in her
desk chair and pushed the power button of her computer. As
it booted up, she glanced through the stack of mail that had
accumulated during her four day stay at N.E. Georgetown
Medical Center.
"Where the hell did THIS come from?" Mulder's voice sounded
a little strained, and she turned carefully to see him
carrying a huge potted peace lily into her apartment.
"Alan Pendrell." She hid a smile as Mulder's dark eyebrows
twitched slightly upward.
He set the plant next to the sofa. "The techno-puppy
doesn't know the meaning of the word 'subtle,'" he muttered.
She turned back to the computer, allowing herself to grin
now that he couldn't see her do it.
"Honey, do you want cheese on your sandwich?" Margaret asked
from the kitchen.
Scully glanced at Mulder, amusement glittering in her eyes
as her mother's question took her back about thirty years.
"No cheese, Mom."
Mulder grinned and picked up a gift basket he'd brought up
from the car. "I see the Allentown MUFON women sent you a
gift, too."
Scully nodded. "Yes, they did. Wasn't that nice of them?"
"Well, hell, Scully, you're their pin-up girl, you know."
She thought about frowning at him, but what would be the
point? She knew his opinion about what had happened to her
while she was missing. She didn't happen to concur, but the
truth was--NOBODY knew what really happened to her except
her mysterious captors. And there was a distinct
possibility she'd never learn the truth.
A tiny "ding" sounded behind her, and a soft computerized
voice announced, "You have mail."
She turned and watched as the flashmail session downloaded
messages into her e-mail file. There were a couple of
suggestive subject titles that had "Frohike" written all
over them, a couple of interoffice memos that automatically
went out to any computers linked to the Bureau mainframe,
and one in all caps--Sarah Chandler, Scully thought with a
half-smile. Her quirky e-mail friend refused to bow to
cyberspace convention. She wrote everything in all-caps,
even though she knew full well that it was the cyberspace
equivalent of shouting. "I'M A SUCKY TYPIST AS IT IS,"
Sarah had written once. "WHY MAKE IT HARDER?"
"Anything interesting?" Mulder asked.
She looked over at him. He sat on her couch, fiddling with
the spiky leaves of a small agave plant that Skinner's
assistant, Eleanore, had sent. She liked the way he looked
at home here. It gave her an odd sense of security. "Not
really."
She bypassed Frohike's notes, not trusting herself to read
them without bursting into hysterical laughter as she was
prone to do. She glanced over the Bureau memos to make sure
they weren't important, then opened Sarah Chandler's note.
{{{DANA}}}
PENNY TOLD ME YOU WERE SHOT!!! SAID YOU'D BE OKAY, BUT GOD!
SHOT???!!! AND YOU SAID YOUR JOB WAS NOTHING BUT GLORIFIED
PAPER WORK. GUESS THIS GIVES NEW MEANING TO THE PHRASE
PAPER CUT! <G>
IT'S SO FRUSTRATING, SITTING HERE AND NOT KNOWING ANYTHING
ABOUT YOU BUT YOUR E-MAIL ADDY AND WHAT YOU'VE TOLD ME. I
CAN'T ASK PENNY--I WOULDN'T INVADE YOUR PRIVACY THAT WAY,
BUT IT'S SO HARD SITTING HERE, KNOWING MY FRIEND IS HURT AND
NOT BEING ABLE TO SO MUCH AS GIVE YOU A PHONE CALL! :(
I'M PLANNING A TRIP TO D.C. SOON TO CHECK OUT THE GEORGETOWN
LIBRARY FOR SOME RESEARCH ON MY DISSERTATION. I KNOW THIS
IS PROBABLY ASKING TOO MUCH, BUT I'D REALLY LIKE TO MEET
YOU. I'LL BE IN TOWN ON FEBRUARY 9TH--DO YOU THINK WE COULD
MEET SOMEWHERE, MAYBE LET ME TAKE YOU LUNCH? OR WILL YOU BE
FEELING WELL ENOUGH TO GET OUT?
***PLEASE*** WRITE BACK! JUST TO LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY!
SARAH C.
Scully opened a mail form and quickly composed a note
reassuring Sarah that she was okay, feeling very well
considering, and would love to meet her face to face when
she came to town. She sent the mail through and shut down
the computer.
"How about you, Fox? Do you want cheese on your sandwich?"
Margaret asked from the kitchen.
"Yes ma'am." Mulder winked at Scully, then rose swiftly as
she carefully pushed herself up from her desk chair. He was
at her side before she'd taken a step, his hand curling
around her elbow.
As pleasant as she found his touch, she didn't want him to
feel like he had to baby her. She gently removed his hand
from her arm, softening the rejection with a smile. "I
won't break, Mulder."
"I will."
His intense gaze sent an involuntary shiver down her back.
She swallowed with difficulty and forced herself to look
away. "So, how'd you manage to drag yourself away from the
office today, Mulder? I'd have thought four days without me
keeping the paper work at bay would've snowed you under."
He stepped back, allowing her the space for which she
silently asked. "I requested a clerk. Guess who I got?"
She quirked an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Holly Flanders."
Scully cocked her head. "The one Modell--"
"The one who whipped Skinner's ass with pepper spray and
size seven heels," Mulder answered with a wicked grin.
"Needless to say, Skinner hasn't bothered me all week."
Scully chuckled.
"Of course, I've steered clear of her all week myself," he
added with a wry chuckle. "I just say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no
ma'am' and 'whatever you want, ma'am.'"
"Any progress on the Fiedler case?"
He shook his head. "But you're not supposed to be worrying
about work, Scully. Dr. Ramsey gave me orders--keep you out
of the office for at least three weeks. I still don't know
why you didn't go stay with your mom for a couple of weeks--
make a vacation out of it."
"I tried to talk her into it, believe me." Margaret came
out of the kitchen, carrying a couple of plates.
Mulder met her quickly and took the food from her, setting
the plates on the low coffee table in front of the couch.
"You haven't taken a real vacation in years, Scully--"
She held up her hand to silence him. "I need to be here in
my own place. I need to reconnect with my life as quickly
as possible."
She realized that she was echoing the very words she'd said
to him just over three years ago, when she'd been released
from the hospital after nearly dying of unknown causes.
She'd lost weeks out of her life, weeks she would probably
never get back, and it had been essential to reestablish
herself as Dana Katherine Scully, who lived in Apartment 402
and worked for the F.B.I. and liked chocolate chip ice cream
and Truman Capote novels and yellow roses.
Though this time her time away had been three days instead
of three months, she still wanted to get back to her life,
to the stability and familiarity of it.
She could tell by the look in Mulder's eyes that he
understood her need. He touched her cheek with his
forefinger, the caress light and undemanding. "Okay."
Scully sat on her sofa, surrounded by the trappings of her
life and the two people she loved most in the world, and
smiled. She was a lucky woman.
* * * * *
February 9, 1998
Water's Cafe
Washington D.C.
1:36 p.m.
Dana Scully glanced at her watch, a frown creasing her
forehead. Sarah Chandler was over an hour late.
Had she gotten lost? Stuck at the Georgetown Library?
Maybe she was just a flake, Scully thought, frowning at the
glass of watery iced tea in front of her. You couldn't
really get to know a person by e-mail and the occasional
chat, after all.
She knew some essentials--or at least, what essentials Sarah
had told her. Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, was
finishing the first year of her PhD candidacy at Yale.
Astrophysics, a field that had briefly interested Scully
herself until she'd decided to attend medical school
instead.
She and Sarah had been corresponding by e-mail for five
months, ever since Penny Northern had put Sarah in touch
with Scully. Sarah was trying to find out something about
the first twelve years of her life--she'd been found
unconscious on a Charleston, South Carolina back street at
the age of twelve. She had no conscious memory of her life
before that time, although she'd been haunted by brief,
fragmented flashbacks for most of her life. A year ago,
Sarah had taken part in a Harvard University psychology
study utilizing hypnotic regression therapy. It was this
experience that had led Sarah to the Mutual U.F.O. Network
and Penny Northern. And Penny had led Sarah to Scully.
Think about it, Dana, Scully told herself as she rattled the
slivers of ice still left in her glass of tea. The woman
thinks she was abducted by aliens, and you're surprised that
she blew off a lunch?
She waited another ten minutes before giving up and ordering
a couple of sandwiches and cups of tea to go.
* * * * *
Fox Mulder's Office
2:03 p.m.
"Hungry?"
Fox Mulder looked up from the file he was perusing,
startled, then jumped to his feet. "What the hell are you
doing here, Scully? We had an agreement."
Scully handed him the bags she was carrying and gave him one
of her more irritated looks. "I'm not even limping anymore,
Mulder. Frankly, this forced exile is getting really old."
"You can't wait one more week?"
She followed him to his desk. "No, I can't. I'm fine,
Mulder."
He grinned. He couldn't help it. "What am I going to do
with you?"
"Have lunch with me, for starters." She reached for one of
the bags. "My lunch date stood me up, and I figured, why
let a trip to Water's go to waste? Have you eaten?"
He shook his head. "I got involved in writing up the final
report on the Fiedler case and lost track of time."
She gave him a look that told him she'd suspected as much.
She knew him better than he knew himself.
Funny what a sense of comfort that knowledge offered, for
he'd always loved being the enigma, the man of mystery. It
was like he was keeping a secret from the whole world--who
is this mysterious Fox Mulder and what exactly is he up to?
Only Scully had effortlessly stripped away all his layers of
protection and touched the real man inside. From the very
first. He'd tried to push her away, frighten her, befuddle
her--but Scully was nothing if not tenacious. She'd calmly
sliced through his protective armor and laid him bare and
vulnerable.
She had the power to destroy him--but chose to guard him
instead, shielding his weakness with her own strength. If
for no other reason, he would always love her for justifying
his trust.
She handed him a turkey club sandwich. "So, exactly how DID
you explain how Fiedler's secretary managed to enter the
bank vault--timed lock still engaged--rip off his head with
her bare hands and then remove herself AND the head from the
vault--time lock still engaged--without a single
surveillance camera catching her?" She unwrapped her own
sandwich and looked at him with bright-eyed amusement.
"Scully, I don't have to prove HOW she did it. We found the
head in her refrigerator." Mulder took a bite of the
sandwich.
She arched one eyebrow and bit into her own sandwich, chewed
and swallowed. "How did you figure it out, then? What made
you think, 'hey, that anorexic little blond secretary of
Fieldler's must have done it'?"
He chuckled. "Well, I was asking her a few questions one
day and apparently hit on a subject she didn't like. She
gave me a look that just said, 'Mess with me, asshole, and
I'll rip your head off.' And it just got me to
thinking...."
Scully chuckled, a rare, delightful sound that reminded
Mulder of bright summer mornings full of wonder and
possibility. The bite of sandwich he'd just swallowed stuck
in his throat for a second as he fought a moment of sheer,
raw emotion. Even though weeks had passed since that
frantic night he'd held her shivering, dying body on the
floor of a gas station food mart, every day he relived the
terror, the images burned like a brand in his memory.
He was going to have to approach her about the decision he'd
made by her bedside that first night in the hospital. But
now that time had eased the frantic need for resolution, he
wasn't sure what to say--or if she'd even be responsive.
Did she want to explore the possibilities that lay between
them?
The office wasn't the place to broach the question, he knew
instinctively. No matter what kind of relationship he and
Scully decided to explore, the office would have to be off
limits. This place was sacred in its own right. She loved
her work, loved the challenge of righting wrongs, of seeking
and finding justice. And he loved working with her. This
was not a part of his life he could imagine sacrificing, no
matter how much more he wanted from Scully.
He took a sip of iced tea and debated how best to handle
things. He could drop by her apartment--he did that all the
time anyway. Maybe talk her into going out and grabbing a
bite to eat--somewhere nice, for once. Hell, maybe even
dress up for it--he hadn't done that in a long time.
God, he thought with wry amusement, my palms are sweating.
Maybe he should just go ahead and ask her now. "Scully--"
A soft rap on the door interrupted him. The door opened and
Walter Skinner walked through. His stern expression
softened with a slight smile as he caught sight of Scully.
"I heard you were in the building, Agent Scully. How are you
feeling?"
Scully stood. "Fine, sir. Ready to come back to work
bright and early next Monday morning."
"What, no passionate plea for me to let you come back
early?"
She smiled slightly. "I would, sir, but my brother's ship
is going to be coming into port in Norfolk tonight, and I'm
headed there with my mother for a couple of days."
Mulder felt a twinge of disappointment. So much for a night
on the town.
"I'll be back on Thursday, though--if you want to bump me up
a day or so...."
"We'll stick with Monday." He gave a little wave. "You and
your mother have a good time." Skinner left the office,
shutting the door behind him.
Scully sat again, reaching for her sandwich. "Were you
about to say something when Skinner came in?"
He shook his head. It could wait.
End of #1
Rated PG-13 for adult language and situations.
12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#2: "Release"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com
Feb. 12, 1998
4:47 p.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters
Washington D.C.
Fox Mulder picked up the framed photo that had sat on his
desk for as long as he could remember. The small, smiling
face that stared back at him was as familiar as his own,
as familiar as Scully's. Wavy dark hair, a dusting of
freckles, a gaptoothed grin that haunted him asleep or
awake. It's strange, he thought, that I never really
understood how much I loved her until she was gone.
Before, she'd been a pest, a kid sister whose constant ploys
for attention had bugged the hell out of him. He'd always
assumed she was his father's favorite--whatever Samantha
wanted, Samantha got, while he himself had never seemed to
be able to do anything to please his father.
Strange that when it came time to make a choice, his father
had chosen to let the bastards take Samantha....
He shook his head, lowering the photograph gently to the
desk, as if he were holding the precious and fragile essence
of his lost sister in his hands. She'd been gone for
twenty-four years--three times the number of years that he'd
known her. Like an ancient creature preserved in amber,
Samantha lived in this photograph, captured in time,
unaltered by the intervening years.
When he was younger, he took comfort in that thought--he
held onto the photo, memorized it, learned everything he
could about who she had been--what she had loved, what she
had dreamed about, what she had hated. He'd searched his
memories, hounded his parents and Samantha's friends for
stories, searched through her room and her books and even
the little girl's diary he'd found hidden under her mattress
in the old house in Chilmark. He made her more real to him
in absence than she had ever been before, and he'd clung to
that picture of her, imprinted it on his heart and his mind
against the day when she came back.
He'd thought it would be a matter of days, maybe weeks. Not
months. Not years.
Not decades.
He put on his reading glasses and picked up the fax that
Trent Madison had sent a few minutes ago. It was a proposal
for putting the house in Chilmark on the market. Property
taxes in Massachussetts were slated to go up at the
beginning of the next fiscal year, and, according to his
father's estate lawyer, the house in Chilmark would quickly
become a drain on the estate.
"It's sitting there, unused and unvisited, Fox," Madison had
said over the phone a few minutes ago. "It's time to put it
on the market, get some return out of it. Your mother won't
listen to me about this, Fox, but I think she'll listen to
you."
He shook his head again, barely restraining the urge to
crumple the fax and throw it across the room. He knew that
the house was just a house--wood and bricks and sheetrock,
inanimate and of no real value beyond its function as a
home. It could burn to the ground tomorrow and the world
would keep revolving, the sun would keep shining, the clocks
would keep ticking.
But in his heart, he knew that something essential would
die. Maybe something as essential as hope. As long as the
Chilmark house was there, he could pretend that any day now,
Samantha would be coming home. He'd find her and take her
back to the house in Chilmark and everything would finally
be okay again. His adult mind recognized the foolishness of
those thoughts, but there was a part of Fox Mulder that
would forever be 12 years old, scared and longing for his
sister's return.
And that was the part of him that knew the phone call he was
about to make would change his life forever. He took a deep
breath and picked up the telephone.
Three rings later, his mother's voice greeted him. "Hello?"
"Hi, mom. I need to see you. Can I come up tonight?"
* * * * *
4:47 p.m.
F.B.I. Headquarters
Records and Information Division
Dana Scully frowned at the computer operator. "A week
ago?"
Gail Coen nodded. "Her roommate at Yale reported her
missing on February 6th. Her parents flew up from somewhere
down South--"
"Charleston," Scully supplied softly, staring at the
impersonal lines of information scrolling slowly down the
computer screen. Sarah Elizabeth Chandler, age 34, hair
brown, eyes green, 5'6" and 116 pounds, finishing the first
year of her PhD candidacy at Yale. Most of the information
on the screen she knew already. It was what she DIDN'T know
that worried her.
She slowly circled Gail Coen's chair, pinching her lower lip
between her thumb and forefinger. "Do the New Haven police
have any leads on her disappearance?"
Gail shook her head. "Not that we know of."
Scully sighed. "Thanks, Gail. Can you print me out a copy
of everything you have there?"
"Sure." As Gail went to work, Scully picked up the phone on
the desk nearby and punched in Mulder's extension. It was
busy.
Scully frowned at the receiver for a second, then hung up
the phone and turned back to Gail, who passed her a file
folder.
"There you go."
Scully took the file and tucked it under her arm, murmuring
her thanks to the records clerk, and headed for the
elevators. As she was waiting for the elevator, she
switched on her cellular phone and punched in a New Haven,
Connecticut number. After three rings, a warm, masculine
voice answered. "Dr. Crane."
"Hi, Benton, it's Dana."
Benton's voice hugged her through the airwaves. "Dana,
honey! Long time, no hear!"
"Listen, I have a favor to ask...."
The elevator reached her floor as she was turning off her
phone. She slipped the phone into her jacket pocket and
stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the
basement and flipped open the folder.
The photograph that the New Haven Police had scanned and
faxed to the FBI was about three years old and, according to
the accompanying note, not completely accurate. The woman
in the photo wore her hair short and apparently colored, for
in the black and white photo she looked more blonde than
brunette. The memo jotted by the detective in charge of the
missing persons case noted that Sarah's hair was now a few
inches past shoulder length and back to her natural chestnut
brown.
Scully held up the photo and tried to visualize the woman
with darker, longer hair. It was strange, she thought.
She'd been corresponding with Sarah for months--had even
chatted with her in I.R.C. a couple of times--and considered
her a friend, even a close friend. Was that why she looked
at this photograph of an unfamiliar face and felt a deep
sense of--what? Recognition? Familiarity?
"So you're Sarah," she murmured to the photograph.
The woman in the photo stared back, her eyes shadowed and
mysterious. I've got a secret, the eyes told Scully. Can
you figure it out?
She studied the photograph until the elevator car reached
the basement with a soft "ding." The doors glided open and
Scully exited, slipping the photograph back inside the
folder. She tucked the file back under her arm and walked
down the hall to the office she shared with Fox Mulder.
He sat bent forward over his semi-cluttered desk, looking at
a sheaf of papers in front of him, his eyes intent behind
his wire-rimmed glasses. Scully felt a now-familiar surge
of attraction, intensified when his gaze lifted to meet
hers. She waited for the little half-smile with which he
normally graced her, but today his lips didn't even twitch.
"What's wrong?" she asked, immediately aware that all was
not well.
Mulder shook his head. "Nothing. Did you have a nice visit
with your mom and your brother?"
Something WAS wrong--and now she was about to head out of
town and abandon him. "Mulder, I was planning to drive up
to Connecticut to visit a friend this weekend, but if--"
He interrupted her. "Really? I'm headed to Connecticut
myself."
"To see your mom?"
"Yeah."
His expression was outwardly placid, but Scully had been
working with him for almost six years. She knew when
something was messing with his head. "What's wrong, Mulder?
Is your mother okay? She hasn't had a relapse--"
"No." He met her concerned gaze. "It's a long story,
Scully. Long and ancient and not worth talking about. So,
you're visiting a friend?"
She spared him a small smile. "I DO have friends, you
know."
He smiled back, his expression a cross between affectionate
and rueful. "When do you leave?"
"I thought I'd leave tonight. How about you?"
"Same thing."
Scully sat in the chair in front of his desk, wondering if
she should tell him the rest of her reason for going to
Connecticut. They didn't keep secrets from each other--not
anymore, not since they'd almost let secrets and fears drive
them apart a couple of years ago. But Scully also didn't
want to drag Mulder into another dead-end missing woman
case, especially one that involved a woman who had come to
believe that she might have experienced alien abductions--a
woman who was roughly the age of Mulder's lost sister
Samantha.
That would be cruel, and Scully would NOT do that to him.
Not until she knew more about the case.
"Driving up?" he asked.
She drew her mind away from Sarah Chandler and looked at her
partner, noting the sadness etching small lines in his lean
face. Her stomach coiled into a little knot of empathy. In
her years with Mulder, she'd learned to take his pain into
herself, make it hers, absorb it, wrestle with it, share it
with him so he didn't have to be so horribly alone. "Yeah,
I thought I'd take the car. You fishing for a ride up?"
She gave him a little smile.
"Is that an offer?"
Her smile faded a bit, his words catching her by surprise.
"Sure."
He nodded. "I wouldn't mind the company. And my mother's
been asking how you are. You wouldn't have to stay and
visit, but maybe you could pop in, say hello for a minute."
Scully's stomach tightened further. Something must really
be wrong, she thought as she studied her partner's
expressionless face, looking for clues. Mulder the loner
never asked for company, and he sure as hell had never asked
her to "pop in" and say hello to his mother. "Mulder,
what's going on? Why are you going to visit your mother all
of a sudden?"
He didn't answer but reached out and touched the picture on
his desk, his long fingers tracing the shape of his lost
sister. Scully felt an old, familiar ache that had first
taken root in her heart almost six years ago in a hotel room
in Oregon, when she'd watched a grown man turn back into a
scared, wounded twelve-year-old. For six long years she'd
watched this man search for his sister--and for his lost
childhood--with a ferocity and a fanaticism greater than any
she'd ever known.
So his next words came as a complete shock.
"Scully, Samantha's dead."
* * * * *
Scully stared at Mulder, certain she had misunderstood his
low, hoarse statement. "What?"
"It's been too long, Scully. My God, I'm an F.B.I. agent, I
know the statistics. Most of the time, you don't find an
abductee alive after 25 DAYS, much less after 25 years."
Mulder set his glasses on the desk in front of him and
rubbed his temples. "Samantha isn't going to be found
alive. It's well past time I faced it."
"But the tissue sample you found in her file--in the tunnels
at the mine in West Virginia--Mulder, it was a recent tissue
sample!" Scully's stomach clenched at the dead expression
she saw in Mulder's eyes. He couldn't lose hope. She
couldn't let him. Even if she knew, deep down, that he was
probably right, that Samantha was probably dead, she
couldn't bear to see his faith ripped away from him. She
wanted to believe that Samantha was still alive, that she
was out there, that she could be found. She NEEDED to
believe.
He shook his head. "It's okay, Scully." He met her worried
gaze, his expression almost gentle, as if he were trying to
comfort her. "This hasn't been all about Samantha for a
long time. She's not coming back--but the truth is STILL
out there. I still need to know what my father was involved
in--why Samantha was sacrificed." His eyes darkened
slightly. "What happened to you...."
Tears pricked Scully's eyes as she realized how much he was
trying to be strong. He's doing it for me, she thought. So
I won't worry about him. She crossed and crouched next to
his chair, ignoring the twinge of prostest from her injured
leg. She looked up into his pale face, seeing beyond the
expressionless mask to the anguish and despair beneath.
With great determination, she quelled the soft, helpless
moan that rose in her throat. Mulder couldn't bear to know
that she was hurting for him. She took a swift, steadying
breath through her nose and curled her fingers around his
arm. "Mulder, don't give up."
He looked down at her, a faint smile playing across his
beautiful mouth for a microsecond before it disappeared. "I
thought you saved your inspirational speeches for hotel
parking garages."
A half-smile twitched the corners of her lips as she
remembered a clandestine meeting in the darkened parking
garage of the Watergate Hotel. He'd been close to giving
up, and she'd talked him into continuing, into keeping the
faith.
What would have happened if I'd stayed silent? she wondered.
Where would I be? What would I be doing?
Would Melissa still be alive?
She looked away, tears burning her eyes.
"Scully." Sorrow and regret suffused his voice. He knew
her so well, he could practically read her mind. "Maybe
this time it's time to give up this fantasy, Scully. Before
anyone else gets hurt."
She looked up at him again. "Don't do this."
He cupped her cheek with his palm, his thumb playing lightly
over her chin. "I have to do this, Scully. I can't go on
with my life until I do this."
His touch burned her skin, seared her to her core. He'd
always been able to make her feel more than anyone else
she'd ever known. But that included pain as well as
pleasure, and right now, she ached. Her grief for Mulder's
loss was almost as intense as her grief for her own sister's
death. "What can I do to help you?" she whispered.
He shook his head. "Nothing." He dropped his hand from her
face and gently moved her hands from his arm. "If we're
going to Connecticut tonight, I'd better clear some things
out of my in-boxes."
She stood, not hurt by his withdrawal. Of all the people in
the world, she understood what he was feeling. She brushed
her fingers through his hair in an unconscious echo of a
night almost five years ago. "Why don't I meet you at your
apartment around six?"
He nodded, not meeting her gaze.
Scully grabbed her purse and left the office without another
word, recognizing that right now words were neither
necessary nor desirable.
She almost made it home before the tears fell.
* * * * *
Mulder packed a picture of Samantha as he always did
whenever he was planning to be away from his apartment for
any length of time. He didn't know what the photograph was
supposed to signify to him--a reminder of his quest? He
needed no physical reminder; he bore the demands and
consequences of his search for Samantha and the truth like
scars on his soul. Maybe he carried the photograph for the
same reason he slept with the television on--it was a habit
he was terrified to break for fear that his whole life would
spin out of control if he didn't stick to the comforting
familiarity of the routine.
He heard Scully's footsteps approaching his door just as he
was zipping his overnight bag. He'd know that sound
anywhere, he thought, allowing a small smile to break
through the relentless gloom that had hounded him since the
call from his father's estate lawyer. After almost six
years, Scully was as familiar to him as his own reflection
in the mirror. He hadn't had this long-term a relationship
in--hell, he'd NEVER had such a long-term relationship.
That was why he had to do this, had to remove the last thing
that stood between them.
He anticipated her knock and opened the door. She looked up
at him, a little twitch of her cinnamon eyebrows betraying
her surprise. "Ready to go?" she asked.
He slid his arm through the nylon handles of his overnight
bag and nodded. "I told Mom to expect us around 11:00."
The drive to Greenwich, Connecticut from Washington D.C.
passed in almost complete silence. He was glad for it--and
grateful that he had Scully, who knew what he needed without
having to be told. Six years together had given them the
familiarity of a married couple--without the sex, he amended
with dark amusement. The amusement faded into something
like regret.
Soon, he thought. Someday soon he and Scully would deal
with all the what-ifs they never seemed to face. But he
couldn't think about the future until he'd first dealt with
the past.
They reached Greenwich by 10:45. Scully parked her car in
front of Caroline Mulder's cottage-style house and turned to
look at him. "I probably shouldn't stay and visit, Mulder.
I have another hour or so of driving to do and it's late."
He nodded, knowing she was right. But right now, the last
thing in the world he wanted to do was go into that house
alone to tell his mother that it was time to give up hope of
Samantha ever coming back to them.
Scully's gaze softened, tenderness suffusing her expression.
She reached for his hand and squeezed gently. "I could come
in a for a little while--"
He shook his head, turning his hand so that his palm
flattened against hers. He twined his fingers through hers,
resisting the urge to lift her hand to his lips and taste
the warm flesh of her palm. He settled for rubbing his
thumb over hers. "No. You'd better go. Will you call and
let me know you've arrived safely?"
She nodded, her eyes large and luminous in the moonlight
that flowed through the windshield, bathing her pale face
with an ethereal blue light. Unbidden, he heard words from
the distant past.
I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you....
The urge to take her in his arms and never let go was as
strong at that moment as it had ever been. Though he wasn't
fool enough to discount his very real attraction to Dana
Scully, he realized that what he was feeling wasn't about
sex. It was about a bond more powerful and significant than
he'd ever known. She was in his blood, in his brain, in the
fibers that held him together.
She made a soft sighing sound. "You'd better go."
He didn't want to go. But he nodded and tore his gaze away
from hers. He didn't allow himself to look at her again
until he was outside the car, overnight bag in hand. She
had stepped out of the car and was looking at him over the
sedan's roof.
"Thanks for the ride."
A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. "Any time. Say
hi to your mom for me."
"I will." He made himself turn away and walk down the
cobblestone path to his mother's door. Behind him, he heard
the car's engine growl and the soft hiss-pop of pebbles as
she pulled out of the drive. He closed his eyes for a
moment, disconcerted by the almost physical ache of
separation.
When had she become indispensable?
He shook his head at the ridiculous question. When had she
NOT been indispensable?
His mother answered his soft knock, her world-weary face
brightening at the sight of him. He smiled in return,
giving her the hug he'd denied himself with Scully. "How're
you feeling?"
She took his hand and led him into the living room. "Better
everyday, Fox." She sat in the arm chair across from where
he sat on the sofa. "Ms. Scully couldn't come in?"
So formal, he thought with an inner chuckle. Of course,
considering he called her Scully himself-- "She had another
hour's drive. She's visiting a friend in New Haven." That
was really all he knew, he realized. She hadn't told him
anything else about her trip--not the name of her friend or
where she'd be staying. "She said to tell you hello."
His mother nodded, and an uncomfortable silence fell over
them for a moment. Mulder finally took a deep breath and
plunged ahead. "I talked to Trent Madison today."
His mother's lips tightened into a thin line. "No, Fox--"
"The property is going to become a drain on your assets,
Mom--"
"I'm not selling the house, Fox. Not when there's still a
chance--"
"There's not."
She looked up at him, stricken.
Tears stung his eyes and he drew a shuddery breath. "Mom,
she's not coming back. It's been too long. Twenty-five
years too long."
"No."
He closed his eyes, fighting for the strength to utter the
next words. Tears squeezed between his clenched eyelids.
"Mom, Samantha is dead. It's time we faced that. It's time
to mourn her and then let her go." He forced his eyes open
to look at her.
"No!" She pushed herself to her feet, her movements a bit
ungainly, the lingering after-effect of the massive stroke
she'd suffered two years earlier. He rose to his feet,
hands outstretched toward her, but she backed away. "No,
Fox--she's all that's left for me now! I won't let YOU take
her from me, too!"
He flinched, reeling as if she'd struck him. Her eyes
widened, her mouth curved into an "O" of horror, and a
thick, terrible hush descended over them.
His soft, hoarse voice broke the heavy silence. "I'm not
him, Mom."
Her face crumpled and she drew a swift, sobbing breath. She
turned and stumbled toward the back of the house. He took a
couple of faltering steps toward her as if to follow before
he stopped and sagged against the wall, pressing his face
against the cool plaster. He heard a door snap shut down
the hall and the soft, muffled sounds of weeping.
His back against the wall, he slid down to the floor in a
crouch, his head lowered between his bent knees, and wept as
well.
* * * * *
Benton Crane's Apartment
New Haven, CT
February 12, 1998
11:59 p.m.
"And now she's missing." Dana Scully wrapped her hands
around the mug of hot chocolate Benton had made for her while
she was showering and changing for bed. Wrapped in her
favorite terrycloth robe and sipping the hot, sweet milk,
she felt ten years old again--which is how old she'd been
when she first laid eyes on Benton Crane.
He sat across the table from her, his impossibly handsome
face etched with gentle concern. "And you're up here, less
than a month since you almost died of a gunshot wound, just
because this woman you've never even met has gone missing?"
"I know, it sounds crazy, but--"
"But she claims to be an abductee, and you need to know what
happened to her," Benton finished for her. "Because of
what happened to you three years ago."
Scully looked down at the creamy brown cocoa in her cup.
"What if they've taken her like they took me?"
"They?" Benton's voice was deceptively neutral, but she
could tell by the undertone that he wanted her to admit her
fears to him.
"Whoever took me did tests on me, Benton. I may never know
the purpose or extent of those tests, but I have to try to
find out. For myself and for Sarah."
"And for Mulder."
She bit her lip. "He told me today that he believes his
sister is dead."
Benton's eyebrows rose. "I'm surprised."
"I don't think I can bear it, Benton." She stirred the
cocoa with a red plastic coffee straw, watching the mini-
marshmallows swirl and dance, leaving little white trails
like comets in a chocolate sky. "Mulder's whole life is
wrapped up in his quest for his sister. If he loses that
hope, what will he have left?"
"You."
She looked up at him. "What if I'm not enough?"
Benton smiled at her, affection suffusing his boyish face.
"Stupid question, Dana. You're more than enough for any
man."
She smiled. "You're prejudiced."
"Yes, I am." He reached out and covered her hand with his.
"But I'm also right. Look, I know you haven't told me half
of everything you and Mulder have been through together, but
what I've heard is enough to know that what you've got is
rare and worth fighting for. Now, my opinion of your
partner isn't exactly as high as yours, but I don't think
he's a big enough fool that he doesn't know what a treasure
you are."
She squeezed his hand. "I knew there was a reason I came to
see you."
"That and the free room and board for the weekend?" He
grinned at her.
She grinned back. "And the hot chocolate."
"So you're not going to tell Mulder about your investigation
into Sarah's disappearance?"
She shook her head. "Not with all that's going on. Sarah's
somewhere around Samantha's age, give or take a year or two.
I think it would just rip open all the old wounds he's
trying to heal, and I can't do that to him."
"I don't like the idea of your investigating alone, Dana.
There's a reason cops have partners, you know."
"It's not like I'm going to be hunting down a crazed killer,
Benton. I'm just going to follow up behind the New Haven
P.D., make sure they're not missing anything. It's
perfectly safe."
"Well, promise me that if it gets the slightest bit hairy
out there, you'll call for back up, okay?"
"Okay." She took another sip of the cocoa, letting the hot
liquid warm her. She glanced at her wrist and realized that
she'd left her watch in the bedroom. "What time is it?"
"A little after midnight."
She frowned. She hadn't called Mulder to tell him she was
safe. She hated to call him this late, especially since he
was at his mother's house, but she also knew him well enough
to know he'd never get to sleep until she called.
She stood, downing the last of the chocolate milk. "I'm
going to call it a night, Benton. See you in the morning."
He grabbed her hand as she passed, winking. "Say hi to
Mulder for me."
She chuckled, squeezed his hand, and headed for the spare
bedroom.
* * * * *
Mulder lay on the sofa, staring at the exposed beams of the
cottage ceiling, surrounded by the heavy blanket of silence
that had fallen over the night. His mother had stopped
crying fifteen minutes ago. He'd run out of tears not long
after that. But the pain lingered, fresh and sharp and
twisting in his heart.
Am I my father's son? Am I any less obsessed, any less
willing to sacrifice anything and everyone to my quest? Is
there really any difference? Perpetuating lies or
uncovering truths--the goals were different, but did that
really matter if his methods were similarly ruthless and
dangerous?
His cell phone rang, shattering the silence like a klaxon.
He answered it. "Mulder."
"Hey, it's me."
Her voice brought tears stinging to his eyes again. He
cleared his throat. "Hey. You made it safe?"
"Yeah." Her voice was dark with concern. "Mulder, are you
okay?"
He closed his eyes, tears squeezing from the corners. "I'm
fine, Scully."
Her soft sigh whispered into his ear. "No, you're not.
What happened?"
"I told my mother that I believe Samantha's dead."
Scully was silent for a second, but he could feel her
concern filling the quiet space between them.
"She didn't take it well, " he added, grimly amused at the
understatement.
"What can I do? Do you want me to come get you?"
God, yes, he thought, come get me and take me home with you.
He chewed his lower lip and forced himself to answer. "No,
I'm going to let Mom have time to process everything and
then I'll talk to her again in the morning."
"I'm going to be busy most of tomorrow, but I'll have my
cell phone with me, so don't hesitate to call me if you need
me. Nothing I'm doing here is so important that I can't
drop it and be in Greenwich in an hour if you need me."
He shook his head, tears filling his eyes again. God, I
don't deserve her. "I'm a big boy, Scully--I can handle
this."
"I know you can." Her voice sounded a bit thick--was she
crying?
Crying for him?
"I just don't want you to think you have to hide things from
me, Mulder."
"Isn't that my line?" he asked, forcing a watery chuckle.
"You get all the best lines," she returned. "Listen, let me
give you this address--it's where I'm staying if you can't
get through to me on the phone."
He listened to her recite an address on Ponce Street, not
far from the Yale campus. "Got it. So, are you and your
friend having a good time?"
"Yeah, it's been nice catching up. We don't get to see
enough of each other."
He was glad. Working with him had cut Scully off from so
many of her friends because of the strange hours and
numerous out of town cases. He was glad she was getting a
chance to catch up with one of her girlfriends, make a
weekend out of it. It would be good for her. "Have fun,
Scully, and don't think about me."
"Sure, Mulder, I'll do just that." The gentle sarcasm in
her voice brought a smile to his face. "Night."
"Night." He switched off his phone and tucked it into his
pocket again. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about
Scully and Samantha, wishing he didn't have to give up one
to have the other.
But he could thank his father for that. For that fateful,
long-ago choice that was now forcing him to make a choice of
his own.
Was it this hard for you, Dad? Did it tear you into pieces?
Why did you choose to sacrifice her?
Why not me?
Why?
* * * * *
New Haven Police Dept.
February 13, 1998
10:14 a.m.
Scully flipped through the file Det. Hanson of the New Haven
Police Department had provided after a few moments of
persuasion. He watched her from behind his desk in the
communal detectives' office, his gray eyes wary. After
eight years with the FBI--and six years with Mulder--Scully
was used to being regarded with a combination of fascination
and suspicion. Like always, she ignored it and concentrated
on the case.
"So the last person to see her, as far as we know, was her
roommate Anne Milliken?"
"Far as we know." Hanson leaned forward. "I'm still not a
hundred percent sure we can really term this a missing
person's case, Agent Scully. I mean, technically it is, of
course, but this Chandler woman was a little flaky, you
know?"
Scully pressed her lips together, fighting annoyance--as much at
herself as at Det. Hanson. If she were sitting on the other
side of the desk, listening to Mulder talking about the
Sarah Chandler case, wouldn't she be saying the same exact
thing? The woman believes she was abducted by aliens,
Mulder--who's to say she didn't just wander off somewhere in
search of a cosmic experience?
She didn't like herself very much right then.
"Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah was going when
she left the apartment the morning of the sixth?"
Hanson frowned. "I'm sure that's in my field notes
somewhere."
Meaning that even if Ms. Milliken had given him a lead, he
hadn't bothered to check it out. Her annoyance grew,
directed more toward Hanson this time--she KNEW she wouldn't
ignore a lead, no matter how fruitless she thought the
search might prove to be. She flipped through the papers in
the file until she came to Anne Milliken's statement. "Ms.
Milliken stated that Sarah had made plans to meet someone
for lunch. Did Ms. Milliken have any idea where Sarah might
have gone for lunch?"
"Doesn't it say so in the notes?"
Scully glanced over the statement again. "No."
"Then she must not have said."
Or Hanson hadn't asked, Scully added silently. "May I have
a copy of this file?"
"Are you making an official inquiry?"
"Do you have an objection?" She arched one brow at him.
He shook his head. "No--if you want to chase this wild
goose, be my guest." He nodded toward the anteroom. "Get
Sgt. Talbott to make you copies."
Scully took the file to the heavy-set uniformed sergeant who
manned the inquiry desk, showed her credentials and sat in
one of the two battered steel-and-vinyl chairs in the
anteroom to wait. While Talbott was running the copies for
her, she switched on her cell phone and dialled Mulder's
number. After four rings, she got the standard message
telling her he was away from his phone.
She opened her notebook and found the number she'd jotted
down while looking over Sarah Chandler's missing person
report. She dialled the number, hoping Anne Milliken wasn't
in class.
A soft, musical contralto answered. "Hello?"
"Anne Milliken, please."
"This is Anne."
"Ms. Milliken, my name is Dana Scully. I'm a special agent
with the FBI--"
"You're Sarah's e-mail friend, aren't you?" Anne's voice
rose slightly with excitement. "Oh, God, Ms. Scully, did
you know Sarah's missing?"
"Yes, I do. I'm here in New Haven checking into things
myself. Do you think we could talk?"
"Of course. Maybe you'll take things more seriously than
the cops are. I have a class in ten minutes, but I'll be
through by 1:30 or so. Do you have my address? Or would you
rather meet me somewhere else?"
"I'll come there," Scully answered. She wanted to see where
her friend had lived, how she'd lived, what she'd collected
and cherished and obsessed over. She needed to reconstruct
Sarah Chandler's life piece by piece. Then, maybe, she
could figure out what had happened to her.
End of #2
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