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

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

12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#5: "Reunion"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

Dana Scully walked slowly up the footpath to Caroline
Mulder's Greenwich bungalow, wary of what she would find
when she knocked on the door. While Mulder picked up his
mother and headed back for Greenwich, she'd stayed behind in
New Haven for a couple of hours to give her statement about
her abduction to the police and to have her car examined by
the evidence technicians on the off chance that her
abductors had left prints or fibers. But it had been clean,
of course, and she'd left New Haven about an hour ago after
stopping to say goodbye to Lorna and Benton.

When she had called Mulder halfway through the drive to
Greenwich, he'd been tense and brief, promising he'd catch
her up on everything as soon as she got there. She didn't
know if he'd have good news or bad news, but she'd find
out soon.

She knocked on the door.

Mulder answered. He smiled slightly, reaching out to draw
her inside, his hand on her shoulder. "How'd things go?"

"The car was clean, as we expected."

He nodded.

"Where's your mom?"

"She's in her bedroom. She had some phone calls to make."
Mulder led her into the living room, his hand warm against
the small of her back. "This isn't going to be easy for
her--Mom would prefer to forget the past thirty years ever
happened."

Understandable, Scully thought. "Did you ask her about the
man Sarah had lunch with? The man who was at your father's
funeral?"

He nodded and gestured toward a pair of camelback armchairs
in front of a cold hearth. He glanced at the fireplace, a
little frown on his face. "I guess I should start a fire--"

"I'll do it," she offered, knowing how fire still had the
power to make him cringe, even after he'd managed to conquer
the paralyzing effects of his phobia all those years ago
during the Cecil L'Ively case. She pulled a long match from
the small brass cannister by the hearth, struck the flint
and touched the small flame to the gas log. When the fire
was well lit, she stepped back, turning to meet Mulder's
grateful smile.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." She sat in the chair next to his, holding her
cold hands out toward the flame. "So tell me what your mom
said."

"Mostly she doesn't remember. I know she was kept out of
the loop for most of it, and what she DID know about, I
think she's deliberately put out of her head because it's
too painful to think about."

Scully looked down at her hands, thinking about her own
cowardice when it came to remembering. "Did she know who
you were talking about when you mentioned the British man?"

He nodded. "She says she knew him as Carter Christopher,
though she's pretty sure that's not his real name."

Carter Christopher, she thought, letting the name roll
silently over her tongue. It sounded like a master
manipulator, one who took great joy in messing with people's
minds. Very fitting.

"Does she know how we can find him?"

"Those are the phone calls she's making." He lay his cheek
against the back of the chair, his eyes meeting hers.
"Maybe we'll have a lead by lunch time."

She nodded, looking away after a long moment. Things
between her and Mulder were still a little tense, but she
could feel the small rift already beginning to heal. After
that short but horrible period they'd been through a couple
of years ago when they were practically at each other's
throats, they'd learned to keep personal tensions strictly
separate from work. And they'd worked equally hard on
resolving their personal tensions, learning lessons about
trust and forgiveness and commitment that had brought them
to the brink of something far more powerful than partnership
or friendship.

She wanted to believe they could handle more. She wanted to
believe they could have EVERYTHING--passion and love and
companionship as well as respect and admiration. But it
would take so much work, so much dedication--and was there
room for that in either of their lives?

Not right now. Not with all that was going on. Resolutely,
she looked away and stared into the dancing blue flame of
the fire.

They sat in silence for a long time, comfortable with the
quiet, comfortable, even, with the knowledge that unspoken
feelings lay between them. It had been that way from the
beginning, after all. So many things unsaid, things that
couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't be spoken--and yet they knew
that what they shared was special and unique and worth
fighting for. Scully closed her eyes, a faint smile on her
lips, thinking about the long ago and far away time when
their partnership had been new. So many possibilities--who
was this mysterious, mercurial Fox Mulder her superiors had
sent her to rein in? Would he be resentful, suspicious,
hard to deal with?

Yes, yes, and oh my, yes.

And it had been exciting. Challenging. Energizing.
She had never felt more alive in her life than she had in
those early days with Mulder, testing the bounds of their
partnership, learning his ways and his thoughts and his
habits and actions. She had revealed her own personality
with a sort of coy reticence, as if she understood even then
that once she committed herself to Fox Mulder and his quest,
there would be no turning back.

And, as relationships do, it had soon changed--darkened,
deepened, taking on a texture of trust that hadn't been
present at the beginning. But with the trust had come the
realization that trust was fragile--easily shattered and
difficult to rebuild.

Mulder didn't trust easily, to say the least. And these
days, neither did she.

The soft sound of slow, halting footsteps approaching the
living room roused her from her drowsy contemplations. She
stirred, turning to watch Caroline Mulder enter the room.
She was elegantly dressed, Scully noted, in a black silk
pantsuit that complemented her immaculately styled silver
hair. Her left hand curled around the intricately carved
knob of a walking cane fashioned of teakwood. She smiled at
her son before turning her hazel gaze to meet Scully's.
"Dana, it's so lovely to see you again."

Scully rose and crossed to her, holding out her hand. "How
are you, Mrs. Mulder? You look wonderful."

Caroline smiled gently, though her eyes remained a bit wary.
"I've done very well. I've been remiss, however--I should
have thanked you long ago for your kindness during my
illness and recovery. Fox has told me what a comfort you
were to him. And I knew you were there, too. I felt your
concern as well."

Scully gently squeezed her hand, then let it go. "I was
glad to be able to do whatever I could to help."

Caroline gently steered Scully back toward the chair she had
just vacated. She smiled at her son, who had stood at her
entrance. "I suppose you may both be interested in what
I've found out." She sat on the sofa next to Mulder's
chair.

Scully turned her own chair to face Mrs. Mulder. "I hope
you'll be able to help me find my friend."

"I hope so, too. I believe I have located the man you're
looking for."

Scully felt a surge of excitement; force of habit made her
turn to look at her partner. His hazel eyes met hers,
glittering with anticipation. When Scully dragged her gaze
back to Mrs. Mulder, she found her partner's mother smiling
slightly, observing their unspoken interchange.

"I'm sure Fox told you that I knew him by the name Carter
Christopher. I don't believe that is his real name,
however. And the only address I ever had for him is now a
parking lot in Manhattan."

"You said you've located him?" Mulder asked.

Caroline nodded. "At least, I know where you can find him
tonight. He's going to be at a party celebrating the
engagement of his godson, Paul Leone. I have it on good
authority that several of the men who spent time at our home
all those years ago will be there as well."

Mulder's eyes widened slightly. "How did you find this
out?"

"I've kept some contacts from the past, Fox." Her
expression darkened slightly, furrows creasing her forehead.
"Very few--but good ones. People who have stayed in the
loop."

"Where is the party?" Scully asked.

"In New York City, at the Waldorf-Astoria. Tonight at eight
o'clock. It's formal, as these things generally are, but I
have procured invitations for you both."

"How'd you manage that?" Mulder asked, admiration apparent
in his expression. Scully hid a smile, glad that for once
his own family was coming through for him. His mother's
willingness to help would go a long way toward healing some
very old wounds, she knew.

"Like I said, I've kept some contacts. But we don't have
much time."

"No, we don't," Scully agreed. "For one thing, I have
nothing to wear."

Mulder chuckled. "Women!"

She shot him a little glare. "I'll need to find a formal
wear shop somewhere and hope I can find something
affordable."

"There's a lovely boutique right here in Greenwich that has
reasonable prices--The Shop on Carraway," Caroline assured
her. "And just down the block is a men's shop that rents
tuxedos as well."

Mulder grimaced. "Damn."

"Men," Scully murmured, darting a glance at him. He looked
back at her, amusement glinting in his eyes.

"Fox, you and Dana go find something to wear tonight. I'm
going to have lunch with my friend, get all the particulars
on the party and whatever you might need to know." Caroline
looked at her son, a bemused expression on her face. "I
would enjoy the cloak and dagger flavor of this adventure a
lot more if I didn't know how dangerous these men are. You
two MUST promise me that you'll be very careful."

"We'll watch each other's backs, Mrs. Mulder. We've gotten
very good at it," Scully assured her.

She nodded. "I know. I can't tell you what comfort I find
in knowing that you're watching out for my son, Dana."

Dana blinked back unexpected tears, touched by Mrs. Mulder's
words. She looked down at her hands, hiding her emotional
reaction from both mother and son.

"I should be back here by two o'clock at the latest,"
Caroline continued, quickly filling the silence that had
fallen after her previous statement. "I'll fill you in on
whatever I find out." She stood, gesturing toward them.
"We'd better hurry--not much time now."

Scully followed Mulder and his mother outside to their cars.
She handed her car keys to Mulder. "You know Greenwich
better than I do."

The drive into town was pleasant--an upscale bedroom
community of New York City, Greenwich was old money and
elegant charm. Carraway Street was just off the beaten
path, nestled in the heart of a slightly newer, slightly
less tony area of town. Mulder parked the car on the street
in front of the dress shop.

"Tux shop is down at the end of the block, if memory serves
me." He glanced at the window display of the dress shop,
his eyes widening slightly.

Scully followed his gaze. There were two mannequins in the
window, wearing two distinctly different sorts of gowns.
One was a lovely cranberry velvet with a silver print
brocade bodice and a gorgeous gold accent that draped over
the shoulder, reminding Scully of something she'd seen in a
renaissance painting. The other was a stunning navy
strapless sheath that hugged the mannequin's svelte figure
like a glove. She was pretty sure she knew which dress had
caught Mulder's eye.

"Do I get a vote?" he murmured.

"Go rent a tux, Mulder." She gave him a little shove.

He grinned at her and gave a little wave as he turned and
walked away.

She entered the dress shop, heralded by a discreet tinkle of
a bell over the door. Moments later, a woman emerged from
the back of the shop to greet her. She exuded class, from
her oh-so-perfectly tinted and styled ash blond hair to her
immaculate, not too long, buffed-but-not-polished
fingernails. Scully felt acutely aware of her own less than
stylish appearance--how long since my last haircut? she
wondered as the woman approached. But she stuck her chin
out, reminding herself that after six years of dealing with
serial killers, mutants and government conspirators,
managing one upper crust shop matron should be a breeze.

"May I help you?"

Scully nodded. "I'm a friend of Caroline Mulder. She
highly recommended this shop to me. I have a formal affair
to attend in the city and need a dress."

* * * * *

Mulder unlocked Scully's car and carefully hung his
newly-rented tuxedo on one of the garment hooks over the
back windows. He turned and looked through the shop
windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of his partner, maybe
modeling her new gown--

The door of the shop opened and Scully emerged, gold plastic
garment bag in hand. Her auburn eyebrows rose quizzically
as he took a startled step back. "Never seen the inside of
a dress shop before, Mulder?"

He pasted on a nonchalant grin, wishing he could see through
the opaque garment bag to see what kind of dress she'd
chosen. "Millions of times," he assured her. He unlocked
the door for her, then circled the car to the driver's side
as she stashed her dress safely in the back seat. As he was
opening his own door, he glanced up at the shop window and
noticed that the dress that had caught his eye was now
conspicuously absent from the display. His grin broadened.

Could be quite an interesting night.

* * * * *

Caroline Mulder looked up at her son, a little thrill of
pride rippling through her as she realized what a fine,
handsome man he'd turned out to be, in spite of everything
he'd been through. He looked down his nose at her, smiling
a bit as she deftly tied his bowtie. "I can do this myself,
Mom."

She looked up at him with mock sternness. "Stand still,
Fox, and quit complaining."

"I want to check and see if Scully's ready."

She arched her eyebrows. "If she needs your help dressing,
Fox, I'm sure she'll ask."

He chuckled. "I got her something, Mom. I'm just not sure
I should give it to her."

Caroline patted down his tie, straightening it. "Why not?"

"I don't know if it's appropriate."

"I thought you weren't worried about what was appropriate
anymore."

He crossed to the dresser and picked up a hairbrush,
absently smoothing the hair at his temples, even though his
hair was unusually neat already. "Timing is everything."

"And you think the timing is bad now?"

"Horrible, actually."

"There's no such thing as the perfect time, Fox."

"But there is such thing as the WRONG time, and this is it."

"Are you sure you're not just avoiding the issue?"

He turned and met her questioning gaze, a hint of impatience
in his expression. She could almost read his mind, and what
she read there hurt.

Who was she to talk about avoidance?

She looked away, crossing to the tall oak wardrobe in the
corner of her bedroom. "I told Dana she could borrow my
satin evening cloak to cover her dress. It's going to be a
cold night." She stole a glance at him. "Have you seen her
dress?"

"Only on a mannequin."

"I'm sure it looks much lovelier on her."

"No doubt." He looked up at her, a smile curving his lips.
"Want to see what I bought for her? I had some time to kill
after I rented the tux so I went to the antique store next
door--thought I might find some old baseball cards for a
steal--but as soon as I saw this, I grabbed it. I could see
it on her--" He crossed to the bed and picked up the tan
windbreaker he'd been wearing on the quick trip into
Greenwich. He pulled a small sack from the pocket and
upended it into his hand. Caroline stepped closer, looking
at what he held in his outstretched palm.

It was an old fashioned gold hair comb, delicate and lovely,
studded with smooth, carbuncle-style garnets. "It's
exquisite."

"Is it too much?" He looked wary.

"I think she'll love it."

"So I should give it to her?"

"Yes, you should."

He frowned slightly. "What if she refuses it?"

Caroline considered the question, realizing that it was more
than just an idle query. Dana Scully might well refuse her
son's gift. She might not share his desire for a deeper
relationship, or even if she shared his feelings, she might
not be willing to take the risk of acting on them.

But loving another person was always a risk. In her own
case, it had led to personal tragedies that would color the
rest of her life. But somehow, through it all, she had
begun to hope that her son might one day find the happiness
that she had been denied.

Maybe it had started with meeting Dana Scully at the Garden
of Reflection the day Bill had been buried. Something about
the young woman had struck her, heartened her. Maybe it was
the certainty with which Dana had told her that Fox was
going to return to them. Maybe it was the gentle, abiding
love for her son that had shone in the woman's eyes.

"Do you trust Dana with your life, Fox?"

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.

"Then why not trust her with your heart?"

She felt a sliver of pain at the sight of his indecision.
She could almost hear the battle taking place between his
head and his heart, and she recognized that her own failures
had left her son with scars as well.

She reached out and took his hand, closing his fingers over
the comb. "Give it to her. Give her a chance to prove
herself worthy of your trust."

He looked down at the gold trinket clutched in his hand,
then nodded slowly. He lifted his other hand to stroke her
cheek, his gaze gentle and so full of love that tears filled
Caroline's eyes. He lowered his hand and walked to the
bedroom door. She blinked away her tears, watching him
pause in the open doorway as if to gird himself for battle.
Then he walked out of the room, headed down the hall toward
the spare bedroom where Dana Scully was dressing.

She watched the empty doorway for another moment, then went
to her dresser and opened a square leather case. Inside,
she found a few pieces of jewelry she had kept after the
divorce. She'd sold or given away most of the things that
Bill had brought for her, unwilling to face those reminders
every time she opened a drawer. But she'd kept a couple of
things, Kenwood family heirlooms her mother had given her
before her marriage. One of these treasures was a necklace
and earring set--diamonds accented with garnets in a gold
setting. The diamonds were tiny and delicate, the garnets
blood red and cabochon style rather than faceted. Dana,
with her milky white skin and fiery hair, would look radiant
in these jewels.

And they'd be lovely with the antique hair comb her son had
bought for the woman who'd stolen his heart.

Take his gift, Dana, she willed silently. Recognize that
he's giving you his heart and don't let him down.

* * * * *

Dana Scully's hair was not cooperating. Aware of the
minutes ticking inexorably away, she'd dried it faster than
usual, not taking enough time to shape the sometimes flyaway
ends with her brush. Now her hair was unruly, charged with
static electricity, and about to be the cause of a cursing
fit that would shock a sailor.

Of course, that would be the moment Fox Mulder chose to
knock on the bedroom door and ask to come in. She growled
her assent, and he entered.

He stopped in the doorway and looked at her, an odd
expression on his face. She looked down at herself, a
heated blush stealing over her as she realized how low the
scoop necked brocade bodice plunged. Mulder was getting an
eyeful of flesh he probably hadn't seen since their first
case together, when she'd stripped to her underwear in his
hotel room to let him look at some bumps on her back.

Nervously, she walked back to the dresser and picked up the
hair brush she'd abandoned a few minutes ago. "I can't get
my hair to behave," she murmured.

She heard the door close, then Mulder's voice, hoarse and
oddly unsteady. "Funny you should mention that. I think I
have something that might help."

She turned around, surprised by his strange tone of voice.
He was still staring at her, his eyes dark and almost wary.
"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, really--just a trinket I ran across. Thought you
might like it." He took a couple of steps toward her and
held out his hand. Nestled in his palm was a delicate gold
hair comb, encrusted with small cabachon garnets and tiny
faux diamonds.

It was unusual and breathtakingly lovely. She looked up at
him, surprised. "For me?"

He nodded, his expression taut, as if he expected her to
throw the gift back in his face.

She took the comb from his hand, feeling its heft and
realizing that it wasn't goldplated as she'd originally
thought. She couldn't imagine how much money this trinket
had cost him, and her first instinct was to insist that she
couldn't possibly accept it.

But when she met his gaze, preparing a gentle refusal, the
fear in his eyes stopped her before she could utter a word.
He EXPECTED her rejection, she realized. Was awaiting it
with almost fervent certainty.

When she spoke, her words were simple and sincere. "Thank
you."

He almost wilted with relief for a moment but quickly caught
himself, pasting an expression of world-weary boredom on his
face to mask his pleasure. She didn't know why he even
bothered to hide his feelings from her anymore--most of the
time, she could read him like a book. "Lucky for you I
found it, huh?" He waved his hand at her hair, a teasing
light in his eyes.

She sighed and turned back to the dresser mirror, not very
hopeful that even this lovely comb could salvage her hair.
But when she coiled her hair in a French twist at the back
of her head and anchored the roll with the comb, she
realized that her hair had gone from flyaway to elegant in a
matter of seconds.

Mulder appeared in the mirror, standing right behind her.
She met his dark gaze in the glass. "The thing must be
magic," she murmured.

He took a step closer, his gaze still locked with hers in
the mirror. "You never wear your hair up."

She swallowed with difficulty as he lifted his hand to her
neck and coiled a loose tendril of hair around his finger.

"It's not usually practical."

"You wore it up for your pals in the VCS. Playing cool,
professional Agent Scully." He leaned a little closer, his
breath warm against her ear. "Tom Colton looked SO
surprised when you turned down his offer to break you out of
your basement prison. To this day, I still wonder why you
didn't take him up on it when you had a chance."

Her pulse hammered in her ears--whether more from fear or
from arousal, she couldn't say. She knew every argument
against letting her feelings distract her from her work.
She and Mulder needed to be clear-headed, focused when they
bearded Carter Christopher and his associates in their den.
But right now, with his fingers lightly brushing her flesh,
his eyes devouring her--

A knock on the door startled her, breaking through the fiery
haze of longing that had enveloped her. She drew away from
Mulder and crossed to the door, her hand trembling slightly
on the door knob.

Caroline Mulder greeted her with a smile. "You look lovely,
Dana. What an unusual gown."

Scully looked down at the cranberry velvet dress, trying to
see it from the other woman's perspective. Did she think
the neckline plunged too low? Were the velvet sleeves too
long for her arms; was the skirt too full? She realized
with surprise that she didn't want to appear gauche or dowdy
in front of Mulder's mother. She wanted the woman to like
her, to admire her, even though she herself still had many
reservations about Caroline Mulder had let her son down over
the years.

Scully lifted her hand to her bare throat. "It didn't look
quite this decollete on the mannequin," she said wryly.

"I'm certain it didn't look nearly as beautiful on the
mannequin, either." Caroline touched Scully's elbow,
guiding her into the room. "But it needs something." She
held out her hand, unconsciously mimicking her son's earlier
palm-up offering.

Scully stared at the exquisite earring and pendant set Mrs.
Mulder held out to her. Small clusters of diamonds were
offset by cabochon garnets in the fine gold settings. "How
beautiful."

"I thought you might like to borrow them."

Scully met Caroline's gaze and saw, to her surprise, the
same fear of rejection she'd seen earlier in the wary gaze
of the son. As before, she was powerless to refuse the
offer. "Thank you."

Caroline smiled and placed one hand on Scully's shoulder,
turning her gently to face the bed, where Mulder slouched,
propped up by his elbows, managing to look absolutely
gorgeous even with his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned and his tie
slightly askew. He made a little face at her as his mother
fastened the necklace around her neck. Overcome by an
uncharacteristically childish impulse, she stuck out her
tongue at him and was rewarded by his soft, surprised
laughter.

"There." Caroline turned her back around to get a look at
the necklace. "Perfect." She caught Scully's hand and
place the small diamond and garnet studs in her palm. "I'll
leave you two alone to plan your strategy for the evening."
The almost happy expression on her face faded as she turned
her gaze to her son. "Whatever you decide to do, please be
careful. These people were dangerous enough decades ago. I
imagine age has only honed their evil."

Scully looked over her shoulder at Mulder. He was no longer
laughing, his eyes dark and serious as he met her gaze.
After his mother had left the room, he pushed himself off
the bed and crossed to Scully. "Are you sure this is how
you want to handle this? We don't have any idea what we're
walking into."

She lifted her chin. "Carter Christopher knows something
about what happened to Sarah Chandler. And I suspect he
knows about what happened to me during the months I was
missing. I'm certain he knows what secrets his consortium
considered so volatile that they found cold blooded murder
justifiable." She met his eyes. "And maybe, he knows what
happened to your sister."

* * * * *

Mulder parked the car at a public parking garage, and he and
Scully walked a block to the Waldorf-Astoria, their pace
quickened by the chilly February night. He was scared,
excited, angry--all those wild emotions that gripped him
whenever he was close to uncovering another facet of the
truth. He felt like he was going to fly apart.

Then he felt her fingers slip into his own.

He stopped mid-stride and looked down at her.

Scully looked up at him, her eyes dark and fathomless in the
light from the street lamps. He felt the tension roiling
through her body as well but knew she wouldn't give into it.
She was the archor of this partnership--it was her job to
keep him from careening off into heedless danger, and she
was damned good at it..

He studied her, let the sweet, familiar sight of her calm
him, give him strength and peace. She looked lovely, her
hair pulled back from her face, accenting her Roman goddess
features and gentle blue eyes. His mother's satin cloak
covered her from neck to toe, but he'd seen her before, in
the bedroom, her body lovingly sheathed in rich cranberry
velvet, the milky white flesh of her throat bared to him,
tempting him to taste the sweetness.

The neckline of the dress plunged dangerously near the
shadowy cleft between her small, round breasts, giving him a
glimpse of secret, forbidden territory. A call to
adventure. A quest of a different kind.

Resisting her beauty had never been easy. But time should
have tempered the effect on him, familiarity taking the edge
from his natural attraction to her charms. Friendship
should have conquered desire, for indeed, she was his friend
in every sense that word conveyed--confidante, sounding
board, companion, voice of reason. But with Scully,
friendship merely deepened desire, gave it a richer color.
Distilled his need to a purity he'd never experienced.
Looking down into her uplifted face, he felt as if his
entire being was on fire.

But then something happened. Something so ephemeral that he
couldn't put a name to it. He could only acknowledge the
result, the sudden sense of peace that washed over him as
she met his intensity with a steady calm. He relaxed
beneath her touch, his explosive energy ebbing until he felt
more in control. He tightened his fingers around hers for a
second in silent gratitude, then loosened his grip, giving
her permission to let go.

But she didn't release his hand.

For a moment, tension returned, hot and electric, and he
felt another slight tightening of his groin. But then that,
too, ebbed away as he recognized the need to put the task at
hand foremost in their minds. It was what Scully expected--
what she wanted. And he couldn't deny her anything she
wanted.

Hands still clasped, they entered the hotel.

The Waldorf was as imposing on the inside as on the outside.
Gray marble, gold fixtures, huge flower arrangements, muted
lighting, marble floors with red carpeting. The enormous
lobby and the corridors leading in and out housed a variety
of exclusive shops, drawing crowds of shoppers to the hotel.
Mulder and Scully ignored the flow of tourists and headed
straight for the elevator that would take them up to the
Rockefeller Ballroom.

A large, muscular man in an immaculately cut tuxedo stood at
the door to the ballroom, clipboard in hand. "You are?"

"Scott and Tina Chappelear," Mulder replied, giving the man
the names his mother had used to procure invitations to the
party for them.

The man glanced up and down the list, a frown on his face.
Mulder's stomach tightened, wondering if his mother's
contact had been less than trustworthy.

But a moment later, the man's expression relaxed and he
moved aside from the doorway, letting them enter.

Scully released a small, pent up breath as they entered the
crowded ballroom. She looked around the room from her
somewhat limited vantage point, and Mulder realized that her
two-inch black pumps didn't give her nearly enough height to
scan the crowd. He looked around in her stead, more than
willing to be her point man.

He caught sight of a familiar face. "There's Christopher,"
he murmured.

She followed his gaze, her eyebrows twitching slightly as
she caught sight of the thin, silver-haired man in the
corner near the bar. He wore his tuxedo with the casual air
of one used to such trappings; his aquiline features were
unexpectedly animated as he talked to a tall woman standing
by his side. Scully looked up at Mulder. "What now?"

He shook his head slightly. "I don't want to try to talk to
him in the middle of this crowd."

Scully looked back at Christopher, a little frown creasing
her forehead. As they watched, another man approached
Christopher and his companion, and Mulder heard the air
whoosh from Scully's lungs.

He tightened his hand over hers, his nerves jangling with a
rush of adrenaline. "What?"

"The man with Christopher--"

He looked at the large, dark-haired man who leaned in close
to Christopher, murmuring something in his ear. His face
was round, jowly and dark, his eyes like twin chips of
obsidian.

"He's the one who showed me the train car like the one where
I was--"

His stomach tightened, twisted, and rage shot through him.
He tugged her hand gently, making her look at him. "He's one
of them?"

She nodded.

Mulder's nostrils flared for a second, as if he'd smelled
something foul. Which maybe he had. "This place is
probably crawling with the bastards. And even though we
don't know who they are, I'll bet they know who we are."

She nodded again.

"Then we can't really afford to waste time. Maybe we should
just try the straightforward approach."

"No," she disagreed. "I think YOU should talk to
Christopher. I want to talk to his associate."

"No."

She withdrew her hand from his grip, lifting her chin as she
met his worried gaze. "Yes. I need to talk to him again.
He knows more than he ever told me, and I let him get away
without answering any of my questions."

"I don't like the idea of our getting separated."

"A crowd like this is the height of safety with these
people, Mulder. These guys do their dirty deeds in the
shadows, not in in the middle of crowds. They won't risk
hurting either of us in the middle of all this chaos." She
put her hand on his arm, squeezing gently to as if to
reassure him. "I'll be fine. You go talk to Christopher--
find out why he met with Sarah."

Reluctantly, Mulder nodded, realizing that she was right.
They had to separate for the moment. But he didn't move for
a long moment, watching her pick her way through the crowd.

* * * * *

Scully tracked the dark-haired man, who had left
Christopher's side and begun to traverse the room, talking
with people as he went. She slipped through the crowd,
grimacing with frustration as she had to circle small clumps
of party-goers engaged in small talk.

She was almost there when someone called her name. "Dana
Scully?"

She froze, her heart thudding wildly in her breast.

A dark-haired man about her age emerged from one of the
anonymous clumps of conversationalists. He was a couple of
inches shorter than Mulder, with a stocky build and a round,
boyish face. His hazel-brown eyes crinkled at the corners
as he smiled broadly. "It IS you, isn't it?"

He did look familiar, she realized, although she couldn't
place him.

"We had some physics courses together at Maryland,
remember?" He cocked his head, looking her over with
harmless admiration. "God, you look wonderful! You look
like you just stepped out of college yesterday, not twelve
years ago."

Her memory finally clicked into place. Her eyes widened.
"Finn?"

He grinned broadly. "Bet you never thought you'd see old
Finn all decked out in a monkey suit."

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"It's my party, hon. Which begs the question, what are YOU
doing here?"

Her heart rate, which had eased back to normal at
recognizing her old college buddy, suddenly sped up again.
Oh, my God, she realized, Finn's last name WAS Leone. "I
was in town and was in the mood to crash a posh New York
soiree?" she ventured, hoping her old friend was in the mood
to let things slide.

But his eyebrows rose slightly. "Saint Dana, crashing a
party?"

"Twelve years can change a girl, Finn." She darted a glance
around the room, trying to relocate her prey. She found him
near the band stand, talking to a slight, balding man. On
impulse, Scully touched Paul's arm. "Finn, who's that man
in the corner? The dark-haired man with the heavy-set
build?"

Paul glanced over his shoulder. "Oh--you mean Dad?"

Scully's heart skipped a beat.

* * * * *

Mulder made it to within ten feet of Christopher before the
man turned his head and caught sight of him. Christopher's
eyes widened--surprise or fear? Mulder wondered.

He hoped it was fear.

He hoped to God the bastard was squirming.

"Mr. Mulder, what a surprise to see YOU here. I don't
recall seeing your name on the guest list."

Mulder pasted a smile on his taut face. "You didn't."

"And yet here you are."

Mulder's smile stretched his tense facial muscles. "Nice
little soiree you've got going here. But a little hint--the
cheese doodles are a tad stale."

The woman next to Christopher made a soft, chuckling sound.
Mulder looked at her for the first time, a quick appraisal,
taking in the honey-brown hair worn in a straight, chin-
length bob, the clear slate-blue eyes, the full pink lips
and straight, pert nose. She was tall, voluptuous--wide
hips and full breasts, a walking wet dream. Yet there was
something about her that just screamed, "Look but don't
touch."

He jerked his attention back to Carter Christopher. "I'd
like a word with you--alone."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, but I have obligations here."

Mulder closed the space between them, grabbing the older
man's elbow in a crushing grip. "I think you have previous
obligations, Mr. Christopher."

Christopher's eyes widened a bit at the use of his name,
Mulder noted with satisfaction. He pushed the man
backwards, propelling him toward the wall. But before he'd
gotten more than a couple of steps, a hand closed over his
arm, the grip like steel, causing intense pain.

He looked up in surprise and met the cold gaze of
Christopher's female companion.

* * * * *

"Your father?" Scully hoped her voice didn't betray the ice
forming in her veins.

Paul nodded. "Ray Leone. Why do you ask?"

"I thought he looked familiar," Scully lied, suddenly
wanting to be as far away from Paul Leone as possible. The
walls of the room felt as if they were crumbling around her,
pinning her under heavy debris.

How long had her life brushed up against these men who had
taken her? At least twelve years, she now knew. But had
they been around earlier? Parents of her childhood friends?
The reclusive neighbor who'd lived down the street? How
many shadow people were there? How insidious was their
influence in the lives of the innocent?

Whom could she trust now?

No one.

No one but her mother.

And Mulder.

Always Mulder.

"Come meet him--you'll love him."

Scully felt the urge to turn and run. But from somewhere
deep inside, she tapped into a core of steel and lifted her
chin. Maybe it was the knowledge that in this situation,
SHE had the advantage of surprise. And knowledge.

Somehow, she got the feeling that Ray Leone--if that was
really his name--hadn't enlightened his son about his more
questionable activities. And that gave her the upper hand.

That knowledge surged through her like raw, sheer power.
She nodded. "I'd love to meet him."

* * * * *

The woman released Mulder's arm only after he let go of
Christopher. "Thank you," she said, the first words she'd
spoken. Her voice was high and clear, like silver tapping
crystal.

"Who the hell are you?" he grunted, well aware that despite
her angelic voice and goddess-like appearance, this woman
was deadly.

She smiled, baring small, perfect teeth. "Deborah Bennett.
And you?"

"Fox Mulder," Christopher supplied for him. "And Mr. Mulder
was just leaving."

"Not until you answer a question for me, Mr. Christopher."
Mulder stood his ground, despite his growing suspicion that
the woman hovering close by wouldn't let a little thing like
a crowd of people stop her from ripping his testicles right
out from between his legs.

"Carter has made it clear that he doesn't want to continue
this conversation," Deborah said, her voice light and
delicate, her smile belying the lethal intensity of her
gaze.

"Who are you, his bodyguard?"

Her smile widened.

My God, he realized, that was exactly what she was. He
managed not to drop his jaw, gathering up another gutful of
courage and turning back to glare at Carter Christopher.
"Where is Sarah Chandler?"

"I know of no one by that name."

"Liar. I have witnesses who will testify that they saw you
in New Haven, Connecticut, with Sarah Chandler the day she
disappeared."

"Your witnesses are either sadly mistaken--or they are
lying. I have been nowhere near New Haven for several years
now."

Mulder ignored his denials. "Why was she taken,
Christopher? What does she know?"

"He can't help you." Deborah Bennett's voice rang in his
ear, her breath whispering over his skin in a wretched
parody of seduction. "But I can kill you. Quietly, so no
one even notices. And then I can kill your pretty partner
as well. And no one will ever know what happened to you."

His blood froze.

"No one is looking for Sarah Chandler but you and your
partner. No one else cares. So go home, Agent Mulder.
Take your partner with you." Her crystal pure voice
softened, hummed. "Get married. Have babies. Live a
normal life. And never look back."

He turned his head to meet her gaze. What he saw there
shocked him.

Compassion. Sadness. Just for a second, before it
disappeared behind a sheet of icy disdain.

"I can't," he rasped.

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "Then you'll both end up
dead."

* * * * *

Dana Scully watched, her heart in her throat, as Ray Leone
turned his head and met her gaze. A little thrill of power
shot through her as she saw his eyes widen just a bit, his
full lips parting to emit a small hiss of shock. His dark
gaze flitted from her face to the open, smiling face of his
son. With great effort, he hid his surprise, greeting his
son's smile with one of his own.

"Dad, I want you to meet an old school friend--Dana Scully.
Dana, this is my father, Ray Leone."

She held out her hand, smiling a cool, knowing smile. His
carefully schooled expression couldn't fully mask the
apprehension she saw trembling in the depths of his eyes.
"Nice to meet you, sir."

"Miss Scully." He released her hand, his gaze never
wavering from hers.

He looks like a bird watching a snake, waiting for it to
strike, she thought, a ripple of satisfaction dancing
through her stomach. Good. "Please, call me Dana." You
called me Dana before, you son of a bitch. When YOU were in
control.

"I haven't seen Dana in years," Paul commented, oblivious to
the tension between Scully and his father. He looked down
at her. "So, you must be a big time surgeon now."

She shook her head. "No, I opted for Forensic Medicine.
I'm a special agent with the FBI now." She looked pointedly
at Ray Leone, wanting him to squirm.

A little muscle in his jaw twitched frantically, but that
was the only outward sign of distress. "How interesting
that must be for you."

She bit back a howl of bitter laughter. You bet your ASS
it's interesting, you manipulative bastard. How thrilling
to have my sister die in my stead. How utterly marvelous to
watch my partner's heart ripped out every single day as he
sacrifices his entire life to right the wrongs you and your
sanctimonious, power-grasping cohorts commit as blithely as
breathing.

Her anger was not lost on Leone. His eyes darted around the
room as if looking for an avenue of escape. A swift shimmer
of relief suddenly washed over his face. "Ah, Leigh!" He
lifted his hand, gave a little wave.

Scully turned her head to watch the approach of a slim, red-
haired woman coming their way, a smile on her face.
Something about her reminded Scully of her sister Melissa--
maybe the soft hazel eyes or the wide, open smile as she
approached. Pain like a razor ripped through Scully's
heart, and it was all she could do not to turn away.

"Sweetheart, come meet an old friend of mine!" Paul held
out his hand to the woman, his face a study in adoration.
"This is Dana Scully, who saw me through more than one
physics class at Maryland. Dana, my fiancee, Leigh
MacGraw."

Scully shook hands with the taller woman, steeling herself
against the impact of Leigh's friendly smile. "Nice to meet
you."

"If you'll excuse me--" Ray Leone began to sidle away, as
if he'd seen someone across the room.

Damn it, Scully thought, her eyes following him. He was
headed toward the corner, where Mulder had gone in search of
a confrontation with Carter Christopher. She bit back a
little grumble of frustration, wishing she could see over
the heads of the people milling about her. Her view of the
corner was obscured.

"So, what are you doing in New York City, Dana? You never
did say." Paul's voice drew her attention away from his
father's departing form.

She smiled. "Just here with a friend, seeing the sights."

"And crashing parties?"

Her smile widened, though her heart wasn't in it. "It was a
dare. I'm trying to be more adventurous in my old age." To
say the least.

"Well, I'm glad you crashed this one." Paul squeezed her
arm gently. "What a nice surprise."

"Where's your friend?" Leigh asked. Her voice was even a
bit like Melissa's, Scully realized. Warm, a little
husky, with a musical lilt.

"My friend?"

"You said you were here sightseeing with a friend."

"Oh--he's here somewhere." Her reply gave her another
excuse to look around the room in hopes of catching sight of
her partner. But a group of impossibly tall men stood
between her and the corner, and she could see nothing. Her
stomach tightened with apprehension. She didn't like
leaving Mulder to fend for himself. She'd been his partner
too long to feel comfortable away from his side.

Besides, he had the only gun. Her Sig Sauer was too large
to fit in the small clutch purse she'd brought along.

"What does he do for a living, Dana?" Paul asked.

"He's my partner."

"Dana's an FBI agent," Paul added for Leigh's benefit.

"Really? Must be pretty exciting, huh?" Leigh's face lit
up with interest. "Say--I need to go to the ladies' room,
Dana--care to join me?" She darted a teasing glance at her
fiance. "You can tell me all of Paul's embarrassing college
moments in private, where you won't feel the need to censor
yourself."

The last thing Scully wanted to do was have a little chat
with Paul Leone's fiancee, but a trip to the restroom would
give her the chance to locate her partner on the way,
reassuring herself that he wasn't in any trouble. "Sure."

Leigh lifted her face to Paul for a swift kiss, smiling up
at him with a look of adoration that threatened to steal
Scully's breath. How wonderful, she thought, not to have to
hide your feelings. To be able to show the man you loved
just how much he meant to you.

Then Leigh hooked her arm through Scully's as if they were
old pals and led her through the maze of people milling
about the ballroom. Scully lifted her chin and looked
across the room toward the corner, noting with a sense of
relief that Mulder was there, apparently in one piece,
engaged in an intense but not-too-threatening discussion
with Carter Christopher and his gorgeous female companion.

Better not be getting that woman's phone number, Mulder, she
thought, welcoming the wry humor that took the edge off her
tension. By the time she and Leigh emerged into the empty
corridor outside the ballroom, Scully almost felt relaxed.

That feeling lasted only as long as it took to round the
corner. Once out of sight of the giant guarding the
ballroom entrance, Leigh's gentle grip on Scully's arm
turned to steel, jerking Scully around to face her. Scully
gasped.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing here?"

Scully blinked, stunned. "Excuse me?"

"Raven told you to find you answers in your own damned head,
Agent Scully--not here in the middle of the viper's nest!
We don't want you this close--you're putting our lives in
danger."

Scully's stomach turned a couple of somersaults before
sinking to her toes. "You're one of them?"

"In a manner of speaking." Leigh looked around carefully
before she continued speaking. "Like Raven, I have my own
agenda."

"Is your name even Leigh MacGraw?"

Leigh merely arched her eyebrows.

"Of course not," Scully murmured, shaking her head in
bemusement. "Paul's name probably isn't Leone, either, is
it?"

"As far as he knows, it is."

"And as far as he knows, you're madly in love with him. But
nothing is ever as it seems with you people, is it?"

"I do love Paul, Dana. That's why I'm doing this."

"Doing what? Lying to him? Manipulating him?" Scully
shook her head, unspeakably angry. "That's not love."

Leigh shook her head, her mouth tightening with impatience.
"I don't have to justify myself to you, Agent Scully. I
just have to get you and you partner out of here before you
get all of us killed."

"Is Raven here?"

Leigh didn't answer, but that was all the answer Scully
needed.

"She's one of the Consortium, isn't she?"

"I'm not here to answer your questions."

"No, you people never DO answer questions, do you?" Scully
shook her head, her voice dripping disdain. "You just pose
them, torment us with the whats and whys and hows."

"You entered the game of your own free will."

"I was put here, and you know it. They wanted me to be
their tool, to put an end to Mulder and his investigations.
I didn't choose this game."

"You chose Mulder. And isn't that the same thing?"

Scully was sick of the games and the lies, and she was sick
of having her life laid bare to the scrutiny of people who
didn't give a damn whether she lived or died--unless her
life or death could somehow benefit them and their nasty
little machinations.

She turned away from Leigh, planning to go back into the
party and finish what she'd come here to do. But she hadn't
gone more than three steps before Leigh's hand clutched her
arm, fingers digging into her flesh like steel prongs. Pain
rocketed up her arm, and she gasped.

"I'm not finished yet," Leigh murmured into Scully's ear.

* * * * *

"You don't want your pretty partner to end up dead because
of you, do you, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder pinned Deborah with his coldest glare, the one he'd
learned from his father. "I don't like threats, Ms.
Bennett."

"It's not a threat, Agent Mulder. It's a reality you and
your partner need to face. You seem to believe that your
efforts can change events that have already been set into
motion, but they can't. Some things are more important,
grander than your pedestrian fascination with the truth."
Deborah shook her head, a mirthless smile curving her full,
red lips. "Your business here is finished, Agent Mulder.
Go home to mommy."

Mulder's heart skipped a beat. She knew, he realized. She
knew his mother's involvement. Fear crawled up his spine
like icy fingers.

Deborah's smile tightened. "Relax, Fox--she's safe. For
now."

Bitch, he thought, his hands curling into fists. Deborah
Bennett and her employer held all the cards. They always
had--maybe they always would. He turned to face Carter
Christopher, his expression hard with contempt. "Do you let
your bodyguard do your talking for you, Christopher?"

"She's quite eloquent, don't you agree, Mr. Mulder?"
Christopher's eyes met Mulder's angry gaze. "So rare in
hired help these days, such a facility with the language."

The gun strapped to Mulder's ankle felt remarkably heavy
then, as if it had come alive and was tugging at the small
holster, begging to be released. He knew full well that
before he could manage to get to the gun, Deborah Bennett
would have snapped his neck in two. But just considering
the thought of mowing down this smarmy, manipulative son of
a bitch gave Mulder a rush of sheer, dangerous pleasure.

"Fetch your little partner and run along." Deborah's
crystalline voice rang softly in his ear.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, Mulder
realized that leaving was the only option. He and Scully
had accomplished nothing by coming here. They never seemed
to accomplish anything where the Consortium was concerned.

Maybe Deborah Bennett was right. Maybe he should walk away
and never look back. Concentrate on Scully, on this thing
that lay between them, beckoning for a more thorough
examination, an acknowledgement. Get married. Have babies.
Never look back--

A muffled shout rose above the hum of conversation and the
light, airy sounds of the string quartet playing Bach in the
corner. Mulder's blood ran immediately cold.

Scully.

He pushed past Deborah Bennett and ran headlong into a
phalanx of large men gathering near the doorway. One of the
bodyguards--what else could they be?--grabbed Mulder's arm
as if to stop his rush toward the hallway, but Mulder thrust
him aside, fear giving him added strength. Several of the
hired muscles trailed down the hall after him, guns drawn,
but Mulder didn't give them a second thought. He darted
around a blind corner and skidded to a stop on the plush red
carpet, his heart flying into his throat.

Dana Scully knelt on the floor less than ten feet in front
of him, drenched with blood. On the floor in front of her,
a woman's body sprawled, covered in the same rich crimson
that stained his partner.

"Scully?" He choked out her name.

She lifted her face and met his gaze, although he wasn't
sure she was really seeing him. His heart thudded madly as
she lifted her hands as if displaying the blood that
sheathed her fingers like gloves. He saw that blood
streaked her throat and chest, discolored the brocade
bodice, darkened the velvet skirt and sleeves.

He took a faltering step forward, his hand outstretched.

"She's dead," Scully said, her voice faint and raspy.

Mulder crossed to her side, trying to avoid stepping into
the blood, although with so much blood, it was a futile
effort. "What happened?"

Scully shook her head slightly. "We were talking and
suddenly I head a soft popping sound. Leigh fell against
me." She looked down at the body in front of her. Her
throat bobbed wildly, and Mulder followed her gaze.

The woman's throat was basically gone. He winced at the
gory sight, realizing the bullet must have entered the back
of her neck and exited the front, blasting through the soft
tissue of her throat with devastating ease. Hollow point,
he surmised, considering the damage. He was surprised the
shot hadn't severed her head from her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to ask Scully another question when a
loud, horrible shout of anguish ripped the air. He turned
his head toward the sound and saw a dark-haired man lurch
forward, his face a mask of horror. Before Mulder could
make a move to stop him, the man had knelt in the pool of
blood by the body and gathered her into his arms, utterly
heedless of the blood that now stained his tuxedo and snowy
shirt as well.

"Call the paramedics!" he screamed, rocking the woman to his
body.

"Paul--" Scully's voice was a low, heartsick moan.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay." The man hugged the
lifeless body, crooning softly.

Mulder felt a surge of nausea and lurched away, half-
dragging Scully with him. She resisted for only a moment
before she let him pull her to her feet and stumbled with
him halfway down the hall.

He stood between her and the sight of the sobbing man,
searching her for signs of injury. He lifted his hand to
her face, brushing away a lock of hair that had tumbled from
its restraints. "Are you okay, Scully?"

She slowly lifted her eyes to meet his worried gaze. The
blank expression in their blue depths chilled his blood.
Slowly, she shook her head. "No."

That one word scared Mulder more than anything in the world.

* * * * *

The hotel room seemed preternaturally quiet, Mulder thought
as he followed Scully inside and shut the door behind him.
Maybe it was the contrast to the two hours of chaos he
and Scully had just endured. After the shooting, all hell
had broken loose, and they had been right in the heart of
it.

He lay the satin cape his mother had lent Scully on one of
the two beds. Despite the fact that Scully was shivering
wildly, she'd refused the cape. "I don't want to get blood
on it," she'd muttered through rattling teeth. He'd put his
own thick wool overcoat around her shaking body instead.

She stopped in the space between the two beds and turned to
look at him, her eyes wide and dark. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head. "No need."

Her teeth still chattered together softly. "I don't know
why I'm reacting this way. It's not like I haven't--"

He held up his hand, warding off the apology. "I
know, Scully. I don't want you to feel you have to
apologize to me for what you're feeling."

She looked down at the floor, as if the gentle intensity of
his gaze was too much for her to cope with. "I wasn't much
help to you."

"There wasn't much anyone could have done." Mulder sighed,
running his fingers through his hair. "Whoever killed Leigh
MacGraw was a professional. He knew what he was doing. He
knew how to get away without leaving any clues behind. For
all we know, he was standing there in the crowd, laughing at
us."

"Nobody at that party was what he or she seemed." She shook
her head. "It was a room full of shadows."

He had no answer to that. She was right--he doubted there
had been many people at that party who were what they'd
seemed. He thought of Deborah Bennett's taunt, and his
blood ran cold. "I managed to talk Mom into staying with a
neighbor," he told Scully, who had not been privy to his
phone call to his mother.

"You didn't frighten her, did you?"

"I tried not to. But I couldn't let her stay at the house
alone." He looked at Scully, standing there stiff and
shivering in her blood-drenched gown, and realized that the
first order of business was to get her out of that dress and
cleaned up. What she needed was a hot shower and the nice,
warm terry-cloth robe the concierge had promised would be
waiting for her in the room--

A knock on the door stopped him in mid-stride. Maybe that
was room service with the hot tea he had requested. He
turned and went to the door. But when he swung it open, he
found himself looking into the slate-blue eyes of Deborah
Bennett.

He blocked the doorway. "Go the hell away."

"I didn't come here to talk to you," Deborah said, looking
past him to where Scully stood.

"It's you." Behind him, Scully's voice was low and hoarse.
He turned to look at her and saw that she was staring at
Deborah Bennett, her eyes narrowed. "It's the woman I told
you about, Mulder. Raven. Aren't you?"

Mulder glared at Deborah Bennett, who nodded. Anger bolted
through him, and he grabbed the woman's arm, drawing her
into the hotel room and pushing her against the wall.
"You're Raven?"

She didn't even flinch. "I don't want to have to hurt you,
Agent Mulder."

"I'm not afraid of you." Forty-eight hours of fear,
frustration and rage made him reckless.

"Then you're a fool." Deborah's reflexes were lightning
quick--he was on the floor with a four inch heel digging
into the middle of his spine before he could blink twice.
"I can sever your spine in a second." She applied pressure
to his vertebrae, sending a howl of pain coursing down his
back. He sucked in a lungful of air.

"Stop it." Scully's voice rang with authority, aided by the
quiet but deadly click of a gun cocking. "Move away from
him now."

The pinpoint of pressure against his spine disappeared, and
he rolled well clear of Deborah Bennett. He looked up to
see that Scully held his gun leveled at the tall brunette.
She must have retrieved it from the inside pocket of his
coat, where he'd tucked it after a futile search for the
shooter earlier that evening.

"You came here to say something to me?" Scully asked, her
voice strong for the first time in two hours.

"Put the gun down, Agent Scully. It's not necessary."

"I'll decide what's necessary."

Mulder stared at his partner, stunned by the change in her
demeanor. She blazed with anger--he could almost see it
coming off her in little sparks. She held his gun in her
bloodstained hands, her aim steady. Her eyes were cold like
chips of blue ice as she faced down Deborah Bennett.

She was magnificent.

"Who killed Leigh MacGraw?" Scully asked.

Deborah shook her head slightly. "I don't know."

"Why was she killed?"

Deborah's eyes narrowed. "Because of you."

"Don't try that with me," Scully said, her voice thick with
contempt. "My partner may feel like he has to take on the
burdens of the world, but I don't. I don't owe a damned
thing to you people--all you've done is hand me a load of
lies and double-talk and misinformation. YOU people killed
my sister. YOU killed Agent Mulder's father. You and your
pathetic crew of power-eaters have tried to kill us both--
more than once. So don't expect me to shed tears for you
and your kind when you turn on each other like wild dogs."

"I told you to find the answers in your own mind, Agent
Scully. In your own past."

"I don't care what you told me. I don't dance to your
tune."

"Then you'll end up dead."

Scully laughed, a low terrible sound that sent chills
skittering down Mulder's spine. "We all end up dead, Raven.
Sooner or later. At least this way, I die knowing I wasn't
your spineless little puppet."

"This is a dangerous game to try to play alone, Agent
Scully."

Scully shook her head. "I'm not alone." She turned her
head and looked at Mulder, her gaze intense.

He returned the gaze, giving her his strength and support.
Then, in silent concert, they both turned their eyes toward
Deborah Bennett.

She looked from one to the other, silent and wary. For a
second, Mulder thought he saw something very much like envy
lurking behind her eyes. Then she simply turned, opened the
door, and left the room.

Neither Mulder nor Scully moved for a long moment. Then,
suddenly, Scully dropped the gun on one of the beds and
lurched toward the bathroom. Seconds later, Mulder heard
retching sounds.

He grabbed a washcloth from the gold rack just outside the
bathroom door, drenched it with cold water, and knelt next
to her. He held her hair back as she finished emptying her
stomach, then handed her the wet washcloth as she collapsed
back against the side of the tub, her eyes closed and her
throat bobbing as she swallowed convulsively to ward off dry
heaves. He flushed the toilet and then sat cross-legged on
the bathroom floor in front of her, waiting for her to
recover.

"I'm sorry," she murmured a few moments later.

"You owe me, Scully," he said with a wry grin.

A faint smile darted across her ashen face. "I don't think
you can afford to keep score, Mulder."

He chuckled, heartened by her attempt at humor. He stood
and reached down to catch her hands. They felt cold and
stiff in his grasp--the blood on her hands had dried and
crusted, he realized, his own stomach rebelling for a
second. He pulled her to her feet and gently turned her
around so that her back was to him. The gold and silver
drape dipped almost to the small of her back, baring the
delicate ridges of her spine. With a self-mocking half-
smile, he realized that under any other circumstances, all
that Scully-skin would be a wicked temptation. But not
tonight. Not when she was so vulnerable. Not when what she
needed most was tenderness and comfort.

He reached below the drape and found the pull-tab of the
zipper.

"What are you doing?" Scully murmured.

"Living a personal fantasy," he answered, his voice light
and teasing. "Getting you out of your dress."

She turned her head, cutting her eyes at him. He met her
quizzical gaze openly, reassuring her. She dipped her head
forward, her eyes fluttering closed, and she relaxed, her
body almost swaying against his.

He finished unzipping the dress and gently helped her ease
the long, stiff sleeves off her arms. The ruined dress
puddled to the floor, leaving Scully naked from the waist
up, and clad only in panties and sheer stockings from the
waist down. Mulder stepped away, backing toward the
doorway. "I'll be outside. Take your time." He scooped up
the blood-stained dress and took it out with him, closing
the door behind him.

He folded the dress and stashed it in a plastic garment bag
he found hanging in the closet. He debated going back
downstairs and looking for one of the police detectives who
were no doubt still milling about the hotel. The bloody
dress could constitute evidence, he supposed. But he didn't
want to leave Scully alone. Not when he'd once again come
so close to losing her.

So he stashed the bag in the bottom of the closet. He could
give it to the NYPD in the morning--he and Scully were
supposed to go sign their statements before noon anyway.

As he was crossing back to the bed, someone knocked on the
door. He tensed, grabbing his gun from where Scully had
dropped it, and crossed to the door. He glanced through the
peephole, saw a bellman's uniform and relaxed fractionally.
But he kept the gun in hand until the bellman entered, tray
of tea and shortbread cookies in hand. He tipped the
bellman and set the tray on the table between the two beds,
then kicked off his shoes and socks and stretched out on the
bed, waiting for Scully to finish bathing.

He listened to the soft hiss of the shower, thinking about
Scully standing under the spray, letting it wash away the
traces of Leigh MacGraw's blood. Letting it cleanse her.
What she had been through tonight was horribly traumatic,
even for someone like Scully, who dealt with death on a
daily basis. It wasn't possible for Scully, with her
doctor's dedication to preserving life, to watch someone's
life ripped away right in front of her without being
affected. He knew she thought it was a sign of weakness,
how deeply the night's events had shaken her. But he found
it her greatest strength--the fact that despite all the
horrors they had witnessed, she still had the capacity to
feel things so deeply, to be affected by tragedy. It was a
testament to her character.

The sound of the shower ceased, and he turned his head
toward the bathroom door, awaiting her reemergence. A few
seconds later, she walked out of the bathroom clad in an
oversized terry-cloth robe, her hair wet and tangled, her
skin bright pink from a vigorous scrubbing. She avoided his
gaze and lay down on the other bed with her back to him,
curling into a tight ball.

"Room service delivered some tea," he murmured. "Sure you
don't want some?"

"I'm okay."

He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. "I
know you are."

"Liar," she murmured. "You think I'm a basket case."

He stood and crossed to her bed, lying down behind her.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What do you think?" He gently ran his fingers through the
hair tangled against her cheek.

"Mulder, I'm fine."

"Um hmm." He continued the rhythmic caress.

"I can handle it."

"Yes, you can."

"Mulder, stop it."

"Stop what?"

She caught his hand, trapping it against her cheek. "Stop
that. I don't want you to think you have to do this. I'm
okay."

"Scully, let me do this for you." He scooted closer to her
until his body brushed up against her back. "You've been a
rock for me more times than I can remember. Don't shut me
out, please. Let me do this."

Her hand trembled and fell away from his. "I don't know why
I can't shake this."

"Maybe because you're human?"

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder.
"Mulder, are you coming on to me?"

He chuckled, resuming the gentle play of his fingers in her
hair.

She looked away again. "Seriously, I've seen much worse
things, Mulder. I didn't even know this woman. Why am I
still shaking?"

"I think it's not just Leigh MacGraw's death. I think it's
everything that's happened to us over the past three weeks.
You told me yourself that it was unnerving to think about
how insidious the Consortium is in the lives of innocent
citizens. That's the kind of thing that shakes your
foundation, makes you wonder if there's anyone in the world
that you can trust."

"Paul was going to marry Leigh, Mulder. He loved her--she
said she loved him, too--but she was lying to him all along.
His father is lying to him. Raven's job is to protect
Carter Christopher with her own life, yet she seems to have
no qualms about betraying him." Scully rolled onto her
back, looking up at him, her eyes dark and wary. "I used to
trust people, Mulder. I took them at their word." She
shook her head slightly. "That seems so long ago. Now I
know there's almost no one in the world we can trust."

He propped his head on his hand and looked down at her, his
heart clenching. He had done that to her, he thought,
dragged her into his nightmare and ripped away her faith.
So, perhaps, he alone had the power to give some of it back
to her now. "I think there are probably millions of people
in the world we could trust, Scully."

She blinked, looking up at him in surprise.

"There have to be good, honest, decent people in this world,
Scully. Or else, what we're doing wouldn't have any
meaning. There'd be no point in finding the truth if
there's no one out there who cares to hear it." He brushed
aside a little strand of wet hair that clung to her lip.
"The problem is, we don't have the luxury of the time it
would take to find out who we could trust and who we
couldn't. So we have no choice but to watch our backs
every second."

She reached over and caught his hand, cradling it to her
stomach between her own hands. "I guess I'm really pretty
lucky, Mulder. I have my family. And you."

He was acutely aware of the warmth of her body beneath the
terry-cloth robe, the sweet soap and water freshness of her
scent. The soft hum of attraction that coursed through him
was more pleasant than frantic, and he let himself enjoy the
sensation of lying next to his favorite person in the world,
feeling her warmth against his body, hearing the tenderness
and affection in her voice. He felt safe and blessed, a
rare feeling in his realm of experience.

"I'm pretty lucky, too," he murmured, moving his hand
against her stomach in the most delicate of caresses. "If
you weren't around, I'd have a four inch heel sticking out
of my spine right now."

She didn't smile as he'd hoped. Instead, her expression
darkened. "I hate people like her, pretending they're
trying to help us find the truth, while we take all the
risks and make all the enemies."

He nodded. "And yet it's so hard to turn your back on the
information they offer, knowing it could be the key to
finding what you seek."

She closed her eyes, her brow furrowed as if in pain. "I'm
so tired, Mulder."

"Then you should sleep." He gently withdrew his hand from
her grip and started to retreat to his own bed. But she
rolled onto her side to face him, her hand gripping his arm,
anchoring him.

Though her lips trembled, she uttered no sound. But the
entreaty in her gaze was clear. Stay with me, Mulder. I
need you.

He opened his arms and she burrowed against him, her head
nestling in the curve of his throat, her arms circling his
waist and pulling him close. He curved his body around
hers, enveloping her with his own warmth. Within moments,
she was asleep, her body and mind exhausted from the
traumatic events of the evening.

But he lay awake for a long time, keeping watch, listening
to her steady breathing, and thanking whatever God might be
listening that they'd both lived to see another day.

End of #5

12 RITES OF PASSAGE
#6: "Revelation"
By Anne Haynes
AHaynes33@aol.com

New York City Police Department
February 15, 1998
9:45 a.m.

The dark-haired detective taking Dana Scully's statement
muttered a curse and reached for the correction fluid.
"Sorry--not gonna win any commendations for my typing," she
apologized.

Scully shrugged, wondering if the day would ever truly come
when paper work was obsolete.

"So you never saw anyone in the hallway, maybe lurking?"

"It was a big party and I didn't really know many people
there."

"So what were you doing there in the first place?"

Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag. M. D. Godin.
"Detective Godin, my partner and I were following leads in a
missing persons case."

M.D. glanced across the office at the corner, where Mulder
was giving his statement to a short, stocky Hispanic
detective. "That your partner?"

Scully nodded, following M.D.'s gaze.

M.D. arched one dark eyebrow. "Lucky you."

She had no idea just how lucky, Scully thought, remembering
how she'd awakened that morning in the warm, safe circle of
Mulder's embrace. The temptation to never move from that
spot had been so overwhelming she had almost wept. So
seldom in their six year partnership had she allowed herself
to be utterly vulnerable to Mulder--not because she didn't
trust him but because she didn't want him to feel he
couldn't trust her. He needed to know he could depend on
her to cover his ass, no matter how rough the case. She had
to be strong, nurse her own wounds, carry her own burdens no
matter how heavy they became.

So she'd slipped out of his arms and into the other bed
before he awakened, even though separating herself from him
had left a physical ache as real as an excision. Keeping
her distance from him was necessary. Essential.

Wasn't it?

"Are you officially on this case?" M.D. asked.

Scully dragged her gaze away from Mulder's lean, angular
features. "We haven't submitted a 302 yet. We wanted to
see if the case warranted official investigation."

M.D. nodded and typed a couple of lines on the report in
front of her. She looked back up at Scully and opened her
mouth to ask another question. But her eyes shifted
suddenly and her mouth dropped wide. "Holy shit," she
murmured. "I think I can die happy now."

Scully looked over her shoulder, following the detective's
stare. Her heart sank. Assistant Director Walter Skinner
filled the doorway, his shoulders practically brushing the
door jamb. He caught sight of her and crossed the room
slowly, his dark eyes shadowed, his jaw clenching and
unclenching.

Scully glanced across the room at Mulder. He, too, had
noticed the arrival of their boss. He murmured something to
the detective taking his statement and rose, headed toward
her. She stood as well, releasing a little sigh.

"You know that man, too?" M.D. asked, her voice tight with
awe. "You go, girl."

Skinner and Mulder reached her side at the same time. She
glanced from her boss to her partner. "It's not Agent
Mulder's fault," she said when Skinner started to open his
mouth.

He arched his eyebrows. "Why don't you let me in on what's
going on then, Agent Scully? Let's start with the phone
call I got at 3 a.m. this morning informing me that two of
my agents had been involved in a murder."

Scully glanced over her shoulder at Detective Godin, who was
observing their discussion with rapt attention. She frowned
slightly and looked back at her boss. "Sir, I'd rather
discuss this at another time. Agent Mulder and I have to
finish giving our statements."

Skinner's lips tightened with annoyance, but to her relief
he nodded and backed away, crossing to lean against the wall
near the door. Scully met Mulder's weary gaze for a long
moment, drinking in his silent support, letting it steady
her. Then she turned back to the desk to finish answering
Det. Godin's questions.

"Is he married?" M.D. asked.

Scully blinked. "Excuse me?"

The detective nodded toward A.D. Skinner. "The big guy. Is
he married?"

"He's a widower."

"Oh. How sad." The detective didn't sound particularly
sincere.

"Look, how many more questions do you have for me?"

"About the shooting?"

"Of course about the shooting."

"I'm through with that." She pulled the report from the
typewriter and handed it to Scully. "Sign there."

Scully signed by the X. "Can I go?"

M.D. shook her head. "Not until you answer one more
question. What's the big guy's name?"

Scully glanced over her shoulder at Skinner, who was glaring
impatiently in her direction. "Walter Skinner."

"Walter." Det. Godin caressed the word, her voice soft.
"Nice name. He another FBI agent?"

"Assistant Director," Scully answered, only half-listening.
Mulder had apparently finished his statement and was headed
in her direction. He glanced at the detective, nodding
slightly toward her before he slipped his hand behind
Scully's back, pressing his palm against her spine. His
touch was electric, as always, piercing through his wool
overcoat and the terry cloth robe hidden beneath. He guided
her toward the door.

Skinner met them there, blocking the exit. "Now, want to
tell me what the hell's going on?

* * * * *

The bagel shop was little more than a glass front hole-in-
the-wall, but it had hot, fresh bagels and cream cheese, and
a round table in the back that afforded Mulder, Scully and
Skinner a modicum of privacy. Skinner ordered bagels and
coffee for the three of them, and the waitress smiled at him
as if she knew exactly who he was. Which, for all Mulder
knew, she did. After five years and counting, the Assistant
Director remained an enigma. Sometimes--many times--he was
certain that he could trust the man with his life and
Scully's. But other times, he realized that Skinner would
take only so many chances for his agents. Sometimes, he
backed away and left them to twist in the wind.

Scully didn't trust Skinner. Not completely. Mulder
thought that she liked the man and even respected him. But
she didn't trust him. She trusted no one. No one but him.

Just like he trusted only her.

He sat back and listened as Scully told the story from
beginning to end, her voice low and controlled. To look at
her, no one would know she had spent a good part of the
night before shivering in his arms. She didn't even blink,
her tone of voice never wavered.

But Mulder knew. He remembered.

She had clung to him, curled against him, buried herself in
his embrace. She had allowed him to witness her
vulnerability, an act of trust so intimate he still found
himself breathless at the memory.

And yet, this morning she had retreated from him, slipping
quietly from his embrace, trying not to wake him. He hadn't
let her know that he was awake, not wanting to embarrass
her. But it had taken a huge amount of control to suppress
the groan that had rumbled through his entire being when she
had pulled herself away from him.

Holding her had been...right. It had felt natural,
necessary. Like air filling lungs. Blood coursing through
veins. And when she'd torn herself away and retreated to
the other bed, he had felt as if something essential had
been stripped from him.

It still hurt, even now.

"When we get back to Washington, I'd like to submit a 302,
sir," Scully finished. "I believe there is sufficient
evidence to warrant further investigation of Sarah
Chandler's disappearance."

Skinner's jaw tightened, and his nostrils flared as if he'd
smelled something foul. "I can probably push this case
request through for you, Agent Scully, but are you sure it's
wise? Your position and that of Agent Mulder are tenuous at
the moment. The primaries are not going well for President
Matheson's supporters--this may not be the best time to rock
the boat."

"A woman is missing, sir. A crime has apparently been
committed. Politics cannot be allowed to dictate our
investigations." Scully lifted her chin, her eyes blue and
blazing.

Mulder held back a smile. For a woman who'd been sent to
put an end to his work in the X-Files--not to mention derail
his career--Dana Scully had turned out to be quite an asset
to both. With her assistance, he'd turned the X-Files into
a viable division with a phenomenal success rate. And his
own position with the Bureau had seen an upturn over the
years, as he'd been able to back his speculations with solid
evidence, thanks to her careful scientific methods of
inquiry.

He knew Walter Skinner couldn't resist her determination.
God knew HE'D never been able to.

The waitress approached with their bagels and coffee. After
she left, a taut silence ensued as they spread cream cheese
on their bagels and stirred creamer in their coffee.
Finally, when Mulder was about ready to scream from nervous
tension, Skinner spoke. "I'll make sure the paperwork is
pushed through. When will you be returning to D.C.?"

"We have to go back to my mother's house and make sure she's
all right. I'll want the local cops there to keep an eye on
her for a few days, make sure she's safe. But we'll be
back at work first thing in the morning." Mulder took a
bite of bagel. It was soft and delicious, reminding him of
childhood excursions into the city after he and his mother
had left the Vineyard and moved to Connecticut. On some
Sunday mornings she used to take him to a deli much like
this one, he remembered. They'd have bagels, cream cheese
and fresh fruit and talk about everything and nothing.

But even then, they'd steered clear of the most important
subjects. Like what had happened to Samantha. What had
ripped the family apart. Why they couldn't seem to talk
about the most significant, horrible events of their mutual
lives.

Skinner interrupted his sad musings. "My flight back leaves
in a little over an hour. I think I have enough to file the
302 for you."

"Thank you, sir," Scully said.

He pushed away from the table and stood. "Are you certain
you wouldn't like to take another day off, Scully? You've
been through a lot over the past few days, and you're still
not fully recovered from the shooting--"

"I'm fine," she assured him. Mulder bit back another smile.

Skinner glanced at Mulder. He said nothing, but his
expression was unmistakable. *Take care of her, Mulder,*
Skinner's eyes told him. Mulder nodded slightly, assuring
his boss that the message had been received.

They parted company, Skinner remaining behind to pay for
their food while Mulder walked Scully back to her car. The
morning was chilly, and Scully shivered slightly as she
unlocked the passenger door for him. No debates about who
would drive, he noted. It was her car, but more
importantly, it was her opportunity to take positive steps
toward reclaiming control over her life.

She had reacted in a similar fashion another time she'd
broken down in front of him. When the Donnie Pfaster case
had stripped her bare of her defenses. She'd cried in his
arms, sharing her pain and fear with him, holding back
nothing. Nothing he'd ever experienced--not friendship, not
love, not sex--had ever come close to the intense intimacy
of what he and Scully had shared in that moment. Her pain
had become his, not because he'd taken it into himself but
because she'd given it to him to bear for her.

But when it was over, she had regrouped. Distanced herself.
Put the walls back up, protecting herself even from him.

He understood. Really he did. But distance was distance,
no matter how understandable the reasons.

She turned to look at him while he was fastening his
seatbelt. He met her serious, quizzical gaze with a little
lift of his eyebrows.

"You don't have to do this with me, Mulder."

He frowned, not following.

"This case--I don't know where it's going to lead us, but
I'm pretty sure we're both going to get jerked around a
while before it's all over. I just want you to know that if
you want to bail out, I'll understand. Sarah Chandler is
nobody to you. You don't have to do this."

"Do you want to find her, Scully?"

She nodded.

"And you're going to do everything in your power to do that,
right?"

She nodded again.

"Then so am I." Impulsively, he reached across the seat and
caught her hand. He tensed, waiting for her to draw away.

But she merely turned her wrist so that her palm flattened
against his, tightening the grip. "Thank you."

He squeezed her hand, then reluctantly let go, sitting back
in his seat as she cranked the car and deftly pulled out
into the mid-morning Manhattan traffic. Her driving was
quick and efficient; he dozed off as they headed into the
flow of traffic on the I-95 headed into Connecticut and
didn't awaken until Scully gently tapped his chin.

He started awake to find that they were parked in front of
his mother's house. "Sorry."

"No problem--your snoring kept me awake for the drive," she
said with a wry little half-smile.

He smiled back at her. "As long as I didn't TALK in my
sleep."

"Who says you didn't?" Her eyes darted away coyly as she
unfastened her seat belt and opened the driver's door.

He frowned as he followed, not sure whether she was kidding.
"Did I give away any trade secrets?"

She cut her eyes at him, waiting for him to precede her up
the stairs to his mother's house. "I know where you hide
your sunflower seeds now."

He feigned a groan and walked up the steps. He lifted his
hand to knock, but the door opened before he got a chance.
His mother lurched out the door and flung her arms around
him, almost knocking him off balance. He felt Scully's hand
on his shoulders, steadying him until he could regain his
center of balance. He looked down at his mother. "Mom?"

She held him tightly for a moment, then suddenly pulled
away, her face going red with embarrassment. She stepped
back, straightening her cream silk blouse. "I'm sorry,
son."

He shook his head, unutterably sad that his mother felt the
need to apologize for a display of affection. Just how
dysfunctional was that? "What's the matter?"

"The incident at the hotel was all over the news but no one
released any names. But one reporter gave a description of
the young woman who had been shot and killed--a young red-
haired woman. I tried calling everyone I knew who might
have information but no one could tell me anything!" She
turned to Scully, her eyes wide with burgeoning relief.
"I'm so happy to see the two of you in one piece," she
murmured, holding out her hand.

Scully took his mother's hand and squeezed gently. "We're
fine."

"But we need to talk," Mulder added.

His mother looked up at him, her eyes dark with pain and
fear, and for a moment, he almost lost his resolve. But
unbidden, the image of Leigh MacGraw's blood-drenched body
filled his mind, reminding him how close he'd come to losing
Scully--yet again. And he knew that no matter how much it
hurt, his mother was going to have to face the past and give
them some answers, before anyone else got hurt.

His mother licked her lips slowly, drawing a deep breath.
Then she nodded, thrusting out her chin in an expression of
determination so reminiscent of Samantha's little girl
stubbornness that he couldn't catch his breath for a moment.

"So much of it is gone, Fox," she said. "But I'll tell you
what I remember."

* * * * *

The trunk in Caroline Mulder's bedroom was small and old, a
brass and leather treasure that Bill Mulder had brought with
him to the marriage. As Scully crouched by the closet to
get a closer look, Mulder listened to his mother's soft
explanation, his stomach twisting into a dozen painful
knots.

"I found it among his things after his death, but so much
happened--I let it slip out of my mind." His mother
couldn't meet his eyes as she handed him a small brass key.
"And the times when I remembered it--I suppose I didn't
really want to know what was inside. I didn't want you to
have to know things about your father that would taint your
memory of him. I suppose I believed I was protecting you
from his secrets and lies the way I failed to protect you
and your sister when you were young."

He turned away from his mother, automatically looking to
Scully. Her steady gaze shot through him like a jolt of
electricity, easing his tension a bit. He crossed to the
closet and pulled the trunk from its hiding place, noting
its weight and the dry, old smell of the brown leather. His
breath quickened, his heart pounded, as if he were about to
unlock the secrets of the universe.

"I'll be in the living room," his mother murmured.

He paused in the act of unlocking the trunk and turned to
watch her go, sadness dampening his excitement and fear.
Even now she can't face it, he thought, staring at the empty
space in the doorway where he'd last seen her.

Scully's hand closing over his turned his attention back to
the trunk. He met her quizzical gaze.

"Are you sure you're ready to do this?" she asked. "Are you
ready to face whatever we might find in here?"

He stared at her a moment, gauging his own resolve. He
already knew a good many horrifying things about his father.

Did he really want to know more? What if something he found
in this trunk destroyed what little regard for his father he
had left?

He took a deep breath, nodded, and turned the key in the
lock.

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes of silent perusal later, Mulder opened a
folded piece of notepad paper he found tucked into an
address book from 1993. A sprawling cursive covered the
small sheet of paper, bold and black. Mulder scanned the
note quickly without really reading it, his eyes dropping
automatically to the signature at the bottom.

His eyes widened.

He read the note again, more carefully.

"Mr. Mulder,

"We need to meet. You have information I need, and I have
something of interest to you that might be worth a trade. I
will be in Boston on Friday, November 19th. Meet me at City
Hall Plaza at 3:30 p.m."

The note was signed, "William Scully."

Mulder's stomach knotted painfully. Not William Scully.

Not him, too.

He quickly refolded the note and tucked it in the back of
the pocket calendar, glancing at Scully to see if she had
noticed his swift gasp of surprise upon seeing her father's
name. She was looking through a stack of letters and memos,
her forehead crinkled with concentration.

He took a couple of steadying breaths and opened the
calendar, flipping to November 19th. There, in his father's
tight, neat handwriting, he found "W.S. - Boston" jotted on
the calendar page.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

Damn it.

Okay, okay-- He tried to regather his thoughts. There was
nothing here to indicate that William Scully might be
involved in his father's dirty dealings. Scully's father
might have wanted to meet with his father to discuss his
daughter's work--William Scully hadn't been happy about his
daughter's job, and based on what Mulder knew about the
former Naval officer's personality, it wasn't a stretch to
think he might have sought out his daughter's partner's
father for a "dad to dad" discussion.

Was it?

He put the calendar and the enclosed note in the pocket of
his jacket and picked up another stack of papers. Mostly
memos, notes his father had jotted to himself, an occasional
card from a friend or an acquaintance. Nothing that meant
anything to him.

But in the next stack, he found something else that made his
breath catch in his throat.

It was a clipped newspaper obituary. "Capt. William Charles
Scully, U.S.N., Ret."

His heart in his throat, Mulder skimmed over the accolades
for a man who'd served his country and left behind two
daughters, two sons and a grieving widow. There was nothing
written on the clipping, nothing to indicate why his father
might have kept the newspaper notice.

He pulled the pocket calender from his jacket and tucked the
obituary next to the note. He started to put it back in his
jacket pocket when he heard Scully's swift, sharp intake of
breath.

He looked up and saw that she had gone utterly pale, her
eyes wide and stricken as she stared down at the ragged-
edged paper in her hands. "Scully?"

She looked up from the paper, her throat bobbing as she
swallowed convulsively.

"What is it?" He reached for the paper, but she pulled it
back, pressing it against her chest. "Scully?"

She stared at him wordlessly.

He reached for the paper again, gently prying her fingers
open so he could take it from her. Her eyes fluttered
closed and her lips parted slightly to draw a shallow
breath.

He looked down at the piece of paper. It was a one-sheet
dossier. At the top were the initials "D.S." and Scully's
address. Below, neatly typed, was a day by day log of
Scully's activities, from the time she left her apartment to
the time she arrived at her office at the FBI Academy at
Quantico. Dated and notated, it was a detailed run down of
her life over a five day period in mid-August, 1994,
including her participation in the hostage situation
involving Duane Barry.

At the bottom of the dossier, a single line sent a chill
down his spine.

"Your orders, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head, unable to absorb the words he was
reading. It wasn't possible--his father couldn't have--

Then, in a red haze of fury, he realized that sacrificing
human beings for the "greater good" was an act his father
had perfected. The old bastard had traded off his daughter,
for God's sake!

"Son of a bitch!" He spat the words, his voice rough and
hoarse as if he'd just swallowed broken glass.

"Mulder--" Scully reached out to touch him, but he pushed
her hands away and jumped to his feet, rage compelling him
to keep moving, keep walking, do anything but dwell on his
father's treachery.

Heat surged through him despite the coolness of his mother's
bedroom; he peeled off his jacket and flung it onto the bed,
venting his anger through the sharp, violent action. "He
knew what they were going to do to you, Scully! The son of
a bitch KNEW and he let them do it! God, he may have
ordered it himself!"

"Mulder, we don't know--"

"I DO know, Scully. I know he was part of experiments
inflicted on innocent civilians and I know he gave my sister
to those manipulative, lying bastards and I GODDAM
FUCKING KNOW HE COULD'VE STOPPED YOUR ABDUCTION BUT DIDN'T!"

He grabbed the first thing his hands fell on--a photograph
lying on his mother's dresser--and flung it across the room
into the wall. The glass shattered, the small wooden frame
splintered, and the photograph inside fluttered free of its
confines to settle atop the broken frame.

He stumbled to a halt, bending at the waist and sucking in
deep breaths as if he'd just run a long distance. For a
long moment, only the ragged sound of his breathing filled
the silence.

Then Scully spoke, her voice faint and tight. "Mulder--
what's this?"

He lifted his head to look at her. She was holding the
small leatherbound date book he'd tucked into his jacket
pocket. It must have fallen out of the pocket when he threw
his jacket on the bed. In her lap, he saw the small note
and the obituary that he'd tucked into the back of the
calendar.

"Scully--"

"This is from my father."

He ran his hand over his jaw, trying to push aside his
seething rage at his own father to address her concerns
about hers. "Scully--"

"Was he involved with your father's work?" Her eyes
darkened, widened as she met his gaze. "Did he know--"

Mulder shook his head violently. "No, Scully, we don't know
that your father had anything to do--"

"He said he had something to trade with your father,
Mulder."

"It could be anything--"

"Why would my father want information from your father? In
November of 1993, he was retired from the Navy and your
father was no longer with the State Department. What could
they have to discuss?"

"You said your father didn't approve of your choice of
careers. Maybe he was hoping my father might be able to
influence me to--"

"To what? Ditch your little partner?" Her nostrils flared.
"That's not how my father operated."

"But you think he'd be involved in genetic experiments on
innocent human subjects?"

She stared at him a moment, tension creasing her forehead.
Then, suddenly, she relaxed and lowered her head. "No, of
course not."

He released a little sigh, experiencing a sharp stab of
envy. How wonderful it must be to have utter faith in one's
father. "Maybe your father suspected that your job was more
dangerous than even you realized. He was in the military,
after all--he's a smart man. He probably knew the
government and the military were keeping secrets from the
public. He might even have known the danger you would be
subject to as my partner. Might he have tried to take steps
to ensure your safety?"

"Why approach your father?"

"Maybe he thought I was the source of danger in your life.
Maybe he wanted to use my father's influence over me to make
sure that I did nothing to endanger your life."

"He would have come to me--"

"Would he? You yourself admit that your relationship with
your father was strained after you chose to enter the FBI.
Maybe he didn't think you would listen if he tried to warn
you that I was of danger to you."

She looked down at her hands. "I wouldn't have listened."

"Maybe you should've." He looked away from her, a fresh
surge of anger slicing through his insides. "Maybe you
should've turned right back around that first day and told
Blevins and his cronies that you had no intention of working
with 'Spooky' Mulder."

"And what? Nothing bad would've happened to me?"

"You were abducted because of working with me, Scully.
Melissa is dead because of your association with me. Maybe
even--" He stopped short, shocked by what he'd almost said.

"Maybe even what?" she asked when he didn't say anything
more.

He shook his head, but the thought wouldn't go away.

Why had his father kept an obituary notice about William
Scully's death? And was it mere coincidence that within two
months of meeting with Mulder's father in Boston, William
Scully had died quickly and unexpectedly of a heart attack?
He'd been in great health, Mulder knew--despite carrying a
few extra pounds, William Scully had been in excellent
physical condition. Both Scully and Mrs. Scully had
mentioned that fact at different times, expressing the utter
unexpectedness of his death.

What if--

He shook his head again.

"Mulder?"

He looked at her, saw the dawning suspicion in her eyes.
She picked up the newspaper clipping and looked down at it,
her eyes welling up at the sight of her father's photograph.

He swallowed with difficulty and said the words aloud.
"What if your father didn't really die of a heart attack?

Mulder's question hung in the silence between him and his
partner, thick and harsh. He stared at Scully, watching the
slow transformation of her expression from puzzlement to
realization to dawning horror.

She shook her head. "How could that be?"

He didn't have an answer, he realized. He had no idea how
or why someone would murder Scully's father, and he should
never have spoken the stray thought aloud. "I'm sorry,
Scully--I didn't--I don't--" He broke off with a sigh of
frustration. "I'm sorry. You're right--there's no reason
to think such a thing." He looked away, feeling like a
jerk. It was one thing to indulge in wild speculation--and
another thing altogether to talk about Scully's father as if
he were just another corpse to be examined and dissected.

"We don't even have solid evidence linking him to anything
but a meeting with your father, and that could have been
perfectly innocent." Scully's low, raspy voice was steady
but thick with hurt.

"I know." He nodded, moving away from her, pacing toward
the detritus of the photograph he'd thrown against the wall.

He stooped and pulled the face-down photograph from the
wreckage, shaking off loose shards of glass. He turned it
over.

His own face stared back at him--ten years younger, a quirky
smile instead of his usual world-hating scowl. His hair was
a little messy, rumpled by the wind coming off the water of
the Long Island Sound. He could remember the exact day that
photograph was taken--Mother's Day, 1988. He was between
Oxford and the FBI Academy--between being screwed over by
Phoebe and being screwed over by his own government.

No wonder he'd been smiling.

He used the photograph as a makeshift dustpan, scooping the
broken glass and splintered wood onto the flat surface. He
cleaned up as much of the mess as he could and tossed the
whole pile into the garbage can by the dresser.

When he turned around, he found Scully staring at him, her
eyes narrowed slightly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "About blowing up before--about
what I said about your father--"

She waved her hand, blowing off his apology. "We can
speculate all day long, Mulder, but it means nothing without
proof. I think we need to concentrate on the contents of
this trunk--see what we uncover. When we have a clearer
picture, then we can speculate."

He nodded, aware that she was right. He and Scully often
clashed about how to interpret what they uncovered in their
investigations, but she was always right about the method.
She had taught him valuable lessons about the need for
thoroughness and tangible evidence, lessons that had saved
his job--and his ass--more than once.

He sat down on the foot of the bed and reached into the
trunk sitting between him and Scully. When he withdrew a
handful of papers, she reached into the trunk and did the
same.

With quiet determination born of unified purpose, they
continued mining the secrets of the past.

* * * * *

By eleven a.m., they had been through every scrap of paper
in Bill Mulder's trunk. Scully's eyes were beginning to
ache from strain; she had left her reading glasses in her
purse and hadn't wanted to stop long enough to retrieve
them.

She lay the final piece of paper on the bed in front of her
and looked up at her partner. He had remembered his
glasses, she noted with a faint smile. She'd never really
liked glasses on men until she'd met Mulder. On him,
glasses were nothing short of--

What, Scully? Nothing short of what?

A turn-on?

She steered her mind away from forbidden thoughts, promising
herself that when it was all over, when they found Sarah and
uncovered the secrets hinted at in Bill Mulder's trunk, she
and Mulder would take the time to sit down and consider the
possibilities of their relationship.

But not now.

Not when fifty years of lies and treachery lay spread out on
the bed between them.

Mulder closed the notecard, looked up and met her gaze.
"So, what do we have now?"

She looked down at the papers she'd culled from the sea of
correspondence in the trunk. Besides the itinerary of her
own activities from August of 1994, she'd also found several
newspaper clippings about a submarine disaster that had
taken place April 10, 1963--and a copy of a cryptic State
Department memo dated April 11th, 1963, referring to an
"incident" involving a Russian submarine off the Pacific
Coast. She showed the items to Mulder. "Could they be
related? And if so--is there anything significant about
them?"

He glanced over the articles and the memo. "The Thresher
incident. I remember reading about this once--the crew and
several civilian observers went down with the sub. The USS
Thresher sprang a leak a thousand feet underwater. Water
started spraying a panel with the main electrical connection
to the reactor. There was a short circuit, fuses were
tripped, fission shut down, the turbo-generators stopped and
the sub started to sink."

"And the next day, you father receives a memo, unsigned,
mentioning a run-in between an unnamed U.S. Navy submarine
and an unidentified Russian submarine--" She shook her
head, frustrated. "I can't imagine your father holding onto
this memo if there wasn't SOMETHING significant about it--
but what? Could the Russian sub have sunk the Thresher?
But why cover that up? To avoid a confrontation with the
Soviet Union?"

Mulder's eyes lit up from the inside, the way they always
did when his mind made a leap. "What if the 'Russian' sub
was really the USS Thresher?"

She arched her eyebrows. "Are you suggesting that another
U.S. Navy sub SANK the Thresher, and the government has
covered up that fact for over thirty years?"

Mulder merely cocked his head and made a little face at her.

Of course, that's what he was suggesting. After all the
treachery they'd witnessed over the past six years, what was
one sunken sub? "Okay. We'll assume that an American sub
accidentally sank the Thresher and our government covered up
the incident. But how does it tie in with Carter
Christopher and his consorts?"

Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe we could ask my
mother, see if she remembers anything."

Scully stifled a twinge of sadness at the look of doubt on
her partner's face. He obviously didn't expect his mother
to be much help. Scully couldn't blame him for his lack of
faith--Mrs. Mulder had been precious little help to him over
the years. Her memory was conveniently spotty, and though
Scully tried to give the woman the benefit of the doubt, she
was deeply grateful to have a mother as wonderful as her
own. Margaret Scully would walk across glass to help her
children--

"We should talk to my mother, too," she said aloud.

Mulder's left eyebrow quirked.

"My father was a lieutenant j.g. in the early sixties--
aboard a Navy submarine for a good part of that time. I'm
sure that the sinking of a Navy submarine must have come up
at least ONCE in a conversation between them. Maybe my
father heard rumors--"

Mulder nodded. "Okay. We'll check with her tonight after
we get back. But I think I'd like to ask my mother about
it, anyway. Maybe she'll remember something."

"Maybe." She tried to look hopeful.

He wasn't buying. He made a little shrugging gesture and
picked up a 3 1/2 inch floppy disk. "While I'm talking to
Mom, why don't you fire up the laptop and see what this is?"

She took the disk from him. It was a standard high density
floppy, unlabeled. "Was it attached to anything?"

He shook his head and stood, gathering the papers spread out
before them on the bed. Scully stood as well, dropping the
disk into the pocket of her slacks.

"I'll be in your mother's study," she told him. She touched
his arm as she passed him, and he turned his head to look at
her, his gaze intense. He caught her wrist, his grip gentle
but firm.

"About what I said before about your father--about the
things we found--"

She shook her head. "I know my father, Mulder. I know who
he was, what he was capable of. There's an explanation, and
I'm sure when we talk to my mother tonight, everything will
be cleared up."

He nodded, his expression gentle but his eyes sad. She
realized that his sadness was not pity for her but a deep,
aching regret for his own lost faith in his family and in
himself. The urge to take him into her arms was almost more
than she could resist. She contented herself by sliding her
hand into his and giving his fingers a strong squeeze. A
little smile flirting with the corners of his mouth was her
reward.

She retrieved her laptop and set up the computer in Mrs.
Mulder's small, sunlit study. Settling herself in the
quaint Victorian side chair in front of the dainty writing
desk, Scully booted up the computer and tried to access the
disk.

A dialogue box popped up, asking for a password.

She didn't have a clue. She'd guessed Mulder's computer
password in record time, but then, she knew him better than
anyone else in the world. She'd never even met Mr. Mulder.

She tried all the obvious ones--Samantha, Fox, Caroline--all
without success. She tried 8-letter variations of Purity
Control and Paper Clip, also with no success.

She was almost out of ideas when Mulder finally stuck his
head into the study. "Any luck?"

She shook her head. "It's password protected. Any ideas?"

He shrugged. "I get the feeling I didn't really know my
father any better than you did, Scully."

She sighed and ejected the disk from the floppy drive, then
shut down and packed up her computer. "How about you?
Could your mother add any information?"

"No." He shrugged, trying but failing to hide his
disappointment. "She says the stroke erased a lot of her
memories of those days--and that she didn't really know all
that much to begin with. I don't know--I suppose that's
probably true."

She touched his arm, gently guiding him toward the front of
the house, where they had left their overnight bags after
packing up earlier that morning. "I'm sure it is."

"I'm sure your mother will be more help than mine--" Mulder
stopped short as he and Scully rounded the corner of the
hallway and came face to face with his mother.

Caroline Mulder stared at her son, pain creasing her face.
Obviously she'd heard her son's words, Scully realized.

Scully felt Mulder go tense beside her. "Mom--"

"I'm sorry, Fox." She lifted her chin slightly, her lips
trembling as if she wanted to say so much more. But in the
end, she merely looked away and stepped aside to let them
pass.

Mulder lowered his head and walked stiffly toward the door,
gathering up Scully's bag as well as his own. Scully,
however, paused and put her hand on Mrs. Mulder's forearm.
"Thank you so much for your hospitality and your help, Mrs.
Mulder."

Caroline Mulder couldn't meet Scully's eyes. "I don't feel
I've been very helpful."

"I believe you've helped us as much as you could." Scully
wondered if she sounded insincere. She felt a bit
fraudulent, for she couldn't help but compare Mulder's
mother to her own and find Mrs. Mulder wanting. But was
that really fair? Would Mrs. Mulder have been a different
person if she hadn't married a manipulative, power-hungry
man like Bill Mulder?

No doubt.

Mrs. Mulder still wouldn't meet her eyes, but she flashed a
small smile in Scully's direction. "Thank you, Miss Scully,
for the good care you take of my son. I know I owe you a
great debt many times over."

"It's my job, you know."

"I think, perhaps, it's also your pleasure."

Scully didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't try.
She squeezed Caroline Mulder's arm once more and went out to
the car, where Mulder was packing the trunk of her car. He
sandwiched his father's brass and leather trunk between
their overnight bags to keep it from sliding around, then
closed the trunk. Scully held out her hand for the keys,
and he relinquished them with an amusing display of
masculine reluctance.

"My car," she reminded him with a small smile.

He pushed back the passenger seat so that he would fit,
while she pulled up the seat from where he'd slid it back to
drive the night before. Within ten minutes, they were
headed south on I-95 toward Washington D.C.

Like the trip up three nights earlier, the trip back to D.C.
was quiet and uneventful. Right up until they came upon a
traffic tie up about twenty miles south of Wilmington,
Delaware.

Seeing the brake lights flashing red several hundred yards
ahead of her, Scully applied her brakes.

And nothing happened.

She pressed the brakes again, pumping them. The brake pedal
went all the way to the floorboard with no effect
whatsoever.

"Scully?" Mulder's head jerked around as he saw them
barreling up on the cars ahead of them.

"No brakes," she gritted, jerking the car into a lower gear,
then jamming her foot onto the emergency brake pedal. The
car shimmied and slowed, but it was becoming frighteningly
clear that her efforts weren't going to stop the car in time
to keep from slamming into the cars jamming both lanes of
the interstate. "Hold on!" she warned Mulder as she jerked
the wheel to the right, pulling the car onto the soft
shoulder.

The change in surfaces was apparently what did them in. The
car slithered across the loose sand and spun off the road.
On the first roll, the driver and passenger air bags
engaged, plunging Scully into a sightless, claustrophobic
realm in which the world spun wildly and her body jerked and
bounced against the restraints that kept her from flying out
the shattered windows. After what seemed like an endless
nightmare rollercoaster ride, the car came to a stop in what
felt like a relatively upright position. Scully felt
something pressing against the top of her head and realized
it was the partially caved in roof of her car.

After the riotous chaos of the previous few seconds, the
ensuing silence in the car was deafening. Scully blinked,
realizing that the air bag had already begun to deflate,
returning her sight to her. Immediately she looked to her
right. And gasped.

Mulder sat with his head lolled back, blood streaming down
his face and all over his shirt.

"Mulder?" She fumbled with her seatbelt, ignoring the
twinges of pain sparking through her own bruised and
battered body. "Mulder, can you hear me?"

He made a soft groaning sound and shifted into a more
upright position. He lifted his hand to his head, where a
long gash was bleeding copiously. He wiped the blood away
from his left eye and turned to her with a grimace, giving
her a baleful look. "And you wonder why I never let you
drive?"

* * * * *

February 15, 1998
Christiana Hospital
Wilmington, Delaware
1:45 p.m.

"The brakes were tampered with." Scully blew into Exam Room
3 of the Emergency Department, her eyes blazing with anger.
Mulder watched with amusement as she brushed past the
startled nurse who was taking his pulse and came to stand by
the side of the exam table.

"What--did they cut the brake line?" he asked.

"Perforated it, actually. Ensuring a slow leak. The
mechanic said it could have been done anytime during the
night. We could've been leaking brake fluid ever since we
left New York." She glanced around the exam room, eyes wary
as if any moment she was expecting to have to duck and run.
"The mechanic said that whoever did it knew exactly what he
was doing."

Mulder frowned. "And now the mechanics have obliterated any
evidence--"

"Not necessarily." Scully shook her head. "I made them
wear latex gloves and take precautions. A Delaware State
policeman was to oversee the whole procedure, taking
photographs and recording all the findings for the official
record. And they were under strict orders that once they
found evidence of tampering, they were to cease all
activities and secure the car for transport to the FBI lab
at Quantico."

"Ooo." Mulder gave her a look of unabashed admiration. His
Scully was nothing if not thorough.

She cut her eyes at him, then turned to the nurse. "So, how
is he?"

The nurse smiled a cool, professional smile. "Dr. Atkins
should really be the one to fill you in--"

Scully glanced at the woman's i.d. tag. "Kathy Nahill, BSN,"
it read. "Ms. Nahill, I'm a medical doctor as well as
Agent Mulder's partner. I am perfectly able to assess his
medical condition myself if need be. I was just hoping you
could save me the time."

Kathy's eyebrows rose slightly, and her dark eyes met
Scully's steady gaze without flinching. "Look, ma'am, there
are policies in this hospital just like there are policies
where you work. And one of our policies is that the doctors
tell the patients what's going on, not the nurses. Besides
which, I'm not an E.R. nurse--I'm a psychiatric nurse. I'm
only here to take Agent Mulder's vitals because we're short-
handed and the E.R. nurses are all busy with critical care
patients. So even if it WERE our policy that nurses be
allowed to update patient conditions, I couldn't do that."
Her face softened suddenly. "Look, I can see that you're
worried about your partner. If it makes you feel any
better, he doesn't appear to be on the verge of death, and
as a psychiatric nurse, I can also assure you that while
he's an unrepentant flirt, he's not a rampaging psycho.
Okay?"

Mulder watched Scully's face, wondering how the hell she was
going to react to THAT. He was slightly surprised when she
grinned at the nurse.

"Thank you, Ms. Nahill."

Kathy turned and winked at Mulder. "I'll give you my
assessment of HER later," she murmured. She folded up the
blood pressure cuff, jotted down some information on
Mulder's chart, and left the exam room.

Scully picked up the chart and looked it over. "Well, you
don't appear to have a concussion, although this indicates
that you should be watched for a while to make sure. I
think they'll probably release you as soon as the doctor
comes to talk to you."

"Did you get to get our stuff out of the trunk of the car?"

She put down the chart and nodded. "It's in the trunk of
the car I just rented."

"All of it?" he asked, thinking of his father's trunk.

"All of it."

He lay back against exam bed, closing his eyes. His head
hurt like hell, and other parts of his body weren't exactly
feeling so hot, either. "So much for a nice, relaxing
weekend in Connecticut."

She chuckled, making him open his eyes. For a second, he
thought he saw something very much like adoration in her
eyes. But he blinked and it was gone, replaced by gentle
concern. "How's your head feel?"

"Like I just headbutted a concrete wall."

She winced. "Another nice scar to add to your collection,
huh?"

He nodded and immediately regretted it. The world swam for
a moment and he felt a rush of nausea. Oh, God, he thought,
please don't let me puke on myself in front of her.

She went into action immediately, grabbing a bedpan and
thrusting it under his chin, just in time. Pain ratcheting
through his head with every spasm, he emptied his stomach
into the pan. When he was through, he lay back against the
bed, tears of pain and humiliation squeezing from the
corners of his eyes.

She quietly, efficiently disposed of the bedpan and its
contents in the nearby bathroom, then returned to his side,
a wet handkerchief in her hand. Gently she wiped his face
and mouth. "Better?"

He started to nod again, then remembered what had gotten him
into this position in the first place. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Now we're even." She smiled slightly.

Not hardly, he thought. He was so far behind in the debt
department, he might as well stop counting. "You're not
going to make me stay here at the hospital because of this,
are you?"

She shook her head. "No. But you're not staying by
yourself at your apartment tonight, either. You'll stay at
my place. Then, if you're feeling better in the morning, we
can go see Mom."

He wasn't about to argue. Even if he were in better
condition, he would have insisted on staying at Scully's.
Over the last 72 hours, someone had tried to kill her at
least twice. He wasn't about to let anyone get close enough
to try it again.

* * * * *

Dana Scully's apartment
5:57 p.m.

Mulder sat on Scully's couch, his feet propped up and a
glass of orange juice in his hands--the only concession to
her nagging, she thought, watching him with a mixture of
affection and resignation. He had her laptop in his lap,
tapping at the keys in an attempt to figure out the
password to his father's floppy disk.

"I could call Pendrell," she suggested.

He looked up, scowling slightly. "Or we could call the
Gunman."

"Maybe both?" she added, arching her eyebrows.

His eyebrows rose in response. "Wouldn't THAT be a sight?"

"Pendrell's trustworthy, and the guys at the GUNMAN are too
paranoid to be security risks." The idea was starting to
sound good, she realized. "I'll call Pendrell; you call
Byers." She pulled her cellular phone from her coat pocket \
and dialled Alan Pendrell's cell phone number.

"You have Pendrell's phone number?" Mulder asked.

She shot him a quick look before Pendrell answered. "Alan?
This is Dana Scully."

"Alan?" Mulder muttered. "His name is Alan?"

"Oh!" On Pendrell's end of the line, there was a loud
crashing sound and a muttered oath. "Sorry--dropped the
phone."

She stifled a smile. "I was wondering if you could help me
out with something, Alan. On an unofficial basis."

There was dead silence.

"Alan?"

"Un-un-unofficial?"

"Can you meet me at my apartment in twenty minutes?" She
gave him her address. "I'll explain everything."

"Okay. Yeah. Sure." Pendrell sounded stunned.

It wasn't until Scully hung up the phone that she realized
she might have given him a wrong impression.

"You call him Alan?"

She looked at Mulder, nibbling her lower lip. "Mulder, can
I tell you something?"

He frowned. "Sure, okay."

"I think Pendrell has a little crush on me."

Mulder's face relaxed. "Of course he does. Every man at
the Bureau has a crush on you."

She stared at him, surprised. "Excuse me?"

"Don't be so shocked, Scully. Why do you think they all
stare at you when you walk down the hall?"

"They don't." Did they? She was usually so preoccupied
with work--and with Mulder--that she didn't really notice
what went on around her at the office.

Mulder just made a little face at her and turned on his cell
phone to call Byers, Langly and Frohike. Scully put her
own phone on the counter and walked back to her bedroom
to start unpacking.

At the bottom of her overnight bag, she found the pair of
black pumps she'd worn to the party at the Waldorf. A
circular splash of blood about the size of a dime was still
on the toe of her left shoe.

She sat on the bed and stared at the shoe, her stomach
coiling. Even now she could see the scene unfold before
her eyes, see Leigh MacGraw's body jerk, the spray of gore,
the utter surprise in the woman's eyes, feel the hot wetness
of the woman's blood spurting down the front of her
dress....

She dropped the shoe from nerveless fingers and closed
her eyes, trying to shut out the memories. But the
dark theater of her mind only provided a stark background
for the vivid memories of fear and death.

She didn't know how long she had been sitting there when
Mulder came into the room. She didn't open her eyes, even
though she could feel his presence, the nearness of him. He
was standing in the doorway. Watching her. If she opened
her eyes, she would see a look of uncertainty, a question in
his eyes. Should he disturb her? Should he invade the
privacy of her thoughts?

God, she knew him so well.

"I'm tired, Mulder," she murmured.

"Want me to go?"

She shook her head and opened her eyes. "No."

He crossed the room slowly, his gaze locked with hers. His
eyes were gentle, concerned--but something else burned
behind them, flickering like a flame in their murky depths.
And for a moment, she wanted to throw herself into that
fire, immolate herself, let the fire refine her like
gold....

She closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight of him. He
was too close--

The bed shifted beside her.

Oh, God.

He didn't say anything, and neither did she. She didn't
even open her eyes for fear that the sight of him would snap
any self-control left to her. She prided herself on
strength and control, but right now she felt as if she were
walking a tightwire, her balance gone, all her energy
focused on putting one foot in front of the other to keep
from plunging into the abyss. And the slightest touch might
send her plummeting--

And then he touched her.

His fingers brushed her forehead, lightly moving her hair
away from her eyes. She shuddered at the little caress, her
whole body tightening, focusing on the feel of his fingers
against her skin.

She opened her eyes and felt the air whoosh from her lungs.
He was so close to her, his head lowered so that he was eye
to eye with her, searching her face, his intense gaze
ripping away the layers of self-protection in which she
cocooned herself. They stared at each other, eyes locked,
pulses pounding--she could hear the quickened pace of his
respiration, see the rapid flutter of the vein in his
forehead. His eyes darkened, and her limbs grew heavy and
warm--

A muted rapping sound sliced through the haze of longing
washing over her. Mulder made a soft, grumbling sound and
stood, already turning toward the bedroom doorway.

Scully followed him to her front door. He glanced through
the peep hole, sighed softly, and opened the door to admit
Byers, Frohike and Langly.

The three men who oversaw the publication of THE LONE GUNMAN
entered Scully's apartment as if they'd been there a
thousand times. Which, for all Scully knew, they had. She
doubted a standard dead bolt held much of a challenge for
these guys.

"So, what's up?" Frohike leered mildly at Scully.

Mulder led them into the living room and quickly went over
what they'd found in the trunk--leaving out the information
about Scully's father's correspondence with Bill Mulder.
Scully flashed him a grateful half-smile, and his eyes
smiled back.

"So, now you're looking to crack the password on this disk?"
Byers held up the floppy. "Piece of cake. We can probably do
it right here."

As he was putting the floppy into Scully's computer, the
doorbell rang. Scully crossed to the door and checked
through the peep hole. Alan Pendrell's earnest face looked
back at her. She opened the door. "Thanks for coming,
Alan."

He straightened his tie and ventured a wobbly smile. "Sure,
Agent Scuh--Dana. Any time--" He stopped short when he saw
the other men in Scully's living room. For a second, his eyes
widened comically, and Scully had to bite back a sympathetic
chuckle. Oh, dear, Agent Pendrell, what ARE you thinking?

"Pendrell--glad you could come help us out." Mulder crossed
and shook hands with the younger agent, gently drawing him
away from Scully and toward the other men. "I want you to
meet some friends of mine and Agent Scully's--Byers,
Frohike, Langly, this is Agent Pendrell. A man after your
own hearts."

Byers motioned for Pendrell to join him at the computer and
immediately launched into a technical description of what he
was doing. Scully watched, amused and also impressed, as
Pendrell's shy nervousness slipped away, replaced by the
lightning intellect and boyish enthusiasm that had made him
one of her favorite people at the Bureau. He drew up a
chair next to Byers and immediately tossed out a couple of
suggestions.

Mulder edged over to Scully's side and bent his head toward
hers. "Maybe we could fix something to eat--looks like
these guys might be here through dinner."

She nodded and followed him to the kitchen. Without having
to speak, they settled into a comfortable working rhythm--
Mulder making sandwiches while Scully opened a large can of
vegetable soup. But even the simple, innocent activity of
preparing dinner seemed to take on delicious, forbidden
undertones these days--Mulder's body brushed past hers as he
reached into the cupboard for a new jar of mustard, sending
little sparks of awareness skittering through her; bending
to retrieve a sauce pan from a lower cabinet, she pressed
her hand against his back to steady herself and felt his
body tremble beneath her fingers.

How close had they come to changing things between them
forever? she wondered as she ladled soup into bowls.
Earlier in her bedroom, she had been utterly certain Mulder
was going to kiss her, and she had wanted him to. So very
much. Damn the consequences, damn the danger.

But they couldn't afford to be reckless. Not now. Not when
the answers lay in front of them, beckoning them to come and
turn the last stone that hid the truth from view.

And there was always the specter of Samantha, crying out for
justice and closure. Raven had said that finding Sarah
Chandler might help them answer the questions about
Samantha.

Scully wanted to believe.

She wanted to know.

And if that meant taking a few steps back from Mulder and
forcing herself to focus on the work instead of this
burgeoning, promising thing that lay between them, she'd
find the strength to do it.

Questions about their relationship would have to wait until
they'd answered the bigger questions about all the lies and
machinations of the last fifty years.

She just hoped it wouldn't be too late.

* * * * *

February 15, 1998
Dana Scully's Apartment
7:38 p.m.

Fox Mulder leaned over his partner's shoulder to get a
better look at the computer screen in front of Byers. The
dialogue box asked for the password, but so far they'd had
no luck.

"Try 101361," Mulder suggested. They'd already tried
Samantha's birthday as well as the birthdays of his parents.

Byers tapped in the numbers and hit enter. The error bell
dinged, and the dialogue box changed, informing them that
the password was incorrect.

"Try 112773," Scully murmured. She glanced over her
shoulder, meeting Mulder's gaze.

Mulder's eyes widened slightly. Why hadn't he thought of
the day Samantha disappeared? He hadn't realized
Scully even knew that date--but why should he be
surprised? Scully was nothing if not thorough.

Byers tapped in the number.

And the file opened.

"Bingo," Pendrell murmured.

A stream of numbers and letters scrolled down the screen.
The symbols were obviously set up in paragraph form--but
in code.

"Damn it!" Mulder had a sickening sense of deja vu.
Almost three years ago, he'd opened a file he'd been
sure would be the answer to all their questions, only to
discover it was written in Navajo code-talk. The
repercussions of that discovery still haunted him today.

"It's definitely encrypted," Pendrell noted. "But I'll bet it's
nothing that our latest cryptography program can't break.
I'll just take the disk--"

"No," Mulder, Byers, Langly and Frohike said in unison.

Pendrell looked up at them, startled. "Or I can download
the program to Agent Scully's computer," he amended after a
beat. "Since you said that A.D. Skinner okayed the 302--"

"I'd appreciate that, Alan." Scully rested her hand on
Pendrell's shoulder for a brief moment. Not quite brief
enough for Mulder's tastes, but--

"What we'll have to do is put the file on an automatic
cycle--it'll run the file through the various cycles of the
cryptography program, which will hunt for patterns and
hidden codes. The whole process will probably take six to
eight hours."

"Hours?" Mulder scowled.

Pendrell's face fell, as if he felt personally responsible for
Mulder's displeasure. "It's a time-consuming process, Agent
Mulder. I'll see if there's any way to bypass some of the
cycles, but I can't guarantee accuracy that way--"

Scully shook her head. "No, we can be patient." She shot a
warning look in Mulder's direction.

Byers stood and let Pendrell have the seat in front of the
computer. Pendrell logged onto the Bureau mainframe and
started searching through the SciCrime database for the
cryptography program. In a few minutes, he had the program
downloaded onto Scully's computer and started running the
decoding process.

He turned around and stood, his smile directed at Scully.
"That'll take care of you, I think."

"I appreciate it, Alan."

Byers leaned in toward Mulder. "We could probably have
decoded that file by morning ourselves, but the young fellow
seems to get such joy out of helping out Agent Scully that I
couldn't deprive him of the pleasure."

Mulder shot a glare at the bearded man. Thanks for the
support, he thought.

Scully and Pendrell had drifted toward the door, Frohike
tagging along behind them. Mulder sighed and headed in that
direction as well, catching up in time to hear Pendrell say,
"Thanks for dinner, Dana. It was delicious."

For God's sake, Pendrell, it was a ham sandwich and chicken
noodle soup, Mulder thought, frowning at the young agent.
Don't you know that overearnest act doesn't get you
anywhere?

Scully smiled at Pendrell, showing teeth and everything.
Mulder's frown deepened. "The least I could do to say
thanks for all your help."

Pendrell beamed, and Mulder thought he was going to throw up
again. But the young agent's next action took him
completely by surprise.

Pendrell reached out and touched Scully's face.

Scully's eyes widened slightly, but she didn't pull away.
Pendrell cradled her chin on the tips of his fingers and
lifted her face to get a better look at the scrapes and
bruises left by her ordeals of the last couple of days.
"What on earth happened to you?"

Mulder's eyes locked on the place where Pendrell's fingers
met Scully's chin, and a surge of sheer, jealous anger
rushed through him, heating the back of his neck and making
his stomach curl into a knot. Pendrell had no right to
touch her that way.

Mulder stepped forward, fists clenched at his side.

Scully moved away from Pendrell's reach, her retreat a
gentle but unmistakable rebuff. The young techie turned
beet red. "I'm s-sorry," he stammered. "I don't know what
I was thinking--"

"Don't worry about it, Alan." Scully smiled her reassurance.
"I had a car accident, but I'm fine, and so is Mulder."

Pendrell looked up at Mulder, his eyes widening a bit as if
he had only just noticed that Mulder's forehead was half-covered
with a gauze bandage.

Missed that when you came in, did you, Pendrell? Too busy
scoping my partner? Mulder took a few steps forward until he
was close enough to touch Scully. He took his place at her side
and met Pendrell's nervous gaze. He knew his body language
was screaming, "Hands off, she's mine," and he also knew
that Scully was probably going to ream him for his macho
posturing, but right now, he didn't really give a shit.

"Say, Pendrell, how about a quick tour of our place?"
Frohike put his hand on the younger man's shoulder and
guided him toward Scully's front door. He cut his eyes toward
Scully and smiled his best deviant grin. "I have some photos
I'm SURE you'd like to see."

Scully's looked at Mulder, her eyes widening. Mulder shrugged,
hiding a grin of amusement. Frohike was bluffing. Probably.

Langly and Byers followed Frohike and Pendrell out, Byers
darting a quick smile in Mulder's direction. The door closed
behind them, leaving Mulder and Scully in silence. Only
the soft whirring sound of the cryptography program at work
broke the quiet.

Then Scully murmured, "I feel like I just sent a lamb into a
den of wolves."

Mulder chuckled.

Scully moved slowly away from him, headed toward the
kitchen, where the remainders of their dinner littered the
counters. He followed her, planning to help her clean up,
but she turned and gave him a stern look. "I can manage
this, Mulder. You're supposed to be resting."

"I think I can handle washing a dish or two--"

Her expression brooked no further argument. "Go find my
deck of cards--I feel like whipping your ass at gin."

He arched his eyebrow and immediately regretted it, as the
movement shot a screech of pain through the gash on his
forehead. He tried to hide his wince of pain.

And apparently failed. "Better yet, why don't you go get my
first aid kit out of the bathroom and I'll change your
bandage when I get through cleaning up," she suggested.
"Get it and go wait for me in the living room."

He knew better than to argue. Obediently he went through
the hallway to the bathroom and opened the wicker cabinet
above the toilet, where Scully stored her first aid kit. It
wasn't the small store-bought red, white and blue metal
canister most people kept in case of emergencies. Not for
Dr. Scully, oh no. Her kit was a large cardboard box of
supplies--sterile-packaged gauze pads, surgical tape,
antiseptic, pain relievers, antibiotic ointments, and the
ever present bag of latex gloves, among other items. He
tucked the box under his arm and went back into the living
room to wait for her to finish in the kitchen.

He sat back against the sofa, listening to the faint sounds
of her movements. Hearing her soft footsteps, the barely
perceptible sounds of her breathing, gave him a sense of
peace and well-being that he'd never known with anyone but
her. Not with his family, certainly not with Phoebe or the
other women who'd passed through his life. Scully alone
gave him this sense of security, the utter faith that as
long as she was within reach, nothing could really hurt him.

She wouldn't allow it.

He realized suddenly that he could no longer hear her moving
around. He turned his head, looking through the open bar
that separated the kitchen from the dining room, but she was
out of sight.

He went to the kitchen and found Scully standing near the
stove, her hands flattened out on the counter, her head
bent. She looked so weary, so tense. He crossed to her,
his sock-clad feet silent on the linoleum. When he put his
hands on her taut shoulders, she nearly jumped out of her
skin.

"Sorry," he said quickly, squeezing her shoulders to steady
her.

She turned her head, looking at him over her shoulder. "I
thought I told you to wait in the living room."

"Since when do I listen to you?" he teased.

She shook her head, lowering her chin to her chest again, as
if stretching her neck. "You should, you know."

"I know." He rubbed his thumbs in small, firm circles
against her shoulder blades, kneading the knotted muscles he
found there. "Come on."

He tugged her with him through the kitchen and out to the
living room. Positioning her in front of him on the sofa, he
ran his hands soothingly over her shoulders, his touch light
and undemanding.

"I'm supposed to be changing your bandage," Scully murmured,
her words slurred with weariness.

"My bandage is fine, Scully. Now, close your eyes. Think
of somewhere safe and peaceful."

She rolled her neck slightly, giving him better access to
her shoulders. "You're very good at this, Mulder."

"And you thought I was just another pretty face."

"Silly me." She slumped a bit, her back brushing against
his chest. She was hot and soft--his body tightened
pleasantly in response to the feel of her.

She was enjoying his touch, and it gave him a deep sense of
satisfaction to know that he was pleasing her. "Not a bad
way to pass the time until the cryptography program cracks
the code, huh?" he murmured.

"Beats the hell out of a game of gin." Her low, liquid
voice ignited a little flame in the pit of his stomach. This is
such a dangerous game we're playing, he thought.
Skating right up to the edge of thin ice and daring each
other to take one more step...

He slid his fingers up the velvety column of her neck, his
thumbs pressing against the little ridge of vertebrae where
her neck met her spine. He apparently hit a nerve, because
she released a low, guttural groan that shot shivering
sensations straight to his loins. He closed his eyes, his
fingers trembling against her neck as he fought the
clamoring of his body.

I did that to her, he thought. I made her feel that.

And I can do it again.

A sense of utter invincibility surged through him, giving him
the courage to step up his seduction.

That's what it is, isn't it, Mulder? Seduction?

He wanted to hear her make that sound again. He
wanted to hear it in his ear while his body surged into
hers, while her arms locked him to her, while his mouth
sought and found the secrets of her body. But for now, he
stroked the spot at the back of her neck that had
evinced her little groan of pleasure. "Good, huh?"

"Mmm hmmm." She rolled her neck, her hair sliding
over the back of his hand. It felt like cool silk against
his flesh.

"I've never known a woman whose g-spot was in the
back of her neck," he teased, whispering the words into
her ear.

She chuckled softly, her body slumping more heavily against
his. "Mmmm. Jack used to say the same thing."

He froze.

Jack used to say that?

Jack Willis?

Jack had touched her like this? Given her pleasure this way?

A mean little voice answered in a soft taunt. Of course he did,
you dumb shit. He was her lover long before you ever set
eyes on her.

Mulder dropped his hands away from Scully's neck,
swallowing convulsively.

Scully looked over her shoulder, her forehead creased in a
little frown. "What's wrong?"

He stared for a second, not knowing what to say. He could
hardly tell her that the mere thought of her making love to
another man tied him into a thousand painful little knots.
Finally, he said, "My hands are starting to cramp."

She twisted around, her eyes searching his face. He tried to
keep his expression utterly neutral. He wasn't sure he was
succeeding.

After a moment, she merely nodded and pushed herself up
off the couch. "I need a shower. I'll be back in a bit."

He nodded, watching her cross to the hallway. She paused
in the doorway and turned back toward him for a second,
her gaze locking with his. Her eyes asked him a thousand
wordless questions he didn't know how to answer.

After an endless moment of heavy silence, she turned and
continued into the bathroom. When she was out of sight,
he slumped back against the sofa cushions, mentally kicking
himself.

Damn it, Mulder--what did you expect, that she'd be a virgin?

But that wasn't the problem. Jack Willis wasn't even the
problem--
he was dead and gone, and whatever he and Scully had shared
had ended long before Mulder met her. The problem was, Jack
Willis had known Scully in a way that Mulder never had.

And that just wasn't right.

He didn't like the thought that there was some part of
Scully that he couldn't touch--or that there was a part of
him that she couldn't touch. Despite the hazards, despite
conventional wisdom, despite all the warning bells that went
off in his head every time he and Scully neared the
invisible line between their worlds, Mulder wanted to know
everything about her--what made her laugh and cry, what made
her writhe and what made her scream. The feel and smell and
taste of her--he wanted to know all of that.

So why'd you push her away, Mulder?

She had been enjoying his touch, responding to his
seduction. Why had he screwed it up?

Because you realized that maybe she'd have responded
to any halfway attractive man? Because any set of strong,
warm hands could have elicited that sound from her throat?
The little voice at the back of his mind was taut and dark.
Because when a woman gets lonely, maybe any warm body
will do?

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and pressed
his face into his palms. He wanted to be special to her. He
wanted to give her something nobody else in the world could
give her.

For a moment, he thought he had.

But he'd been wrong.

What if he were wrong about other things as well?

Had he been reading things into their relationship all these
years? Was that spark of attraction he'd thought he saw
from the very first nothing more than wishful thinking? A
figment of his overwrought imagination?

Was he risking the best thing in his life--his friendship with this incredible woman--to tilt at another windmill?

End of #6

***End Notes: The U.S.S. Thresher incident is an actual event in American history. The Thresher sank on April 10, 1963 as noted. However, NOTHING remotely like the events I propose in this piece of fiction ever took place. I do not mean to suggest otherwise.