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Clinical Detachment & Journey by Zuffy
From: Zuffy <[email protected]>
Date: Sun, 5 Sep 1999 20:36:38 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: story Source: direct
Title: Clinical Detachment (1/1)
Author: Zuffy
Email: [email protected]
Rating: R
Category: S, R
Spoilers: None in particular, well maybe one reference to Milagro
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance
Summary: Scully’s injury tests our agents’ self-control
Written: July 1999
Archive: Yes, but keep my name and email on it, please Disclaimer: How could anyone not know that Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and the X-Files are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox? I’m just giving them a workout. You know, keeping them in shape over the summer.
Clinical Detachment
“Oupf.” Dana Scully grunted as she tumbled forward, hitting the ground with her right hand extended. “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, aware that everyone within hearing distance had turned to watch her, now on her hands and knees, face hovering just above the pavement.
“Scully. Scully, are you all right?” Her partner hurried forward and crouched at her side. She nodded slowly, “I’m fine, Mulder. I just tripped.” Stupidly, she added to herself. Since when have I become so uncoordinated? I definitely need to work out more. Back to the gym as soon as we finish our cockamamie assignment in this god-forsaken place.
“Are you sure? Any cuts?”
His good-natured concern irritated her. If I said I’m fine, I’m fine. Nothing I can’t handle. After everything I’ve been through, after all…
“Here, let me help.” He put a hand around her waist to help her up.
“I’m really okay.” She stepped forward away from his arm and brushed the small bits of asphalt off her hand. A small rivulet of blood ran from the cut on the palm of her hand. She held it out to him. “Do we have some water in the car? I just want to wash this off.” He hurried to open the trunk, watching her from the corner of his eye as she limped to the passenger side door and opened it with her left hand.
“Let me do this, Scully. I got a merit badge in first aid and I have to keep my skills up.” He poured the water over her hand and dabbed gently at the cut with a gauze square. The water and blood dripped onto the ground kicking up little puffs of dust.
“Mulder, you never got a merit badge in anything, except maybe in leaping to conclusions. Thanks, that feels better. You did learn somewhere.”
He was fishing in the first aid kit now and pulled out a tube of antibiotic ointment. The flow of blood had slowed, and he dabbed the cut again, waiting for it to finish. “It’s from watching over your shoulder. I know lots of medical things.”
“I do autopsies, Mulder. I’m afraid what you’ve seen isn’t going to do you much clinical good.” They both stared at her hand, willing it to stop bleeding. Mulder dabbed at it one last time, then rubbed on the ointment. “There,” he said. “Good as new.” She smiled at his maternal words and he raised her arm slightly.
“Ow.”
“What’s wrong?”
“That hurts. It hurts along there when I move.” She rubbed her lower arm, touched her elbow, and flexed her arm slightly.
“Like that?” His frown of concern returned. She loved and hated that look. She couldn’t imagine herself invincible when he looked at her that way. “It’s okay when I flex it, but when I rotate… Ow.” She grabbed her arm protectively and swung herself into the car. “It’s just bruised. Let’s go.”
He put the first-aid kit away and started the car. “Are you sure? Could be broken.”
“Nothing’s broken. I’ll be fine in a bit. Just a little shock to the system.”
It wasn’t fine. Mulder could tell as they drove along, but he knew there was no way he would be able to tell her that. She was just going to have to figure it out. He could just sense the motion as she tried to rotate her arm. She was wincing, he was sure, but he knew it was better not to look at her. She’d hate that. She always hated being hurt. So did he, but he could see the virtues of letting her run her hands over him, checking for injuries. Had he ever faked one? Not that he could remember, but he’d probably malingered once or twice, just to enjoy the sensation of her fingers on his forehead or in his hair. Hey, I forgot to check for fever. Guess she wouldn’t have bought that anyway. There, that was definitely a little gasp. She knows it’s not supposed to feel that way. Now just how long before she agrees to an x-ray?
“You want to do another interview, Scully, or should we just call it a day? The next one is a little out of the way.”
“That’s fine. Let’s do another one. The sooner we wrap these up the sooner we return to civilization.”
“It’s actually kind of pretty out here, Scully. Quiet. Wouldn’t mind if we stayed an extra day or two.” He smiled at her and her expression softened. Keep away from her injury. That was the key now.
Mulder flipped through a year-old Sports Illustrated, trying not to look at his watch. She’s been in the consulting room of this clinic for an hour. Looks like the injury is more serious than she said. Hope they’re not doing anything drastic to her, it will put her off her feed. He pitched the magazine on the table and stretched his legs out, crossing his arms across his chest. They’d been having a good time out here in western Colorado, driving around to isolated hamlets, tracking rumors of exotic animals smuggled from abroad for resale over the Internet. Not one of their heavier cases, maybe, but a chance to spend a lot of time in the car with Scully. He could watch her out of the corner of his eye and mostly she didn’t even realize it. Besides, there was always a possibility that some of the smuggled animals might contain genetic information that would tie them into alien visits. He and Scully had been talking about that just before she fell. Arguing, actually. Arguing. That’s probably what’s going on right now. She’s trying to talk them out of their diagnosis. Good luck, Mister ER Doctor. He closed his eyes and relaxed.
“Mulder. Mulder, let’s go.”
His eyes popped open. Did I really fall asleep? He looked up at the cross expression on Scully’s face. His eyes drifted down to her arm, now encased in a thick, white plaster cast. Oh- oh. End of the happy camping.
“A cast?”
“They think I tore a ligament and insisted on putting on this…thing.” The insult was clear in her voice. “I tried to explain to them that the x-ray was ambiguous and the diagnosis entirely speculative. But they wouldn’t let me leave without it.” She swung the arm around. “Ow.”
“I hope you didn’t harm anyone back there with that thing.”
“I was tempted, believe me.” A tentative smile vanished quickly from her face. “I’ll bet you anything that when we get home, real doctors are going to tell me that this is totally counterproductive.”
“You want to go to Denver or someplace?”
“No. I *will manage. Let’s just get this case over with and go home.”
Yup. End to the happy camping all right.
Mulder jogged from the office of the Happy-Go-Lucky Motel back to the car. He shook two keys at her. “Your choice, Scully. You wanna sleep on the right or left.”
“That’s old, Mulder.” She smiled as she took one of the keys. “But thanks for trying.”
How do we always end up in these places? Frayed curtains, threadbare carpet, bedside lamp with a wire coming loose more often than not. Haven’t any motels been built since the ’50s? Mulder drove a little way down the row of rooms and pulled up in from of numbers 20 and 21. He’s looking at me. He’s trying to figure out how much help he can offer without driving me insane. I had to ask him to cut up my food at the restaurant. He’ll probably remind me of it a hundred times when he wants to get to me. She looked out the window. No, he won’t. He won’t rub it in. Not something like this. But I just need to take care of myself. I better get out before he decides to rush around and get my door.
He sat in the driver’s seat until she had slammed her door, then got out and took the bags from the trunk. They went to their rooms, adjoining as usual. Scully fumbled a little with her key, but kept at it until it turned. Mulder hesitated before entering his room.
“Scully. If you need any help, just call. OK?”
She nodded and closed her door behind her.
The knock came just minutes later. He walked over to the connecting door and opened it. Scully stood with her back to him. “I need you to help.”
He stared at her back. “You need me to?”
She tugged at her sweater. Oh. Oh-oh.
“Sure. Let me do this.” He rubbed the edge of her top between his fingers. Soft. And delicate. A lot like she must feel. He gently pulled it over her head, then helped peel it over the cast, trying not to let it catch on the rough edges. “There you go.” He handed her the sweater and started to close the door.
“Mulder.”
“What?”
“I can’t reach…”
He looked at her back. Her bra. Black at that. She can’t reach the hooks. Geez. He wiped his hands on his shirt and carefully undid the clasp, trying not to touch her. “That it?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She closed her door and a minute later he heard the water running. Thin walls. What else is new with these places? The water stopped. He went back to his reading, trying to banish the memory of unhooking her bra. Purely a professional courtesy. She’d do the same for me. Sort of. I mean whatever might be the equivalent. Isn’t there something on tv?
A few minutes later, another rap sounded on the door. Just her face showed through the narrow gap she had opened her own side. “Mulder. Mulder, I can’t wash my hair or bathe with this thing on.” There was a long pause. “I can’t ask anyone else. I want your complete clinical detachment.”
Clinical detachment? To bathe you? Ask me something easier, Scully. Ask me to cut off an arm or a leg. Ask me to believe everything your science says. Ask me to team up with Smokey.
“Clinical detachment? Sure. I once got a merit badge in…”
“Right, Mulder. I don’t want to know about it.”
Sure, she thought. Sure, like hell, sure. Still I’m not going to go around smelling. And the dust. I can *feel the dust in my hair. There’s no choice really. I’ll just maintain the clinical detachment for both of us. He’ll know that. He won’t have any choice. “Just wait two minutes, Mulder, then come in.”
He watched the second hand sweep around twice, then walked into Scully’s room and pushed open the door to her bathroom. The tub was screened by a plain muslin curtain, yellowed with waterstains at the bottom. “You in here?”
“Yes, I’m in the tub.” He squatted down alongside and contemplated the curtain for a moment. Placing his hands against the cloth, he grabbed her lightly through the fabric.
“Ack! Mulder, that curtain is mildewy.”
“What am I supposed to do? This isn’t clinical detachment. This is purdah.”
“Purdah?”
“Yeah, I saw a documentary once about bathing in Iran. It was just like this.”
“You did not. There is no such program.”
“Sure there is. It was on one of my premium channels. You probably don’t subscribe.”
Silence. He thought he heard her sigh. “Okay, Mulder. You’ve made your point. Open the curtain.”
He pulled it back, tugging a bit where the loops caught on a flaw in the curtain rod. Sitting before him was his partner, knees pulled up to her chest holding a washcloth against her breasts. Her right arm rested on the edge of the tub next to him and she looked straight ahead. Why not just wear a swimsuit, Scully? I thought this might be fun, now I’m not so sure. He dipped his hand in the water and fished around, stroking her foot and thigh.
“What are you doing?” She finally turned to look at him.
“Looking for the soap.” He gave her what he hoped was an innocent smile.
“It’s right here.” She reached over to the soap dish and grabbed the miniature bar of Ivory and dropped it into his hand.
Mulder unwrapped it slowly, and turned it over in his hand. “I dunno, Scully. I can’t promise much in the way of results with this little bit of soap.”
“I’m not that dirty. Let’s just wrap this up quickly.”
I’m hot, dusty, smelly, sticky and frustrated as hell about this stupid cast. Three weeks. I’m going to have to figure out some other way of managing. We can’t have bathtime every night. It would drive both of us insane. She pulled her knees a little more tightly against her body. So look. Go ahead. There’s nothing to see. No, don’t look at me that way. You promised.
Testy, aren’t we? Well, maybe you need more scrubbing than you think. He folded the bathmat and shifted to his knees. “How about we start right here. This is probably a problem for you to reach.” He lathered up his hands and began at her shoulders, slowly stroking them, drawing circles around her shoulder blades. Almost at once, Scully interrupted, “Better use the washcloth.”
“You have the only one right there. Care to hand it over?”
She let out her breath. “No, I’ll keep it. You go ahead.”
Point for the visiting team, he said to himself. Focusing on her skin, he let his hands slip down her back then slowly wiggle upward. Up and down his hands moved, treating him to the feel of each ripple and curve in her back. How do women manage to be so smooth? He returned to her shoulders and began kneading the muscles, feeling her tenseness beneath his fingers.
That feels surprisingly good. When was the last time someone really scrubbed my back? Rubbed every knot and muscle. Where did you learn to do that? I feel your strength and something else, too. Did you earn a merit badge in massage, Mulder? From whom? Never mind.
“Ummmm.” Did I say that, Scully thought with a start. God, detachment, detachment.
“Ummmm.” Did I just hear that? I’m keeping my sounds to myself. Don’t want to get the boot from Miss Detachment here. There, now that’s my spot. His hands had slipped down to her lower back, right at the base of her spine where he always felt he could lay a hand to guide her and to mark off his claim to anyone who might be watching them. My spot. Much better without the wool. I’m saving this for future reference.
That’s the spot where he always puts his hand. Never felt quite like that before. The circular massage felt good, a little exciting even. His hand slipped farther down to the top of her ass. “Mulder…” she issued a little warning growl.
“Come on Scully, you really can’t reach down here, can you? You gave me an assignment and I’m trying to be thorough.” He leaned closer and she felt his breath on her ear. “If I do a good job, maybe you’ll recommend me to your friends.”
“If you do a good job, I’ll never recommend you to my friends.” God, did I really say that? She felt her face color and leaned forward to rest her forehead on her knees. Maybe he didn’t hear me.
Did she really say that? Must have. She’s hiding her face.
He scooped up some water and drizzled it over her shoulder. Once. Twice. Three times. Now both hands were in the water, rubbing along the sides of her hips. He’d dropped the soap, but who cares? Bringing his hands out of the water, he traced lightly up her sides under her arms, up and down, memorizing the curve of her waist and letting his fingertips lightly brush the outer roundness of her breasts. Like to live dangerously, he thought. Just keep that up. He couldn’t resist. One more time.
“Mulder?”
“Just about done here, Scully. Shall I get a mirror so you can check quality work?”
She smiled a little, and rubbed her left hand across the back of her neck. “That’s just fine, Mulder, thanks a lot. I think, I can handle…”
He had shifted himself over to his right and lifted her foot out of the water. “Looks like this foot could use a little washing action. Where’s that soap?” He groped around and before she could say anything, he pulled it up out of the water. “There we go. Now let’s just take care of all that dust.” Slowly he massaged her foot, pressing his thumbs to the ball and rubbing slowly.
“I think I can manage to wash my feet.”
“Not like this. Just lean back a little. I can be trusted with your *feet, can’t I?”
I’m not sure you can, Mulder. Still she shifted her hips so she could lean against the back of the tub. This is a ridiculous case. There’s nothing to make it an X-File. Why did it come to us? Why did Mulder agree so quickly to go trekking off to the farthest boondocks where even the doctors are locked in the nineteenth century? We’ve been driving around for three or four days, trying to talk to isolated hermits about animals that don’t exist. So far we haven’t come up with enough to make a credible report. How many more names does he have in that notebook of his anyway?
She came to with a start. His hands were now on her leg, slowly moving up and down the calf, now rubbing the knee. He was looking down with intense concentration. Is all that energy going into clinical detachment? I wasn’t sure he could do it. Now this is a pleasant surprise. She leaned back again, just as his hands moved past her knee and slowly moved up her thigh. He kneaded the back of her leg, then slowly slid his hand to stroke her strong inner thighs. Her breathing was getting quick and shallow. She stared at him. He continued to focus on his labors, but she could see that his breath was quickening, too. “Mulder? Mulder?”
I think that’s my name. He was focusing hard on her thigh, inching up, intensely aware of how close he was to…
“Mulder?”
Dammit it *is my name. “Ummm, yes Scully?”
“Maybe the other *foot.”
I don’t like the way she said foot. Still, I aim to please. Not much soap left here Hope we have enough to finish the job. Still some important work to be done, if… He washed her left leg more quickly, daring just a little run up the thigh. She’s smiling. Must have done all right on that one.
“Thank you, Mulder.”
“Not quite done yet, Scully.” He was back at her side again, looking down into her eyes.
“How so?”
“You can’t really wash your left side with your arm like that.”
He reached around her back, and slowly stroked her left side, reaching up under her arm and down past her waist. He shifted to be able to reach farther and outlined the edge of her breast with his fingers. “This isn’t working so well. Let me try this angle. ” She was still holding the washcloth over her chest. He lathered up his right hand and slowly slid it up under the cloth and spread his hand across her breast. “There, that’s better.” That look of shock. Is she going to stop me? No, I think she’s enjoying this in spite of herself. Round and round he circled it, then cupped it in his hand, spreading his fingers across and squeezing gently. He rubbed his thumb around the nipple, by now raised and hard. He ran the palm of his hand over it lightly, the tantalizing feeling reaching his groin immediately. I can’t believe she’s letting me do this. He dropped his lips to her shoulder and kissed it, then kissed again slightly higher, working his way to her neck. As his hand reached down to stroke her right breast, he met her lips, slowly first and then with passion returned, lips parted, inhaling each others’ breaths. Did it ever feel so good to breathe?
“I think my breasts are clean now.” She pulled back from him but the expression on her face was dizzy, dazed.
“Yeah, I guess they are. His hand slid down her stomach, feeling the folds in her abdomen as she sat forward. His finger circled into her navel and, slowly, tentatively lower into the curls between her legs. She did not pull back from the kiss, now renewed, so he pushed further, finding quickly the spot he wanted, stroking it gently. She shuddered as he reached his goal and pressed her tongue into his mouth.
Why am I letting you stroke my body this way? Because it’s you? Why am I following along with your pretext? It’s just a pretext, Mulder. We both know that. Do I need you to caress me as much as you seem to want to touch? Wait, wait, I can’t let go. One of us has to keep a foot in reality. We can’t go down that other road. You know that. Our goal is too important. We’ll combust. This is just a hormonal response, isn’t it? The old prehistoric biology kicking in. Genes fighting for survival, little brutes who do not understand time, place, purpose, mission, infertility. Infertility. Your lips on mine. Soft. Tentative. Your pheromones seeking to overwhelm my rational analysis. Your breath in my mouth. Inhaled. Savored. Your finger in my secret place. My tongue in your mouth. Stop!
Suddenly, she pulled back. Had he hurt her? Somehow he didn’t think hurt was the reason for her reaction. “Mulder, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I left ‘should’ behind a long time ago.”
“You promised me…”
“I was a fool.” He reached his free hand around the back of her head and lifted her hair to kiss her there. His other hand remained pressed up against her labia. “Mulder, where are you going?”
“I think I’m moving from want to need, Scully. What about you?”
He felt her hand on top of his. “Mulder, stop it. We can’t do this.”
“We can if we choose to.”
“No. We’re partners, not… You promised me clinical detachment.”
“I can’t. You can’t expect me not to be aroused by you. You can’t imagine that I can run my hands over the woman I love and not want her.” He trailed his hand down her leg and looked away.
“Well, then don’t touch me. That will solve the problem. I have to maintain the detachment for both of us, I guess.”
“You weren’t so detached a minute ago.”
“I am now. We can’t let ourselves become lovers. Just… put it away. ” She almost swallowed the last words and looked down into the cloudy bath water.
“How?”
“I don’t know. Repress it.”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
“We can’t, Mulder. You know that.” She still refused to look at him.
“Maybe I don’t.” He rose.
She grabbed her washcloth from the water and pulled it back, inadequately, across her chest. She struggled to stand and realized with annoyance, that there was no way she could maintain a bit of modesty and stand up at the same time. Not with her right arm out of action. “Help me, please.” Her mumble was low, almost incomprehensible.
“What?”
“Help me. Help me stand up.”
“You told me to keep my hands off.”
“Well, I just need a little help. OK? Just keep it clean.”
“I was keeping it clean. Everything I did was clean, Scully. It was loving. Don’t you know how to deal with that? Or is it *me you object to?”
“Mulder, stop.”
He stood back, arms crossed, watching her for a minute, almost content with her struggle. You want to be on your own, you can be on your own. You don’t want my love OR help. You never have. He glared at her, nursing his resentment. This gets me nowhere. He sighed and grabbed her under the shoulder and helped her rise. She stood, no longer bothering with the pretense of the washcloth.
“You can leave now. Thank you for your assistance.”
He glared once more and she heard the bathroom door slam, then its echo as he returned to his room. “We can’t, Mulder,” she whispered. .
Later, a hesitant knock and her voice through the door. “Mulder, are you there? I need another favor.”
He muted the sound on the baseball game. Another favor. Boy, this must be taking a lot out of her.
“Sorry, I’m all out of detachment,” he shouted.
“No, I just need… Do you have a clean t-shirt?”
“Why?”
“My pajama shirt won’t go on over this cast. I haven’t got anything else.”
You could sleep nude. He stopped at the thought. He wasn’t going to say it. “Unfortunately they’re all used. I forgot about the laundromat after your fall. You’ll be ok. Alone.” Maybe I put a little too much stress on alone.
He turned the sound back on. There was the knock again.
“Mulder. I want to talk with you.”
“Well, come in and talk.”
“I haven’t got anything to wear.”
He sighed. It was a reasonable request. He took off his Knicks shirt. “Open the door.”
She opened it a crack and he handed her the shirt. “I’ve just had it on for a couple hours. It’s the best I can do.”
She nodded and closed the door. OK, he’s in a funk. That’s to be expected. Still, now he understands, even if he doesn’t like it. We can’t simply do what we want. Doesn’t he realize I tell myself that, too? Over and over. She pulled the shirt slowly over the cast, then over her head and finally pushed her left arm through the sleeve. It was warm from him. The intimacy of it surprised her. It smelled like him, too. All those times that he stood too close to her or hung over her shoulder or hugged her. It smelled like the time she feared he was dead and then he was suddenly there in the Senate hearing room. She ran her hands down it and opened the door.
Mulder was sitting on the bed, shirtless, wearing only boxers. Of course, she had forgotten that would be the case. She walked over slowly, keeping her eyes down, and sat on the edge, facing away from him.
“Mulder, I’m sorry, but we forgot something.” Please be kind, Mulder. Please just help me.
Forgot something? I haven’t forgotten anything. Not a moment of it. Especially not the end.
She held her arm up, holding a bottle of shampoo. “We didn’t wash my hair.”
Scully, you have got to be crazy. “Does it need it?”
She nodded silently, then added redundantly. “I’m afraid it does. It was pretty dusty out there.” She stood up from the bed. “Can we use your bathroom? My towels are wet.”
Maybe my towels are wet, too, Scully. Think of that? And did you ever think that my room might be out of cold water? Did *that occur to you? But you want the game on your terms, I guess I can play now that I understand.
He snorted a little as he breathed out. “I have a shower, not a tub. You’ll have to stick your arm through the door.” Still looking away from him, she nodded and rose. He saw her shoulders hunch up with tension as he continued in his slightly acid tone, “So let me get this straight. I am going to wash your hair while you get my last semi-clean t-shirt soaked because I can’t be trusted.”
She put the shampoo down on the night stand and pulled her left arm down through the sleeve, then lifted the rest of the shirt over her head. It hung from her right arm, just above the cast. He sat staring at her naked back.
Why are you doing this to me? Put the shirt back on, I’m sorry I said anything. His eyes settled on that spot, his spot, in her lower back and he wanted to reach out and kiss it softly. Then his glance dipped lower, admiring the curves of her hips and ass that he had traced under the water. He wanted to touch her again. To feel his fingers slip inside her panties to glide across her smooth skin and knead her muscles. He wanted…he wanted her to go back to her room if she required detachment.
“Mulder? Help me out here.” She shook her arm to indicate the shirt. He got up and gently lifted the sleeve around the cast.
“Ok, go get in the shower. Call me when you’re ready.”
Rats. There’s only one way to stand in this shower. She turned around a couple times before concluding that if the cast was going to stay dry, she was going to have to stand with her back to the shower, facing the door, facing Mulder, so her arm could stick out of the enclosure. Why? Why did he have to bring trust into it? She turned on the water. Yow! Too cold. A little nudge to the left. She jumped away a little. Too hot. Just my luck this is one of those precision controls. One spot, one micron wide gets you the right temperature. She cursed the whole enterprise and settled on a setting just a little cooler than she wanted. “Now,” she shouted.
She saw his form through the frosted glass door: darkness on top, then his face blurred like the confidential confessions on tv, then a long stretch of flesh — he hadn’t put on another shirt – – and below that blue. Looks like he’s wearing jeans now. Good. Good sign.
He put the shampoo down on the sink and tried to size up the situation. Her cast was sticking out the half-closed door, and he could make her out well enough to see that she was facing him. Water was splashing onto the floor. “Scully, you’re splashing up my bathroom.”
“Sorry, I tried adjusting. It’s the best I can do.”
He looked at the cast again and at her fingers, flexing slightly, probably involuntarily. It’s heavy holding it like that. I ought to be merciful and get this over with. *One of us ought to be merciful.
He opened the door and the spray hit him at once. “Geez, Scully. I’m going to get soaked. Can’t you fix that thing?”
She reached up to tug at the showerhead and he admired the way her breast moved as she lifted her arm. Firm. Round. Did the nipple harden a little under his gaze or was he imagining that? He bit his lip slightly as he watched. His eyes slid down her body to the site of his earlier transgression. You can’t ask me not to look. You can’t ask me not to be human.
“This thing must be rusted into place. Can’t budge it, sorry.” She glanced back at him, noticing where his eyes rested in the split second before he turned back to her face. Guilty, Mulder. Don’t even try to deny it.
There was water beaded on his chest and the front of his jeans had already darkened from the spray. Her eyes lingered just there, taking in the unmistakable sign of his reaction to her. He’s watching me absorb this. He’s enjoying himself, I know he is. Her voice was slightly rough when she managed to sputter, “Shut the door. This isn’t going to work.”
She leaned against the side wall. How can I do this? Just the weight of his gaze is too much, loaded with the memory of his touch, stroking and warming. Ow, this thing is heavy. Her arm sagged a bit through the door and Mulder caught it, taking the weight of it from her. He can be so sweet when he chooses. Why does he have to be a jerk other times?
“Any more smart ideas in there?”
Like right now. Thank you for reminding me that I have a problem. My hair is soaked. There’s no alternative to washing it. I’m not going around with muddy hair.
So, what’s the plan, Scully? You tell me. This is your problem. I’m not going to take any more initiatives here. You know where I stand. You don’t want that, then all right. But please don’t make the hurt worse. Don’t pretend it isn’t there. I felt your lips press back against mine. I felt you shudder. He put his hand under her forearm. This is a heavy thing. Old- fashioned. Take your time, I’ll hold it up.
“Any more smart ideas in there?” I bet she didn’t like that. Hmmm. She looked when the door was open. I saw how her glance lingered. We both know. Maybe she’s just kidding herself about what she wants. Give yourself a break, Miss Clinical Detachment. Life doesn’t go on forever. Correction. This bath goes on forever. This must be the longest bath-hairwash marathon in history. The creepy guy at the reception desk is going to come pounding on the door any minute now for all the water we’re using. Never mind, take your time. Figure it out. There’s only one solution, but it’s not coming from me.
He looked down at the puddle spreading across the floor. I guess I should have picked up the bath towels. All we’ve got now is the hand towel. Somebody is not going to be pleased. Come on now. It isn’t that hard. Is there more than one choice? Geez, what if she decides to shave her head? She’s just contrary enough to do it. That would be a real loss.
I suppose I could shave my head. God, I’m losing my mind. I am not shaving my head. There is a simple solution. Mulder understands what demeanor I expect. We are grown people. We have seen each others’ bodies before. We are partners. Friends. We can handle this in a mature way. Simple. He will step in, pour shampoo in his hand, lather up my head, run his hand through my hair to rinse it, slide his hand farther down my back, pull me against him, press…this is not going to work. Silence. Gloom.
Gloom. Silence.
Scully sighed to herself. If we let it happen just once, no one would know. It would just be momentary insanity. We’d close the door on it. Who am I kidding? She lifted her foot to rub it. God, I’m getting all wrinkled. My skin. His skin. There, that’s it. There *is a way out. Why didn’t I see it?
If she would only let it happen, it might be the breakthrough. We wouldn’t have to pretend any more. *She couldn’t pretend any more. At least I think she’s been pretending. She had those fantasies. The ones that guy—what’s was his name? Philip? Phil? Frank? I’ve repressed *that all right—that he was writing about. She denied it, but she’s a bad liar. Maybe they weren’t about him, that’s all. Right. All right.
“Mulder?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to have to come in here with me.”
“OK.” He let go of her arm and it dropped. “Sorry. Forgot to warn you.”
“It’s ok. Thanks for holding it.”
She watched him turn away from her and start to unzip his jeans. No, no, no, no, no. “Mulder, you don’t have to get undressed. Just come in like that.” Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound panicked.
“I am not getting my jeans soaked in the shower. Be reasonable.” They slid to the floor.
Leave them on? Little Miss Rationality is losing it. What’s a little nudity between repressed best friends?
Mulder finished undressing, opened the door, and stepped in. That’s right. Keep your eyes focused on my face. That way I won’t know what you’re thinking. Cozy in here, not that I’m complaining. Where’s the shampoo?
He opened the door and stepped back across the bathroom to grab the shampoo from the sink. She blinked as he turned around. Caught you, Dana Scully. Did you like what you saw? Well, I’m got going to fuss around with little washcloth disguises if that’s what you’re thinking. This is honesty.
OK, shampoo. We’re all business here. I unscrew the cap and pour it into my hand. Sorry. Can’t help looking. They’re in my line of vision. They look good in a sweater, they look better like this. They feel even better than that. Ooops. Better not think about it. I’ve got enough of a physical reaction already to deal with.
Ok, Mulder. Enough gawking. Wash already. Don’t just stand there with a handful of shampoo. You know where my hair is. That hair. The hair you are allowed to wash. Oh. “Here, I’ll hold the bottle.”
She put out her hand and he passed it to her. She wasn’t expecting the outside of the bottle to be so slippery; it slid right out of her hand. They both looked down at the shampoo slowly glubbing down the drain. And at other things in the way.
Oh, my, that’s nice. Impressive. I didn’t mean to look. I’m turning beet red. I can feel it. I can’t look at his face. I can’t keep looking *there.
There, Scully. Look as long as you want. You’ve seen erections before. What do you think? Is that appreciation? Regret? Worry? It’s simply a fact. You’ve taught me to respect facts. Okay, I’ll put you out of your misery.
“Let me get that.”
Nice scenery down here. Did she say which hair she wanted washed? Wait. That’s how I got in trouble last time.
“Your feet are clean. I did a good job if I say so myself.” But they’re getting wrinkled. Guess we can’t stay here forever. I’ll just screw the top on nice and slowly while I enjoy the view a little longer. She’d kill me, even for a quick touch. If I could just graze my lips quickly against her stomach. Nope, not worth the risk. I’ll just get a little leverage by putting my hand back there against *my spot. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it, my dear?
“Sorry,” he breathed, letting go. Her eyes are closed. Is that a good sign or bad?
He raised his hands to her head and spread the shampoo across her hair, over the top and then down the sides. He ran his fingers upward from her neck, pulling her hair into the lather. Slowly at first, then more vigorously, he smoothed the hair back from her face as her ran his fingers through it again and again. She tipped her head forward and he rubbed two fingers just below the hairline in back and massaged the little round knob at the top of her spine.
A stream of water tickled against his right side, then disappeared. There it was again, more insistent. There was no mistaking it. She had braced her hand against him. He tipped her head to her left and ran his fingers through her hair, watching the bubbles slowly flow down to her shoulder, her breast, her stomach. The water sprinkled on her face. She looked fresh and clean. Tentatively, he let his finger follow some of the bubbles down her arm and then others down the front. The pressure of her hand increased and slid around toward his back, the top of his ass. We can stay this way forever, as far as I’m concerned.
The water’s off. He turned the water off. I could have stayed here forever. She sighed and let out a breath, suddenly conscious that her left hand had strayed around to the top of his ass. His erection rested against her stomach. She opened her eyes. Have his eyes always been that color? He barely seemed to be breathing. Her own breaths were short and shallow.
He stepped out first and gave her his hand. We made it, she told herself. Not detached, exactly, but we made it through a shower. Together. Naked. Her foot squished against the sodden bath mat and she looked around in surprise at his waterlogged bathroom. How long had they been in there? He was holding out something to her, something small and white. A towel.
“That’s a hand towel. I need…” She followed his gaze to the bath towels, heaped in the corner and soaking up water.
“That’s it?” she said poking at the cloth suspended from his hand.
He nodded, trying to look solemn. First he positioned the towel horizontally, then vertically against her. She giggled. “That’s *it? For the two of us? Mulder! You’re hopeless.”
He looked around and picked up a dry washcloth by its corner. Another giggle, then a laugh. Then she threw her head back and gave in to the ridiculous.
He stared at her for a second, then began to laugh himself. Let go, Scully. That’s right, just let go. When was the last time you laughed like that? When was the last time you let yourself see the humor in absurdity? Let go. When did we last laugh together like this? Let me hear your wonderful laugh. She leaned forward against him laughing, until it trailed off into hiccups.
He took the towel and dabbed the top of her cast and up her right shoulder. She took it from him and dabbed his chin, giggling at him. He took it back and rubbed it over her hair, reaching around with both arms to squeeze out the ends, then drizzling his hands down her back to see if she was ticklish. It brought another round of giggles. She lifted the towel from his hands and rubbed it over his shoulders, pushing him a little. He backed up out of the bathroom and she followed, still dabbing at him with the now damp terry. He took it back from her and flicked it at her, causing a little squeal. He moved in and drew a circle around her breast with it. He handed it to her and she rubbed his thigh. He pulled it gently from her hands and stretched it across her back and pulled her closer. She put out her hand and he returned it to her. She looked straight into his eyes, her own eyes sparkling, and draped it over his erection. He put his hand on her wrist. “That part doesn’t want to be dry.”
She dangled the towel in front of him. “Well then, this little item has ended its usefulness.” She dropped it on the floor.
“What are we going to do without it?” he asked.
She licked a drop off his nipple.
“You do that , Scully, the water will boil away in a second.”
She licked the other side.
What happened to ‘can’t,’ Dana Scully? What changed your mind? No, don’t say. I don’t need to know. You in my arms. Responding. Leading. Willing to enjoy me, too. That’s all I need. That’s enough.
She pushed him back gently onto the bed and he pulled her onto his lap. She rested her cast on his shoulder and pressed her forehead to his.
“Scully, we’re going to get the bed wet.”
She pulled back and tried to look serious but he saw the smile break loose from her eyes. “Yeah, I know.” And she brought her lips to his.
A few days later, back at the office Mulder sat at his desk whistling and shooting rubber bands across the room. The door opened and he snapped to, leaning over the laptop with an air of concentration. He looked up, “Hi, Scully. See your doctor?”
She nodded and closed the door.
“Where’s your cast?”
“Just as I thought. I didn’t need a cast. Dr. Benton said the injury will heal more quickly with moderate use.” She flexed her arm cautiously.
“Gee, I guess you should follow your instincts more often.”
She smiled at him and gathered up a sheaf of files in her left arm. “I’ve got a meeting with the forensic lab staff. See you later.”
“Hey, Scully.”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry you had to wear that cast for nothing.”
She paused at the door and looked back at him. “It wasn’t for nothing, Mulder.”
He smiled as the door closed behind her and shot a rubber band at her retreating footsteps.
End
Zuffy
Title: Journey
Author: Zuffy
Email: [email protected]
Rating: R
Category: MSR, angst, mytharc
Spoilers: The story happens early in season 7
Date: March 2000
Archive: Yes, but keep my name and let me know where it is, please.
Disclaimer: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and the X-Files are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and Fox. But look, they’ve gotten themselves into a fix and I’m trying to be helpful.
Thanks to Lone Gunwoman and Littljoe for their helpful beta comments, with special awe to Littljoe for her amazing knowledge of botany. Backstory note: Journey begins about 3 months after the end of Clinical Detachment, my Mulder and Scully get together story. It’s not necessary to read CD first.
Journey, Part 1
Fox Mulder sat in his basement office, chair tipped back, pencil tapping out “Sunshine of Your Love” on the edge of his desk. As the guitar faded in his mind, he checked his watch again. Nine-fifteen. It was odd for his partner to be so late. Correction, it was odd until two or three weeks ago, when the Dana Scully he had been discovering with such pleasure was replaced by a distracted twin. His mind idled through the possibilities: drugs in the water, hybrid replacement, genetic mutation, some residual memory from a prior life, she’s angry at me. Only the last seemed plausible, but she hadn’t actually snapped at him or whined about his obsessions or turned her back on one of his grainy alien videos. Moody, maybe; tired, often; preoccupied, absolutely. He’d nosed around the topic of the flu but she had assured him in that nothing-to-discuss tone of voice that she was fine and had returned to her computer, capital F all but burned into his forehead. Okay, he got flamed on that one, no surprise there. What was the opposite of a hypochondriac anyway?
Gloomy weather out there, he thought. When the light of day didn’t make it down the airshaft, it was damn hard to ignore the insult of being tucked out of sight behind the office supplies and the janitor’s mops. It didn’t used to bother him back in the days when the cellar proclaimed principled defiance. Days like today made him wonder what the difference was between firebrand, gadfly, and pawn. He flipped on the desk lamp and worked through the mail and paranormal journals; his favorite tabloids were tucked at the bottom of the pile. How was he supposed to walk past a headline like “Martian Babies Start School”? He spun around to admire his UFO poster, some photos from the Hubble ripped out of the latest National Geographic, authenticated pictures of child ghosts in a New England fishing village, the box score for a Rockies game he’d lured her to in Denver, and other curiosities. If he put the Martian babies up there, Scully might just notice and they could have a little dust-up about alien DNA and maybe she’d treat him to a tolerant smile at the end. She’d never admit it, he thought, but maybe proving him wrong wasn’t so all-fired important any more.
Why was it so hard for her to ‘fess up? They’d had a breakthrough in their friendship — as she continued to call their nights together — two or three months earlier on that trip to the Colorado outback when she banged up her arm. She’d asked him through clenched, perfect teeth to scrub her back and he’d tried his best to ignore the feel of her body under his soap-slicked hands. He’d hazarded an innocent little kiss just to taste her lips and she kissed back with breath that filled his lungs and his hand wandered out of bounds and next thing he knew he was square back in his room, his partner unlikely to speak to him again in this life. Then the gods must have intervened because she knocked on the door with eyes downcast and a bottle of shampoo and an hour later she was his. He still wasn’t sure he should exhale. At one point he’d told her that if he’d known a little fall was all it would take to get her into bed, he would have tripped her years ago. She laughed at that, but there hadn’t been much laughter in the last week or two. Not only that, he had a hard time even getting her to the autopsy bay. She’d come in, late and pale, set up her laptop on a table at the far end of the room and start in with the equations. All these years, she’d talked a mean streak of biology and chemistry whenever he ventured one of his little theories, so he hadn’t realized what a math geek she really was. That Einstein thing wasn’t a fluke. She was typing other stuff as well, stuff that she shut down if he wandered near the table. During one of her hurried absences he happened to look at the screen. An obit of Dr. Stephen Stewart, gynecologist, dated June 1999. Heart attack. Didn’t fit with anything they were working on.
Evenings hadn’t been much better. They still went over to her apartment some days after work – the two-car sneak for appearance’s sake, in case there was anyone who hadn’t simply assumed their intimacy years ago. She didn’t seem to know what people said about them, but he got an earful in the john. Never let on about the truth, though, not when there was nothing to tell and not now. Still, when he and she got through her front door there was no more tugging at each other’s buttons. Now she cuddled up to him on the couch after a simple dinner and fell asleep by eight, her face warm against his chest. He was getting tired of washing up the dishes and tucking her in, her mumbling apologies but in no shape for “friendship.” Hell, he even had to do the cooking one night. He never thought Scully would get that desperate.
A clack-clack-clack of heel on tile spun him around to his desk. Slipping on his reading glasses, he spread out a stack of aerial photos and feigned a twitch of his shoulders as she pushed through the door.
“Hey. Morning, Scully.”
“Morning, Mulder.” She was wearing standard-issue black with his favorite U-neck blue top that matched her eyes and those killer heels that put her forehead right against his lips. As she walked toward him, the light caught the morning mist that had settled into her hair. She balanced her bag on the edge of his desk and pinned him with a smile. Five seconds of sunbeams and she disappeared down the hall. When she came back, letting out a sigh as she leaned the door shut, her skin pallid against deep red lips, it was all he could do to stop from shaking the truth out of her. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her bag and handed it to him, hitching herself up on the edge of his desk. He pulled his eyes away from her bare knees to check her face, then reached to stroke a damp spot at the corner of her mouth, but she tipped her head toward the smoke detector on the ceiling.
His eyes turned to the sheet of yellow paper in his hands. “Mulder,” her handwriting began, “What about a picnic in the country tomorrow? Weather’s supposed to be nice, I know a spot- fresh air, sunshine. We can talk.”
Talk? he thought. Scully? Was this the big brush-off? The we’ll-still-be-partners-Mulder? Rules-are-rules-after-all? Weren’t they way past that? Or maybe it’s the old I-feel-great-admiration-for -you? No, not admiration, respect is what women used to say. You-are-so-unique. What the hell was that supposed to mean? You-are-so-strange, only they were too panicked to say so. Scully’s head tilted slightly, eyes querying his. No, not possible, not Scully. That couldn’t be it. He picked up his pencil and scribbled, “Sounds great. I’ll pick you up. What time?”
She bit her lip and shook her head, taking pen and paper from him. She wrote, “Let’s meet there. I’ll give you a map. It’s a little way out. 11?”
“Yeah,” he spoke, voice throttled by her words, “eleven’s fine.” Separate cars? Obviously not sleeping over tonight. Bad sign. That was the hardest thing about being a guy. You didn’t get to find out what you’d done wrong until it was too late. Until it had been dissected and analyzed and resolved, so there was no chance of sliding home with a simple explanation, apology, and a submissive kiss on the hand. And right in front of him was Miss Slice-and-Dice, the sharpest dissector and analyzer he knew. He kept his eyes fixed on the desk.
“You see this?” He pulled the tabloid from the bottom of his stack and held it out for her amused scorn.
“Martian first-graders, Mulder? The quality of tabloid news is definitely going downhill. What next? Elvis caught in Medicare scam?”
He returned her smile. “How about some aerial shots of a UFO crash site in the Sahara?” pointing to the photos. “These are the real thing.”
“Maybe later, Mulder. I’ve still got a couple of equations to pin down.”
He slowed on the narrow park road and consulted the hand-drawn map propped against the steering wheel. Looked like another quarter mile through the arching green tunnel. In two weeks, the reds and oranges would flame out from under their formal summer wear – gorgeous like Scully emerging from that black armor — and vans full of jabbering families would bumper-crawl along the forest tracks. But right now the greens were just starting their fade to yellow and the tourists were at the mall, saving up their outdoor moments for one big weekend. Scully had chosen her Saturday carefully.
A blue rental Taurus was the only car in the lot when he crunched over the gravel fifteen minutes early. She was sitting on the hood, watching him as he pulled up next to her and cut the engine. She wore jeans and an old blue business shirt of his she’d borrowed once and never returned, sleeves rolled up to show her thin wrists. As the leaves overhead tossed in the breeze, a shaft of sunlight bounced over her hair turning it golden bronze, a color he wanted to forbid any other woman ever from wearing.
“Hey, Mulder, you’re early.”
“Speak for yourself. You have car trouble or something?” He patted the roof of her loaner.
“Or something.”
“I could have picked you up, no problem.”
“It was kind of last minute, so-” Her voice trailed off and she picked a leaf out of her blazing hair.
It felt like someone had thrown a sack of cement across his stomach. His hand skimmed over the hood of the Taurus. It was cold. Last minute thing indeed.
“Well, what’s the plan here?” He rubbed his hands together in a show of enthusiasm.
She slid to the ground and gestured to her picnic bag, sitting at the head of a path where the gravel gave way to dust and a tipsy wooden signpost pointed left for the Black Ridge nature trail. “About a half mile down here is a clearing overlooking a creek. It’s a little off the path-” He waited for her to finish, but she just smiled and shrugged.
Her estimate of a half-mile was conservative, at least by the time they had circled through the undergrowth looking for the shortcut to her secret spot. A cool front had blown away Friday’s overcast, leaving the sky a sharp blue more like water than air. Puddles from the previous day’s rain had evaporated into a slimy red muck in the puddles, shiny and cracking at the edges. The sun warmed Mulder’s back, and his left arm sweltered under the blanket she’d requested. The blanket was a plus, a good sign, he thought, like the kiss she’d planted on his mouth as they set out, forcing him to walk backwards rather than give up the soft press of her minted lips. He was definitely feeling warm watching her lead down the path, the black sweater tied around her waist swinging with her hips. When they cut in under the trees, the shade set up a chill where the sweat glistened on his neck. The smell of damp earth rose from under the accumulation of last year’s leaves, decayed now into a mat dry on top and slick underneath. It was slow going where she took them off the path angling up to the top of the ridge, arms brushing back branches of needles or leaves, hiking boots stepping over fallen boughs and rocky outcroppings and delicate plants whose names he figured he would never know. Scully slipped and caught herself on the trunk of lightning-dead tree, her hand pulling away bits of bark as Mulder steadied her with an arm wrapped around her waist. Further on, a branch snagged the back of his t-shirt and she came around to loosen it so the fabric wouldn’t tear. One soft hand ran up inside his shirt while she fiddled with the thorny tip, her hand cool with autumn on his warm skin. He shivered and twisted his head to watch her; she smiled and ran her nails slowly down his back. “All fixed, Mulder.”
He grabbed her around the shoulder as she pushed by and pulled down the collar of her shirt. “Equal time, Scully,” he said, pressing lips to the back of her neck, smelling clean hair and late summer heat, running his tongue around the knob at the top of her spine.
They followed the ridge as it dipped slightly, then stomped through a nest of withered ferns into a small clearing. Scully frowned. “Well, this is it, but I don’t quite remember it this way. There used to be a view here and a path down to the brook,” she gestured toward the sound of running water, “but look at how the sumac has sprung up! I can’t believe it’s been so long.”
She waded through dry grass up to her knees out into the center of the clearing. “Over here someplace was a wall-” She walked in a circle, then bent and lifted a field stone. “Over here, Mulder. Imagine, someone chopped down the trees, shaped them into logs, and built a house here, a cabin, then cut through there for the view.” He followed her glance to the spot where the towering line of trees dipped to a patch of bright red sumac leaves blazing. “Magnificent, I would think, and peaceful.” She balanced the stone atop what was once the back of a fireplace.
“Nice and normal, Scully,” he said, walking out through the grass to stand beside her, brushing away a dragonfly that spun around his ear.
“Normal? Actually, I think it’d be more like you were the only two people on earth.”
“That kind of normal I might be able to deal with. No Smoky, no Krycek.”
“No mutants. No flukemen.”
“Sounding better every minute.”
She smiled. “Spread the blanket over here,” she pointed to the area behind the fallen stones. “If you catch some of the shade, we’ll be more comfortable.”
“So, how do you know about this place?” He walked back and forth across the grass, flattening it, pleased to see few signs of other visitors. He threw one fringed end of the cloth to her and they flapped it open on the ground.
“I came out here with a friend from college once, a botany major,” she said, sinking to her knees and smoothing a corner of the blanket. ” It was spring, and this little meadow was full of clover and chickory and daisies and bright pink milkweed and over there, I think, was a magnolia, just dropping its last flowers. We lay on an old quilt and listened to the sounds of the newly-hatched insects and he told me about how a hundred million years ago flowering plants — angiosperms, Mulder — suddenly evolved from unknown ancestors. Darwin called it an ‘abominable mystery.’ It was just magic that afternoon, like we were the first to discover flowers.”
“Agent Scully returns to the scene of her previous conquest.”
“If you like.” She lay back and looked up at the clouds.
Scully spread the last bit of brie on a piece she’d torn from the baguette and waved it in front of his mouth. He parried it with a carrot stick and then grabbed her wrist to guide it to his mouth. Without releasing her hand, he slowly scraped the offering from her fingers. She rewarded him with a smile.
“I can’t believe you forgot the beer and chips, Scully.”
“I guess- I thought-” she looked down and brushed bits of crust from her lap. “-I guess I forgot what a guy needs on a picnic.” She pulled open her bag and fished around at the bottom. “Worse news. The oatmeal cookies got crushed by the water.” She pulled out a plastic bag of large brown and black crumbs and swung it in the air.
“Most guys don’t come on a picnic for the oatmeal, Scully.”
She had opened the zipper top and was nibbling at the crumbs, eyes intent on the contents of the small sack. He leaned over and rubbed her thigh, “It doesn’t matter. This was a nice idea. We don’t often get out into pollen country like this.”
“C’mon Mulder, can’t you admit that you like it out here? The sun, the smells, the quiet-”
“The right company-that’s what a guy really needs on a picnic.” He leaned across and pushed her back, the two of them lying face to face on the blanket lumped up with tufts of thick grass underneath. His lips found hers peppered with small, sharp crumbs; he ran his tongue to sweep them up. “Nice idea, as I said.”
“I wanted to get away from the eyes and ears…” Her voice trailed off.
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Yeah.”
He ran his hands through her sun-warmed hair, pushing it back, lips to neck, to ear, tracing the inward spiral and the small pearl on the lobe, the oyster prize. Her breath against his face, rapid, moist. Her hands sweeping up his neck into the low hair, tugging, kneading his scalp. Needing each other. A swift stroke along the outer edge of her breast where the softness rose. Gently along the edge of it, teasing her, teasing himself; fuller, rounder, better than he remembered and his memories were pretty damn good. Her hands down his back, his muscles twitching involuntarily, rippling at her teasing, skimming fingers, warmth spreading in their wake. His fingers at the buttons of his/her/their shirt, a hundred times unbuttoned, but not like this. Mulder pulled back to look down at his task.
“I recognize this shirt, Scully. Just when I’d gotten it softened up, it disappeared. Maybe I should take it back.”
“It’s all I brought to wear.”
“You don’t have to wear anything for me.” The upper button slipped through the hole and then the second. “Tell me, have you appropriated other things of mine?”
She pushed up on one elbow and lifted his chin with her other hand. Her eyes turned serious and she was chewing her lower lip. “One big thing, actually.”
“Really, what’s that? I don’t seem to be missing anything.” He attempted to recapture a playful tone.
“Nothing you weren’t well aware you were giving me.”
His mind went dizzy for an instant. STD? God, no. She’d have crushed him with that news. Besides, he was clean. He hadn’t always been careful when he was younger, but he’d been lucky. He traced the stitching along the pocket of her shirt. “So, Scully, tell me what else you’ve taken. Or do I have to guess?”
“It’s hard, Mulder. I don’t know how to make sense-”
So this is the Talk, he thought, dangerous, shifting ground, the compass of their relationship spinning wildly. She knew something he didn’t. He took her hand and memorized the network of bones and veins running up to her wrist, the delicacy of her form concealing her strength. The FBI recruiter had probably laughed when she walked through the door. He waited.
She closed her hand over his. “I’m pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” A foreign word like fluss or tobeeb. Not even Greek, something he might reason out.
“Pregnant. A baby. Yours and mine.” Her hand dropped to her stomach, his eyes followed, tugged by a string, helpless.
“That’s why you’ve been-”
“Yeah. Tired. And the nausea- I can’t begin to tell you.” A tentative smile broke on her lips and faded.
“But the experiments?”
“I know. I thought so, too.”
They were both sitting now, his eyes riveted to her stomach, his face unresponsive, blocking emotion, no emotion to block, just a sudden knowledge that they could never go back, there could never be any other reality than what she’d just mapped and nothing ever the same again, better or worse, but never the same.
“Look at you. You’re wishing we’d used some protection.” She swept a hand down the leg of her jeans and concentrated on picking prickly burrs off the faded denim, eyes moist.
“No, not at all. I’m thrilled. Just a little unclear on how, with the removal of your ova-”
“They must not have taken them all. With the potential for cancer and everything-”
“They probably didn’t see the need.”
“Actually, the explanation is less important to me than the simple fact that our child is growing inside me.”
“Can I touch?” His voice a husky whisper, not trusting itself.
“Of course.” She reclined against the blanket, fixing her eyes on his face. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and ran his hand inside the waistband of her jeans. Gently, he slid the copper rivet through the hole and ran the zipper down the track.
“Right there?” His hand spanned the soft, white skin of her belly, fingers slipping inside her panties, pressing gently against the swell of her breathing. A scar showed along the bottom edge of her navel. Tiny, precise, overwhelming. As though the entrance to the City of Woe was not a gate, but an incision. The first time he had noticed it, realized what it was, he kissed it and wept against her. Here it was again, the void now filled. He stroked it with his thumb. “It’s incredible to imagine that inside- You remember a couple of years back, we were investigating that weird family with the birth defects?”
“The Peacocks? God, Mulder, what made you think of them?”
He flushed. “It’s just that we had a conversation about our gene pools, remember, and I was thinking that I’d never pictured you as a mother before that conversation.”
“You said that aloud.”
“Did I? I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way- I’ve pictured you as a mother a lot since then, when I found your ova, and you with Emily and every time you stoop to talk to a child- and I think of everything you’ve lost because of me.”
He kissed her stomach, then rested his ear against it. She ran her fingers through his hair.
“Mulder, since it seemed impossible- I mean, I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. We’ve never talked. Never planned.”
“There’s no one I’d rather have fathering your little uberScullies.”
“God, how is the poor kid going to manage with your belief genes and my science?” She snorted softly at some private vision.
“Easy. The best of each of us.”
“Or the worst.”
Mulder rolled over to squint into her face. “Always looking for the dark side, eh? We’ll have to conquer those blues- how about the patented Mulder worry-banishment technique right now.”
“You have a technique to banish worries? This surprises me.”
“I have the best technique of anyone I’ve ever heard of.” He ran his hand over her bra, pushing from below and watching her breasts mound above the lacy edge. “And complaints are few and far between.”
“Well, I understand the far between-”
“As if that’s *my fault? Come on. Let’s celebrate. I’ve never made love to a pregnant woman before.”
“Yes you have.” Her eyes teased him. “I’m ten or twelve weeks.”
“I didn’t know. It didn’t count. When did you find out?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks? All that time?” All that time. He sat up and wiped his hand across the back of his neck.
“I couldn’t, Mulder. Not until I was sure. I traveled all over the city picking up those home pregnancy kits. I must have tested six or eight times. It just didn’t make sense. There were decisions-”
“Whether you wanted it?” No, that couldn’t be it, he realized as soon as the words left his lips.
“I want the baby more than anything.” She looked away, plucked a long stem of dry grass and began stripping the seeds. “It makes me afraid-”
“Do you think we could be a family? I know I’m not the kind of guy you ever thought-”
“Not yet, Mulder-”
“But I will make an honest woman of you if you let me.”
“- not yet. It would tip them off.”
“I love you, Scully. It could work.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
He pulled back and studied her frown. “Tip who off?”
“Smoky. Krycek. The others.”
“They’ll know soon enough.”
She would not meet his eyes. “That’s why I have to leave.”
“Leave? What do you mean?” A chill chased the breath from his lungs and the sun dimmed and sputtered in the sky.
“This is your child, Mulder. Think of how they will use it.”
“Will they assume it’s mine? I’m sorry, that came out wrong. But, would they know that we-”
She sat forward, reached into her bag and pulled out a small white unmarked envelope. “I’d have to say yes. These came last week. Stuffed in my mailbox.” She slapped it into his hand, then lay back and put her arm across her eyes.
Mulder pulled out three photos. The first: two bodies entwined on a bed. Another: her at his knees. A third: asleep in each other’s arms in the dim light of dawn, sheets pulled halfway over naked bodies “They took these in your apartment?”
“I don’t know when it started or why.”
“Okay, how long do we have before people can tell? Skinner might be able to set up something. Witness protection. I have a contact, someone who I helped-”
“Mulder, stop. It’s already arranged.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve arranged a leave.”
“You told Skinner before you told me?”
She sat up. “I just told him I needed some time off, not why. I thought it would be better than having your partner disappear after you take her out for an afternoon in the country.”
“You’re leaving now? Where?”
“I can’t tell you. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
A smile played at her lips, then she shook her head. “If you knew, you wouldn’t let me go. I’m sorry, that’s not funny.” She wiped a hand across her cheek and looked at it.
“You mean you have completely frozen me out of this? You planned this on that damn laptop of yours-Don’t you think I have some obligation, some right to protect you? This too macho for you? I want more than sex, Scully. I want a life together. Like our partnership only a lot more. That was the idea. Now you’re bolting as soon as we – we have something we never dared to imagine.” He got up from the blanket and walked around the ruined fireplace to the inside of the ghost house, to a spot where plantain and chickweed and nettles poked through the hardened earth, but the tall grass had not reclaimed. Hands on hips, he stared at the spot where the view had once opened to the hills beyond.
“Mulder-”
“I guess you didn’t see it that way.”
“That’s not why I have to go. It’s the only safe place “
“For once, Scully, this is my life, too. My child, too. You can’t just close me out. If you won’t let me protect you, why in God’s name wouldn’t you let me help protect our child? Am I so incompetent?”
“No, no. Mulder, come back here. Listen to me. All I’m doing is buying some time so you can find a weak spot in them, some vulnerability, so we can come back safely. I can’t see inside them like you can. If I’m here, you’ll be distracted by the danger to us.”
“Thank you for making that decision for me.”
“Do you really think that I want to get up from this blanket and walk away?”
“If God gave you this miracle, won’t he protect it?”
“Do you really believe that? Do you think I *want to cause you more pain? They’ve taken your family and mine.” The sound of rustling grass was followed by her footsteps, soft against the packed ground. “Why wouldn’t they take this baby? They took my other one.” Her voice caught but he refused to turn around.
“Emily was different, they created her as an experiment. You were never meant to know she existed.”
“You saw what they did to her. She was just a medical experiment to them. Test over, dispose of sample-”
A small casket filled with sand, containing only her cross. He’d wanted to stop Scully from opening it, wanted her to carry the memory of a real little girl, to forget what had run in Emily’s veins, but he could never block her from the truth. “Who else knows?”
“Just you and me. I will write when-”
“Call.”
“No, I can’t.”
“If you leave, I will find you.”
“Don’t. You can’t. If you reach me, so can they. If you find me, so will they. Please just trust me…”
“Why do you have to be so damned self-sufficient?”
“Mulder, listen. If your mother had taken Samantha and run with her, taken her someplace safe, even if you couldn’t see her, wouldn’t that have been better? Wouldn’t it?” A tentative hand on his shoulder slid down his sleeve and the warm skin of his arm. Two people. In this spot they could be the only two in the world, if only time would stop.
“I don’t know, Scully. I honestly don’t know.”
She wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his back. “You promised a little while ago to demonstrate your special worry-banishing technique. To celebrate. I want to celebrate now, not fight.” She ran her hands under his shirt. “I need to love you, Mulder.”
Journey, Part 2
Mulder tested the knob on his office door before inserting the key and turning it slowly to the right. The weekend cleaning staff had left the overhead fluorescents on again, bathing the room with flat white light. Things got done under fluorescent lights. Crimes got solved by the book, carefully, with the evidence spread out, lined up, inspected. The important and the trivial equally illuminated. Linear light, where logic could have full play, and the square pegs could be matched with square holes. No one got inspirations under fluorescent lights; inspirations, like mysteries, required privacy and nuance and dark corners where the unknown could find temporary safety. Mulder hesitated, his hand on the switch, not yet decided whether he wanted or hated mystery this morning. An insect buzz from a defective bulb sawed into his thoughts. He flipped the switch down and the crowded landscape settled back into the dim morning light. Seven a.m. and the day was already old and tired.
He walked slowly around the desk and pushed his chair aside with his foot. He touched the items on top one at a time: the envelope containing pictures of the UFO crash site, a book on cross-species transplants, three issues of the Journal of Abnormal Psychology checked out from the library, a stack of Michelin maps of countries bordering the Sahara. He picked up the tabloid he had shown Scully, crumpled it with both hands, and slammed it into the trash. He walked around the side of the desk and kicked the can into the door, followed it, and kicked it back, all the way down to where she had been working. “Damn it.”
At the far end, her spot, he spread his hands over the table where the laptop had been sitting. A last trace of her perfume hung in the air prepping his ears reflexively for the sound of her footsteps, sure and firm, in the hallway. Mounted above the desk were bookshelves; his hands drummed on the table — unheard by him — as he scanned the titles. This whole damn thing. She thought she had to run from him to protect herself and she was right. He brought it on her, every last bit of danger came right back to him.
The cleaning staff hadn’t penetrated far enough to fetch her trash, probably afraid of poltergeists. He tipped the can onto the table. A newsletter from the Organization of Women Agents, announcement of professional training lectures, an invitation to a reception at the home of the head of forensic medicine, the wrapper from a Band-Aid, and several sheets of equations scribbled by hand. He smoothed out the papers in her writing, folded them and slipped them into his pocket.
How on earth was he supposed to make it safe for her to come back? They hadn’t been able to make any headway against the f* consortium, against Smoky, in all this time. So how was he supposed to do it now? Didn’t she think he had tried? But Cancerman’s mind was slippery, sliding, shifting. A shape-shifter brain. It was a chess game to him, and the coldness of his moves didn’t always seem to have a clear connection to the alien project. Other monsters, you could see the horrible things that drove them and once you grasped that you could follow the dark slimy trail of their minds. Something was missing with Smokey. Some other thing he wanted. Some other thing Mulder had never seen.
He settled back into his own chair, feet up on the desk. Big clunking cop shoes for a big clunking cop job. Eyes closed, a few minutes and he might be able to catch up, clear the fog of sleepless nights. Nothing was clear. Hadn’t been, not since she escaped. He hadn’t made it easy, damn it; she knew he wouldn’t. Her car almost out of sight ahead of him but he kept visualizing it, knew which speck was hers. Blue turning black out on the highway, weaving in and out, but he knew which one, until there she was suddenly on the overpass, hair blowing, standing at the railing, waiting. Waiting for him because she knew he would follow. He parked behind her and stood as close as he could, hand looped around her wrist. Diesel fumes drifting up, and they shouted into each other’s ears over the rumble below, the sun getting low, a chill in the air. Lips paused for a second, not shouting. She pulled her sweater around her shoulders and sent him away. She stayed right there at the railing, eyes fixed on him. He watched her the whole time through his rearview mirror, and as soon as he saw/sensed/knew that she had climbed back in the car, he was down onto the median grass, spinning up the other side and into the left lane, some jerk behind him laying on the horn. But she was gone then. In that split second of turning their connection had been lost and she was gone.
The office phone rang with the summons he had been expecting. He pushed against the edge of his desk, shoving the chair into the table behind him. Shifting to his feet and around to the door, he took two steps back, grabbed a half roll of mints, crumpled the foil wrapper onto the floor, and tossed the candies into his mouth. “Breakfast,” he said, saluting the smoke detector.
Assistant Director Skinner’s secretary opened the inner door, her eyebrows knitted in concern as she scanned his face. Mulder paused just inside the door to straighten his tie and smooth down his hair, suddenly aware of how two days growth must look to the A.D. Skinner stood, his shirtsleeves rolled and his tie loosened by a fraction of an inch, a small concession to comfort. Papers were spread across the desk and a pile of thick blue binders sat on the floor. Seven ay em, thought Mulder, and already his boss was advanced in the morning’s work. Skinner stared at his subordinate in silence, one fist on the desk, before he picked up a pen and manila folder, and motioned to the large conference table. “Have a seat, Agent Mulder. I’m sure you know what this is about.”
Scully’s usual chair was just to Skinner’s left. Taking a place across from it, Mulder imagined her as she had looked a hundred times, her eyes clear and unwavering, reason and loyalty at war even when she looked away during one of his ‘crackpot’ theories, waiting her turn to speak and then insisting only, always, “What do we do about it?” Well, what do we do about it now?
Skinner leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, apparently waiting for an explanation. Mulder’s stomach felt hollow and his breath came from somewhere other than his lungs. Like breathing from a sack. Nothing seemed to belong to him anymore. Skinner toyed with his pen, then put the cap firmly on and leaned forward, elbows on the freshly polished surface of the table.
“Is there some problem in your partnership that has brought about Agent Scully’s absence?”
“No, sir. It’s related to a case. One of our long-running cases. She has to work on it from a safe location.”
“Agent Scully has never been concerned about danger before.”
“This is a little different. There is a lead which she feels she can best follow on her own.”
Each breath was hard, each lie easy.
“Without backup? That violates rule number one around here. I can’t see Agent Scully doing that.” Skinner tapped his pen staccato against the edge of the table. “You know where she is, I assume.”
“She believed that it needed to be secret for now.”
“And you agreed to that?”
“Of course. I have complete faith-”
“This is beyond your habitual disdain for regulations, Agent, and I am surprised you let your partner go off like this. The risks are-”
“I am fully aware of the risks, sir.” Mulder squirmed in his seat. “When she reaches her destination, she will be in touch with me. She felt-we felt that the chance of exposure was greatest in transit. Once she arrives-”
“So you don’t know where she is or when she will be back, either, I suppose. “
“No.”
“I don’t happen to believe this half-assed story. She says it’s a leave-” He opened the manila folder and pushed a piece of paper at Mulder. “You say it’s a case. I don’t know what you two have cooked up, but you’re asking me to take a lot on trust.”
“We have one of the best records in the Bureau. I think you should have confidence in us by now.”
“You didn’t get that track record with foolish choices.”
“I’m not sure Agent Scully would agree on that point.” He smiled at his boss who was looking instead at the form. The Assistant Director leaned back in his chair and ran a hand from his temple back through the thinning hair. He sighed heavily.
“Certain rumors have reached me about you and your partner-”
“There have been rumors since the first day she walked into my office. Wasn’t that the idea?”
“-and as I was about to say, normally I give no credence to office scuttlebutt, but under the circumstances, it does become my business.”
“Agent Scully has absented herself because of a case. I will be pursuing it from my end and she will return as soon as she can.” Breathe in, breathe out. Only the lies to yourself were painful.
“When you come to your senses, I’d like to hear the real story. Better from you than through some snoop.” He returned to his desk and filed the folder in a side drawer. “I’ll see about assigning you a temporary partner.”
“No. Scully is my partner. This is our case.”
“She is officially on leave. You would be better off with someone *here to back you up.”
“The last partner you assigned to me was Alex Krycek. Before that it was Diana Fowley. Let’s just say that while Scully is out of town, I’m better off alone.”
“Your wishes may not be paramount in this, Agent Mulder, but I will see what I can do.”
I had the dream again. Two nights in a row. Twice last night. I am on a beach under a full moon, standing at the edge of a large sea. Waves wash against the rocks and splash my legs, but there is no sound. I sense her behind me, feel her hands on my naked back, but something prevents me from turning. Her body trembles and the pounding of her heart sounds above the silent waves. Finally, she presses one word into my neck — when? — and then she’s gone. I spin around, but the beach is empty and then I’m wide awake. A shower doesn’t begin to do the trick, but I soap up anyway, towel down, shave—remember to shave today—put on the uniform. A quick cup of coffee from the stale jar of instant, most of it down the sink. In the lobby, the elevator door opens to mailboxes lit with a neon glow and blinking lights. Not that the mailman could have come, but I jam in my key just because I’m going to look every time I walk past. Inside a white envelope, my name, no stamp or postmark. Hand delivered. What am I supposed to think? She’s hanging around invisible or something? If she’s made herself invisible, she could hide out perfectly well in my bed. Let me touch if I can’t see, feel the swelling secret.
The old lady who lives under me gets off the elevator and glares. Some people get special deliveries, ma’am. I hold open the door to the October drizzle, gain a couple points. Stop myself from shoving past her while she blocks my way opening a big old-fashioned black umbrella, one spine dangling and a lock that doesn’t catch until the third try. But as soon as I’m in the car, I rip the top edge open and shake out the sheet inside. One piece of plain white paper, her handwriting.
“Dear Mulder,
I have arrived safely and with a great sense of relief. Everything is as I hoped and I feel that we can carry through now. Trust me that I am out of harm’s way. I am tired from the journey which was strange and frightening and seems to have drained every ounce of energy. For now this is all I can tell you. I am to see a doctor tomorrow. Whatever you do instead of praying, please do that for me.
D.”
He read it through three times. You owe me an explanation, Scully. You owe me more than ‘I’m fine.’ You think I’ll stop now? Pray for you? No, Scully, that’s not enough. He started the car and hit the gas too hard, bumping into the jeep parked behind him. Ignoring the screech of the alarm, he pulled out narrowly missing a small Honda and quickly left the wail behind.
Crossing the bridge into the city, he took the first turning left to Georgetown. Her letter lay on the passenger seat, taunting him, defying him to find the truth, crushing him with her evasiveness. His eyes smarted with the heat of too much blood rushing too fast through distended arteries. He parked a half-block from her apartment and sat for five minutes, watching the front door through his rear-view mirror, until the windows misted with his breathing. Just focus on the investigation, he told himself. Block everything out. Block this out. It’s an investigation. He looked down at the letter on the seat, then opened his glove compartment, took out a plastic bag from his evidence kit, and dropped the envelope inside. The letter itself he slipped into his jacket pocket.
He let himself into her apartment. She’d be angry if she knew he had disobeyed her plea not to search, but what did she expect giving him so little? Besides, if clues existed better that he find them than Smoky. In the bedroom closet, her suitcase and weekend bag were on the shelf over a full rack of work clothes, and her pajamas-not the sexy ones-hung on a hook. Her drawers all contained what seemed to be a normal amount of underwear and socks and shirts, and he found only a few empty spots in her medicine cabinet. Nothing in the trash, not even a wadded up grocery list. Her passport and birth certificate and other legal papers weren’t in the desk, but then she had probably long kept them somewhere out of reach. Her phone bill didn’t reveal a flurry of long-distance calls and nothing stood out on her charge bills. He slammed the desk drawer. Her desktop computer refused to yield to the password she’d given him, even after he typed it in five, six times. He’d bring Frohike to crack it open but she’d probably wiped her disk. He hit last number redial and his cell rang in his pocket. He checked caller id, but the memory had been erased. Well done, Agent Scully. You never miss a beat.
Dishes from her last meal were in the drainer. She’d emptied the fridge and unplugged the microwave, but left the table set, two places laid out, sharing a corner. He stood, hands braced against the back of the chair. Two white plates, two napkins, forks, knives, spoons, wineglasses on twin placements with a big white pillar candle in the center of the table and dried flowers in a blue and white porcelain vase. He pulled out the chair, sat down, picked up the silverware one by one and turned them in his hand. He pictured her at the front door, pausing for a final look around, then putting down her laptop and picnic bag and coming back to lay the table, item by item, her face determined but her eyes moist. Why can’t we have what other people seem to get by right?
Back in the bedroom he sat down on the bed, her side, and scanned the walls. From the angle in the photos, the camera must have been perched over the curtain rod off at one end, a wire through the wall and the recorder outside. They could get their fill of tapes without breaking in again and again. How cold had she felt when she realized that their most private connection had been exposed? He pulled open the drawer to her nightstand and lifted the papers: magazine articles, family photos, some children’s drawings of people with arms coming right from their heads, a postcard of Elvis he once sent her as a joke. At the bottom was her address book. He slid it into his pocket and left.
Melody in the lab had told him they’d have an id on the prints on the envelope within the hour and if they needed to do a DNA test it might take a day or two. He settled down at his desk and pushed aside the case files that had sat unopened since Skinner’s secretary had brought down late Monday morning. He took out his cell and toggled the button on-off-on-off. If they were tapping him, they’d find out what he knew. On-off-on-off. But, chances were he wasn’t going to come up with anything. He called Lariat. The car had been returned to downtown Baltimore late Saturday afternoon. It was a drop-off and no one had met Ms. Scully when she brought it back. Could he see it? No, it was out on rental again, on its way to Chicago.
The airlines flying out of Baltimore had no record of a traveler under her name. Immigration said she had not left the country. Mastercard assured him that there had been no charges since the car rental. A trace on her cell phone turned up nothing since the previous Friday, when she had rung him late at night to say she loved him. That had been unlike her, it struck him at the time, but he thought it was just part of their adjustment, getting used to being lovers as well as partners, to having needs and showing them, to letting out secrets. Some of their secrets. His phone rang. Melody had found two sets of prints, his and his partner’s. Otherwise the envelope was clean except for the dust from latex gloves.
The next day’s letter assured him that the doctor had pronounced her well. She continued, “I wonder if it had to be this way, if fate dictated that I should have to leave you alone, perhaps more alone than you were before I was assigned to the X-Files. Assigned to you but how quickly was it my choice to stay. To trust you and protect you from the forces arrayed against you and sometimes protect you from yourself. But now it seems I will not let you protect me from myself. Or is it freedom that allows us to cause such pain in the name of necessity and survival.”
No sleep that night, he stood at the window, waiting for the messenger, waiting for the letter. Went down at 3, at 4:15, again at 5 and stayed, sitting in the stairwell, head back against the scuffed plaster, listening for footsteps, surprising his fellow tenants by bursting through the door as they walked into the lobby. No letter. No news worse than not knowing who. Next night, awake in his bed, counting seconds-minutes-hours. The envelope waiting in the morning, thick, two sheets:
“I have sat here with pen in hand for days trying to find the words to tell you. I hardly know how you will react. Through an extraordinary set of circumstances, barely believable I admit, I have traveled back to 1996, October 12. Do you see why this is the one safe place? No one will notice me here because there is already a Dana Scully and she is at work with you. No one will look for someone who is not missing in 1996, and so long as I am prudent, there should be no problem. Even if someone spots me in passage, they won’t think twice, at least not for a while longer. I know that you will scarcely believe that I have done this, Mulder, but it is true and there is a good scientific reason why this could be done, and why I will be able to return.”
Dammit, how on earth did she concoct such an idiotic story? Did she really expect him to buy something so feeble? Is that how gullible she thought he was, that he’d buy anything salted with a little paranormal? After everything was said and done, after everything she’d learned about him, was this what she really thought? And how the hell was he supposed to respond? There was still no phone number or email address or drop-box or some means of sending her a message. Oh, course, how could he? She’s in nineteen ninety-*six.*
A day later: “Mulder, I’m sorry. It was so risky, but it was the only place to hide. We cannot protect each other the way we wish we could. I didn’t want to believe it, that it was possible, but the equations kept working out. There it was, black and white-a portal to the past, a way to come and go-and the calculations to support it. Black matter — we barely know what it is, Mulder — but if it is compressed into a left-handed array, it bends time like gravity bends light. When I went into the field, there was a feeling of a rush, not quite spinning, more like racing around a corner so quickly you’re sure the car will flip. When it was over I was sure it was a trick, but it really happened. We are only at the frontier of our understanding of matter and energy, I see that now.”
“I hadn’t intended to write every day, but I find that I cannot leave you alone. Does that surprise you? I sat at the phone this morning, calculating when you might be out and called your answering machine three times to hear your voice.” He closed his eyes; he had done the same thing, a poor substitute for her. Had she been any more satisfied? Caller-id would tell him where she was. No, better yet, he’d have a trace done right now. Caller-id be damned. It was the first boost he had felt since the clearing. If she thought her letters might not be secure, then of course, she would tell this idiotic story. Swallow the pretty words. Don’t look hard. Don’t figure it out from your heart. You see what you believe and now he believed he would see her if her looked.
It was dark by the time he finished his run, his thighs aching from the unaccustomed length of his work-out and a knot in his calf forcing him to lie down to work it loose. The American University track was a simple hop over the chain-link fence and more miles than he bothered to count around the pink surface mulling the news that the new letters, too, had two sets of prints – his and hers – and the dust from a latex glove. Latex and Scully. He always thought of her when he saw surgical gloves. Latex covering the delicate skin of her hands in the toughest cases he could imagine. Scully cutting and probing and keeping her eyes dry at sights that made his stomach turn and his head ache and cold fingers grip his sides with the certainty of his own end. Fright and fear and horror and Scully standing alongside a mangled body with her goggles and her latex gloves, speaking calmly into the microphone, facing the horror because it was the only way she could conquer it. Those latex gloves smeared with blood and pus and worse, her hands steady and her brain clear and never had he loved anyone the way he loved her.
Back at his apartment, he fiddled with the lock. His hair was damp with sweat and his shirt might have to be burned the way it smelled and he hadn’t allowed himself to limp against the burn in his foot, but damn it, why wouldn’t the lock turn? Once in the door, the shoes were instantly kicked aside and he hopped through the living room and bedroom to the bath where he sat down on the toilet and slung his left foot over his knee to examine the heel blister rubbed raw and bleeding. The shower pulsed hot and cold from the ancient water heater the landlord had promised to replace, finally settling down to a steady warmth only as he was letting the tight stream beat the last of the shampoo out of his hair. Toweling off, he ran over the new dead ends. Maybe she’d changed identities, picked up a new name. There might be a charge receipt or a copy of an application. He’d go back to her apartment and check. The trace had turned up nothing on his phone, no record of her calls, nothing to show that she had sought out his voice. Maybe he should change the message and see if she said anything about it in her letters. Above all, why wear latex, if her prints were already on the envelope? She’d lied to him. There had to be a third party. Someone else to take care of her and guard her — their — secret. Someone whose powers she thought might allow his baby to be born.
At the knock on the door, Mulder gathered Scully’s letters and swept them into the center drawer. A.D. Skinner swung the door open and ushered in a tall woman in a bright red suit. 5′ 8″ or 5” 10” he estimated, her short black hair brushed back from her forehead, not unlike the way he sometimes wore his own. Her eyes, dark behind large red frames, looked back at him with curiosity.
“Agent Mulder. This is Agent Parker. She will be assisting you during Agent Scully’s absence. You will find that Ms. Parker has excellent training as an investigator and I trust you will make full use of her skills.”
“I thought I explained-”
“You made your position perfectly clear. Agent Parker was a language specialist who has since trained in cryptography. I believe you will find her experience useful in your work.” He lifted the cover of the top file in the stack on Mulder’s desk. “Since I haven’t had any reports in the last week, I believe the additional helped is warranted.” He held the edge of the folder straight up for a second before letting it drop. “Good day, Agent Parker. Please let me know if you need anything.” Skinner shook her hand, then without looking at Mulder walked out of the office, leaving the door ajar.
Parker put her monogrammed briefcase on the floor and slid the strap of her laptop off her shoulder. “Where would you like me to set up shop?” Her voice had a slight lilt; Mulder wondered whether that was foreign language training or something else. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said, twirling a pencil in his hands. “There is no other desk. You’ll need to get space in the bullpen.”
“What about the previous agent? Where did she..?”
“Agent Scully is not the previous anything. She is still assigned to this project. I am not disrupting her work or files. You will have to find another place to sit. Why don’t you take care of that now?”
She looked around not awkwardly but defiantly, checking his assertion that there was no other desk. Her tan was recent and he wondered whether it was salon or fancy vacation or assignment to the kind of cases that kept you out on the beach all day. He wondered just how complete that tan was underneath the hot red suit. That’s what they wanted him to speculate, wasn’t it? Did they think he wouldn’t see through this ploy?
Her eyes settled on his UFO poster and he turned to admire it.
“Gift from a friend,” he said.
“I’ve heard a lot of conflicting things about you, Agent Mulder. I hardly knew which to believe.”
“Maybe you still don’t.” He opened a file at random, and mumbled to her, “I’ll be in touch if I need you.”
She stood for another minute, then picked up her things and marched out.
Mulder waited for the whirr of the elevator, then put on his jacket, locked the door behind him, and took the stairs two at a time. He barged into Skinner’s secretary’s office, causing her to stand up sharply and hang up the phone. “Agent Mulder!”
By this time his hand was on the knob to the inner office. “He’s gone, Mr. Mulder. He just left.”
“Where is he? This can’t wait.”
“He’s left town. That’s what he said.” She looked startled, her face drained of color and her lips moving after the words stopped. The phone rang behind the A.D.‘s door. Without further hesitation, he turned the knob and stepped into the empty office. Files sprawled across the conference table and a whisper of steam rose from the mug on his desk. Behind him, Skinner’s assistant intercepted the call, her voice soothing, that glimmer of panic banished. She hung up, then moved over to the table and started tidying the files, slipping confidential materials back into envelopes, and stacking them to the side.
Mulder walked around to the other side to watch her face as he continued, “He was in my office a minute ago. He stops by, drops a new agent on me and disappears? What’s going on?”
“It keeps happening,” she said, picking up the pile and carrying it to the desk. “He got a phone call on this direct line. Then shot out of here looking sick.” She slipped the papers into his drawer, then looked up at Mulder. “Can you help him, Agent? Can you stop what’s been happening to him?”
“Get a trace on the calls.”
She nodded and replaced the lid on the coffee.
Melody Franklin gave her officemate a little rise of the eyebrows after Mulder dropped off the latest envelope for testing. “If I’m not mistaken, there must be something unpleasant brewing between Spooky and the Missus.”
“Your big chance to move in.” Lisa leered over the rims of her reading glasses.
“Not me. Uh-uh. He’s a cutie, but I couldn’t stand all the weirdness. This is what, the fifth envelope he’s brought in this week. Her prints and his. Her prints and his. Latex dust. So what’s going on?”
“What do you think?”
“Lovers’ quarrel.”
“So you believe the rumors?”
“Yeah, maybe she did ditch him. You saw the way he was standing here, drumming on my desk, looking off into space. Doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping, either.”
“She ditches him and writes every day? Think again, babe.”
Melody turned back to the evidence bag, removed the envelope with tweezers and applied the dust, put the prints under the scanner and pulled up the records on Mulder and his partner which she had bookmarked for convenience. “This’ll be news for him. There’s a third party this time. I’m going to run these through the database.”
Mulder folded his cell phone and put it down in the middle of the desk. Melody had just delivered the news about a third set of prints on the newest envelope. The database turned up a Mrs. Margaret Scully, was she familiar to him, Melody had asked? The sheer logic of it stopped him for a moment, then he hastened, “Of course, of course.” Yes, he’d shared that letter with Agent Scully’s mother, so of course her prints were there. Glad they caught that. It meant their equipment was just fine. That was a stupid thing to say. Of course their equipment was working fine. Weren’t there any prints of strangers? At least he’d had the sense to ask that, but had it been enough? He should have given the voluble Melody something else to think about, get Maggie’s name out of her mind.
There was a quick rap on the door, and Parker stepped in, wearing a tight beige dress scooped in front and a scarf knotted at the neck.
“I’ve been waiting for your call, Agent Mulder. I don’t particularly like wasting my time in the bullpen. I was pulled off an important project for this assignment, so let’s get on with it, please.”
“An important assignment? What could possibly be put off because of my work?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.” Her dark red mouth turned up at the corners in a my-security-clearance-trumps-yours smirk, and then her face relaxed so quickly that he wasn’t sure whether he had seen it or not. “Suffice it to say that I would not have accepted this assignment without the assurance that your work has high priority within the Bureau.”
“They told you that? Well, I am flattered. High priority. Guess I should read the office directives more often.” He took in the sharp planes of her face, the high cheekbones and the thin nose that shot straight and sharp from between the eyes and beaked down just a bit at the tip, and those dark eyes not wavering in their focus on him. That was news, X-Files: career move for the rising agent. He grabbed a folder off his desk and handed it to her. “OK, then try this for size.”
Parker balanced the folder on the edge of the desk, eyebrows raised as she flipped through the newspaper clippings from the recent loss of the Mars polar explorer, enhanced visuals of the projected landing site, and computer drawn topographic maps. She closed the file and held it halfway back to him. “Mars Polar Lander. What exactly is there for an FBI investigation, Agent Mulder?”
“There are rumors that the craft was disabled by forces directed at it from Mars itself.”
“I haven’t seen any such reports.”
“Of course not. They are being suppressed. If it were public knowledge, it wouldn’t need to be investigated, would it?”
“Isn’t this a little out of our jurisdiction?”
“U.S. government property.”
“So I’m looking for what, eyewitness reports of little green men shooting down the craft?”
“Try to be a little open-minded. I said forces from Mars, not missiles. We could be talking perturbations in the magnetic field, unusual gravity spirals, some sort of suction effect. Purposeful or not. Use your investigative imagination.” He pulled the newspaper from his stack of mail, tugged out the sports section and began reading.
“Agent Mulder.” Her voice calm now. “I’ll have your report in a day or two.” Two, four, six steps. The door closed behind her. She’d been wearing Scully’s perfume.
Mulder grabbed his suit jacket and headed down to the garage, now largely emptied of the home-for-dinner troops. As he crossed the bridge driving out of the city, he reran his conversation with Melody. He should’ve told her a vampire story or something, distract her, get her talking about something else, something besides Maggie. Damn it, it was too obvious. Her mother. Now confirmed for everyone. Even if Melody and that officemate of hers moved on, Maggie’s prints were in the computer.
The evening rush had passed and traffic was beginning to thin. Deep inside, he’d known it was her, but hadn’t believed. Maggie out here in her tidy home was the one person Scully would always trust. She walled off her family from her work, from him, from their odd life together, his path and theirs crossing only in the hospital corridor, his fault every time. But the baby was different, the baby the only thing important enough to bring the risks out here to the neatly groomed lawns and the street lights only bright enough to mark the way. He guided the car around a moving van half blocking the intersection and turned down her street. Of course Maggie, not some stranger but her mother. They’d never be able to crack her, not about the baby. If he’d come out here right away- no, so easy to direct *their attention to her. Too late now. He shouldn’t have searched, had to search. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he drove past the white frame house and snapped off the headlights as he turned the corner. They’d guess anyway. If he was lucky, they hadn’t started looking yet. It was too obvious, too open. How could she expect safety with her mother?
No one else on the sidewalk, everyone inside, doors closed against the chill air, the scent of dead leaves piled up in the gutter, and his footsteps making a hurried sound against the pavement. Some windows glowing television blue, the life of the house in back, away from the street, away from passing eyes. That’s where Scully ought to be, out of sight, out of mind. Not out of his mind, their minds.
Two houses down from Maggie’s home, he stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed the number. It rang four times before the answering machine came on, Bill’s voice so the random caller would think a man was home. Bill would have some well-chosen words about his sister’s current fix and they wouldn’t be please-leave-a-message. “Mrs. Scully, it’s Fox Mulder. I need to speak with you. Please. Could you pick up?” Upstairs, soft lamp-glow leaked out between half-closed curtains, but the downstairs windows showed only a narrow slash of light from the back of the house. If he went around to the rear he could look into the kitchen. That would scare her, make it worse with her nerves already on edge. A faint jingle behind him and he glanced around sharply to see a calico trot through the circle of the nearest streetlight. Finally, Maggie’s voice, full of caution. “Fox?”
“I need to talk to you. Not on the phone. I’m outside. Would you answer the door?”
“Yes. Of course.” She hung up and he slipped his phone into his pocket. Time enough for Scully to closet herself, put the second dishes in the dishwasher, sweep away the game they were playing. The carriage lamp went on as he jogged up the walk, and the door opened as soon as stopped under the light. “Thanks for seeing me.”
Maggie double-locked the door and led him to the living room. She gestured him to the couch, then perched on the floral chair across from him, twirling her wedding ring, her dark curly hair pulled back and lipstick just freshened. The house smelled like cookies and you wouldn’t make cookies for just yourself. “You’re here about Dana,” she said.
“You know that she’s gone away?”
“Yes.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“Yes.” She held her hands in a prayerful gesture against her lips.
“Can I see her letter?”
“I didn’t save it.”
“That’s too bad. I thought we could compare postmarks.” He unfastened the brown folder he had carried under his arm, and spread its contents across the coffee table. Her eyes followed as he pointed to each white envelope with its smears of gray. “I’ve been checking the prints.”
Maggie leaned forward to scratch at the dust, then rubbed it between her index finger and thumb. Her voice was barely a whisper and he leaned forward to hear her. “I wish- I begged her to stay with you, but she- she thought they’d be safe this way.”
“They. So you know?”
“Yes.”
“Maggie, I asked her to marry me. I wanted to, right away. She-”
“It wasn’t the time. She told me.” She smiled at him sadly and reached across to touch his hand. “It would make me happy, Fox.”
He nodded. “You know where she is, don’t you?” he asked.
She picked up one envelope, and ran a gray-tipped finger along the torn edge, peeking to see if the message was still inside. “I promised to take her letters to you. She told me to wear the gloves, but I forgot.”
“She won’t be safe here. I don’t understand why she hasn’t trusted me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Dana was so afraid.” Some vision he could not share replayed behind closed eyes, she sucked her lips in sharply and held them. After a minute, she stood and headed into the kitchen, calling back, “I have something for you.”
The kitchen had been updated years before with wooden cupboards and a stained glass lamp over the breakfast table. Half curtains of eyelet lace covered the window to the backyard, and a second window over the sink held a small garden of cacti and herbs. Maggie opened the door to an old-fashioned pantry and pulled on the string of the overhead light. She emerged with a large tin of oatmeal. Reaching in she pulled out a plastic bag and brushed the loose flakes into the sink. “She tried not to show it, of course.” She handed him the bag full of plain white envelopes. “You can sit over here.”
He fanned the letters across the table. Someone had penciled a number into the upper right corner of each: +11, +12, +13 and so on. He raised his eyebrows, but before he could ask, she said, “That’s when I was to take them to you. You’ve got tomorrow’s on top.”
“What is this? These letters were all written in advance? Who wrote these?”
“She wrote them when she was here. In 1996. She came in October, when the weather was damp and chilly like it is now.”
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “I know you’d do anything to protect her, but so would I. Please, we have to work together. I just want her back so I can help her.”
“It’s the truth, Fox. I thought, from things you and she had said over the years, that you believed in the possibility-”
“Oh I believe in time travel, all right. But there’s no way that Dana would. Much less subject her baby to it.” He pictured her again in the office, sitting at the computer doing equations, the red hair falling forward to shield her face from his scrutiny. Working through his invitation to lunch. And to coffee. Working until he got down on his knees and reached for the plug.
“She came to me, two weeks ago. She wanted to know if she had been here then, if it had happened.”
“And?”
“I tried to tell her I’d been ill, my memory was haywire, sedatives I was still taking after Missy’s death, but she insisted on the truth. So, I said that she had stayed here for a while and that the baby had been fine. I knew about the baby, you see, that’s what seemed to convince her. She hadn’t said a word about it.” She grabbed a tissue from a box on the table, rose from her seat and walked over to the stove. “I’m going to make some coffee.” She stood at the counter with her back to him, her head resting against the cupboards. After a moment, she pried open the can of coffee and busied herself with the coffeemaker, dropping the measure of grounds onto the floor. The water ran on full while she mopped up the mess.
Mulder watched her for a second, uncertain of whether he should come to her aid or leave her to her sorrow. He turned back to the task in front of him, tearing each letter open and scanning quickly, picking up bits of news, Fifteen, twenty days of manufactured news. How long did she think she could string him along with her daily bulletins?
Day 11: I feel so apprehensive, Mulder. What you said at our picnic, about the Peacocks. That hit awfully close to home. According to what Penny Northern and the others found, apparently they used high doses radiation during the experiments. Who knows what the lingering effects might be. It could be a monster.
Day 12: I’m sorry about the monster letter. A woman’s body is awash in hormones during pregnancy and they tend to destabilize the mind and emotions. Probably hyperactivity of the thyroid responding to the increase in estrogen, HCG, and progesterone, though knowledge does not seem to be power in this case. I find myself walking from my room to the kitchen and forgetting why I came.
Day 13: I went for my sonogram today with my mother. The scans I observed in medical school were always a matter of technical and diagnostic interest. But now, my own. It’s more like magic to see the tiny heart beating and the head so disproportionate to the body and limbs and know that this is new life. I wanted to squeeze your hand and feel your arm around my shoulder. The tech estimated 14 weeks. Do you realize, Mulder, that this child may have been conceived the first night we were together?
He lifted the Polaroid enclosed with the note, a peanut shape dark against a grainy background, the sonar sweep round the tiny body and unknown handwriting indicating heart and head. He brushed off a mote of dust. Was this their child or was it a prop? Had she sneaked out at lunch one day to lie in a darkened lab while he, unsuspecting, walked circles in the office?
Day 14: Mulder, have you learned anything? I try to imagine what you are doing, how you are going about your investigations, what leaps your mind is taking while I sit here imprisoned by time, wishing I had never left you.
Day 16: I confess to a weakness. I went to the mall (imagine me at the mall, Mulder) bought a wig, then parked outside headquarters for three days, finally being rewarded by seeing you leave the building. I saw myself with you and the way you touched her and stayed close and I felt a twinge of jealousy seeing you with “another woman.” I followed you into the restaurant and sat four tables away. It was a stupid hormonal thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. You were looking so hard at her that never noticed me. See how well I am hidden? I look at that woman and know that she has toyed in idle moments with the thought of what it might be like to love you, but she has always chided herself to stay within the bounds of partnership. Her mind and heart have warred, but her heart has never been an even match. She has no idea of what is in store. She has no inkling that one day she will lie in bed, hand on stomach hoping for the fleeting movements of a hand or foot.
Day 17: My old self called to say she was stopping by after work and it sent Mom and me into a panic. I’ve been sleeping in the guest room and we had to put everything away in the half hour between her call and her arrival. Thank God for heavy traffic. We covered the furniture with tarps and cooked up a story about some wayward painters. I am sitting in the basement with a flashlight, bundled in a blanket, writing to you, while they make small talk upstairs. Poor Mom, she’s so nervous about slipping up about my visit. Mulder, they say suffering brings good — will good come of my journey?
Day 18: What’s the worst case scenario, Mulder? That I can’t come back and will progress through ordinary time? But look, I will catch up to you in three years. If nothing else works, then I will show up on your doorstep, soon by your clock but ages away by mine, three years older with our toddler in my arms.
Worst case, Scully? He asked himself. That’s far from the worst case.
Mrs. Scully carried two cups of coffee and a plate of cookies to the table, then sat across from him. “I wish I hadn’t given it away. I should have lied.”
“It might have been worse if you had,” he said, not believing the words as he spoke. Her eyes were damp and the smile forced. He’d never seen her lie before and couldn’t imagine anyone more honest than this extraordinarily mother in her ordinary plaid shirt belted into generic khakis, forced by love to persuade him to swallow a wild tale. She was always kind to him, but he was still just Fox, the odd man Dana worked with, the crazy guy who knocked her up and sent her fleeing. Maggie was trying to protect her family the way his own mom should have protected Sam.
“Look, much as I want to believe you, she simply wouldn’t do it. This is a double-cover isn’t it? The time travel story to cover up for where she is now.”
“No, Fox, none of it is made-up. She tried to show me on her computer, how it could be true, but I- Look, when she showed up at my door, I thought it was some trick or maybe amnesia. So that night, the first one when she was so tired she slept in her clothes, I called my daughter at her apartment and talked about old things, things no one else would know. Then the next morning my visitor told me about the baby. She was so happy.” She picked up the next unopened letter. “I couldn’t bring myself to betray either Dana.”
“Even if she swore you to secrecy, I’ve put her in jeopardy by coming here. You, too. I’ll do whatever is necessary to get you both to safety. You have to trust me.”
“Fox, I’ve got a photo upstairs, maybe if you see-” She handed the letter back to him and pushed herself up from the table. She disappeared around the corner, one stair squeaking on her way to her bedroom. He tugged the knife against the letter.
Day 20: I feel like I am eight years old in a rainy summer. My mother is worried about me and perhaps she has good cause. I am bored to death without our work. She has nixed any more “sight-seeing trips” as she described my surveillance of you. Today she gave me my father’s papers that she has never had the heart to sort through. So that is to be my task. Boxes call, Mulder.
Day 21: My project is on temporary hold. I had a little bleeding, so mother and I rushed to see the doctor. He feels that all is well, but I am confined to bed for a day or two, condemned to flip between the daytime confessionals. Now I remember why I majored in physics. A nurse at the office has taken a special interest in me and seems to have memorized my file. It makes me a little uncomfortable but she seems earnest enough.
Day 23: I have started on my father’s papers. I found his log right away, in the first box of documents I opened. He must have failed to file these with the Navy before his death. Many items in the box seem to be official. I hope my security clearance covers it. I knew that in the months before his death, he had been on duty in the Mediterranean, but I hadn’t realized that he called at the port of Sfax in Tunisia, not far from the desert and the oil fields.
Day 24: The journal tells an odd story, Mulder. I wish you were here to lob some of your theories my way. What do you make of this: “I met with Col. Abdulhamid Trabelsi today, who I recognized from a training exercise he had attended on my ship. Subsequent to our meeting, he invited me to accompany him on a trip into the desert. We rode for some miles out of Sfax, past the olive groves and the sparser and sparser habitation until we were well out onto the dry steppes. An hour before sunset we pulled up at an enormous salt flat, looking like nothing so much as my first trip to the Arctic only about 80 degrees warmer! Trabelsi got a fix on our location and started out slowly across the wasteland, joking about bands of travelers disappearing into the unstable ground of the ‘Shot,’ as he called it. He assured me there were a few tracks that reliably held the weight of vehicles. For whatever reason, no one has ever marked them. Seems like an excess of bravado to me. Then he told me a story of how early in the century, a caravan had mysteriously appeared, the traders insisting they had set out on their journey in 1560. The way the story came down was they used old-fashioned Arabic words that you wouldn’t expect itinerant merchants to know and their clothing was an odd style. He said the desert breeds fantastical tales and people who love to tell them. Just like the sea, I told him. The men had probably gone back to their village and had a good laugh on everyone.
“We drove for almost a half hour, then lights appeared and we pulled into a small camp. We entered a white tent, where we found a large piece of metal protruding form the ground. The surface was smooth and tapered like the wing of an advanced fighter which is what Trabelsi was convinced it was. His men had begun to dig it out, but they’d made no progress in cutting into it. Although it appeared to be aluminum or a titanium alloy, it proved to be impenetrable. Be that as it may, someone had burned odd markings into it that neither I nor any of the others recognized. AT told me it had been found by a routine patrol a week earlier but the air traffic tapes for the zone have no record of a crash or SOS. Naturally, they are quite concerned about potentially hostile activities. We walked about the perimeter. The ground bore no scorch marks or signs of melting and it damn sure didn’t look like an impact crater.” Mulder, I’ve flipped back and forth through the journal, but he doesn’t seem to have sketched what he saw. The stair squeaked again and then he felt Maggie’s eyes behind him as she paused at the kitchen doorway. He tore open the next letter.
Day 25: The journal is slow going. Father suddenly switched to a secret code of his. He taught me as I kid; it was a private game between us and I don’t think he ever showed Bill or Charlie. I guess he felt bad because I couldn’t promise to follow in his footsteps the way they could. It’s coming back to me, but slowly, and it’s impossible to skim for the good parts. My mind keeps wandering, too, I must admit. I spent most of today thinking about driving over to your apartment to show you the journal. It seems too important to wait, but then I called and got your machine again and I even tried the office, but you are away as am I apparently. Perhaps it was that trip to Tennesse, do you remember, with the Ephesians or Elysians? Day 26: There’s more. Shortly before his ship was to sail, father said Trabelsi showed up to take him to a wedding. It seems to have been a pretext. Father reports that T seemed extremely nervous and under the cover of the wedding drums told my father that the day they left the crash debris, a special military unit showed up and, with force of arms, took over the dig from the captain in charge. They brought their own torches and were able to cut into the craft and remove a half dozen bodies. Trabelsi’s men were kept at bay, but one sneaked into the tent and opened a body bag. He said the man inside was dried out, his face a withered brown, but most remarkably his eyes and mouth had been sewn shut. That evening, the craft itself disappeared, pulled back into the ground by a tremor. T sent father back to the ship with crates of dates, a gift, he said, for father’s wife and family. Those crates are here, Mulder, and they are full of papers in French and Arabic. I had hoped that we might reach the colonel, but there is a brief entry a week later that Trabelsi had been killed in a car crash in the desert. Day 27: When I set out on this journey. I swore I would not tinker with history, yet it is far harder to resist that temptation than I expected. I’ve been thinking about the past three years — I mean three years back from where you are — and talked with my mother to give her some assurance about the hard times coming for my other self. I am afraid that she will warn her, but I could not leave mom to mourn my death from cancer. I told her that she must not worry and that above all she must trust you absolutely. I think she already does. He put the letter down and looked across the table at Maggie. “Do you want to read these, know what she says?”
“No,” she shook her head. “It’s not good news is it?”
“It’s not bad. She has- stories here. Things about her father’s papers. May I see them as well?”
“She took them when she left.”
“She left? When?”
“You’re almost at the end.”
Her mouth pulled her whole face down and the usual warmth he saw in her eyes was replaced by pleading. He picked up the letter and continued reading:
I don’t dare tell her more about the future. In any case, I know so little. I have simply seen more of the story than she has, but I don’t know the outcome. Not the important things. I can be sure that we will survive until this moment only if I do not set us on another course. There are things I would like to change for us, but can I say that the ending would be better, stronger, more right? Or would it mean disaster all around? I cannot arrogate fate to myself.
Day 28: The baby fluttered today, not a kick but a feeling of butterfly wings, just as Tara once described it to me. The lightest churning, yet not something I have ever felt in my body before. I confess that I called your answering machine again, to share the moment with you in the only way I know how. With silence. Do you remember the nurse I mentioned at the clinic? Just when I was feeling so good, she called at the house to see me, though I don’t think I had given this address. Made me worry that all is not going well. In the eyes of doctors, you’re always a patient more than a colleague.
Day 29: I started going through some scientific papers in the file today, including a binder of equations. I glanced them over and they seemed familiar, so I read them more closely. Mulder, I am sure these are the same equations Jeremy gave me to prove the feasibility of travel through a magnetic warp. How could his equations be here? Or did someone give him these equations and if so, who? I am going to find a safe place for these papers. Mom said she thought she saw the nurse at the supermarket today. She has such a striking face-
Day 30: Mulder, I have to leave. There are dangers I did not anticipate. I visited you last night. I let myself in and sat on the floor for watching you toss and turn, knowing how selfish it was to be there at all. I should have left – it was the only fair thing to do – but the future is so uncertain and I wanted you one last time, for courage and hope. To feel my body wrapped in yours. To lose myself in your passion. To give you mine. So I touched your cheek and told myself I would go if you did not waken. But you did. What must you have thought when it happened? Did it just pass as a dream? Can you ever forgive me for taking something that I was so unwilling to grant?
He remembered it clearly. A few days after they returned from the mass suicide in Tennessee, he woke in the middle of the night to find her kneeling beside the couch. With a luminous smile, she stroked his face and asked him to love her. He undressed her with a trembling hand and his lips tracked stripes of streetlight across her breasts and when he woke at dawn he could still feel the fire of her body moving against his. He’d rushed into the office that morning, but when he burst through the door, she responded quizzically to his smile — no nervousness, no blush, no shy retreat. He had backed away, supposing that the vision was a delayed flash from the recent hypnotism. An aching memory of distant joy in a distant life. For weeks afterward every moment near her had been torment, until he finally filed the encounter with his other libidinous dreams and never breathed a word to her, not even after they finally became lovers.
Maggie poured the last of the coffee into this cup. “Fox, are you all right?”
He opened his eyes and found the edges of the letter crumpled in his hands. “You’ve lived with this for three years?” he said. “Why didn’t you say? Why didn’t you speak up?”
“Oh, Fox. I thought about it a thousand times. I’d sit right by the phone and plan out the conversation. I even wrote a long letter trying to make it make sense. But even if you believed me, Dana never would have. I think it would have put me in the middle between you- It might have, I don’t know, done something to stop her from falling in love with you or she might have quit her job out of worry for me. And she might never have conceived this baby. How could I do that? How could I do that to her?” Her voice ended in a whisper. She held the photo she had brought down earlier, blinking as she stared at the image of her daughter.
One unopened envelope lay on the table, ‘31’ penciled in the corner. Mulder spun it with his index finger until his name faced her. Maggie put the photo aside and lifted the envelope with both hands, seemingly no more eager than he to read the final message. Her thumb ran across the name. “I loved having her here with me, some days I even forgot how it came about. But she’s not mine anymore, not like she was.”
“What happened?” His voice was soft now, trying not to push, certain that they wanted the same thing. Certain, too, that there was more.
“She left then. I hid the letters for you. It was probably crazy to put them in the oatmeal.”
“No, no, it was a good place. Men—I mean, these thugs are always men—they wouldn’t think of looking there.” Unless they ransacked the place which they might well have, and if they hadn’t it meant they hadn’t known about Scully. That was good. “Where did she go?”
“She said she was going back to you. She said she had what she needed- but-” Handing him the letter, she got up from the table and walked over to the sink to wash out her cup. She held it up for a second and watched the water drops fall into the basin before putting it into the drying rack. “But we went to confession first. I don’t know what she told the priest, but I do know that she’d been crying.” She turned around to face him. “Those times that I picked up the phone to tell you about this, it was always because I knew this moment would come. When she had cancer, when she was shot, I prayed and worried but somehow I trusted that she would make it. But this. This moment now.” She shook her head.
He turned the envelope over again in his hand, looking at it front and back and edgewise. Finally, he ripped it open. Two keys fell out.
Day 31: It is possible that everything I have seen here is a plant, a fake, a ruse, a trap. How anyone might have known I would make this choice is beyond me. I must trace my way back to you before the path itself disappears. Yesterday I parked my father’s papers at a self-storage in Rockville. The second key fits a post office box in Fairfax if I am left with so slim a connection to you. I have learned that safety is an illusion, a puff of smoke we believe somehow will bear our weight. You trusted me. I thought I could trust science in the abstract – that the equations told the whole story. People fail and I have failed you.”?
Maggie’s hand on his shoulder, her fingers pressing against the bone. “You brought her back when Duane Barry took her, I keep hoping-”
“I didn’t bring her back. They did. They returned her.” As a gift. That’s what Smoky said. His gift.
Journey, Part 3
Bureau headquarters were quiet when Mulder returned, the time on the lobby clock just short of midnight. Under a single bright lamp, the security guard hunched over a book tracing lines with yellow highlighter. He capped the tip to check Mulder’s i.d. and wave him through the metal detector.
“Hi there, Agent Mulder. Another late one?”
“Looks that way. What are you working on?” Mulder folded over the top of the brown paper bag Maggie had given him for the letters and tucked it under his arm.
“I’m taking a psych class for my degree. You ever have to do any of this stuff?”
“Yeah, I did a little.”
“I used to think I was pretty good at figuring people out. You know, you pay real good attention to their eyes and what they do with their hands and see if that matches up with what they say. Always worked for me. Now I find out all these things your mind might be up to and you don’t even know it.” He shook his head. “Take this, what I’m reading about right now. All this social biology.”
“Sociobiology?”
“Yeah, Darwin, evolution. Survival on the brain, I guess they’re saying. You think everything we do is just an attempt to, well, you know, reproduce?” Arms crossed across his chest, he rocked slightly in the high swivel seat. The chair creaked with the motion.
“I don’t know. At some level, yeah, the species wants to keep going and people do some pretty unlikely stuff in the effort. Fern bars, disco. It’s the only explanation.”
“Oh man, you are right about that. And going to chick flicks when there’s a good game on.”
“Yeah, chick flicks, too. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one,” he bent to look more closely at the guard’s nametag, “- Evan. But we make a lot of choices that don’t-don’t seem to have anything to do with perpetuating ourselves. Maybe work against it. If I were you, I’d be careful of people who try to boil everything down to one neat thing.”
“Yeah, I’m with you there. Life never seems all neat and tidy, does it?”
“Rarely.”
“Chick flicks,” Evan chuckled as he turned back to his reading.
Mulder’s footsteps echoed off the tile floors and glass and concrete walls of the entry corridor. As soon as he turned the corner, he broke into a jog. Did every minute count now or none of them? Was there any sense in rushing forward when everything important was back? Would speed take him closer to some crossroad in the fog where she would be waiting? He’d known her coordinates when they packed her in ice. Each passing second had pocked his soul and when he found her, her eyes in shock behind frosted glass, he’d smashed the barrier between them. He knew her coordinates now. But the wall dividing them was neither transparent nor brittle and no simple race would take him to her. He glanced at his watch. 12:10. He’d left Maggie’s at 11, traffic light, all the time trying to imagine Scully’s shadow life apart from him, a woman in a restaurant, voiceless hang-ups, and a night that had never made sense.
Mulder stepped into the waiting elevator, hit B, and watched the doors shudder and roll closed. He was sorting through his keys as he made his way around the discarded filing cabinets stored temporarily in the hallway. A sharp click sounded in the darkness. In a dozen strides he reached the stairway door, and as he pulled it open he heard the shuffle of feet and the door to the main hallway closing. Taking two steps at a time, he was back at the first floor in seconds, but there was no one to see, nothing to hear. He walked back to the front entrance where Evan, sipping from a paper cup, said no one had passed.
Downstairs, his office door was locked. Spies and thieves. He could ask security who was in the building tonight, not that the records would reveal anything like the truth. The overheads flooded the room. Nothing obviously out of order, nothing strewn around, no drawers hanging out of the plane. How had they known he was on his way down? Evan? Evan chatting up psych theory. Well, Evan, how does this fit into the greater scheme of survival? Am I preventing you from making it to the next generation? He braced a chair in front of the door, then headed toward Scully’s area. A stack of back issues of Science stood on the floor; he squatted down to put them in chronological order. One appeared to be missing. He checked again. August 17 was not there.
The library phone rang six times before the night attendant picked up. Mulder made his request and Bela Fleck flooded the line as the man put the phone down next to the radio and walked off. Mulder heard the other line ring but the attendant did not come back to answer and eventually the caller gave up. He looked up at the ceiling. If the damn surveillance was still on, maybe he could get a tape of who was in here. He’d have to find Skinner, though, and his secretary wasn’t saying where he went. If she even knew. Skinner seeing as well as anyone the contours of corruption, believing just as Mulder did-no, believing just as Scully did- in shadows more real than the suit-clad bodies around the polished conference table. Suddenly Skinner backing off when they needed him. Having once looked down at his own bloody end, what frightened him now?
Mulder tucked the phone against his shoulder as “At Last We Meet Again” played on. He flipped through his stack of maps and unfolded Tunisia. His finger ran down the undulating coast to Sfax and on to Djerba, the Isle of the Lotus Eaters – dream state, prison of dreams – and inward to the emptiness of the great salt flats. He scanned his pile of folders looking for the UFO crash photos that had come in the mail weeks ago.
“Agent Mulder.” The voice pulled him back, “I’m afraid that issue is missing. I assure you, this is a rare-”
“Not checked out?”
“No, I do apologize. I did a complete shelf check, you know, just in case someone was sloppy. We try very hard to avoid this sort of loss, but of course people like to have open access to the journals. It’s very frustrating for us when something goes astray like this. I’m sorry, none of this is helping you, is it? Would you like me to get a download from the Internet?”
“Yes, absolutely. How soon can you do that?”
“I should have it in fifteen minutes if the printer is working. Sometimes it jams and all the paper comes out pleated. I swear, I wish they’d direct a few more resources our way, Agent.”
“Then I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
The UFO photos had been in a blue envelope. Mulder pulled it from the pile. In his memory, the craft had looked as though it was adrift in a sea of ice. Sea of salt. He flipped open the folder to find it empty except for a page ripped from an old book. Sonnet 90. His eyes double-checked the label on the folder, then flitted down the page to the final lines:
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the onset come. So shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune’s might, And other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
Damn them.
He laid the Science printout to one side of the other evidence atop his coffee table and pulled her address book from under the cushions of his couch. Opening it to the A’s, he began scanning for Jeremy. Damn, if Jeremy didn’t turn up, then he’d phone everyone with the initial J. Three a.m. It would catch them off guard.
Midway through her carefully printed entries, there it was: Jeremy Mercer. Professor Mercer. The guy who supervised her physics thesis at Maryland. He remembered the name now. Good physics department. The guy might have something of a reputation. He logged into the Internet and clicked his way to the department homepage. The faculty list turned up a photo and resume. Fifty-something, thinning blond gray hair hanging untidily over his ears, open-necked polo shirt, eyes magnified behind plain black frames sitting not quite straight across his face. He was flanked by his lab team, two grad students or technicians, one muscular, his Pearl Jam t-shirt tight across his chest, the other balding as if suffering fallout from too much abstract thought. Mercer worked in magnetic fields, quantum mechanics, unified field theory. Mulder flipped through the pages of Science he had collected from the librarian. There it was, Mercer et al, “Theory of magnetic fields and time: preliminary results.”
He dialed the number listed on the homepage and imagined the phone at the other end ringing in darkness or maybe one of the assistants looking up from a glowing screen and turning back to his work. When the voice mail came on, he hung up.
Mulder picked up his basketball and lay back on the couch. He rolled it around his midsection. No point in driving out to College Park quite yet. Scaring Mercer wasn’t going to do any good. He needed him to bring Scully back and it wasn’t clear exactly what Mercer’s connection might be to the binder Scully had found with her father’s papers. Were there two Mercers, he wondered, one at either end of the pipeline through time, opening and shutting the valves in eerie unison? What did the old Mercer think the first time a body came down the tube from the future? How many times existed simultaneously anyhow, your past streaming out behind you like a jet trail across the sky, seemingly wrapped up but still there, still visible if you looked over your shoulder? Better sleep on that one. Sometime. He popped the basketball over to the leather chair where it hit with a dull splat and rebounded weakly over the arm. Skip the X-File. He just wanted to make sure both Mercers stayed on duty.
He covered his eyes with the pillow to block the light. Was the baby already born, he wondered, a pink or blue card waiting for him in the mailbox? If she went back three years and stayed wouldn’t it have happened, just as the letters had all been written? That made no sense. It took nine months. She couldn’t defy the clock of her own body.
He flipped onto his side. None of it made sense. How could Miss Grounded-in-Reality have abducted herself? The irrationality of pregnancy? Not Scully. No hormones possibly that strong. He shifted in the other direction. But it couldn’t be denied. Not because of Maggie’s photo, Scully standing in the kitchen sideways holding her shirt up and her leggings low over the belly. Taken the day before she left her Mom. What had Maggie said, 18 weeks? Yeah she was bigger, he’d said, he’d supposed, but he didn’t remember her exact dimensions on that Saturday. He wouldn’t have even guessed until Scully told him, let him run his hand over her stomach and feel the slight swelling, a fullness after a big meal, a child smaller than his thumb. Hadn’t wanted to explain that to Maggie, though half a sentence spilled out. Not that their sleeping together was a secret now, but how do you describe your naked lover to her mother? No, the photo wasn’t the proof. One last time, that’s what she said.
He pushed up from the couch and got his calendar from the desk, stacked her letters in order, and began transferring dates. If the dates matched up, then she fled her mother’s on November 12. She said she was coming back. Back through Jeremy. He’d know. Jeremy wouldn’t have sent her away unless he remembered returning her to the present. He wrote Jeremy’s address and phone number on the back of a business card, then slipped her address book into the pocket inside the frame of his couch.
“Hey, Mulder, do you have any idea what time it is?”
Frohike held the door open. He was wearing blue striped pajamas and a pair of beat-up leather slippers. “Why didn’t you rouse your beautiful partner to join us for breakfast? Would have made it worth getting up.” He reset the deadbolts and double-checked the video monitor fixed on the street outside. “What gives anyway?”
Mulder followed him across the room and put a large brown envelope on the battered wooden kitchen table where a stack of old bills, Chinese menus, and computer magazines sat at the fourth place. Frohike turned on the hot plate and inspected the brown crud baked onto the side of the pot. “You’re in luck, my man, I’m going to have to make fresh.”
“Don’t bother. Instant’s fine. I need your help.”
“My coffee, my food, my help, and, need I add, my forbearance.” The Gunman poked around in the fridge as he spoke, pulling out a plate of Danish with congealed toppings. “How hungry are you anyway?”
“Fresh coffee would probably be the best meal I’ve had all week.” Mulder poked at the rubbery yellow cheese pastry Frohike had slid across the table.
“Well, you’ve never had to ask twice. Lay it on.” He chipped at the coffee granules fused at the bottom of the jar. “Something hair raising going on from the look of you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. Scully has come up with some evidence. Not clear exactly what it’s going to add up to, but we’ve got to pick it up.”
“Where?”
“At a self-store in Rockville.” The key he’d placed on the table bore tag 545. From the folder, Mulder removed the documentation she had enclosed with her last letter. “I’d be obliged if you could round up this stuff. Watch out for tails. Somebody lifted some photos from my office last night and I’m thinking there could be a connection.”
“Care to give me a hint?”
“UFO stuff maybe. It’s not clear. Maybe some secret military tests, but if that’s what’s involved it’s probably out of date by now.”
“You and Scully going to meet us back here?”
“Actually, that’s the hair-raising part.”
Frohike rubbed a stain off the edge of Mulder’s mug with his thumb and filled the cup with water, steam rising. “What is?”
“Bringing Scully back.”
“From where?”
“1996.”
“Somebody sent Scully back to 1996?” Frohike blew out a low whistle. “Man, no wonder you look wasted.”
“Worse. She transported herself.”
“Sorry, Mulder. You just passed the outermost of the extreme possibilities. We both know Scully is not about to undertake time travel.”
“We both know it, but she did, and now it appears that her helper has been compromised. I’m on my way to see him now. Put him under protection until November 12th, so she can get back.”
“Who is this guy?”
“A prof she worked with as an undergrad. Mercer at Maryland. Look, I’ve gotta get going. I want to be there when he arrives.” The coffee stung his lips and sloshed over the edge of the mug as he set it down. “Damn.” He shook the drops off his hand and inspected the spreading brown spot on his cuff. “Almost forgot. They assigned me a new partner. Can’t find anything on her in the Bureau records. See what you hackers can come up with, will you? She may be MI like Diana. Where’d she come from? Who’s she report to?” He tossed the card on the table on which the name “Angela Parker” was written along with her badge number. “What does she want?”
The muscular assistant answered Mulder’s knock at B337 in the Physics Hall annex. The department’s colloquium schedule partially obscured Mercer’s name in gold paint on the frosted glass door and a hand-lettered yellowing sign joked “Heisenberg May Have Been Here.” Somewhat reluctantly, the man let Mulder into a large room which smelled of industrial solvent and overheated electrical insulation. Mulder glanced around at the desk and bookshelves and disorderly stacks of paper on the floor. The assistant rolled a chair away from the desk, pulled a flannel shirt off the seat, and set it in the middle of the room. A balding man in the far corner blinked at Mulder quickly and turned back to the four computer monitors scrolling numbers and three-D graphics. “He’ll be along,” was all the larger man said before disappearing into an adjoining room. Fifteen minutes later, Mercer walked in, his smile stiffening as soon as he saw that he had a visitor. Mulder flashed his badge and the scientist glanced toward his desk.
“FBI? This is unexpected.”
“Purely a friendly visit. I could use your help and I think you could use mine.”
“Well, I’m not sure how. I live a pretty quiet life -”
“But not uneventful,” Mulder interrupted. “I’m not a scientist, but I wonder if I could ask you a few things about your work.”
“Has there been some allegation?” Mercer dropped his briefcase on his chair and turned away from Mulder to straighten his desk.
“No, nothing like that. I read your article in Science last night, the one about time travel-”
“A theory about the effects of magnetism on time.”
“A theory, then, about sending people back in time. The article said you’d figured out the secret.”
“I said that I had devised a way that the fourth dimension might be understood to be both continuous and bi-directional, just as the other dimensions are. Symmetry would seem to be violated if we did not allow for the possibility-”
“And you have found a way to reverse direction.”
“We’ve-” he looked over at his assistant, “we think we solved some of the problems-”
“And you have shifted time.”
“I wouldn’t make that claim. You understand what that would mean.”
“Have you gone back yourself?”
“It’s all paper and pencil. A theory, an extension of Einstein, worked out from our understanding of magnetism and relativity.” His eyes were bright, full of pride, Mulder thought. Baldy had swiveled in his chair and now watched the conversation, arms crossed.
“You have, haven’t you?”
Mercer took off his glasses and rubbed them with a tissue from his pocket. Mulder continued, “I believe know my partner, Dana Scully?”
“Dana? Your partner? I- She-she studied with me a while back, more than a decade by now. Did a nice thesis. But it was a long time ago.”
“Couldn’t be that long because she’s been to see you recently. I think she was interested in your work, too. Came to talk to you about it.”
“I think I would have remembered that.”
“I think so, too. I think you also remember sending her back. Did you tell her it was all theoretical or were you only too eager to show off your toys? Did she have to talk you into it?”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Agent?”
“When does she come back? You’ll need protection until then.”
“Agent Mulder, you surely don’t imagine-”
“I’m not imagining anything. I’m saying I want her back safely.”
“You’re saying I sent Dana somewhere? Do you realize how ridiculous-”
“What’s in those rooms?” He pointed to the doors locked with code cards. “Is this where the equipment is?”
“That? Supplies, old computers, records of our research.”
Mulder leaned his ear against one of the doors and jiggled the handle. “When I was a kid I saw that time-travel movie, the one with, ah, Rod Taylor. Well, in that one the time machine looked like a chair with a big wheel. I assume the special effects are better these days. Open this please.”
“Mr. Mulder.” He was smiling now. “I assure you that the science I work on bears no resemblance to your favorite childhood movies. Dana could tell you that. If, and this is a very big if, if it were possible to translate my theory into a mechanism, the forces necessary to move an object of any size would be enormous. And as for moving humans, the body could not withstand forces of that magnitude.”
“Let me see what’s in here.” pounded twice on the door with the back of his fist.
Mercer opened the door to the corridor. “You have been seriously misled, Mr. Mulder. If you’ll excuse me, I have a class.” He nodded once, looking over Mulder’s shoulder. Mulder glanced back quickly; Muscle Boy had returned and was dialing the phone.
“Who else have you sent back? Who else might be lost if they decide to shut down your show? That’s it, isn’t it?”
Construction on Riggs Road slowed Mulder’s drive from College Park into the city. As he inched forward toward the spot where orange barrels narrowed the road to one lane, he craned his neck out the window despairing at the flashing line of brake lights ahead. Slapping the heel of his hand against the off button on the radio, he leaned against the headrest and rehashed the conversation with Mercer, looking for a hole he might have leveraged open. He tried to picture his partner sitting in the cluttered office looking back and forth between her former professor and those two assistants. She would have been pulled right into conversation, talking about the physics without stumbling over any of the words, asking the right questions, testing what they said against what she knew. Her eyes would have danced over the equations instead of scrutinizing their faces, the sour look on the bald one and raised eyebrows and twitchy smiles the men must have passed among themselves. Which of them had escorted her behind the door where the machinery hummed?
A shrill blare from the car behind opened his eyes with a start and he eased ahead another ten yards.
When Mulder reached his basement office, there were two notes taped to his door, the first from Parker. “Agent Mulder, I’d like to deliver my report when you get in.” The other a summons from Skinner.
The door clicked softly behind Mulder. At the polished desk across the room, Skinner continued signing papers, the faint shuffle of pages the only sound from either man. Vertical blinds across the large window subdued the afternoon brightness except where one slat had twisted and a thin streak of sunlight marked the carpet just in front of Mulder’s foot. The shuffling sounds stopped and Mulder looked up to see Skinner roll down the sleeve of his shirt and button the cuff.
“I’ve needed to speak with you for the past week, sir.”
“So my secretary said. You were out of line to badger her.”
“I didn’t badger-”
“I have other obligations, my own assignments, Agent Mulder, and may I remind you that I do not answer to you.”
“You dump a strange agent on me and promptly disappear for a week. Under the circumstances I think I deserve an explanation. Who is she and what the hell is going on?”
“I owe *you an explanation? Has your partner returned? I don’t think I’ve heard an adequate explanation from you about her absence.”
“Agent Scully was able to- She got to her destination and she’s fine. I don’t need Parker.”
Skinner rose and straightened the papers on his desk, tapping them against the surface. “Is it still too much to expect that you might be able to establish a productive working relationship with someone other than Agent Scully?”
“Not without someone telling me who Parker is. I thought I knew all the agents under your command.”
“She comes highly recommended. Her record speaks for itself, I believe, and she can certainly fill you in on her background.”
“Who sent her?”
“I assigned her to the X-Files and that should be sufficient. If you needed more information, I’m surprised you haven’t checked on her yourself.”
Skinner turned away and separated the blinds, squinting against the glare. The phone in the outer office rang just once. If Skinner’s assistant answered, her voice was too soft to be heard through the heavy wooden door. Neither man spoke. Skinner surveyed the Mall, the view a perk of someone who played by the rules and played them well. Mulder looked from his boss, motionless in thought, to the small shredder perched on top the wastebasket, full of confetti strips. He cleared his throat and turned to leave.
“What case is Agent Scully working on?” Skinner’s voice was calmer now and the angry edge had disappeared.
“It has to do with a UFO we located.”
“You sent Agent Scully to inspect a UFO?”
“Not exactly, I-”
The older man sighed and let the blinds clack back together. He walked around to the front of the desk and paused before Mulder, scrutinizing his face, but revealing nothing of his own emotions. He continued across the room and held open the door leading to the corridor. Mulder set his shoulders and exited, not glancing at the other man, not needing to see any more of his boss’s meeting mask: the sharp eyes that failed to divulge surprise, disappointment, pleasure, boredom, amusement, or lethal fury. The look that said we are both in the same place at the same time and beyond that you’re on your own. Footsteps followed him down the corridor and Mulder quickened his pace. A light tap on the shoulder brought him around to face his pursuer. Skinner tipped his head toward a small alcove. Sorting through his keys, he opened the unmarked door and stood to the side for Mulder to step into the janitor’s closet. Skinner turned on the light and leaned uneasily against the door. He exhaled one heavy breath.
“Other people know, Agent. They know where she is and how she got there.”
“Who? Who told you this?”
“You should be able to figure that out. Don’t give me any details beyond what I’ve gathered from them. What I don’t know, I can’t tell.”
“What possible interest-”
“Could be anything with them. Just keeping her away from you is probably a damn fine reason in their book. My guess is that you’ll be offered a deal. Don’t take it.”
“You said that once before, and then you-”
“I was right in the first instance. Keep looking for another way. Don’t deal. It won’t make any difference to the bastards.”
“You-”
“Well, I don’t usually confer with my agents in this room, now do I? You can figure you’re under surveillance, too.”
“And Parker?”
Skinner rubbed his left wrist around the edge of his watchband. He flexed his hand three times. “You never know what’s going to come down the pipes around here. When there might be a breakthrough, a crack. One of Spender’s friends could slip up. Spender himself undoubtedly has some vulnerabilities.” He straightened his cuff. “I follow the orders that don’t seem lethal. The directives that leave me with a position. The game is all about position, Agent Mulder. I’m not ready to turn mine in yet. Not until I can take somebody down with me.” He turned the door handle, then pulled it shut again. “You might want to start working on the cases I sent you.”
“Agent Scully takes some priority in my mind.”
“And you have a day job here.” His voice softened. “You might find interesting things in your assignments. Get to work. Parker may be a spy, but that can work both ways.”
As they left the janitor’s closet, Skinner straightened his tie. A young woman with x-ray folders tucked under her arm glanced back at them and froze. Melody from the lab. She blushed and hurried on.
Journey, Part 4
Little of the late afternoon light filtered into the isolated basement office. Skinner’s assignments sat on the desk underneath two books on quantum mechanics and a copy of The Physics of Star Trek. That dog-eared volume had turned up on the used book table outside a shop three blocks from Scully’s apartment where he used to hang out when he wanted to be near her but didn’t have the guts to knock on her door. He brought it up once over dinner in Indiana, but she’d pinned him with her please-Mulder look and when he pointed out that Stephen Hawking had written the introduction, she merely sighed. Yeah, well, Scully, maybe Captain Kirk can bring you back.
His jacket went over the back of the chair. Mulder loosened his tie and rolled his shirt sleeves three times. Sitting down, he pulled two sharpened pencils from the drawer and lined them up at the base of the lamp, point to eraser. When he was satisfied with their alignment, he rested his elbows against the desk, covered his mouth in a prayerful gesture, closed his eyes, and breathed out heavily. Something would be in the files, something unexpected, something that Skinner had noticed but could not say. Mulder moved the books onto the floor and and pulled the first folder in front of him. Background checks. He flipped the pages quickly, glancing at the photos: humiliating driver’s-licenc e shots. A flash of red hair stopped him and he turned the pages back one by one looking for it. A man. Parker could have these.
The next file contained the preliminary report of a security breach. A laptop full of classified codes had been stolen from a locked safe in the anti-terrorism office three weeks before. Well, they’d better have someone else on the case by now. He opened the third. A report of haunting in a defense plant that had suffered thefts of strategic materials. He and Scully had looked into that earlier in the year and discounted the ghosts right off the bat. Whoever set up the story hadn’t even bothered to do minimal homework about poltergeists. The photos of energy fields were so pathetic that Chuck had laughed out loud when he held them to the light. They’d passed that case on to the security boys. Mulder turned the pages quickly. Witness reports, security logs, itemization of evidence but it was all from their original investigation, except for one new thing. A main witness had recanted his ghost story. The case had still died.
Top Secret stamps labeled the next file in three places. Reports from Naval officers of “shadow people” – glimmering figures at the edge of vision hovering just beyond reach, fading in and out, paralyzing the victims so long as the illusion persisted. Sounded more like ghosts than the ghost case. The interviews were dated over a period of weeks, but some men reported that it had been happening for years. Maybe somebody got drunk and spilled the story and pretty soon the brass got word of it. Nobody in a high security job is going to admit to hallucinations if they’re sober.
He and Scully had seen a case like this once, a chemical engineer. Mulder suggested apparitions or pre-abduction sensing, she thought some sort of drug reaction was more likely. He ventured his old theory about a succubus, the old woman who visits men in the night. She called it a hypnopomic hallucination, which sounded like she might actually be admitting he was right. Neither of them had a word to explain why the hauntings took place when the victim was wide-awake. Then their engineer turned up dead. Under Scully’s knife, the brain had looked normal, and the tox scan turned up nothing. The Navy had slapped the tag of stress on the men. No medical records, and the dates on the investigative reports suggested that the whole thing had been wrapped up pronto. This should have been his case. How did Skinner get it and why only now?
His cell phone rang twice and he frisked the pockets of his jacket to retrieve it. A whisper on the other end of the line asked, “All clear?”
Mulder imagined his caller cupping a hand over the mouthpiece. “Hello. Yes?”
“The eagle has landed.” Frohike had been watching B films again.
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ve got to wrap something up first.”
“Right.”
He measured the height of the remaining files with his thumb. Skinner’d hinted that there something here would give him a line on Smoky. Take him down. Mulder tipped back in his chair, hands joined over the top of his head, balancing with a slight wobble. The pull of Scully’s boxes, now safely retrieved, was almost overpowering. He needed to see what she had seen, read the words she’d recounted to him, put his mind where hers had been. He glanced at his watch. Another hour at most.
The next folder held old surveillance reports on their office. A couple of video captures, a transcript of a conversation he and Scully had had about the African biologist. Someone had been bored enough to doodle faces on the edge of the page. Not his face or hers, but whose? He turned over a piece of photographic paper to find a grainy print of himself, feet up, mouth open in mid-speech and eyes closed in a momentary blink. It made him look like a pompous ass. The security staff preferred Scully. There she was, eyes cast down, hair tucked behind her ear, thinking Scully thoughts. If he’d been lucky that day, maybe she was hiding the slightest smile. He slipped it into his pocket.
Five missing person cases were stuffed into the next envelope, the pages mixed up. He kneeled on the floor to sort them into piles. He’d heard about one of disappearances, a scientist. Also missing were a congressional aide, a senior engineer at the Jet Propulsion lab working on the Mars shots, a chemist who’d had a breakthrough in creating artificial materials to repair human nerves, and a doctor whose name seemed familiar. From the look of the scribbled notes, it appeared one agent had handled all five cases. Five dead-ends. Batting average .000 for Marcia Wilson. On reassembling the papers from the floor noticed that one Louise Spencer had investigated the congressional aide. He checked the others. Five agents. One handwriting.
He looked under the last file, just to confirm that his task was almost done. A file of scientific papers on using human DNA in computer chips. He started reading but quickly got lost. If Scully were here, she’d know. The authors’ names weren’t on the list of missing persons. At least not yet.
His watch read 9:30. He’d eaten nothing but a burger in the Hoover cafeteria since the Gunmen’s that morning. A quick check of his desk yielded a crushed package of saltines and a half dozen sunflower seeds that had fallen into a drawer during some moment of idle contemplation. He stood and stretched, then emptied his pockets onto the desk. Pushing the quarters, dimes and nickels into a pile, he counted quickly, and locked the office behind him.
Mulder wove through the deserted snack room toward the vending machine, shoving a couple of the orange plastic chairs underneath the tables. The day’s litter had still not been tidied; a crumpled brown bag sat on one table, along with a pile of crumbs, neatly pushed into a little mound. Mulder sorted his change for a can of soda, chips and a plastic wrapped sandwich of chilled white bread, soggy by now but with nothing growing on the outside, at least not visible from where he squinted. He put his coins in the soda machine and punched a button. The money clanked down into the change window. He dropped them in a second time and tried another button. The money came back again. He switched quarters and this time the coins stuck, but released nothing. He pressed the buttons in random order, pounded on the change box, and finally kicked the scuffed bottom panel twice. The machine hummed, then produced a whoosh of vapor and flickering lights that danced against the rear wall before it went dark. Hell. Might be a ghost in there. Can dying machines give off ghosts? Scully wouldn’t buy it. Ghosts are remnants of living spirits, Mulder. Her voice would carry a little sigh on his name. He wouldn’t let her get away with that: So now you believe in ghosts?
Most certainly not. But I especially don’t believe machines emanate anything when you dent them and they certainly have no spirits to persist when the big fuse has blown.
Well why not? Machines and living organisms: it’s all electricity in one form or another, and what if… what if you connected the living and nonliving? The flexible human brain and high speed computer. Put human DNA in processors and put control chips in humans. Wire them together in some kind of outsize organo-machine.Scully would try to hide a smile at that one.
But think about it, Scully. A network like that might just transcend consciousness and… then you’d have something no one would recognize. His mind raced ahead. Mechanical ghosts would create their own energy fields. Of course the aura would look odd in the photos. He looked down at the sandwich that had appeared up in his hand.
Mulder, there must be a simpler solution. She’d roll her eyes or raise that perfect eyebrow. Put the robotmen on hold let’s look for the simplest, logical, actually *possible* solution. And don’t trust anyone, Mulder. Don’t trust anyone but me.How could he possibly be both halves of their partnership all by himself?
A knock at the door pulled Mulder’s head up off the desk. His watch read 8:30. He drank down the last swallow of cold coffee in the styrofoam cup, pushed his hair back with his fingers and unlocked the door.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Agent Mulder.” Arms crossed, Agent Parker stood in the hallway, a single sheet of paper dangling from her hand. Her eyes scanned him from the tousled hair down to his unshod feet. She leaned forward and he watched, bewildered, as her slender fingers approached his chest and plucked a small post-it note from his shirt. “Nelson Stockman,” she read aloud.
“Sorry. Been up all night.” He returned to his desk, sat down and rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes. “Christ,” he said, looking at his watch again, “I promised to meet someone last night. I gotta run. We’ll talk later, ok?” He ducked under the desk to find his shoes, and slipped them on, quickly knotting the laces. His feet felt trapped, tight. If only there were a couch in here… He began straightening Skinner’s files into a stack, tucking in loose papers and twisting the little string closures around the office envelopes. “I should be back this afternoon. Maybe late.”
She had followed him in, swaying slightly on three-inch heels. She lifted a slide projector off a chair, brushed the dust off the seat, and settled back. Her movements caught the corner of his vision as he pulled a black gym bag from under the table, set it on his chair, and pitched a pair of running shoes into the corner of the room. He began tucking the files in the bag. The top secret labels blared out in red and he wondered if she would report that to her bosses.
“It’s not ok, Agent Mulder. I expected you to call me yesterday. I assumed you’d be eager to have your report.” She toyed with a single pearl on a chain around her neck.
“Yeah, well, sorry. I’ve been pretty busy…”
“With important things, I see. So you regard this Mars case as ridiculous as I do?”
“No, no. It’s not ridiculous, it’s just… Sorry, I’ve been up all night.” He breathed out once and twitched an apologetic smile at her.
“You said that already.” She handed a single sheet of paper across the desk. “It’s pretty straightforward. The Mars Explorer fell off a cliff on landing and was destroyed. Case closed.”
“That’s all you found?” He glanced down the page and handed it back.
“That’s all there is to know.”
“You found pictures of the debris?”
“Not yet.”
“No body, huh?” He rubbed his hand over his eyes then back through his hair once again. “Then can we assume ‘death’ of the victim? Let’s suppose — *suppose* — you’re right. What pulled it to a cliff? With all our mapping capability, we knew where to put it down. The terrain was gently sloping, two percent incline, five at the max.”
“Then they were off in their calculations. The terrain becomes more rugged. A small computational error and…”
“Why would there be an error? The math’s not hard.”
“Even with the best computers, a small discrepancy can…”
“And, Parker, the craft lost contact before it reached the surface.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“Did you happen to notice that few months before, another craft was lost approaching Mars?”
“That was an engineering error. Someone forgot to convert English measurements to metric.”
He leaned over to pick a couple sheets of paper off the floor. “Do you really buy that? Scientists don’t even use English measurements any more.”
“Some do, obviously, or there would have been no error. Not everything results from a conspiracy, Agent Mulder.”
“Not every lie deserves to be believed, Agent Parker.” He shrugged on his jacket and fished a striped tie out of the pocket.
“Look, I’ve been assigned to help you. Now you can take advantage of what I have to offer or not.”
“Ah. What exactly are you offering?” His eyes assessed her pointedly, her short dark hair sculpted into a wave that morning, the heavy black eyelashes, the thin nose pushed slightly downward at the tip like a comma, tight beige sweater and skirt, crossed knees, and high heeled foot swinging impatiently. She rolled the pearl in her fingers.
“Are you planning to deliver on that look or should I consider myself dismissed?”
He picked up the final folder from the desk and inspected its contents. “I’ll let you know when an easier case comes up.”
Parker spun the seat of the chair as she got up and walked out the door. Was that a test, Agent Parker? Is partial credit given for wrong answers? He still held the last folder, the ghostly thefts. The answers in Skinner’s files were all wrong, wrong for a reason, wrong in some damning way. Skinner knew that. A twist, a lie, a slide from truth to falsehood, from known to hidden, from knowing to hiding. The point being, the point…, the point of Parker? To be wrong.
“Parker,” he shouted and took off after her. They met at the stairway door. “Yeah,” he said. “There is a case I need your help with. National security” He held out the file. “Theft of strategic materials. There was a story of ghosts that, uh, some of the witnesses recounted to us.” She was looking away from him, down the hall. “But, uh, it never made sense. I mean Agent Scully and I never believed in… and the main witness recanted that story. Would you find out what happened?” She took the folder as if it were a dead animal. “Really,” he continued. “I think there’s something here.”
The wooden date box sat upended on the floor, looped Arabic writing on the label unreadable to them, pictures of smiling brown fruit carrying the message. An anemic leather camel stitched in red yarn stood amidst the papers on the table. Its large eyes were fringed with seductive lashes.
“And there were no letters when you went to the Post Office?” Byers thumbed through a sheaf of handwritten pages, also in Arabic.
Mulder shook his head. He ran his hand down the bottle of beer sitting in front of him, and wiped the moisture on the side of his pants. His other elbow rested on a black leather journal with the name Captain William Scully embossed on the front.
“Well, Mulder, honestly, I think it’s a good thing.”
“What do you mean, Byers?” Langley tipped his beer bottle at his housemate, then at Mulder. “Geez man. It’s bad enough that she shipped herself back to 1996. Now the trail’s ended…”
“Shuddup, Langley,” Frohike hissed.
Byers put the papers down and jumped back in to defend himself. “No, it is a positive sign. She told her mother she was coming back and the fact that there are no more letters means that she was able to do it.”
“So where is she now, smart guy?” Langley snapped at the implicit rebuke.
“Well, it’s hard to say. She’s been gone what, Mulder, about two weeks?”
Mulder nodded, looking not at them but at the gold-edged label his fingers were slowly prying loose from the brown bottle.
“So,” Byers continued, “she’s either still there or she’s on her way here. I suppose she could be hiding in the present somewhere… the logic of her passage just a little unclear…”
“What, what logic?” Langley wasn’t giving up.
“Well, I mean, is there an exact day-to-day correspondence? If she leaves on November 12 can she travel only to other November 12ths, you know, because of earth’s orbit? Or can she move from any date to any other? “
“Yeah, well, that’s not even the hard part. It’s a lot easier to go back in time when all you have to do is hit a certain date. What about trying to hit the right moment returning to the present?” The others stared at him. “I mean, what if you were off by a couple of minutes?”
“What’s your point, man?” Frohike’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood up to get more beer.
“You’d, like, be behind everybody else, like you’d arrive late at conversations and keep saying things everybody else already said and you’d miss the bus and stuff, never get to the phone before it stopped ringing…”
“You missed your calling, Einstein. That’s really stupid.” Frohike shook his head.
“Yeah, well, what would be stupid is if you overshot the present and ended up a couple minutes ahead. It’d be like flying through a windshield. Nobody’d be there yet, you’d just be in a kinda big void cause time hadn’t filled it yet. And then how’d you get back?”
“You’re saying the future doesn’t exist yet?”
He shrugged. “We sure can’t trust that slimeball Mercer to send her to the right time, and maybe he …” Langley met Mulder’s eyes.
“She’s coming back.” Mulder responded. “She said it, she meant it, she’ll figure it out. I went over this in my head already. For all I know someone got to the Post Office first and took her letters. There may have been a hundred of them.” It hadn’t been crowded when he went to check the box, the key gripped tightly in his hand. The other patrons – a blond young woman in leggings, a man whose stooped shoulders thrust his head forward parallel to the ground, a gray-haired woman in a fur coat – moved through the lobby toward the service windows and minutes later, back out the door. C475 was in a corner, in the bottom row, a large box, a box that could hold three years worth of letters, one a day from solitary confinement. He waited until a woman with two shopping bags peeled the stamps from her booklet and mailed her bills before he stooped to try the key. Scully had bent over just like this, wearing something loose. She’d had sunglasses perched in her hair, he was sure, and she’d been breathing quickly as she opened the embossed metal door and ran her hand along the bottom of the box. He put his own shaking hand therewhen he found it empty.
“Mulder? Are you with us?” Frohike was inches from his face. “Who would know about the Post Office?”
“Who? They way things are going, I’m beginning to think just about everyone.”
Byers cleared his throat. “You’ll need to get a translator for some of those papers she sent us. In the meantime, we found some stuff on Mercer.”
Mulder nodded and followed his friends to one of their workstations. Langley ran the mouse across a Doom II pad as the screen slowly restored itself.
“Looks like time travel has been at the back of his mind since the start. We downloaded his resume from the Net and Byers here went over the publications.”
“I can’t speak as an expert,” there was a soft click from his throat, “but I’d say that even at the start of his career he had time travel in the back of his mind. Here, you see some of the things he published in the early 1970s about relativity, it’s always that angle…’
“There’s Scully’s name.” Mulder brushed his finger across the screen
“Yes, well, that’s much later. Her article came out in 1987. High quality journal, too. They must have coauthored that based on her senior thesis. But that’s still background stuff. Look, it’s here, 1993 when he suddenly starts to get serious about time travel, though he’s not calling it that.”
“Let’s look at the funding.”
Langley scrolled down to the list of grant support. Mulder eyed the names of the agencies. “Military.”
“Well, nothing unusual about that…”
“Except for who might be interested. When did it start?”
“Can’t tell,” Byers said. “He only lists current grants. We’ll have to hack in to the agencies. Might take a couple days.”
Langley hit print and an old dot matrix clacked into action beside them.
“How you gonna bring her back, man. You ought to go there yourself. Take Mercer with you. A gun positioned right there.” Langley held his index finger against his ear.
“Why’d she do it in the first place, Mulder?”
“Yeah, it seems so unScully.”
“CounterScully.”
“AntiScully.”
“Yeah. There’s something big going on, isn’t there?”
The room grew silent except for the hum of the electronics, different pitches for the computers and printers and the faint sound of Pearl Jam playing in one of the bedrooms. Mulder’s neck knotted as he swallowed. “I’d like to get some of those papers translated.”
“You trusted us with…”
Frohike put his hand on Langley’s arm. “It’s personal man. Let it be.”
His apartment felt cold and empty as he stretched back along the couch, one foot settled atop the gym bag containing some of Scully’s father’s papers along with the files from Skinner. A comfortable bed stood in the other room, tidily made up with clean sheets and a wool blanket and new pillows he bought just a month ago in a fit of domesticity that had surprised Scully when she settled in next to him that night. “Goose down,” she’d said with an appreciative smile. He couldn’t sleep there now, wouldn’t, not until she returned and held up the sheet in welcome. Couldn’t sleep on the couch either, or anywhere. But while he was telling himself this, she appeared, suddenly, in a white void, a place not so much lit as light. Her back was to him. He stood at his doorway, looking out to where there was no up-down or back-forth, no symmetrical dimensions or reversibility. He let go of the doorjamb and raised his foot to join her but he was paralyzed, held back by the air itself pressing against his chest. He called her name, forced it from his lungs and she half-turned. She was naked and he saw the swell of her stomach. As she looked away, he shouted, “Scully, are you cold?”
He awoke in a sweat. The heat must’ve come on but the thermostat registered just 62 degrees under his tapping finger.
The next day
The door to his office was ajar when he returned from a fruitless attempt to track down one Captain Nelson Stockman, retired, one of the men who had admitted to the hallucinations. Fucking train station, he thought, gun in hand, as he pushed door with his foot. CGB Spender stood with his back turned reading the clippings on the bulletin board. Mulder holstered his weapon.
“No one invited you in here.”
“I wasn’t aware that law enforcement was by invitation only.”
Mulder walked around to his desk and touched the things on top lightly.
“I assure you, I have tampered with nothing. I doubt there’s anything here worth tampering with.” The Smoking Man moved away from Mulder and thumbed the latch of one of the drawers of the filing cabinets. “What has your obsessional pigheadedness achieved? Now your partner has disappeared. Of her own volition, if I am to understand correctly. Not a vote of confidence in you.”
“Agent Scully’s whereabouts are none of your business.”
“Oh, but they are. You see, I was responsible for assigning her to the X-Files in the first place. I’m concerned about her.”
“Spare me.”
“Who says you know who your allies are, Agent Mulder? You assume I’m the enemy, whereas I think we want the same thing. Peace, prosperity, the well-being of our loved ones. Like Dana.”
Mulder rose from his chair, opened the door, and stood to the side, but Spender didn’t move.
“I can help Miss Scully. I’d like to, actually. Guarantee her safety.”
“Go to hell.”
Spender shrugged. “You’re no different from anyone else. There’s always something that a person can’t say no to.” He looked down at his hand and rubbed his thumb along the top of his nail. From the hallway came the sound of the elevator whirring open and shut. “You help me, and I promise a pleasant life for Agent Scully and her child – your child, is it fair to say? Much as I admire your partner, I doubt this was an immaculate conception.” His mouth twisted as he reached inside his jacket, then let his hand fall. “You won’t be together, alas. But they’ll be well cared for. The child will thrive and grow, he’ll probably be the spitting image of his father — isn’t that what every man wants, Mr. Mulder? He will be the joy of Agent Scully’s life.”
“Get out of my office.”
“In return, I need your promise of cooperation. And the things your partner has entrusted to you.”
“Anything you propose would be a betrayal of her.”
“Depends on how you define betrayal. I’ve restored her before. Proof of my good intentions. Some people might find your present course a betrayal – refusing to grab a chance for her safety. Her child’s. After all the grief you’ve brought her, it’s the least you can do.”
“I intend to bring her back myself.”
“Maybe you’re missing the big picture here. You see, your partner has quite unexpectedly discovered a way to disrupt fate. That can’t be allowed to happen. No one is bringing her back here.”
Spender walked slowly to the door and looked around the office before stepping into the hall. He took out his package of Morleys and put one in his mouth. ” I thought…at one point I thought you had the stamina for the truth. So few people do, you know. Able to look it in the face and make the necessary personal sacrifices without worrying about their own little lives. You think I haven’t had to make choices myself? You may doubt it, but people have loved me. They believe in my strength.”
“Some fine love you’ve shown them.”
“I never put myself above the common good, Mulder. You think I’m unscrupulous. I’m not. I’m merely unsentimental. Don’t confuse the two.”
* Spender hadn’t lit up, but the sour smell of old smoke now hung in the air like a curse. Mulder dropped into his chair, withdrew three photos from his pocket and laid them on the desk : the video capture of Scully, Maggie’s picture of her, and the ultrasound. Spender had smirked when he talked about Scully. He had paused for a second before saying “immaculate conception,” and his eyes flashed confidence, triumph, glee. What did the world look like through those eyes? Was it insect vision, reality prismed into a thousand isolated points, or a predator’s eyes calculating distance and motion rather than color and beauty, or did his dark soul cast a shadow over the retina itself?
Mulder spun his chair and faced the bulletin board. Spender had been standing right there, his calm unruffled by the sound of the door being kicked open. Mulder rose and positioned his feet in the same spot, relaxing his body and imagining the slight weight of cigarettes in the pocket of his shirt. He looked coldly at the collection, straightening one clipping about a werewolf, lifting the corner of item about alien autopsies, and inspecting the back of a hazy shot of a UFO. So-called leads. Momentos from silly cases that no one else wanted. Scattershot. Once in a while hitting something important by sheer, blessed random chance. Or design. His face curved up on one side. Let Fox glimpse the truth now and then, who would listen to his rantings after all? Just like Bill. Vulnerable. Easy to mislead, confuse, control. Blinded by loyalties to people and ideas. Vulnerable. Vulnerable.
He kneaded the aching muscles in his neck. Something had made Spender vulnerable all at once. Something Scully had seen or found or thought. Her father’s journal, maybe, or the photos of camouflaged trucks at the salt flats or the documents the Tunisian officer had sent to the ship. Something that would upset the balance, nullify Spender’s carefully constructed game plan. Some flaw in his own certainty. No wonder he called it disrupting fate.
Mulder turned back to his desk and sighed. What if turning over the things from those boxes would protect Scully forever? A sure thing, no treachery. Could he let her go, deal away part of himself, his truth? The only person who believed his soul was whole, when it was only her presence that made him so? Would it be enough to know he’d done the right thing? She asked him to make life safe for them and took the chance of never seeing him again. She’d accepted that risk. He slipped the photos of her into his pocket, grabbed his coat, and headed outside.
* Now that the cool weather had settled in, the mall would be quiet again, visitors alone or in small somber groups at the Vietnam memorial tracing the names or shyly looking for a place to put a single rose or lily. The schoolchildren would cluster in unruly lines up at the Washington Monument, elbowing each other whenever the teacher’s back was turned. But here, near the museums, there would be a quiet bench where he could run over everything once again: papers, photos, ghosts, machines, magnetic fields, and one seriously missing woman. He walked past the old Gothic post office and Justice Department, glancing up for anyone who might be tracking his movements. As he crossed Constitution Avenue, his phone rang.
“Mulder.”
“Yeah, Mulder. You free? We’ve been checking on your friend.”
“Go ahead.”
“What’s that sound?”
“Squealing brakes. I’m outside.”
“Yeah, well take it easy. You’re my ticket to getting Agent Scully back.”
Mulder paused on the sidewalk and closed his eyes. “Sure, Frohike, but remember, the pleasure will be all mine.”
“I was afraid of that. I’d ask for Parker instead if she was a real person.”
“Fake identity?”
“So it appears. No Amandas in the right age range on the active lists at the Bureau, MI, or the CIA. “
“You hacked the spooks?”
“Yeah, piece of cake. You have anything else you can give us? Photo? Prints?”
“Not… no. I’ll work on it. Skinner might have a file…”
“Yeah, well, whenever.”
Two days later
Autumn’s brilliance had dwindled to clumps of damp brown under the skeletal trees. Gusts off the river stirred the few leaves that still clung to the exposed branches, occasionally sending one flying across the still green lawns. The traffic over nearby bridges hummed low underneath the sound of feet beating an automatic rhythm along the asphalt path. Mulder concentrated on breathing, the feel of chilly air in his lungs and the rise and fall of his diaphragm and the way his arms arced out slightly to the side if he expanded his chest. Head steady, hips tracking a line parallel to the ground, the body holding itself in balance and in motion at the same time. If you visualized your muscles, you could feel them, feel them work together and resist, feel the smooth machine moves and forget about anything else as your feet beat an automatic rhythm.
His attention flickered to a slower runner ahead and as he approached, he noticed that the man was pushing a jogging stroller. He cut to the left and pulled ahead, glancing back over his shoulder. The baby was tiny – asleep as far as he could see – wrapped in a red plaid blanket with a pink hat pulled low over her forehead. The father tipped the bill of his Knicks cap toward Mulder’s shirt. Mulder slowed and let the other man catch up.
“That’s a clever idea,” he said, nodding at the stroller. “Where’d you get that thing?”
“Any good running shop has ‘em these days. Puts the kid to sleep like that. You never seen one?”
“Never really paid attention.”
They jogged in silence for another twenty yards, the man swerving the stroller around a hole in the asphalt. “Your first on the way?”
“You can tell?”
“Yeah, you can always tell first timers. There’s so much you never notice before and suddenly you’re expected to grasp all this stuff that’s not on your Y chromosome. You won’t believe what your wife knows by instinct.” Mulder veered onto the damp grass so the man could guide his daughter around a puddle. “When are you due?” the stranger asked.
“Me? Ah, a couple months, I don’t know the date exactly, maybe March, April. It’s a little up in the air right now.”
“You don’t know?” The man stopped. “Look, it’s none of my business. But get it straightened out with your girlfriend. You don’t want to miss this.”
Mulder looked down at the sleeping child again and nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for the advice.” He resumed his earlier pace, imagining his hand on the grip, the hum of wheels against pavement, and the weight of a baby lifted warm from sleep. All he needed to do was get it straightened out.
A few minutes later the slap of feet behind him pushed him into higher gear and the steps behind him sped up, too. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Agent Mulder.” She smiled, open-mouthed, and he wondered idly how long she could match his pace.
“Afternoon Agent Parker. I didn’t know you ran.”
“Yeah, yeah, I do. You live near here?” she asked. She was blowing out, her mouth a neat O on exhale.
“Not really. I just like this park.”
“You look like you’re about at the end. So am I. Stop by and have a drink?”
“I have work to do.” He sped up, but so did she.
“There’s no reason to be unfriendly,” she said.
“There’s no reason to be friendly either.”
“Water, then. And I’ll tell you about your ghosts.”
He stopped, bent over to slow his breathing and took his pulse. Her feet kept moving in front of him, small feet in new running shoes. “Ok. Water. And ghosts.”
“Fine. This way.” She headed out toward the street at a slow trot, crossed at the green and led him three blocks into the old warehouse neighborhood, now converted to condominium lofts.
They stepped into the old freight elevator, freshly carpeted but making no concessions to modern elevator speed. He wiped the corner of his mouth against his sleeve.
“I tried to find you yesterday, Parker.”
“I’m flattered. I was working on your case.”
“Success?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
He kept his eyes on the numbers. At the third floor, they got off and she opened the locks. He followed her into a large open space with ceilings fifteen feet high, wood floors, and brick walls hung with art. To the left, lower walls curved around to make a kitchen and other rooms out of sight. To the right were an overstuffed white sofa with red cushions and a glass coffee table six feet across and a vase of gold and orange leaves. Behind the sofa, the bed sat on a raised platform with four deconstructed posts twisted with gauze. Several large photos of nudes dominated the wall behind the bed: body parts, curves and hollows.
She came back with the glass of water and a coaster.
“I think I’m going to ask for a bigger raise this year,” he said.
“Oh, this? Belonged to my ex. Made it big as an investment banker. Cashed out of his job to pursue his first love, photography, then checked out of here to pursue his second, Cecelia. I got the apartment, the car, and the pictures he considered ‘meat.’ He got the money, all tucked away where my lawyer was never going to find it.”
“Nice.”
“I didn’t care by that point. It was over.”
“About the case…”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to take a quick shower.” She walked away from him, pulling her sports bra over her head. “Make yourself at home.”
Mulder downed the water and set the glass on the table. The television and VCR sat across from the couch. He found the remote attached to the side of the tv and hit “play.” A grainy video came up, a naked man and woman circled each other on the bed laughing. The woman wore a mask over her eyes, the man was blindfolded. Mulder looked up at the track lights and calculated the camera angle. Squatting down next to the set, he opened the doors of the cabinet. Several of his favorites stood on the shelf alongside other cassettes initialed and dated on the white spines. He wondered if he’d find himself and Scully in there someplace, and pulled one out, shaking the cassette from its box. Written on the label were names unknown to him in the handwriting he had seen earlier in the missing persons files. He closed the doors as he heard her emerge from the bathroom. The thin white robe stuck to the damp spots on her body.
“Ready for a beer?”
“I think I’ll be going.” He was leafing through a magazine from the table.
“I’m not chasing you out. If you’re feeling sweaty, shower here. There are plenty of towels back there.”
“The FBI has rules about fraternization, Agent Parker.”
“Who said anything about fraternization, Agent Mulder? Don’t you want to hear about your ghosts?”
“Okay. Shoot.” He walked over to the unadorned windows and looked down at the street lights flickering on.
“The thefts were stopped.”
“And the thieves?”
“Handled administratively.”
“Ah. Administratively. The truth wins again.” He turned around and perched himself on the windowsill. She had sunk back against the cushions on the couch, bare feet tucked underneath.
“More harm would have been done to national security by exposure than by the actual theft.”
“The right people have a gift for making themselves too embarrassing to prosecute. How did they do it? I mean, carry the stuff off.”
“That’s really the heart of it. If that secret got out, it would be a disaster. Hackers can get into anything, as you well know.”
“So, case closed?”
“Case closed.”
“You’re not going to tell me what happened?”
“I can’t. You don’t have clearance. You’d find some interesting things if you did.”
He nodded. “This isn’t the way Agent Scully and I usually solve cases.”
“Agent Scully.” She tugged at her robe, pulling at it to cover her leg. “You know, there’s a way out of her fix.”
He rubbed his finger along the window sill and inspected it for dust. His stomach tightened and the spot just below his lungs felt hollow and cold. Outside, the parking spaces were rapidly disappearing; a well-dressed woman stepped out of her car and brushed something off her coat. She held her hand out and headlights blinked once before she hurried down the sidewalk. He pressed his face against the window until she disappeared from view. “What makes you think she’s in a fix? Or that you could help?”
“Sure you don’t want a beer?”
“Is it necessary?”
“Actually, yes,” she laughed as she walked slowly to the kitchen. “I can sympathize with her, you know. There are certain problems, maybe of a personal nature…”
“Are there?”
“The kind of thing that can happen when a man and woman … what should I say, Agent Mulder? Fail to take precautions?”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
She returned to the couch, leaning forward to pour the beer into two tall glasses. “You don’t have to stand, you know.” She held a glass out to him; he took it, walked back to the window, and waited. “Well,” she continued, leaning back sideways and stretching her legs out along the couch, “You should accept the deal you’ve been offered.”
“What do you know about a deal?”
“I know it’s fair. More than fair. She’ll have everything she needs, including safety. That’s something she hasn’t had in a long time. Seven years?”
“I get it now. I’d been flattering myself that your mission was a little more personal.”
Parker tilted her head to the side and smiled, then drank. “Don’t you think she deserves better than she has now? I’m surprised you won’t take some responsibility.”
“She’d never submit to Spender’s control.”
“She’s carrying a child now. She’s seen it, heard its heartbeat, probably felt it move. Speaking as a woman, I’d say that changes everything. She might be willing to risk her life for you, but the baby’s life is another matter.”
“If your concern for her is genuine, help me bring her back.”
“No. Impossible.”
“Physically impossible or just no or do you have a price, too?” He walked across the room and put the glass on the table. “Tell me your price, Parker.”
“What’s he’s proposed to you is best for everyone. Everyone, not just you. She chose a route to safety, now she’s depending on you to guarantee it.”
“Fuck that. His deal’s not going to protect her.”
“He keeps his promises. I’ve seen it.”
“If you believe that, then you’ve been thoroughly duped, bought, sold, and screwed.” He walked toward the door.
“Agent Mulder, do you have a choice? Need I add that the flip side of that particular coin can be pretty brutal? Would you expose the child to that? Would you choose the sorts of… things… that might happen to both of them?”
His hands ached from the palms out and his heart was racing. “Well, you can tell him you delivered the message. I assume that our ‘partnership’ is now over?”
“No, it’s not.” She picked up the remote from where he had left it on the table and turned on the set. “You know, our working together doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
Journey, Part 5
The door behind Mulder opened and closed, briefly allowing the sound of laughter to penetrate the laboratory. Melody Franklin blushed as she walked quickly past him to the other side of the counter carrying a white mug with a big red heart. “Agent Mulder, I didn’t realize you’d get here quite so quickly.”
“Eager to find my culprit.” He was playing with a snow globe that had been sitting on the counter, a tiny model of the Capitol in a swirl of iridescent flakes.
“Well, you’ve given us a good bit of business lately.” She put her mug on a small hotpad, glancing across at her officemate. “Not that we mind.” Lisa smiled at Melody over the edges of her glasses and quickly looked away. Neither woman was meeting his eyes. What was the latest rumor tagging him, he wondered, and did it include the news of a hot visit to Parker’s apartment?
Melody wiped her hands on a white towel and picked up a sheet of notes. “That slide projector has been touched by a good number of people. You want everyone?”
He nodded. The projector sat in a clear plastic bag on a table against the wall alongside the fax and the printer. An evidence tag hung over the edge of the table.
“Well, you, but that’s obvious. Agent Scully, too. One Charles Burks. Two regular members of the cleaning staff, Bettina Wilson and Marvin Morena. This Mr. Burks…”
“I know Chuck. He’s not the one who broke into my office.”
“You’re sure this… this individual moved the projector?”
“The prints should be there.”
“Well. There are a number of smudged and indistinct prints I couldn’t get a reading on and one impeccable set I couldn’t identify from the current listings. I was going to do a little extra checking before you got here…” The corners of her mouth turned up again, then she began typing, glancing up and down between her fingers and the screen. Mulder continued to shake the snow globe absently. He had a clear picture of Parker lifting the projector from the chair and putting it down on the desk. Bend, lift, pivot, put. The picture ran over and over in his mind, stripping itself down to a mechanical figure, like a robot in a cartoon or the pared down human frame in a graphic design program. A fair deal, she’d said, he keeps his promises. Seen it herself. What promise kept and when? Keeps his promises, the robot figure now stretched across the couch, head turning and mouth moving. Keeps his promises. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it.
“Did you want to wait or…”
“I’ll wait.”
Melody sipped from her mug. The phone rang and she picked it without moving her eyes from the screen. “It’ll be done this afternoon,” she said holding the receiver between her ear and shoulder. “Umm-hmmm. Sure.” Her fingers kept tapping the keyboard and then she hit one key over and over, scrolling. She put the phone down.
“Well, this is odd. I have to go ‘way back, but the unidentified prints are a match with a former agent, Camilla Turner. “
“Former? When did she leave the Bureau?”
“I’ll have to look that up for you.”
He turned the globe upside down and let all the flakes settle, then unleashed a furious storm on the Capitol. His mother had given him a globe with a tiny house inside when he was a child and he’d liked to think there were tiny people inside staring in wonder at their own private blizzards. He hadn’t seen his globe after Sam disappeared, when good magic had ceased…
“…I can’t seem to pick up anything on her. Her records have been blocked.”
“A physical description at least?”
“Nope. Nothing official. I could… you won’t tell anyone this, will you Agent? There are some informal routes…”
“Whatever you’ve got.” He walked around the counter and stood behind her chair. A row of asterisks appeared on screen, then the slow load for Financial Records. She entered another password.
“Accounts,” said Mulder.
“We can trace her last charges. No secrets from the money boys.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” No secrets. That’s what Scully always said when he showed up with tickets for some unlikely lead, but it never stopped her from packing her bag. Well, almost never. And she still insisted on separate rooms, even that night in Missouri when they’d had to keep driving at midnight to find a place with two vacancies. Some nights she even agreed to mess up both beds the way he preferred.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“What?”
“Her account was closed as deceased in 1992 and then reopened shortly after that. Then she disappears altogether.”
“Deceased?”
“Clerical error, you know. They’re just dealing with strings of numbers when it comes to you guys. I bet she was pissed,” she chewed her lip. “Angry, I mean. Obviously the prints are in good shape and they’re on top, so draw your own conclusion.”
“Camilla Turner?”
“That’s your girl. Dead or alive,” she giggled and hastily put her hand over her mouth.
“You’re terrific, Melody.”
The rain had let up but the wind continued, rattling the window where the putty had come loose. Below, the streetlight flickered behind the swaying maple across the street, bare now, branches sweeping back and forth on a tight hinge. A small instability, he thought, captive arcs of motion, meaningless and hypnotic, going nowhere, no take-off speed or launch velocity. At the edge, the window glass reflected quick movement and a glint of light moving behind Mulder. Then it disappeared and reappeared at his other side.
“There’s no doubt that she’s in this deep, but it has nothing to do with being dead.” Byers sank down in the armchair and drummed his fingers on the leather. Mulder lowered the blinds.
“Did you reach all five field stations?” Byers continued.
“Four. I talked to four.” Mulder searched the ceiling with his eyes and breathed out. “In every case, a special agent was dispatched to the field before the local boys were even aware that anyone had disappeared. She took charge of the investigation, conducted all the interviews, commandeered evidence, closed out the local police on national security grounds. Left the field office with next to nothing. The descriptions were more or less the same, identifiably Parker.”
“And back at the ranch?” Frohike lifted the pillow from his eyes. His hiking boots did not reach the far end of the couch.
“Washington has only what Skinner gave me. He came across the files when he was following up for an old friend in San Francisco who was stewing about the way he’d been shut out of the case.”
“Have you confronted her?”
Mulder shook his head and pushed off from his perch on the edge of the desk. “Beer?”
“Sure.”
He walked across the room, stooping to pick up his basketball and pass it to Frohike. “Heads up, Michael.” He returned a minute later with three bottles.
Frohike inspected the label before drinking. “It’s unlikely she’s going to confess her own death.”
“Didn’t they say it was a clerical error?” Byers asked.
“Yeah, but that’s exactly the cover they’d give.”
“Let’s look for the simplest solution here, Mulder. She cleared her trail by assuming someone else’s identity. Flipped the fingerprint file around. Smoky’s guys could do it. Right?”
“Too obvious. This death thing is tied in with the disappearances. For all we know, the missing people have been time-traveled to some secret base. She’s probably time-traveled herself.” Mulder scratched the outside of his thigh.
“So, what are you suggesting? Time travel makes you a ghost?” Byers frowned as he spoke, his brows pulled down.
“Yeah, kinda that. What if the magnetic field reorders your… your life force and you can never really return except as an apparition? “
“Your life force?”
“Okay, your molecules, cells. Alters the chemicals controlling synapses. I don’t know.”
“Does Parker look like a ghost? Have you put your hand through her?” Frohike swung his legs to the floor and put his beer on the coffee table.
Mulder snorted. “No, but I think I was invited to. If not my hand, then something else.”
“Hey, you could get lucky.”
“With Parker the trick would be not getting lucky.”
Frohike shook his head. “Line of duty, man.”
The nervous laughter in the room vanished as Mulder pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, circles of imaginary light drifting across the back of his eyes. Cold electricity shot to every point in his body followed by a surge of warmth to his face. When he opened his eyes, Frohike’s lips were still moving and Byers was raising his foot to rest it on his other knee. Both faces turned toward him and Byers seemed to mouth his name. Mulder focused on the ceiling and the words came out in a whisper. “Scully’s pregnant.”
“Oh Jesus,” Byers murmured on the exhale, catching Frohike’s eye.
“I thought you said…” Frohike swallowed and slapped his hand against the leather seat. “Look. Come on. Parker left prints. Whether they link to her records or someone else’s, in my book that says she’s alive. Forget the ghost stuff.”
“There’s some knot here and I can’t see what it is.” Mulder dropped onto the far end of the couch and held the beer bottle to his forehead. “Skinner gave me some other cases having to do with hallucinations, bodily displacement, night terrors. I talked to one of the men who’d been spooked. I thought, maybe some kind of brain experiments or machine-simulated consciousness.”
“Just a minute…”
“But, now I think maybe those cases tie into the time travel, too. What if the supposed hallucinations are just people who got stuck at the edges of the present, maybe just a few nanoseconds away…like Langley said. See, they connect only with some prior self we’ve already shed, so we see them as a dim, unrealized memory.”
“So the time travel screwed up?” Frohike was more willing to follow Mulder’s logic than was Byers.
“Or they’re doing it on purpose.” Mulder replied.
“But Parker’s not like that?”
“No. Still, if they can suspend people just out of reach…” He bit down on his lip and put his bottle down on the table. The window still rattled like marbles in a jar.
“Scully’ll come back, Mulder.”
“The way I figure it, if I can reach her while she’s still safe….”
“Go back?”
“There’s no point in my staying here beating my head against the wall.”
Mulder glanced at his watch as he opened the door to Skinner’s outer office. At quarter to eight, the A.D.‘s assistant had not yet arrived. Her desk shined from its nightly polish; only the phone, a pad of paper, and a silver-framed photo of her son sat on top. In the instant Mulder paused to admire the little boy in his soccer uniform, the inner door opened and he heard his superior’s voice. “Yes, of course, I’ll requisition a key today.” Parker was shaking his hand.
“Thank you. You appreciate the obstacles…,” Skinner’s eyebrows flicked up and she glanced over her shoulder before quickly turning back to her boss. “Until then I’ll be at my temporary desk in the bullpen.”
Smiling triumphantly at Mulder, she continued, “I was just coming down to see you.”
“I thought we settled things the other day, so you may as well stop wasting your time.”
“As your partner, I have co-responsibility for the X-Files. Director Skinner will obtain a key to the office for me if you refuse to bring me cases.”
“Then I’ll change the locks.”
“That’s against Bureau policy, Agent Mulder.” Skinner wiped his glasses on a handkerchief and resettled them on his face.
“Director Skinner would be glad to transfer you,” Mulder continued.
“I don’t fail in my assignments.”
“No one is talking about failure. You could simply offer your skills where they’d be more welcome.”
“Maybe there’s too much at stake.” She started to walk past and he reached out for her wrist.
“Tell me, Parker, does the future exist?”
“Not in the sense you think. Time is running out, Agent. But you can change that.” She twisted her hand and pulled it back.
“Mulder, I have only a few minutes.” Skinner motioned toward the inner office.
On the A.D.‘s desk, a 3” television was tuned into CNN and the announcer was somberly describing the Russian bombing of Grozny.
“Co-responsibility? What is this shit?”
“She’s your partner, Mulder. You have to live with it until Scully comes back.” Mulder stiffened under the A.D.‘s scrutiny, supposing that his boss was inspecting clothing and skin tone for signs of an imminent breakdown. Skinner continued, “Parker was talking about filing a harassment complaint, I figured a key would… “
“Harassment?”
“Have you been following this story, Agent?” Skinner walked to his desk and turned up the volume on the television. Captured Chechen rebels marched in front of the camera, looking defiantly at their unseen audience, their shouts muted in favor of the announcer’s voice. Mulder approached to watch the unfolding news. Skinner continued in a whisper barely audible over the correspondent from Moscow. “The requisition’ll give you a few days. It’s the best I could do. They want those papers.”
“What’s in them?”
“I haven’t been told. Only that you can make it hard or easy on yourself and Agent Scully. Do they have her?”
“No, not yet. She still has a little more time.”
“One other thing. Actually, the reason I called you in here.” The tv suddenly went silent and Skinner seemed to stop in mid-breath. A commercial came on and he continued, “One of those men who disappeared is back, claiming he was on extended holiday.”
“Who’s talked to him?”
“Jennings and Rosello. He’s got receipts, tickets, photos, bug bites.”
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m no longer sure. Here’s his number.” Skinner put his hand on Mulder’s sleeve. “I know this is hard for you. The choice they’ve asked you to make.”
“The choice would be harder if I could trust them to protect her.”
His pocket calendar contained notes each day about the activities she reported in her letters. Time was out of synch for them. He lived ahead of the present, his only focus the day her letters stopped, November 12, everything leading up to it like one compressed moment he relived, dreaded. Her days vivid with life from now until the wall of silence – the empty mailbox, a film of dust all along the edges and the clean spot in the middle. That one suspended moment in his apartment when they had dissolved into each other, neither intact any longer, and then her voice disappeared. Time was a wall with no door. No, it was the spot where the flat earth met the sky and sheared off into nothing.
He sat in his car beneath the Bureau, key hanging from the ignition, and read what he had copied into that day. She was working on her father’s papers, still congratulating herself on her hiding place, past the boredom now, sliding unstoppably toward unseen danger. For today, all was well, another 24 hours of safety, the pleasure of her mother’s company, and the cozy warmth of the baby inside her. What had Smoky said? The joy of Agent Scully’s life. Never had his words been truer and more grotesque at the same instant, and Mulder had wanted to seize him by the throat for the obscene presumption of mentioning the child.
He slipped the calendar back into his pocket. On his timeline, the chase had begun. He had a few more days, but only that, a small chance to rescue, to change that history.
* Mercer picked up on the first ring as though he’d been waiting for a call.
“Yes.” His voice was sharp, angry, ready to continue an argument
“Professor Mercer, this is Special Agent Mulder, with the Bureau. I’d like to talk to you again. I’m on my way to your lab now.”
“I’d say we already covered everything, Mr. Mulder.”
“No, look. I’ve been thinking about what happened. You didn’t bring her back to the present, that’s what I’m figuring. Tell me. Did she make it to your lab in 1996? Did she beg for your help?” Voices sounded in the background at the other end, muffled.
“I am ready to lodge a complaint with the Director, sir.”
“Wait. Wait. Just send me back. You know, plug me into the equation, the way you did her. Even better, you come with me. That way we can all make the trip safely and after that…”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Did she tell you she was pregnant?”
“No. No, she didn’t. Well, frankly I think she is better off away from you Mr. Mulder. I hope the child inherits from her side.”
“You don’t seem to understand what you’ve joined. The man, Spender, whatever he calls himself to you. Think of what he’s doing to Dana. She never intended to stay behind. She told you that, didn’t she? You assured her that she could come back. You promised her.”
The other voice sounded in the background again; it could have been a foreign language or just a low rumble of annoyance.
“I’m telling you, you’re not safe either. It’s all power to him and when he no longer needs you, what do you think will happen?”
The dial tone returned. Mulder headed north toward College Park.
* A sharp rap on his window brought him out of a deep dark hole. He looked up, but no one stood alongside the car and no one was dashing out of sight. Traffic sped by outside his left-hand window. For a second in the rearview mirror was a face, a patch of fog the size of a man’s head and the flash of eyeglasses. And then it was gone. Mulder’s knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. He slowly stretched his fingers, the muscles stiff and numb. His other hand held the cell phone, blinking with an incoming call. A buzzing came from far away, gradually increasingly, the vibration touching his fingers and registering in a slow climb up the nerves of his wrist, arm, shoulder, brain. He glanced at his watch, but had no sense of how much time had passed.
* The dark blue Saab sat between a Wrangler and a Honda, a small red light blinking on the dashboard. Mulder double-checked the plates. Byers had said that Mercer usually left around seven and went straight home to a golf course condo in Silver Spring where he lived alone. Fifteen more minutes if he was going to be true to form. Mulder tried the door and shined his flashlight inside. On the front seat lay the morning’s Post and a pair of leather gloves and in back a gym bag held a tennis racket zipped into the side pocket.
“Excuse me.”
The voice pulled Mulder up from the window.
“Dr. Mercer, I…”
“Your superior will hear about this…”
“…need to talk about Dana.”
“…and I’ve made my position clear.”
“Someone is pursuing her. I think you know who. I think they stopped you from bringing her back.”
Mercer put his key in the lock and disarmed the security system.
“Wait, professor, tell me one thing first. Tell me something scientific. What if you were off a few seconds. I mean would she and I be in separate worlds or would we just be a little out of synch? How do you get the person exactly to where you need them to be?”
“Do you read scifi on company time or is this a private obsession?” The lights from the parking lot cast a long shadow from the bill of Mercer’s Orioles cap down past his chin.
“That’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? Creating spies by…”
“There’s really no point…”
“Or are they failed experiments? Can you bring them back to the right moment? Do you care?”
“Mr. Mulder, none of your personal problems has anything to do with me. Have you tried counseling?” He pulled open the door and slid into the driver’s seat. Mulder grabbed the top edge and held it open.
“I have a binder from the military. It’s got equations that will prove just where your research comes from.” Mercer put his hands in his lap and looked down. “So here’s what I’m thinking. Maybe you need to start telling me the truth.”
There was still no answer.
“Do you realize how ruthless the men you’re dealing with are? I can tell you stories, name names, Spender’s own wife. His son for Christ’s sake. His lover, his daughter. They’re all dead because of him. What makes you think he’ll pause for half a second if you’re no longer of use. I am your only chance.” And you are mine, he thought, aching at the words. “My boss is ready to provide round-the-clock…”
“If your enemies are so strong, Mr. Mulder, what good do you think this protection is going to be?”
Mercer slammed the door and started the car.
Mulder was shuffling his keys in his right hand as the elevator opened onto a darkened hallway. Faint illumination entered through the window at the end, a few steps beyond his apartment. He reached instinctively for his weapon, missing from his jogging sweats. His breath came shallowly as he slid along the wall toward the stairwell. He wiped his hand over his shirt, gripped the knob and swung the door open quickly. The stairs were empty up and down, and no movement echoed off the dingy concrete block walls. Returning to the hallway, he could just make out the rhythm of an argument, quickly followed by a burst of electronic laughter. Passing his neighbor’s flat, he heard another voice from his end of the hall.
“Check again. Maybe he hasn’t gone yet.” He leaned close to his door. “Can’t you reverse it?” the voice continued, rising. “Dammit I have the equations. I have them right here.”
Mulder twisted his key in the lock and pushed the door slowly. She stood with her back to him, one hand on her hip, dressed in leggings and an oversize jacket, her feet in running shoes rather than heels.
“I’ll be right there. I want the exact date.” She waved a piece of paper in the air. “You set up for me.”
Mulder’s gym bag sat on the coffee table, its contents strewn about the room. The maroon binder lay empty on the floor. She turned around suddenly, her face pale, and snatched for her tote bag, but he had already reached her in a few quick steps and grabbed her wrist. “What the hell is going on, Parker?”
“Damn them, damn you,” she tried to twist away. She swung at his face, pushing up and back against his chin with the heel of her hand. From the shift of her body, he sensed the movement of her knee, the slight pull back before the swing forward and up. His left hand deflected the kick and he took advantage of her momentary unsteadiness to push her onto the couch. He kneeled on either side of her legs and pressed her upper arms against the back. She was sobbing now and squirming underneath him.
“They’ll kill him. I need to stop it.”
“Who? What’s in these papers?”
“I have to go back before it’s too late.” She twisted over to one side, but he again pinned her fast. Her eyes were reddened and he could see that her makeup was streaked into the half-moons below her eyes. He pulled her back into a sitting position.
“It’s the time travel, isn’t it? D’you help disappear people or just cover it up for your friend Spender?”
“He’s not my friend, he…”
“Keeps his promises. I remember. Did he tell you to make Scully disappear? Did he pay you to trap her?”
“No, that’s not it, I…” She licked her upper lip in a quick motion, “I…he told me to keep a watch, that’s all.”
“Just an innocent little employee. Doing God’s work.”
“Would you just listen. He lied to me. He knew all along what was going to happen. I can stop them but I need to go right now.” They sat for a moment, each breathing hard.
“Bravo. Converted to the side of good. *You,* Ms. Parker-Turner-whoe ver, are my ticket. You’re going to take me back to Scully.”
“It doesn’t happen that way. If I show up with you they’ll….”
“It doesn’t? So tell me how it does happen?”
“I…I bring her back…it’s all written…in her letters…”
He looked at the papers on the floor and coffee table. “Don’t bullshit me. I know what’s in her letters.”
“Agent Mulder!” Skinner stood at the door. “What the hell is going on?”
“Sir, Parker has…”
“Release her at once.” He pushed his jacket back to show his weapon, a threat not yet an ultimatum. “That is an order, Agent.”
Mulder eased back and stood. Parker kneaded the muscles in her arms for a moment, ignoring Mulder, then nodded at Skinner as she swept up her bag. “Thank you, sir.”
“For Christ’s sake, Mulder. What do I have to do to keep you out of a hearing?” Parker paused in the doorway behind Skinner, pulled her keys from her jacket pocket and worked one off the ring. “Your partner’s letters are in my apartment.”
Mulder stepped toward her against Skinner’s restraining hands. She tossed the key to Mulder.
“You trust her, don’t you?” said Parker
“How did you get them?”
“They’re in a box. By the bed.” She paused for a second at the doorway, rubbing her arm again. “Do you believe in fate, Agent?” She disappeared into the darkness, her feet sounding softly down the hall.
Skinner grabbed Mulder before he could pursue and pushed him against the wall.
“I need to follow her. She can get to Scully. Let me go.”
“What? Follow her into some trap? She’s one of Spender’s. What the hell do you think she was doing here?” Skinner closed the door. “It’s not going help anything if you disappear, too. I’ve got a man on her.”
“Your man didn’t do much to stop her here. Was that him behind you?”
“There was no one with me.”
“Tall, close-cropped hair, round face. There was something shiny about here.” Mulder touched the top of his own chest.
“No. No one. Have you been sleeping lately?”
Mulder closed his eyes, conjuring the face. The man had been calm, inquisitive-looking, and he had seen him for just a second. “Yeah, yeah I’m fine except for the small fact that Scully is missing and you just freed my best chance of finding out how to get to her.”
“Mulder, you’re operating on pure adrenaline. Think about it. Why would you trust Parker? What would lead you to give her the slightest credence?”
“Well, how the hell else do I get Scully back?”
“Not that way. You have to trust that your partner will…” He stood at the door to the living room looking over the disarray. “I don’t know, Mulder. If I had one answer in the world to give you, that would be it.”
Mulder had moved to the window. A man was tugging a large dog away from the tree in front of the building. Otherwise, no one moved. “She said that Cancerman had betrayed her. He’s going to kill someone. I was hoping to leverage…”
“Spender lies. So do his minions. Look, Parker hasn’t gone anywhere where we’ve been able to find a trace of Scully.”
“University of Maryland. Physics Department.” Mulder turned and picked up a handful of papers, then flung them around the room.
“No, look. We searched the building.”
“So you saw Parker there.”
“Yes, but…”
“That’s where they do time travel.”
“Put it out of your mind.”
“I’m sure it’s in these papers. I have to try to go back.”
“Wait.” Skinner scooped up a handful of papers and put them on the coffee table. “I actually stopped by to tell you about the man who reappeared yesterday. The one who claimed he was on vacation. Did you see him?”
“Talked on the phone, he wouldn’t meet me.”
“He’s dead. Found him in Baltimore harbor. Very sloppy for an execution. Something’s making them nervous and I don’t want you to get in the way.” Skinner picked a photo off the floor, the faded image of a turbaned man holding the reins of a camel. An officer in an old-fashioned military uniform stood off to the right. “These the papers?”
“Yeah, some of them.”
“What do they say?”
Mulder tore off the corner of a magazine cover and scribbled a number. “If I don’t come back, a friend of a friend is working on the translation.”
At first he thought an ambulance was parked under the street lamp in front of the Physics Building, but as he drew closer he saw that it was a large, unmarked white van. He scanned the other cars as he drove through the mostly empty lot and pulled in next to a blue Saab. The little red light on the dashboard was flashing and a glance in the backseat revealed that the gym bag and tennis racket were still there. A few cars closer to the building was a red Miata. “Parker,” he whispered to himself. As he approached the van, he kept a hand on his weapon, testing the doors to the back, then circling around to check the driver’s compartment. It was deserted.
A young man with thick black hair and glasses stood just inside the main entrance to the building, adjusting the zipper on his jacket. As he pushed out, Mulder grabbed the door and went in. A few graduate students stood by a classroom door comparing notes, but otherwise the hallway was deserted. He took the stairs two at a time. Skinner had delayed him long enough to give Parker time to get away and Mercer had surely taken off earlier. How exactly he was going to force the assistants to send him to the right place was not yet clear; only the possibility of kidnapping one of them seemed even remotely realistic. Realistic. The word least likely to describe his life, so why expect realistic now? At the top of the stairs, he pressed his face to the window in the steel fire door. The hall was empty in the twenty foot radius visible. He touched his weapon again and opened the door slowly. The smell of overheated wiring was familiar now, mixed in with the scents of unidentifiable solvents. Voices drifted from one of the labs down the hall. He walked along the wall until he reached the cross-corridor. The voices were louder, all male, one man cutting off the others, terse and sharp. Mulder stepped around the corner.
A gray-haired man in a suit stood in the doorway to Mercer’s lab. He turned with half a smile and put his hands in his pockets. “Well, Mr. Mulder, it looks like we are both a little late.” The smug self-confidence returned to his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Dr. Mercer has chosen to send himself on a little trip.”
Mulder looked over Spender’s shoulder. A man in blue coveralls was unplugging the computers and winding the wires neatly into loops. He had looked up only briefly at the sound of Mulder’s voice. “Where is everyone?”
“We’re shutting this facility down. It’s become something of a liability, sorry to say.” He pulled a pack of Morleys out of his jacket pocket. “Would you mind if we continued this conversation outside where I can…” He lifted the cigarettes in a mock toast. Mulder walked past him and grabbed the wires from the workman’s hand.
“Come now, you don’t think you can set up the equipment yourself, do you?” Spender said.
“When is Mercer coming back?”
“Panic is a toxin. It must be contained, stopped before it destroys the larger body. Please.” He gestured toward the corridor. “I’m sure you understand. Work like Dr. Mercer’s requires a cool head and selfless devotion… His departure is a setback, but that’s what happens when a man puts himself above the Project.”
Emerging into the chilly evening air, Spender paused on the steps to light up, sheltering the flame with his hand. He walked down the stairs ahead of Mulder and turned left, away from the parking lot, continuing at unhurried speed past the Physics Building and its neighbor. Campus was relatively quiet, an occasional cluster of two or three students in jeans and dark jackets hurrying down the lighted sidewalks, a bicyclist with a flickering strobe swerving around the walkers. Spender stepped off the cement pavement and cut through a dark grove of trees. He exhaled with a small cough.
“You probably fault me as a creature of habit. Or worse, an addict. I’m sure the thought has crossed your mind.” He held the cigarette up in the deep shadows and twirled it slightly between his fingers. “We are all slaves to the chemicals our bodies produce, or in my case, demand.” He flicked the cigarette onto the ground, where it glowed orange for an instant then died. “I know why you’ve come, Fox. But I told you no one was bringing her back. Not you. Not anyone else.”
“Then you can’t reach Scully either.”
“Well, my agent has already gone back to handle matters. She left a half hour ago at most.”
It felt like a physical blow to his abdomen, a pain radiated from Mulder’s gut to his back, the muscles in a spasm that shot upward and squeezed his breath from his lungs. His gun, so familiar on his body as to be weightless most of the time, now pressed heavily against his side. Spender was leaving the shelter of the trees, walking out into a grassy field. “You bastard,” Mulder called after him.
“Come now. You were given a chance. A clear and simple exchange. Yourself and those documents — the safety of the Project — in return for the safety of your loved ones. Men have always had to make these choices. Don’t imagine yourself singled out for some special punishment.”
“No. You’re bluffing. She’s still safe. I’ve kept…”
Spender shrugged and looked up at the few stars bright enough to shine in the urban sky. “How little we actually know of the universe. A few planets detected outside our solar system. Not actually seen with the eye — the primitive human brain is attached to its habits, after all — but a string of numbers indicating that a star is wobbling under an unseen force. What lies out there is beyond our imaginations. And when it comes to call, it’s too late for us to engage our puny minds. For fifty years, we’ve tried to master their technology so that we might fight back as equals, but at each turn we find ourselves outwitted. I had hoped that this experiment might change that…”
“You’re not shutting down, there’s something in those papers about another site, another facility…” Mulder hesitated as he spoke. “That’s how they’re coming, isn’t it. Through time, not space. That’s why you said they’re already here on earth. The invasion site’s in those papers…”
“Exposure would trigger it. You see the danger, surely.”
“You keep the technology to yourself. Use their power against the rest of us for as long as you can.” He backed away from the Smoking Man toward the path through the trees
“You might not find what you’re looking for at your apartment.” Spender raised his voice, then started coughing again. Mulder stopped and walked back toward his enemy. “I made copies, Spender. I made copies and copies and copies.”
Spender shook the last cigarette from the pack and crumpled the wrapper. He patted his pockets for a lighter, and as he withdrew it from his jacket, the cigarette fell from his fingers. He bent over and patted the grass, then, standing slowly, brushed off the small white addiction. “Perhaps you did. Perhaps you did just that.” He flicked the lighter and inhaled slowly; the short-lived flame illuminating the deep lines on his face. “Now that I think about it, perhaps something could still be arranged. You’ll have access, perks. Other… women. A chance to change fate.”
“Including my own?”
“Our fate, Fox. Ours.”
The taste of smoke crept down Mulder’s throat and he turned away.
He sat on the edge of the bed and picked at the tiny clasp of a box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ebony. It had been sitting on the floor, atop a pile of magazines – Vogue and Nature and the Economist, the combination surprised him – and two French novels in creamy white paper covers. Inside the box were three letters, envelopes slit open. Had she read them just once, he wondered? Stealing Scully’s words and cutting him off from hope. Blast Parker. Had she been laughing at him the whole time, flaunting her gauzy robe and knowing that Scully’s letters sat by the side of the bed? He slowed his breathing and extracted the first:
Mulder, I never doubted that I would be able to return. I believed, odd as it may sound, that I would be able to sense your call, your “All clear.” I hear your call. It does not say that all is well, but that nothing can be well when we are apart. I’ve been staying at a back road motel for the past two days while I try to figure out what to do. It feels so familiar here. I remember long nights of lying in the dark listening to the sound of your pacing or channel surfing or, I swear, throwing a tennis ball against our common wall, and wishing that I could walk through that door and somehow bring you peace. We had too few nights of peace, didn’t we?
I went to Jeremy this morning. His assistant said he has gone out of town and he refused to help me. It’s so clear to me now that his loyalties are to your enemy, Mulder. Our enemy. How could I fail to anticipate that such revolutionary science would attract the best and worst in our government. That it would be used for private gain and to enhance the power of those who already hold far too much sway.
I refused to imagine us apart forever and have now caused it by my own actions. I have never contemplated such bleakness.
The second was on a small square of motel notepaper.
Someone called 5 min. ago. If they can find me here, won’t they follow me anyplace else? I need to reach the old you. Did I ever show up and beg for help in those days? I’m afraid that it didn’t and therefore that therefore it cannot happen now. Then what will I do? I’m leaving now to pick up my medical records and then will try to find you. Pray for me.
How like her to remember her records even as the world was falling apart. November 1996. At some point he took off for Russia with Krycek. He’d been there that one night when she surprised him — he swallowed at the memory — but then that rock sample had turned up and… He looked at the window across the room. There’d been a chance, a chance to protect her, save her from her pursuers, expose the whole damn enterprise, change history… She’d have opened his apartment, seen the signs of his hasty packing… Not there. Not there for her. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift. What would the old Scully have said if confronted with her pregnant self? He smiled for a moment trying to conjure her open-mouthed stare.
There was a small spot of blood on the third envelope, postmarked Dulles, and he stroked his thumb over it before pulling out the final letter.
Mulder. Our flight is being called. The nurse — I mentioned her before – said she can take me to the present. There’s a convoluted story, but the important part is that she says she’s been betrayed by Smoky and wants to set things right. She’s taking me to a place called Dougga not far from the salt flats. I feel terrified and intoxicated. Will you be there?
Mulder pulled up at the gate, a single gray metal pole pulled down to block the narrow road. The sign said, in French, “Ouvert de 8h30 a 17h30” and presumably the Arabic said the same. His watch read 7:30. Stone outcroppings dotted the steep hill to his right, the ruined Temple of Saturn at the top out of sight. To his left and ahead, only a blue truck from the Antiquities Service sat in the small gravel parking lot. Mulder climbed out of his car and stretched.
Driving down the access road, he had passed the guardian of the site sitting in front of his flat-roofed cement house. His maroon wool cap covered most of his gray and black hair; his abundant mustache had already turned while. The man waved a greeting now, beckoning with his hand. Mulder slammed the driver’s door and jogged back up the road. “Hello. S’bahal… S’bah…” He shook his head, “Sorry, Si Hamid, I thought I had it.”
“S’bah al khair, it mean good morning,” said a girl of 11 or 12 standing in the bright blue doorframe of the house. She parted the curtain to lean inside and shout something that he couldn’t understand. “You learn it,” she said, turning back to him. “I learn English.” She pronounced it ‘Angleesh.’
“At-tay?” Hamid offered a glass of tea and motioned to one of the squared-off limestone blocks moved from across the road sometime in the last 2000 years.
“Thanks. Merci.” Mulder stretched his legs out, brushing the dust off his jeans. He’d thrown just a few things in a bag after he’d read Scully’s summons, too dazed by the prospect of finding her to think about how long he might be gone. Three shirts, underwear, a spare pair of jeans, his shaving kit, a navy blue sweater she had bought him on a whim, and his running clothes. The woman at the one-star hotel down in Teboursouk took pity on him and washed his tees.
“You will live in Dougga now?” the girl said, giggling. She swung her dark brown braids forward to put on her backpack. Despite the cool weather, she was wearing sandals with her blue fleece jacket and calf-length skirt. Each time he’d seen her in the past three days, those braids recalled Samantha – Samantha as a schoolgirl safe in a white house out beyond nowhere, drinking syrupy mint tea for breakfast, and speaking English with an accent.
“No,” he said smiling back. “I’m waiting for my friend. My friend comes soon.” He spoke slowly and carefully.
She looked at her father and shrugged. Voices rose from inside the house and suddenly two younger boys dashed out, one tucking his shirt in his trousers as he ran, and the children set off laughing, the boys leaping and chasing in circles, their sister tugging them back onto the shoulder of the road.
The guard sipped his tea with a hissing sound and watched until they were out of sight. “La femme, woman.” He jerked his head upwards slightly to point his nose toward the gate.
“La femme? She’s here?”
The guard repeated the gesture and Mulder rose.
“Deux. Deux femmes ce matin.” He held up two fingers, then placed his hand lightly on Mulder’s sleeve. “B’shweeya. Votre the,” he said pointing to the glass. Mulder sat down and drank the steaming liquid through his teeth. It burned the roof of his mouth, but he sipped again quickly with a smile at his companion. Two women. His stomach churned, empty. It had been dark when he woke that morning. He had unfolded the map of Tunisia under the room’s bare bulb and traced what he knew of the country for the tenth or twentieth time. Sfax where Scully’s father had docked and the salt flats where the UFO had crashed and Dougga a hundred miles north of the Chott. He hoped that there was only one Dougga in the world.
The guard picked up a pewter teapot, swilled the contents and gestured to pour a second glass. Mulder looked again at the Fiat parked in front of the gate. In the distance, a heavy truck downshifted for the long hill, and the motor dopplered loudly as it approached the turn-off then faded toward the west. The wind carried a faint smell of diesel just before the horn sounded once and the low rumble disappeared. From inside the house came another voice; the guard responded and a woman dressed in a heavy black dress and shawl, her hair hidden under a red and yellow scarf, pulled back the curtain shielding the doorway and came out to pick up the teapot. She smiled at Mulder and disappeared into the house.
The guard rose and swept his hand across the sky. “Fait beau aujourd’hui.” The rains had stopped and the low gray clouds that had misted the valley had now blown to the east. He tugged a brown scarf tighter around his neck and tucked the ends into his slightly frayed tweed sports jacket. “Allons. Go.”
Hamid stood to the side as Mulder drove the car past the barrier, then he lowered the bar into place. “Where is she? Ou?” Mulder said a minute later, locking the car door.
“La-bas.” The man gestured toward the old limestone street leading into the site. “Votre femme est la-bas.” He patted Mulder on the shoulder and turned back toward his house.
Mulder headed down the route he’d memorized over the previous three days, winding down the main street rutted by centuries of carts rumbling to market, where men and women in tunics had once hurried to the Forum or the public baths or stopped at a corner shop for olives and wine. The theatre where they had sat in their provincial finery was to his right, a semi-circle of stone seats banked into the hillside. He dipped through the doorway and climbed onto the stage, still lined with columns. The morning sun cast long shadows down the deserted tiers. He leapt down to ground level where the back wall of the stage had long ago crumbled. Ahead, he knew, was town center dominated by the temple of Jupiter. Six fluted columns still supported a triangular gable – there was a fancy word for the top piece but it escaped him at the moment – the mythological scene still visible despite the wind and rain of twenty centuries.
He never doubted that was where he’d find her. Each day the six strong columns drew him back as he circled through the streets of the ancient city inspecting tumbled houses and fountains, the old fortifications with their pre-Roman foundations and the triumphal arch, cisterns and amphitheater. He timed himself, decreeing an hour’s walk before returning. He followed the local boys who guided small groups of tourists hurriedly up and down the streets, and tried to figure out the snatches of their monologue: Haus, hus, dar, maison, home. The boy with the bright yellow shirt and a cocksure command of English called every tumbled building a home. Home for rich man, home for gods, home for bad women, the latter said with a wink. Mulder had been enchanted to tag along until his hour of exile ended and he made his way to the temple.
He knew exactly how she would look. Sitting halfway up the broad steps, she’d hunch over for protection, arms crossed, unwilling to smile until she could read his face. Her hair would shine in the sun; the breeze rising from the valley would sweep it across her face. When mist had changed to drizzle the previous afternoon, he refused to move from the damp steps where she would get chilled waiting for him to finish his wandering. Si Hamid had brought him a sandwich and a glass of hot tea, shaking his head and returning to the gatehouse under an old black umbrella. At dusk, the guard took him home for dinner where his teenaged son translated Mulder’s semi-lucid explanation for his vigil. The younger boys had begged for stories about time travel, but Mulder went back to Teboursouk to lie on the old metal bed and stare at the ceiling.
He broke into a jog now, crossing the Place of the Twelve Winds and cutting around the wall near the base of the temple. The staircase – still pale gold in the early light – was deserted. He stared at the empty place, the wind brushing over his neck and down inside his jacket. He shivered and for a moment the breeze stopped, his body froze, and the scene flattened from three dimensions into two, a glossy brochure photo with an anonymous tourist in jeans captured mid-stride. After a minute, his eyes began moving again. He took the stairs two at a time.
At the top, half out of sight, her shoulder rested against one of the limestone pillars as she looked away into the distance. She had pulled her sweater tight around her with a scarf tied at her neck, and she did not turn at the sound of his approach.
“Are you cold, Scully?” He took off his leather jacket, draped it over her shoulders and wrapped his arms around her.
She leaned her head against him. “Is this then or now or someplace in between?”
“It’s now. Permanently now.”
The valley spread before them, green with winter rains, great swaths of sun and shadow cutting across the land under slow white clouds. Odd blocks of stone poked from the earth where no one had yet dug and in the distance a funeral tower commemorated a long dead chief. Her hair smelled of rain and salt and diesel fuel. It was a long time before Scully spoke again.
“She told me that time created these ruins. It settled its account with this place and does not need to move further.” She ran her fingers over the fluting on the columns and he covered her hand lightly with his. “Once upon a time sweaty workmen carved each one of these lines by hand.”
“Advanced technology of its day…”
“Maybe more beautiful for all that. Will ours last two thousand years?”
“Will anyone be here to notice?”
The renewed silence was broken by slamming doors and a shout.
“It was an act of faith for you to come here,” she said, finally.
“What was my choice? Yours was the act of faith. To follow Parker.”
“Parker? Stephanie. She was with them, until the end.”
“So why did you trust?”
“She said… she said something about you.”
“I don’t think she liked me.” It suddenly seemed funny.
“She said you shouted the truth at her. The first person in a long time who had not lied, deceived, or manipulated.”
“I didn’t shout, Scully.” She pulled away and looked at him for the first time, smiling. He continued, “So on the strength of my alleged shouting…”
“I threw myself into the void.”
“A hole in time…”
“Just so, at the salt flat, a facility. Theirs, Mulder.” She started laughing. “Everything looked the same coming out as it had going in and I was beginning to think it was all a horrendous joke. Maybe I never really went anywhere.”
“Oh, no, don’t talk yourself into that. You were gone, you were over the edge and out of sight, a thousand Earth revolutions away from me.”
“Spender betrayed her, you know.”
“Through Mercer?”
“Jeremy was her father. She served them because of him. Idolized his genius, thought he could change the world. In your apartment she found the truth.”
“In Arabic?”
“Yes. Her father had been killed in Tunisia. He’d gone back, you see, to get the extra copy of the equations, the evidence of his own plagiarized science, and he was killed there. Trabelsi had the police report. When she realized that, she brought me here. “
“Her revenge.”
Scully nodded. “She left for the Chott a little while ago to follow her father. She felt she had to try to get to him first.”
“I wonder if she saw her own end in those papers. Imagine, Scully, imagine living past your own death, knowing that it happened, yet compelled to return to it.”
“I felt I had lived past my own death. Can you forgive me, Mulder?”
“For what?”
“For not trusting?”
“How did you not trust?”
“I looked for safety and chose foolishly.”
“You’ve never looked for safety before, you wouldn’t know how to recognize it.”
“No, I think the truth is that there is no safety.”
* He closed his eyes and when he opened them, they were in his white-washed hotel room down the road in Teboursouk. A plain wooden armoire took up the wall next to the window, his running shoes half-tucked underneath. A sink with two faucets sat opposite, on her side, with a hot water tank above. The gas flames had flared in the little window when he turned the hot water on to shave that morning, the mirror reflecting his hope that a clean jaw still mattered. A woven rug with fanciful geometric camels lay beside the bed on a stone floor polished by years of daily washing. Over the bed hung a black and white photo of the temple. Moisture had seeped inside the frame and one edge of the picture curled. She lay on her back, eyes open, picking at a burr caught in the homespun wool blanket.
“Come to bed, Mulder.” She tugged the covers down on his side.
. The sole wooden chair wobbled on an uneven leg at the slightest shift of his weight. He sat perfectly still, elbows on knees, chin propped on his joined fist. “Are you a ghost, Scully?”
“A ghost? Mulder, you’re exhausted.”
“I don’t think we have it right. Not yet. There’s a piece missing.”
“What piece?”
“You know, I had a plan. I was going to force Jeremy to send me back to 1996 and I would pick you up and we’d keep going to a time before all this started.”
“1890. Holmes and Watson.”
“You’re an unlikely-looking Watson.”
“I’m putting on weight.”
“That’s not what I meant.” The chair rattled as he stood and stretched. Outside, lights still burned behind the shutters of the houses across the street. “Maybe come all the way back to this place in its heyday. There’s one spot by the baths where the walls are higher than my head and if you stand perfectly still you can smell bread baking and wood burning and hear a dog in someone’s courtyard barking at a peddler…”
“Mulder…”
“…and what they wanted then is about the same as what we want…” He tugged the sheer curtain across the window. “You said there is no safety. Are you satisfied with that?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the consolation?”
“What’s it ever been? Shelter in a storm that never seems to end.”
“I’d say it’s the moment when time stops and in awe we find wholeness and fearlessness and a sudden lighthearted sense of freedom.”
“Mulder, can you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
She looked at him steadily as he pulled his tee over his head.
“Okay. I forgave already. I just want to get it right.”
* He closed his eyes and when he opened them he lay on his side in the old metal bed. Her skin was pale in the moonlight. She blinked at him slowly.
“Are you a ghost?” he whispered.
She took his hand and ran it under her shirt, across her swelling stomach.
* He closed his eyes and when he opened them, the dawn filtered through soft rain beading on the window. Her body was pressed against his back and her hand came around his waist. “What will it take, Mulder, to get it right?”
“You needed to run. It was… a fair choice, for the child. I wouldn’t have let you go.”
“It was dishonest, secretive and I thought it made eminent sense at the time.”
“The you who planned that flight is still the woman I love. It’s who you are and who I am and why we are something different together.”
“You didn’t mind?”
“Oh, sure I minded. I hated it like hell.”
He turned over to face her. “I feel like I’m sitting on the edge of a deep pool. It’s fathomless, dark…”
“And cold?”
“No, not cold, just deep. Maybe there’s no bottom. I can’t tell. It’s frightening.”
“For you?”
“Above all, for me. So I think I could lower myself very slowly, inch by inch. I want the minutes to stretch. To bend around us and entwine. But I also want to push back against time, resist, as it tightens us in its web. I want to sink slowly into the pool, so I’m aware of every tiny change, every instant of losing myself.”
“How are you lost?”
“What we had before… as lovers…that was…great. It was great.”
She placed her hand along the side of his face. “Was?”
“Is.” He smiled. “We have always been – both of us — lonely souls.”
“I thought I knew what loneliness was, but I didn’t because you were there and I could imagine myself alone and independent because I had the strength of you behind me. Your friendship and your acceptance well before there was a glimmer of anything else between us.”
“There was always a glimmer of something else, Scully.”
She blushed. “I thought of it as your nature, a need to bring things together and to make them right. Not just right with yourself, right with the world. Your healing always seemed to need a cosmic healing, something no person could do for you,”
“You did…”
“You indulge me. You need to fix the universe, Mulder, and you need to do it yourself.”
“Ah, but my sense of self now depends on the part of me that is also you.”
“Let’s go home.”
* He closed his eyes and when he opened them, they were in his apartment. The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds, heading for an early dusk. Stretched out, she took two-thirds of the couch, light striping across her legs. Her hair was damp from the shower and his Georgetown sweatshirt engulfed her. He sat on the floor, knees pulled up, his back against the couch. “What was it like, time travel?”
“I’m surprised it took you so long to ask…”
“Come on. If I’m going to be a father, you’re not going to let me try it on my own.”
She laughed. “It’s hard to describe. It was like everything and nothing.”
“Everything and nothing. Could you restate that in scientific terms?”
“Scientific terms? Like how they generated the magnetic field and the frequency of the vibration and how matter and energy create gravity and …”
“I’ll tell you what I imagine.” He reached over his shoulder and put his hand on her leg. “I imagine it’s like love, when you close your eyes and leave your body but at the same moment you feel more intensely physical than ever before. And as time rushes it also suspends itself, hanging in the air like something tangible but meaningless, no longer a shot fired from here to there, but a vapor dissipating slowly. Then come tremors from the outside in and the inside out that meet just below your skin and when you open your eyes nothing looks different but you are not the same and the mind has no way to wrap around what has happened so only the body understands and remembers.”
She ran her fingers through his hair and held one shock straight up. “The precise words I was about to speak.”
He lifted his face and smiled.
The END.
Hope you enjoyed this little tale. E-me if you did. I’d love to hear from you. -Zuffy [email protected]
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