Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone Series by J Selby

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Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone Series by J Selby

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE by J Selby ([email protected])

Note: Do not forward to ATXC. Okay to archive.

Author’s Notes: I’m cautiously climbing down from the relationship fence to do a little reconnaissance on the MSR side. I’m trusting my readers to tell me if I should retreat back to the fence for good, or if I’m allowed to play over here from time to time.

Thanks to Leyla, who was the loudest and most persistent of the voices trying to persuade me to write an MSR, and who bolstered my confidence when it was flagging. Thanks also to my editors, Meredith, Rebecca and Jo-Ann — you guys make one hell of a beta-reading team. And my sincerest appreciation to all those people who followed this story as a work-in-progress, and kept me on track with their suggestions, praise, encouragement, and threats.

Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All others are the author’s creation. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No infringement is intended.

Summary: Scully becomes dangerously obsessed in her search for the truth behind a shocking piece of evidence from the past, and Mulder, recognizing an all-too-familiar pattern of self-destruction, is determined to save her.

Classification: XRA

Relationship: MSR

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: None

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.**

— ❖ —

SCATTERING SEEDS UPON A STONE

Prologue

The truth.

It has been the guiding star of my life. I look to it constantly to gauge my progress, to determine the course I must set, to calculate the distance I should maintain between myself and others.

And yet, for me, the truth has remained as far removed as that star.

Always visible.

Never within reach.

Or so I had led myself to believe.

I’ve been doing some soul-searching of late. I’m not very good at that sort of thing. I have this nearly overwhelming urge to devalue myself, so it was a difficult exercise to look at myself objectively.

I found as I tried to make tidy columns of my positive and negative attributes, that many of my traits could fall into both categories.

I’m intelligent.

A positive thing, yet it carries a burden. Being best and brightest rarely means being popular. Not in grade school. Not in college. And not in the FBI.

I’m tenacious.

But even I recognize that tenacity can evolve into a dangerous obsession.

I’m paranoid.

Despite its poor reputation, paranoia isn’t all bad. It has kept me alive on more than one occasion. It keeps those who have the power to wound me at bay.

Unfortunately, it also separates me from those who would care for me. From those I might otherwise allow myself to love.

If this introspection had been undertaken merely to satisfy personal curiosity, I might have abandoned the pursuit as soon as the disclosures became uncomfortable. But there is something — someone — more important than my peace of mind. Someone who means enough to me that I choose to make this journey through the risky terrain of my own psyche just so I can guide her safely as she follows the same path. I find comfort in such a goal. It eases the disquiet and pain my self-study evokes.

The most astonishing revelation to emerge from my self-analysis was that for a man whose life has been a testament to the truth, I’m a remarkably accomplished liar. Saddest of all, I’ve been lying to myself.

I lied when I said I was unlovable.

I am not.

I lied when I told myself I cannot love.

I can.

The truth is that I do love, and I’m inclined to believe that those feelings are returned. Yet so many things, not the least of which has been my all-consuming quest, served as efficient camouflage behind which such treacherous emotions could hide.

Paranoia kept me blind. I’d been so preoccupied with squinting through its haze in search of that distant glimmer of truth, that I failed to notice when the truth took up residence at my side, blazing with light and warmth. Close enough to touch. Thawing the coldness of my heart so slowly that I didn’t register the change.

I’m not the most perceptive man when it comes to other people’s feelings. But I’m not so obtuse that I could miss the change that occurred this week.

That warmth I had neither noticed nor acknowledged began to withdraw.

I was left in the cold and forced to watch as my partner donned the mantle of truth-seeker and rushed off on a quest no less noble than my search for my sister. She closed herself off, wrapped herself in the false protection of distrust, and severed the lines of communication.

No one else would recognize the dangers in that. But I know, and with the knowledge comes a fear for her such as I’ve never felt for myself.

Of all the terrifying things I’ve seen, this frightens me most.

Dana Scully is becoming me.

— ❖ —

Part One

For 25 years I’ve pursued the truth like a pilgrim struggling toward an elusive mecca, persecuting myself along the way with questions about my sister’s disappearance and my father’s integrity. Three days ago, Scully was baptized into the same religion of self-destruction.

❖

She hadn’t said anything in over an hour. Not that extended silences between them were anything unusual. When they were both concentrating on their work, they could go the better part of a day with only nominal pleasantries exchanged.

But this time it was different. Her mind wasn’t on work at all. It was on the phone call.

She had been calmly explaining to him the medical impossibilities of a woman giving birth to a 60-pound baby girl, and reiterating her insistence that he stop believing the stories he read in “Weekly News of the Bizarre.” He was all set to turn to the next page in the tabloid and ask her opinion about the “Man-Eating Toad Terrorizing Salt Lake City,” when the phone rang.

The teasing smile she had been wearing had faded as she listened to the caller. “What kind of problem?” she had asked.

Subtle traces of worry began to show themselves on her face as she listened. “Well can’t you at least tell me —” Obviously the caller had interrupted. “9:00 tomorrow. That will be fine.”

Sliding from her perch on the edge of his desk, she had gently replaced the receiver on the phone, and walked back to her own side of the office. She didn’t immediately sit down; she just stood at her desk, plucking at files and papers with her fingers, looking at the bare wall in front of her.

“Scully?”

She didn’t answer.

“Scully, are you all right?”

She had turned her head and had given what was intended to be a reassuring nod of her head. He found the distant look in her eyes and the fact that she didn’t actually speak to be anything but reassuring.

He did, however, recognize the signals. After working so long with Dana Scully, he was well aware of the nonverbal message she was sending: she didn’t want to talk about it right now.

And he had respected that wish for the next hour. Not that it was easy. He had repeatedly quelled the impulse to go to her, shake her out of that damned emotionally-detached fog she was in, and demand that she tell him what was wrong.

A sigh from her side of the room finally broke the silence.

“I’m not getting anything done here, Mulder. I think I’m going to head home.” She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her briefcase. She was almost out the door before she spoke again, although she didn’t turn to look at him. “I’ll be late tomorrow. I have a meeting in Skinner’s office.”

“What’s going on, Scully?”

She glanced back over her shoulder, throwing him another expression of counterfeit confidence. “Nothing. Some sort of glitch in my security check. I just have to go in and answer a few questions. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Security alerts were rarely “nothing,” but he couldn’t imagine anything in her past that would set off alarms. She’d walked a little close to the edge of regulations a few times since being assigned to the X-Files, but those incidents and the resulting censures were well-documented. He tried to lighten the moment. “Don’t have any overdue library books, do you?”

He was inordinately pleased when she took the bait.

“Hmmm. Now that you mention it, I don’t think I ever returned that copy of the ‘Kama Sutra.’ Guess I’d better get home and search for it.”

“I’d be happy to lend you another pair of hands. You know, for the search.”

She let a genuine smile flit across her lips for an instant. “No, but thanks, Mulder. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what event in Scully’s background would adversely affect her security clearance, and whether or not she was serious about that overdue book.

❖

“Please have a seat, Agent Scully.”

Walter Skinner’s manner was, as always, just on the polite side of brusque, but Scully thought she saw something like concern undermining his austere expression as he ushered her to a chair at the conference table. Once she was seated he moved to the couch along the back wall of the room. Obviously he was in attendance as an observer but would not be participating in whatever was about to take place.

There were more people here than she had expected: half a dozen impeccably dressed bureaucrats, all holding expensive pens in their well-manicured hands. All ready to scribble their notes and pass judgment on her for misconduct that, even after a sleepless night of speculation, she could not identify.

She had always disliked the conference area in Assistant Director Skinner’s office. It was too dark. Made the people around the table seem shadowy and untrustworthy. As she scanned the pasty, somber faces of those in attendance, she thought perhaps the poor lighting was not entirely to blame for that perception.

The curiosity and worry that had been sparked by yesterday’s phone call had now evolved into seething impatience. It was at times like this that she found herself wishing she’d gone off to a small community to practice medicine. Someplace where the chain of command began and ended with her. For someone as innately forthcoming as Dana Scully, the procrastination and furtiveness of tight-lipped middle managers was nearly intolerable.

One of the men, a bland nondescript gentleman in a bland nondescript suit, spoke. His gaze had shifted between the paper before him and a point somewhere behind her. Never did his eyes meet hers and for a moment she wasn’t even sure that he was speaking to her. “Have you ever heard the name Vladamir Joureva?”

She did not answer immediately, but waited until several at the table looked up at her. With that small sense of victory bolstering her confidence, she spoke. “Not that I recall. In what context should I recognize the name?”

“He may have been using an alias. Does the name Paul Jordan mean anything to you?”

“No. I don’t think so. What is this about?”

“Do you recall if you’ve ever met Senator Warren Sullivan?”

Her supply of patience was rapidly dwindling. Verbal cat and mouse games might be enjoyable to some people. Never to her. She was poised to launch herself out of her chair and demand an explanation, but was pulled up short by a warning glance from Skinner. She willed herself to relax and draw a breath before answering. “My father mentioned him from time to time. They served together in the Navy. I don’t recall meeting him, but if I did, I was a child at the time.”

Her questioner nodded. For several interminable moments the room remained silent except for the scratchings of pens against paper. The next to speak was a prunish woman who was trying to counter the ravages of age with a trendy suit and too much eye shadow.

“Agent Scully, some information has been brought to light which, to be honest, we find disturbing.”

Dana Scully was gifted at deciphering puzzles, but she couldn’t find any way to connect the hints they had given her so far — a Russian with an alias and an old Navy buddy of her father’s who had achieved success in politics — much less determine how they were related to her.

“Two weeks ago,” prune-woman continued, “a diplomat from the Russian Republic was mugged outside his D.C. hotel. He was on his way to turn over some recently discovered Cold-War era papers to the State Department. In addition to the attache case holding these documents, his attacker also stole his wallet and jewelry. For that reason, the police determined that it had been an amateur robbery and the papers, most likely, discarded. That assumption was incorrect.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

The woman continued as if Scully had not spoken. “Yesterday, Senator Sullivan’s office, as well as the Bureau and the Pentagon, received photocopies of the documents in question and were given an opportunity to ‘bid’ on the originals. We, of course, have no intention of negotiating for the items, but the Russian diplomat has verified that the materials we received appear to be copies of the items he was carrying at the time of the theft.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Scully asked again, but without the sugar-coating of politeness she had used the last time.

“Are you certain, Agent Scully, that you don’t know Mr. Joureva?”

“Yes, I’m positive.”

“And you don’t recall making the acquaintance of Senator Sullivan.”

She growled the words, “No, not that I can recall.”

“Apparently, according to these documents, your father, along with the Senator, were quite friendly with Mr. Joureva and his associates in USSR for at least three years, beginning in 1955. To the point of selling American military secrets to the Soviets.”

Nothing in heaven or on earth would have kept Dana Scully sitting demurely in her chair at that moment. Not even the overt cautionary head-shake of Walter Skinner. “What the hell are you talking about. My father never, never betrayed his country. How dare you suggest such a thing.” Scully’s eyes blazed with her anger and she looked at each individual at the table in hopes that the truth of her words would burn into their consciousness.

Those who looked at her at all gave her only the most impassive of stares.

“I understand that this news might be upsetting to you, if, of course, it is news.” The accusation slithered from the woman’s mouth like a snake.

Scully planted her palms on the table and leaned forward toward her accuser. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Agent Scully, that we have reason to believe that your father was a traitor to his country. I’m further saying that until this allegation can be disproved, it casts a certain … shadow, let’s say, on your own integrity.”

A tone of desperation was creeping into her angry voice. “This is preposterous. Give me the information you have and I’ll follow up. I’ll prove that you’re wrong.”

Walter Skinner rose from his seat in the back and moved around to Scully’s side. He spoke gently, compassionately, but his words were cruel. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Until this matter is settled, your security clearance is being reduced to a clerical level. You’re on desk duty pending further review.”

She studied her boss, not trying to mask her expression of shock and rage. If anyone was being betrayed, it was her. If anyone was a traitor, it was the man who stood before her. A man whom she had respected and whom she believed respected her, and who was now participating in the destruction of her late father’s reputation and her own career. He seemed to shrink back just a little at her scrutiny, and she hoped it was because he was ashamed of what he was doing. “Will that be all, sir?”

Skinner glanced at the committee members at the table and, determining that no one had anything further to add, took Scully gently by the arm and led her to the outer office.

Once the door was closed behind him, he spoke to her in a whisper. “I’m sorry, Agent Scully. I know how much your father meant to you.”

She matched his quiet tone, but only to avoid giving the secretarial staff a lunchtime gossip topic. “You don’t know anything, sir. I would have expected more from you.”

“I tried to stall this meeting until we could get more information, but —”

“You evidently didn’t try hard enough. What am I supposed to tell my mother? That the man she loved, the father of her children, was a traitor to the very country he was supposedly serving for all those years he was away at sea? Wouldn’t she be justified to wonder if he had betrayed her as well? God knows, that sort of man would have been capable of anything. What’s an affair or two along the way for a man who would sell his country for a few bucks?”

“Agent Scully, that’s enough.”

“Have you checked that out, sir? Have you determined whether or not he was a faithful husband? Because the message I’m getting here is that if a man will betray his country, so surely will his children. You’d better make sure he doesn’t have a couple of illegitimate kids secreted away out there. Given enough Scullys, we could bring this country to its knees.” She was ranting, saying too much, and she knew it, but her anger was overriding her sense of decorum.

“Stop it!” Skinner clenched his jaw tight to keep from yelling at her and held up a silencing finger between them. “Just stop it. I’m not your enemy, Scully.”

The disbelief shone on her face.

“I’m not, no matter what you choose to believe right now. If your father is innocent —”

She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head at her and continued.

“If your father is innocent, the proper investigative branches will find the truth. What you do not need to do is go off on some kind of crusade. Your position is tenuous right now. Don’t make matters worse for yourself. You can continue to work, just not in the field, and don’t test me on that. If you screw up, I won’t be able to help you. Let me do my job. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. May I assume that it is all right to apprise my partner of the situation?”

“That’s fine, but this investigation is hands-off for Mulder as well. Don’t let him do your dirty work.”

“No, sir. I wouldn’t do that.”

She pivoted on her heel and strode out of the office, fully confident of only one thing. That nothing — not regulations, or Skinner’s pleas, or her own future in the FBI — would stop her from clearing her father’s name.

❖

The first signs were apparent as soon as she walked in the door the morning after her meeting with Skinner, and I damn hindsight for torturing me with the knowledge that I did nothing at the time.

She has this air about her when she’s walking through the halls of the headquarters building. A stony expression of self-assurance that tells everyone “I know where I’m going. Now get the hell out of my way.” I hear people talk about her sometimes. They misinterpret her professionalism as arrogance and assume that she’s unfriendly or inaccessible. I admit that I’ve never attempted to persuade them otherwise. I’ve selfishly enjoyed keeping the warmer, gentler Scully all to myself.

So I should have immediately sensed just how deeply wrong things were when it was the stone-cold touch-me-not agent who returned to our office after the meeting.

I made a few subtle attempts to get her to tell me what had transpired, but she wasn’t talking. She wasn’t working either. She just sat and stared at the family photo on her desk.

One of the things I’ve always liked about Scully is that she doesn’t ever try to cajole me into expressing my feelings. She is keenly attuned to my moods and knows when to give me some space to sort things out for myself. I was pretty proud of myself that day for being sensitive enough to do the same for her.

Only I’m discovering it wasn’t so much sensitivity as cowardice. She scares the crap out of me when she’s angry. I’m not afraid of any bodily injury she might inflict — well, not much. I’m pretty certain I could gain the advantage in a physical fight. But I’ve always been a little frightened that one day I would do the wrong thing at the wrong moment and she’d pack up her belongings and take one of those promotions that’s always being waved in front of her face. She has to have been tempted by the thought on countless occasions. There are any number of times when I’ve said or done things which were counterproductive to the partnership. But I swear I never did those things to hurt her or to push her away.

That day, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would be the one pushing me away if I tried to pry into her business.

In retrospect, I should have stood up and let her push and push until she was utterly exhausted. Then I could have drawn her into my arms and held her there until she knew that there was nothing in the world so strong as the two of us together.

I should have forced her to push.

Instead, I let her pull away so slowly that I didn’t notice the distance between us until it was too late.

— ❖ —

Part Two

Scully relies on facts. When we’re on a case she makes lists of them. She keeps a small notebook in her pocket that she can whip out at any time and read to me “the facts.”

Before Scully and I became partners, I often ignored, or at least skated around, the facts if they interfered with my theories. That’s not to say I wasn’t right from time to time. It’s just that now, with her to keep me grounded, I’m challenged to mold my theories to fit the actual facts of the case. She balances me, and with her I’m more successful than I ever was without her.

When it relates to our work, Scully doesn’t omit details. But in matters concerning her personal life, Scully is intensely private. Regardless of the significance of the events unfolding in her world, unless it directly affects our work, I’m likely to remain oblivious unless I stumble upon the information by accident.

It should have come as no surprise to me then, that when she told me about the investigation into her father’s alleged acts of treason, she was only telling me half the story. She shared what the committee had told her about the Soviet documents. She informed me of her restricted status. She told me of Skinner’s pledge to continue investigating the matter.

She did not tell me how angry she was. How desperate. She left out the part about conducting her own inquiry, despite direct orders to the contrary. Those things, evidently, were personal.

It hurt to discover she’d been shutting me out, and it is poor consolation to realize that I’ve often done the same thing to her.

I could tell she was distracted, but she maintained her composure so convincingly that I couldn’t see the turmoil boiling just below the surface. I might have gone on believing that she was patiently waiting for word from Skinner on the investigation’s outcome had I not been the one who answered the phone when Senator Sullivan returned her call.

❖

“The coffee was fresh, so I brought you another cup.”

“Thanks, Scully.” He didn’t glance up, but took the cup from her hand and set it in a small clearing on the cluttered work surface. He continued his pretend-study of the file on his desk and listened as she made her way across the office and sat down at her own desk.

“By the way, there was a call for you while you were gone.”

“Oh?” He thought it amazing that she could convey both hopefulness and wariness in one syllable.

“Senator Sullivan returned your call.”

“Did he leave a number?” Her attempt at nonchalance was laughable. He wondered if she really believed he wouldn’t push for an explanation.

“No, but he left his address.”

“What?”

He turned to face her at last. She was attempting to remain expressionless, but he knew her well enough to detect a hint of panic. “We’ve been invited to have dinner with him this evening. Very posh neighborhood. Remind me not to slurp my soup.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mulder. We are not going. Give me the address.” Panic was quickly replaced by fury as she rose and swiftly crossed back to his desk.

“No can do, I’m afraid. Did I forget to tell you? I’ve decided to save a tree so instead of writing down messages, I’m just storing them up here instead.” He tapped his forehead in demonstration.

“Okay then.” She grabbed a legal pad from his desk, ripped off the top sheet and handed it to him. “You write the address down, and when I come in tomorrow I’ll return the paper so you can recycle it.”

He stood and pulled the piece of paper from her fingers, letting it drift to the floor. Then he reached further and closed his hand around hers. She made a fist, as if by clenching her hand she could close herself off from the probing questions that were coming. Undeterred, he cradled her fist in one hand and caressed it with the other. “What are you doing, Scully?”

She watched their hands instead of looking him in the eye. “I just want to ask him some questions.”

“You know that Skinner told you to keep out of this. Just calling Sullivan could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“That’s rich, Mulder.” She made a little derisive noise that was part chuckle, part sniff. “You’re a great one to give advice on walking the straight and narrow with Skinner.”

“No one knows better than I what pisses him off, and I can guarantee that your little tete-a-tete with Sullivan will do it.”

She pulled her hand from his and started pacing around the small office. “If it does, it does. I’ve waited for two days. Nothing is happening.”

“Give it time.”

“How much time should I give? Long enough for them to destroy my career? Until they drum my brother out of the Navy? Should I wait until they take away my mom’s retirement benefits?”

“I won’t offer you platitudes, Scully, because we both know the truth doesn’t always prevail. But it’s barely been 48 hours. Maybe in a few more days —”

“I just need to do something.” She stopped. For a few seconds she kept her eyes downcast as if studying the pattern in the carpet, but slowly those eyes lifted to meet his. He was nearly knocked backward by the impact. “I have to do this. All I ask of you is that you not stand in the way. Please, Mulder.”

He had to turn away. She didn’t look at him like that very often, and for that he was grateful, because it rendered him completely powerless. When she chose to wield that particular weapon, there was nothing he could deny her.

“All right, Scully.”

He heard her move up behind him and felt her hand tug at his shoulder, persuading him to turn around. “Thank you.” All traces of her anger and frustration, the fear that he would try to stop her, had vanished. Bathed in a fluorescent glow, her upturned face took on the peaceful beauty reserved for Renaissance paintings of the Madonna.

He was loath to shatter the moment, yet that was exactly what he had to do. “But I’m still going with you.”

She drew back from him as if he had slapped her. “Damn it, Mulder. This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does if it concerns you.”

“This is my fight. I don’t want you involved.” He walked up to her and planted himself in her personal space. “Too bad.”

When she tried to step away, he snared her with an arm and drew her back to him. He felt tremors running through her body that had nothing to do with the intimacy of his embrace. If the rigidity of her frame and the coldness in her eyes were any gauge, they were more likely the manifestations of a temper on the verge of exploding. He met her accusing stare unflinchingly. He was willing to stand there with an armful of angry Scully all night if that’s what it took to crumble her defenses. Of course, there was a certain added appeal in the fact that her breasts brushed against his chest every time she inhaled. Finally she bowed her head in concession and he released her.

“Dinner’s at seven o’clock. I’ll pick you up at your place about 6:15. And I promise to be on my best behavior. You won’t even know I’m there.”

Scully gave him a doubtful look but returned to her work. She shouldered a grudge through the rest of the day, and yet he basked in the glow of victory. Even if she wasn’t speaking to him, she hadn’t left the office to seek refuge from his presence. Coming from Dana Scully, that was tantamount to a love letter.

❖

She’d been in some lovely homes in her life, but no residence she’d ever seen could compare to this. This was the essence of opulence and excess. The kind of home that had an air of “old money.” The grounds were impeccable down to the last detail. The flower beds lining the walk were a perfect mix of color and texture. The lawn was lush and green, even while most other yards in the area were withering in the summer heat. Towering white columns graced the front of the house and framed a huge, solid mahogany door.

She knocked, and as she awaited an answer, found herself regretting that there was such an unpleasant reason for the visit. Under other circumstances she would have enjoyed strolling around the grounds, touring what would undoubtedly be an exquisitely decorated interior, and hearing stories about her father’s Navy days from his old friend.

Certainly she couldn’t have asked for a more handsome escort for the evening, although she kept that observation to herself, lest Mulder suspect that the attitude of resentment she was maintaining at his intrusion was not genuine. Even though he was dressed in clothing comparable in style to his regular workaday attire, he had chosen his finest dark suit and a tasteful tie. His shirt was pressed and pristinely white. She wondered if he might have purchased it just for the occasion. It looked brand new.

She herself wore a suit, but unlike her typical choices which were made with durability in mind, this had been selected because she liked how the midnight blue shimmered in the light and the sensual feel of silk when she slid her hand over the fabric. It had been a foolish and impulsive purchase, because she had never found an opportunity to wear it. Standing at the entrance of this mansion, she was very glad it had been available to make its debut this evening. Mulder seemed to appreciate her appearance, even if he hadn’t actually said as much. He had looked her over rather carefully when she answered her door, and he’d found more than the usual number of excuses to touch her. Perhaps he enjoyed the feel of the silk as much as she did. Perhaps it was for an entirely different reason, but that was something she wasn’t equipped to ponder at the moment.

Scully had expected the door to be answered by a tuxedoed butler, not by Senator Sullivan dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and chinos. Fortunately, she had seen him often enough on the news and in magazine photos that she didn’t embarrass herself by mistaking him for a servant.

“Good evening, Senator. I’m Agent Dana Scully, and this is my partner, Fox Mulder.” She extended her hand to him and he took it enthusiastically.

“My God, you’re Bill Scully’s little girl?”

“Yes sir.”

“It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Scully. Your father was a very dear friend to me.” He released her hand and reached to shake Mulder’s. “Mr. Mulder. Please, come in.”

As expected, the interior of the house was a showplace. The furniture, the artwork on the walls, the accent pieces placed here and there, were all perfectly suited to their environment. No dust or clutter encroached upon the perfection. She and Mulder took the seats the Senator offered on an antique sofa in his study, even though Scully felt guilty for squashing the plumped-up cushions. No doubt some servant would come running to repair the damage as soon as they stood again.

“Can I get you a drink?” Sullivan gestured to a small bar in the corner, but both agents declined the offer. As he went about preparing a drink for himself, Scully studied him. He was in excellent shape, especially for a man in his late sixties. In fact, if she hadn’t known better, she would have guessed him to be at least ten years younger. His greying hair was thick and wavy and the lines on his face enhanced rather than detracted from his appearance.

Scully was struck by how down-to-earth the man seemed. She could understand why her father had liked him. For all his wealth and influence, Senator Sullivan didn’t give off the impression of a man spoiled by success. But she reminded herself that politicians were adept at manipulating their audience and, despite her impulse to trust her father’s friend, she decided to reserve judgment for a while longer.

Sullivan settled into a leather chair opposite the agents and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Whether it was by accident or design, his body language was expressing his anxiousness to discuss their mutual problem. “I must tell you, Agent Scully, that I was very glad you called.”

“Dana,” she corrected.

“Dana. This thing is just a nightmare. I know you already know this, but there is absolutely no truth to this allegation.”

Scully nodded. She had never doubted the fact, but it was still nice to hear Sullivan’s reassurance.

“You may not be aware of this, but the party is seriously considering me as a candidate for the Presidency in 2000. I suspect this is all part of a carefully designed plot to dissuade me from running. Unfortunately, your father’s name somehow got mixed into the whole mess to make the story sound more convincing. I suppose it would have been too convenient a story if mine was the only name mentioned. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.”

Mulder, true to his promise, had remained silent. Scully slid a glance in his direction, hoping to read from his expression whether or not he believed Sullivan’s story. Her partner, though, seemed more interested in the painting above the mantel than in the conversation.

“You say this may be politically motivated. If so, why would the individual with these documents be trying to blackmail you? Why not just publish the information?”

“I’ve thought about that, Dana. They’ve offered to sell the documents to the State Department and to the FBI. Now anyone with an ounce of sense would know those agencies would never agree to that sort of deal. I, on the other hand, might be tempted to pay to suppress the evidence, rather than let that kind of information go public. If my political enemies had proof that I paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to cover up evidence of my treason, my career would be over in an instant. Once these people, whoever they are, become convinced that I won’t succumb to their blackmail attempt, I’ve no doubt the information will be offered up to the press.”

His story sounded plausible, even likely, given the volatile atmosphere of politics. It seemed as if there was always some juicy new scandal in the papers diverting the public’s attention from the more important issues of taxation or welfare. She wished there was some consolation she could offer, but she couldn’t even promise to expend her best effort as an investigator. Not as long as she was trapped behind a desk in the Bureau basement. “I’m afraid I haven’t been given much access to information about the case, but I’ll certainly keep you informed of any progress made.”

“I appreciate that. Justine — my wife — she’s been terribly upset by this. It’s difficult being married to a public figure under the best of circumstances. I thought about not telling her at all, you know, until everything blew over, but she figured out right away that something was wrong. I got the whole lecture about not keeping secrets from the people who love me.”

Scully sensed without looking that Mulder’s attention had rejoined the conversation and that he was watching and waiting for her response to Sullivan’s last statement. “Well, I’m sure you were handling things the way you felt you needed to, and I’m sure she respects that.”

“I’m not so certain respect for me actually entered her mind when she was calling me a stubborn, pig-headed fool.”

Mulder chuckled a little under his breath, just loudly enough for Scully to hear.

“Speaking of Justine, she’ll be wanting to get on with dinner. Shall we?” The Senator stood and motioned for the agents to precede him out of the study and down the hall to the dining room.

❖

Justine Sullivan was prime First Lady material. She was gracious, poised, charming and beautiful. Scully guessed that she was younger than her husband by at least twenty years, but she wasn’t a bimbo that Sullivan had selected as a wife merely for her decorative appeal. The statuesque brunette possessed a keen intelligence. Her every word and gesture painted a picture of the perfect, devoted mate.

Scully wasn’t convinced. There was a vaguely perceptible air of falseness surrounding the woman, as if she were performing a role for her guests rather than reacting sincerely. It was a kind of artificiality that seemed to beguile men, but that another woman could sense almost immediately.

During dinner, Mulder and the Senator had discovered their shared interest in basketball, and the Senator had offered her partner a viewing of his prized collection of autographed basketball memorabilia. Sullivan had displayed a little of the chauvinism common in men his age when he suggested that she and Justine stay behind to enjoy some tea and gossip. In truth, Scully was glad for the opportunity to speak with the woman in the Senator’s absence. Mulder had seemed surprised when she agreed to the arrangement so readily, but eagerly followed the Senator from the room, lured by the temptation of a basketball utopia.

Settling back in her chair, Scully adopted a more casual demeanor for their chat.

“You have a beautiful home, Justine. Did you decorate it yourself?”

Scully noticed Justine visibly stiffen when her husband left them alone, but the woman answered politely. “For the most part, yes. The house has been in Warren’s family for generations. We’re fortunate that our home state is adjacent to D.C., so we can live here year round and don’t have to maintain two households. I’ve been able to put all my time and design experience into fixing up this place.”

“So, you’re a designer?”

“I was. For ten years, until I married Warren. In fact, I met him when he contracted my firm to update this house.”

“What made you give it up?”

Justine smiled, but it was more condescending than sweet. “You have no idea what it’s like being married to a politician, do you?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“It becomes your life. There’s no room for anything else.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

Justine looked questioningly at Scully. “Sometimes. Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not sure it’s a choice I ever could have made in the first place. My career means a great deal to me.”

Justine’s chin raised in a gesture of aloofness although her words lacked the confidence she meant to inflect. “There are more important things than a career.”

“Yes, there are.”

“I came to that realization when I met Warren, and I knew that I needed to share my life with someone. Otherwise whatever success I might find was meaningless.”

Now it was Scully’s turn to cast a speculative eye on Justine. She recognized the well-rehearsed proclamation of “love above all else” for what it was: a public relations sound bite.

“What about you, Dana? Is there anything for which you would be willing to sacrifice your career?” What a polite little dance: both women, acutely aware of their mutual distrust, trying to learn each other’s weakness through small talk.

“I’m sure there are any number of things. Right now, though, the most important thing to me is finding out who is behind the lies about my father. I won’t be able to rest until I know.”

“And if it costs you your career?”

“I hope that it won’t come to that, but if it does, it will be worth the loss just to be able to prove that my father wasn’t a traitor.”

Justine raised her cup in salute. “Well then, here’s hoping your search for the answers doesn’t exact too painful a sacrifice.”

Scully ignored the thinly veiled warning and swallowed her retort along with the last sip of her tea. She heard Mulder returning and excused herself, anxious not only to part company with Mrs. Sullivan, but to get home so she could research the woman’s background.

With as hasty a farewell as courtesy allowed, she bid the Senator a good evening and ushered her partner out the door.

She was practically jogging to the car when Mulder caught up with her. “Wait up, Cinderella. It’s not even close to midnight yet. What’s the hurry?”

She forced herself to slow down. “No hurry. I just think we got everything we could from the Senator. Have to get home and get my beauty sleep if I’m going to tackle another mountain of paperwork tomorrow.”

He hooked her elbow with his hand and pulled her around so he could see her face. “Are you sure there isn’t something else?”

“I’m sure, Mulder. Really. Now let’s get going before our coach turns into a pumpkin.”

She walked ahead and sensed that he was hesitating. Damn him for knowing her too well. She just prayed that he’d let it go. She needed to get home, get comfortable, and start her investigation on Justine Sullivan. With nothing more than intuition guiding her, she felt certain that the path to the truth would lead her right back to Justine. Involving Mulder at this point, she told herself, would be premature. Once she had more to go on, she’d share her suspicions with him. Propped up by her self-deception she was able to cast a teasing look back at her partner. “Coming, my prince?”

He launched himself forward and was at her side in two quick strides. Taking her hand and laying it in the crook of his arm, he squired her down the brick pathway to the car.

❖

I knew she was keeping something from me as soon as we left the Sullivan mansion, but I let her get away with it. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because we’d spent the better part of the day at odds, and I sensed she was finally warming up to me again. If I’d tried to force an explanation from her that evening, she would have withdrawn.

Naively, I had thought that if I was patient, she would come to me with whatever was bothering her. She was quiet during the ride home. Quiet, but not relaxed. She was concentrating on something and I assumed she would share whatever theory she was concocting when it gelled into a cohesive whole.

I blame myself for what happened next. I had allowed myself to become too distracted in watching her as she stepped gracefully from my car, and not vigilant enough in watching out for her as she crossed the street.

Perhaps if I’d been more observant of the surroundings and not lost in visions of how beautiful she’d looked that night, I might have seen the danger approaching.

Instead of letting my imagination whisper its fantasies in my ear, I should have listened for the squealing of tires.

My mouth, tingling from a daydream about what she would have done if I’d kissed her goodnight, should have been shouting a warning.

So in the end, I’m as much to blame as the driver of the car that hit her.

— ❖ —

Part Three

My heart stopped until I was certain that hers had not.

❖

Even as she was trying to sit up, he was gently pushing her back to the ground. “Scully, stay still.”

He reached for his cell phone with one hand while the other held her shoulder in an effort to keep her immobile. Twisting from his grasp, she pulled the phone from his hand before he could dial the first digit. “I’m fine, Mulder. I told you.”

By her tone he could tell she was getting angry, but he was more interested in preserving her health than her mood. “We’ll let the paramedics decide that.”

“I’ll thank you to remember that I am a doctor. I would tell you if I needed to go to the hospital.”

“Scully —”

She laid the phone beside her and reached up to brush a hand across his lapel. “Please. I just want to go inside.”

It was too dark to adequately assess her condition, but the streetlight afforded enough illumination for him to see the pleading look in her eyes. “Still, I should call this in. It was a hit and run. We have to report it.”

“Did you get the license number?”

He shook his head.

“Then I’m not sure what good it will do to call.”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“It could have been an accident.”

“Is that what you believe?”

She didn’t have to answer. In their profession, and especially because of their involvement with the X-Files, it was always safer to assume that someone was out to get them. The phone call could wait, he decided. And if she was going to be obstinate about getting medical attention, he at least wanted to get her to a more comfortable environment. He pocketed the phone and tried to slide his arms beneath her so he could carry her into the building.

She squirmed angrily away. “Damn it, Mulder. Let me go.”

He stood back and let her manage on her own, even though it was difficult to watch her struggle to her feet. He made a mental note of Scully’s aversion to being carried, deciding not to try it again unless circumstances gave him no other choice.

Mulder followed behind his partner as she limped toward the building entrance. Although it was evident from the careful way she was walking that she was in pain, he didn’t offer any further assistance. He decided to wait until she asked.

True to form, she didn’t ask, even as she made an achingly slow climb up the entry stairs. It wasn’t until they reached her door and her shaking hand refused to still long enough to insert the key into the lock, that she surrendered a little of her control and handed the key to him. Another time he might have teased her for her stubbornness. It hardly seemed appropriate in the wake of the near-tragedy only a few minutes before.

She led the way into the apartment and switched on the overhead light. The brightness revealed what had been hidden by the darkness outside and the dim lighting in the hallway.

Scully was a mess. Her clothing was torn; there was blood staining the sleeve of her jacket. A long scrape, which started somewhere on the portion of thigh hidden by her skirt, ripped down to her ankle.

Mulder took it all in as his gaze swept down her body, but since she was turned away from him, he was seeing only half the picture.

“You can go home now, Mulder. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” She remained standing with her back to him and he had to walk around her to see her face. Her exquisite features had been spared the insult of scrapes and bruises, but her eyes reflected the terror of being lifted into the air and tossed back to the ground by a ton of speeding metal.

Mulder was sure that fear shone vividly from his own eyes. The image of her motionless body lying in the street was forever burned into his vision.

“Did you hit your head?”

She lowered her face and shook her head. “No. I don’t think so. I just need to get cleaned up and I’ll be okay.”

Unconvinced, he lifted her chin with a gentle finger so he could more closely examine her. There was a tiny bruise right at her hairline that he’d missed at first glance. He touched it lightly and she flinched. He whispered the words: “I’m sorry.”

His fingers drifted back into her hair and he delicately traced them over her head, ostensively to check for hidden injuries. But there was another reason. As he stood before her, feeling her hair caress his hands, watching as her body relaxed under his touch until her eyes drifted closed, he was exorcising the terrible demon that had forced him to watch as a car slammed into her, hurling her to the pavement before speeding away in the darkness. He was reliving those eternal seconds that he’d spent urging his weakened legs to run through the quagmire of his own fear to reach her side.

In a gesture meant to comfort her and reassure him, he pulled her forward until she was pressed against him. One hand continued to stroke her hair and the other slid down her back to draw her even closer.

“Mulder.” She spoke his name on the breath of a sigh: a softly uttered prayer. There was gratitude there, colored with a hint of request. Although he heard her, he chose to pretend otherwise just to revel in her presence for a few seconds longer.

“Mulder, I’m getting blood on your clothes.”

When he considered all he could have lost, but that happenstance or divine intervention had chosen to spare, he couldn’t help but smile. “I don’t care, Scully. It’s just a suit.”

At that, and only for a moment, she doffed the armor of professional distance, leaned into his body, and allowed him to shelter her in his arms. He was bathed in the sweetness of the rare intimacy. The insistent, nagging voice in his head that warned him of the dangers inherent in needing her too much, was for once, hushed. Mulder buried his face in her hair and unthinkingly tightened his embrace. At her slight hiss of pain, he immediately released her and stumbled back.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but she spoke first, her voice roughened by pain and, he wondered, if maybe by a bit of suppressed emotion. “I’m okay, Mulder. Just a few cuts and bruises. I’ll feel better after a shower.” She walked toward her bedroom, leaving Mulder standing in the middle of her living room, unsure of whether he should leave or stay.

She made the decision for him when she stopped at the doorway and turned around. She looked uncharacteristically timid and kept her focus away from him. “Could you . . I may need some help bandaging the cuts on my back. Do you think . . ?”

Mulder fought the temptation to bound across the room and kiss her until the pain was a distant memory. For some reason, her asking him for first aid seemed a major breakthrough in their relationship. Deciding it would be prudent not to appear overeager, he stayed put. “I’d be happy to. Do you want anything to drink? I could fix us something while you’re getting cleaned up.”

“No, thanks. But help yourself to anything I’ve got.”

He was glad for her unintentional innuendo. It transplanted the heightened awareness of each other to more familiar ground. She did look at him then, in time to witness his overtly comic leer. She shook her head, softly groaned at his absurd display, and left the room.

❖

He breathed a sigh of relief when she returned. Her wounds, once cleaned of blood and dirt, appeared much less serious. Smears of ointment covered the abrasions on her arms and legs. Small bandages dressed the deeper cuts. She had managed to competently tend to those injuries, but he was still anxious to check her back. He needed to do that for her, perhaps even more than she needed to have it done. The emotional wound that began tearing at him the instant she hit the ground, would be healed only when he

was convinced she was well.

“So, did you bring the bandages? You know, you’re mighty lucky I make house calls.”

“That’s okay. The cuts aren’t as bad as I thought they were.” Apparently, at the same time she was treating the physical damages, she was also repairing the barriers he had temporarily destroyed.

Not to be dissuaded, Mulder took her by the hand and led her to the sofa. “You know I have great confidence in your ability as a physician, but even you can’t see your own back.” He positioned her so that she was sitting sideways on the couch, facing away from him.

“Mulder, I don’t think —”

“Shhh. Let me do this.”

She acquiesced, although the tension in her body was unmistakable. She had put on a pair of loose shorts and an old, soft t-shirt after her shower. It was apparel chosen for comfort rather than allure, and yet Mulder’s heart sped up a little as he lifted the hem of her shirt.

The sensation of arousal, while not surprising given that he was, for all intents and purposes, undressing a woman he found to be particularly beautiful, was unwelcome under the circumstances. He stomped down on the urge to touch her in any but the most clinical of ways, and concentrated on the task at hand.

As he uncovered her lower back, he found a red mark on the right side that would likely darken into a bruise, but the skin had not been broken. Inch after inch of bare, pale skin was revealed as he pulled her shirt slowly higher. The perfection was interrupted by an occasional small scratch or bruise, but he thought perhaps she had been correct: that her back had received only superficial injuries.

Attempting to lift the fabric a bit higher, he felt some resistance and realized she was tugging her shirt down in front. He assumed it was for modesty’s sake. After all, she wasn’t wearing a bra. He recognized her vulnerability in that situation, even though he knew she trusted him not to take advantage.

But the real reason for her protest became clear when he uncovered what she had been trying to hide. An angry, jagged laceration tore across her shoulder blade. The bleeding had stopped, and she had somehow managed to clean it, but it would be physically impossible for her to apply the bandage it so obviously needed.

“Damn it, Scully. You should have told me it was this bad. Are you sure you don’t need stitches?”

She was still trying to pull her shirt down. “It’s fine.”

“If you say so, but you do understand that I won’t leave here until I’ve taken care of that cut, so you may as well save yourself the trouble of arguing.” He let go of her shirt and stood, positioning himself so he could see her face, and more importantly, so she could see how absolutely serious he was. “Now. Where are the bandages?”

Surprisingly, she didn’t seem all that angry with him. He suspected the perturbed tone she used to direct him to the first aid kit was a pride-preserving mechanism. That was fine with him. He would allow her that. Just as long as she allowed him to play “doctor” for a while longer.

Once the cut was bandaged, Mulder spent a few uncomfortable minutes playing “cop.” He insisted that she try to recall the details of the incident while they were fresh in her mind. Unfortunately, her recollection, while clear, did not provide any clues to the identity of the driver. And while there were any number of people who might harbor some resentment toward her — from Ted in Accounting whose dinner invitation she had refused, to the men and women who were serving extended prison sentences thanks to her skill as an investigator — not one of them stood out as the most likely suspect.

They discussed the possibility that it could be related to the treason investigation of Senator Sullivan and her father. Given the fact, though, that she had no official access to the case and her extracurricular investigation had resulted in little more than a pleasant dinner with the Senator and his wife, there was no logical motive for anyone to target Scully.

Mulder tried a few other questioning techniques, in the hope of jarring loose some memory that might give them a direction to follow, but her patience wore thin and she made it clear that she had told him all she remembered. If she recalled anything else, she vowed he would be the first to know. Out of respect for her, and because she looked completely exhausted, he dropped the subject.

By 11:30, he’d run out of excuses to stay, so after making her promise to go to bed as soon as he left, he bid her goodnight and went directly to their office to begin what was ultimately a night of fruitless database searches.

If she hadn’t been so weary from her ordeal, she might have have taken the time to inquire about his plans. She never would have assumed he was going straight home for a good night’s rest. She was rarely that imperceptive, and the fact that she let him out the door without some sort of admonishment was proof of how badly she’d been shaken.

While he had intended to spend the night tracking down the person responsible for Scully’s injuries, he quickly discovered it wouldn’t be easy. The darkness would have made it difficult, even without the distraction of his fallen partner, to determine the make or model of the car. They were both fairly certain it had been a black sedan, but with only those sketchy parameters, the vehicle locator had found tens of thousands of cars matching that description in the D.C. area. It would be impossible to glean any sort of suspect list without more specific details.

He did recall one significant feature of the car; its license plate had been removed. That confirmed that the responsible party wasn’t some drunken businessman who had fled the scene in fear of the legal reprisals of his actions. Whoever had hurt Scully had done so deliberately.

From there, Mulder was able to conclude something else. The driver of the car hadn’t been trying to kill her. The measures that had been taken to thwart identification were hallmarks of a professional hit. If this person had wanted her dead, she would be lying in a morgue right now, instead of safely tucked in her own bed.

No. It wasn’t a bungled attempt at murder.

It was a warning.

❖

She turned off the alarm ten minutes before it was set to ring. The drag of starchy sheets over the raw flesh of her leg had been more than a sufficient wake-up call.

Running through a quick assessment of her condition as she hobbled toward the bathroom, she noted that the sting of the cuts and scrapes had lessened overnight, but now her muscles were bitterly complaining about the abuse they had sustained. Even the most innocuous of movements was difficult, as if she had to put extra concentration into getting her limbs to do her bidding.

Despite efforts to keep to her regular morning routine, Scully found herself falling behind schedule. In her opinion, her body’s lack of cooperation couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time. She had much she wanted to accomplish, including some excavation into Justine Sullivan’s past. That task was her first priority. In spite of what she had indicated to Mulder, intuition was telling her that Justine, while not necessarily the driver, was the driving force behind last night’s incident.

Forgoing her normal breakfast of toast and fruit, Scully sat down only long enough for a few sips of coffee and to peruse the headlines of the morning paper.

But what she discovered when she opened the newspaper radically altered her plans for the day.

For the first time in her professional career, Dana Scully was lying when she called in sick.

❖

The woman behind the counter appeared utterly unimpressed with Scully’s credentials. No doubt this matriarch of the reception desk had daily encounters with angry subscribers, persistent salespeople and pushy young journalism students looking for a job. Her sour disposition and stern countenance would be effective deterrents to all but the most determined of visitors.

“Who’d you want to see again?”

“Barry Lucerne.”

“And I assume you have an appointment with Mr. Lucerne?”

“No. But it’s urgent that I speak to him.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t sound at all sorry. “Mr. Lucerne doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

“I don’t think you understand, Miss …”

“Mrs. Mrs. Nadine Pollard. And I do understand. You’re going to tell me this is an official call and Mr. Lucerne should drop everything to accommodate you. I’m sure the badge frightens most people into doing just that. But, of course, as an investigative journalist, Mr. Lucerne is used to being badgered by the police and he is well aware of when it is in his best interest to speak with them, and when it is not.”

The instinct was the grab this unpleasant woman around her skinny little neck, and demand that she point the way to Barry Lucerne’s office. If her years with Mulder had taught her nothing else, though, Scully had learned the art of restraint. “I certainly appreciate that Mr. Lucerne would want to be cautious, but —”

“Nadine?”

Scully was interrupted when a handsome sandy-haired man leaned up against the counter beside her. He was speaking to the receptionist, but his appraising eyes never left Scully.

“Are you trying to keep this lovely woman from seeing me?”

“I was explaining to Agent Scully that —”

“Agent? As in FBI? I’m impressed. Usually law enforcement agencies send some burly guy who looks like he’s OD’d on testosterone. Probably just to shake me up. But I have to tell you, this is a much better tactic because I’m shaking already.”

Her restraint reserves were perilously close to depletion, but she managed to keep the disgust out of her voice when she responded to the reporter. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the series you plan to publish next week. It will only take a few minutes.”

“I’ll probably regret this. Nadine, give the lady a visitor’s pass.”

Scully felt a measure of satisfaction at having evaded the troll at the reception desk, although she wasn’t particularly pleased that it was her looks and not her professionalism that had given her the advantage. The defeated Nadine made a last ditch effort to humiliate her, pushing the pass at Scully so forcefully that it slid off the edge of the counter. For the first time that day the agent’s sore muscles obeyed her wishes without argument and she was able to snag the piece of plastic before it tumbled to the floor. She clipped the visitor’s tag on her lapel, smiled sweetly at the glowering Mrs. Pollard, and followed Barry Lucerne through the busy hallways of the Washington Chronicle.

❖

It was a line I thought she wouldn’t cross.

I was so certain she understood the turning point we had reached the day before. We had agreed that it was okay to ask for help; that it could be given and accepted without fear of rejection. I was sure she knew that whatever she was feeling about the accusations against her father, she could express it to me. And that any further nosing around in the case, however ill-advised it might be, should be done together.

No, we’d never actually spoken the words, but I hadn’t thought they were necessary. We had always communicated that way — letting looks and touches say what we were afraid to verbalize. It is, sadly, not the flawless system I had believed it to be.

Scully had called in sick. Scully never calls in sick — not for a cold, not for the flu, and certainly not for a few bumps and bruises. A call like that, coming while her father was under investigation for treason, made the timing of her illness suspiciously convenient. That, combined with the fact that she had a personnel clerk deliver the message rather than call me directly, set off all the alarms.

I’m a man with a reputation for operating on instinct, but this time I desperately wanted to be wrong. Even as I drove to her apartment, I was trying to convince myself that she hadn’t done it.

I was so determined to believe her, that I stopped on the way and bought her some chicken soup as a get-well gesture. Only I think I needed the soup more than she did, because when I arrived at her apartment, the truth of the situation was nauseatingly clear. I had been ditched.

— ❖ —

Part Four

If this is her idea of payback, the timing stinks.

Maybe there’s never a right time for being left behind to wait and worry. All I know is that her absence leaves me alone with a myriad of unpleasant emotions, each one visiting me like a ghost from a Dickens tale and leaving its mark on my soul.

Anger came first. When I arrived to find her gone, I was livid. Here was incontrovertible proof that the person I trust above all others had lied. The damp towel by the shower, the cosmetics strewn on the counter, the half-empty cup of coffee on the kitchen table: these were evidence of her deceit. Not only was she well enough to leave the house, she was well enough to drink a cup of that awful hazelnut blend she prefers.

I spent the next half-hour cleaning up the soup I had angrily thrown across her kitchen. That’s when the guilt set in. Very little of my self-blame had to do with the fact that soup was dripping down the front of her cabinets onto her spotless tile floor. It was focused on the disturbing realization that I’d never given her a reason to come to me with a personal concern. Is it any wonder she might doubt my dedication to her, when I’ve only talked about my dedication to the X-Files and the search for my sister?

But worst of all was the fear I felt when I overheard the message being left on her answering machine. I heard the phone ring, then Scully’s clear voice politely ask the caller to leave a message, but I couldn’t reach the phone before the caller, in a menacing, distorted voice, delivered his threat and hung up.

A stranger has put into words my worst nightmare and I can do nothing but sit and wait and try for the twentieth time to reach her on her cell phone. In the meantime, I have plenty of time to contemplate the possibility that Dana Scully is out there somewhere, dying from a gunshot wound — alone — while the man who should have been protecting her was wiping up chicken soup.

How could I have been such a coward? I’ve never told her how deeply I care for her for fear that if I did, she would leave me. Yes, she lied to me today. So what? I’ve been lying to her for years.

It might cost us our partnership, our friendship, or it might bring us together in a way I dream about nearly every minute of every day. Most importantly, it might save her life. Whatever the outcome, the pretense is going to end the moment she walks through that door. Whether she likes it or not, Dana Scully will know the truth.

❖

The average reporter at the Washington Chronicle worked at a small desk in the midst of a sea of other small desks in the middle of a huge, noisy newsroom. A select few occupied the offices on the newsroom perimeter, but only the “stars” had windows. Barry Lucerne had the corner office.

Scully knew of his reputation for no-holds-barred reporting; it hadn’t won him any friends in Washington power circles, but it had won him countless journalism awards. Lives had been shattered by Barry Lucerne’s words, and now she was at his mercy. There was little comfort to be taken from the thought.

He cleared some papers from the guest chair and motioned for her to sit. “Coffee?”

Thus far Mr. Lucerne had been a solicitous host. Certainly he was attractive with his tanned skin, light hair and green eyes in mesmerizing combination. Yet there was an air of lechery about him that Scully instantly despised. Her typical response would be to hold him at bay with the same chilly detachment that worked so well for her in similar situations. In this case, however, she found it necessary to swallow her pride and smile prettily, even if it made her face hurt. “No, thank you.”

“Wise decision.” He purposely raised his voice so as to be heard by the young man sitting at the desk just outside the office. “The intern makes coffee that tastes like toxic sludge.”

“Up yours, Lucerne,” was the intern’s reply.

The reporter closed the door and settled into the leather chair behind his desk. “They love me around here.”

“I can tell.”

“So, you said you wanted to talk to me about next week’s column?”

“Today’s advertisement implies you’ve discovered evidence that a powerful U.S. Senator was once a spy for the Communists. May I assume the ‘spy’ to whom you refer is Senator Sullivan?”

“Somehow I don’t think that was just a lucky guess.” His voice lost some of its slippery charm.

“I have reason to believe he’s being set up.”

“There are documents that say he’s a traitor.”

“Could I see those documents?”

“Look, Agent … what was your name again?”

“Scully. Dana Scully.”

“Agent Scully. Unless you have something to …” His voice trailed off and he leaned forward, looking at her intently. She knew the game was up.

“Well, I’ll be damned. This isn’t a Bureau matter at all, is it?”

“The Bureau is conducting an investigation.”

“But something tells me you aren’t on the team. Of course, it could just be an incredible coincidence that the investigating agent shares a last name with one of the co-conspirators against the government. Is that all it is, Agent Scully? A coincidence?”

“No, Mr. Lucerne. William Scully was my father. And I can tell you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was never disloyal to his country.”

“So this was your idea, or did Daddy send his sexy little daughter down here to persuade me to pull my column?”

She bristled at the suggestion. “My father is deceased, and no one sent me. I’m here because someone is using you, Mr. Lucerne, and if you follow through with this column, a lot of innocent people will be hurt.”

“Including you, I’ll bet. The FBI probably frowns on employing traitors, or their family members.”

“My father was not a traitor.”

“According to my source, he was.”

“Your source is misleading you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think so. I consider my source unimpeachable. Believe me, this person has as much to lose as you, maybe more, yet is providing me with proof anyway. You, on the other hand, have entirely selfish motives.”

“You say your source is providing the proof? Does this mean you aren’t yet in possession of this evidence?”

“I think I’ve said all I care to about the matter, Agent Scully. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Lucerne stood and gestured to the door. “I would say it’s been a pleasure, but it wasn’t nearly as pleasurable as I had hoped.”

She handed him her business card as she passed. “Be careful who you trust, Mr. Lucerne. There are very few selfless people out there.”

“I’ve managed to survive on my instincts for this long, Agent Scully. There’s no advice you could give me that I don’t already know.”

“So I guess I’m wasting my breath in reminding you to look both ways before crossing the street. Have a good day.”

Scully left the reporter standing in the doorway of his office, no doubt trying to solve the riddle of her parting comment. She made her way through the maze of desks, down the corridor and to the reception area. She unclipped her visitor’s pass and slid it, just a little too forcefully, across the counter to Nadine. She heard it hit the floor as she exited the building.

❖

Barry Lucerne waited until the agent was out of sight before he slipped back inside his office, closed the door, and dialed the number he had been told to use only in an emergency. He figured this qualified.

The phone rang just once before it was answered.

“It’s me. I think we have a problem.”

❖

When he heard the key turn in the lock, he immediately ran to the door and yanked it open. She stumbled forward in surprise.

“Mulder. What … what are you doing here?”

He looked her over. She wasn’t sick, nor was she injured — just her usual perfectly polished self. No longer held down by the weight of worry, his anger bubbled back to the surface. “I came over to see if you were feeling better.”

She waved vaguely behind her. “I was just —”

“But you seem to have made a miraculous recovery.”

“This is not —”

“Not what, Scully? Not what it seems? I hope not, because it seems like you lied about being sick so you could go off for some solo investigating.”

She pushed by him and proceeded with her just-home-from-work ritual — shuffling through mail, taking off her jacket, removing her gun — as if he wasn’t even there, even after he kicked her door closed with wall-jarring impact.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” He took a step toward her and spoke in an furious whisper.

At least, when she finally glanced up at him, she had the good sense to look guilty. “Mulder —”

Another step. Louder. “Tell me.”

“I don’t—”

Another step. “Tell me!”

“Then let me finish a sentence, for God’s sake.”

“Why? So you can lie to me again?”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“No. Not directly. You sent a clerk to deliver your lie. That doesn’t absolve you.”

“Fine.” She crossed the short distance to her front door and swung it open. “I was following up on a lead in my father’s case. Now you know the truth, and now you can leave.”

Although he had clearly been dismissed, he had no intention of leaving. They stared at each other for a time, playing a child’s game of seeing who would blink first. Eventually, it was Scully who ended it when she shut the door and resumed her busywork.

He said nothing else until she reached for the play button on her answering machine. “Let me save you the trouble. Someone, either with a device to disguise his voice or with a real unfortunate speech impediment, called to warn you off of your investigation.”

“It could have been a prank.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure that’s it. Probably the same practical joker who tried to amuse you by running you down with his car.”

Still turned away from him, she planted one hand on her hip and tried to rub the tension out of her neck with the other. “I won’t go into hiding, Mulder, if that’s what you want.”

Moving in behind her, he nudged her hand out of the way with his own and took over as masseur: a peace offering of sorts. “I’m not asking you to. I’m only asking that you not make yourself an easy target.” He pulled her around to face him, softening his admonishing words with gentle, smoothing strokes of his hands over her shoulders. “What were you thinking, taking off today without any sort of back up?”

“I was thinking that someone needs to find out the source of these lies about my father, and no one else is even bothering to look. So if the truth is ever going to be found, I’m the one who is going to have to find it.”

“Alone?”

She stepped away from him again. “This isn’t an X-File. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“You see, Scully, that’s where you’re wrong.” He felt like he’d been chasing her around the room ever since she arrived home. Every time he got near her, she moved away. This time he stayed back, hoping words would close the distance. “For the past few days, I’ve been giving this situation a lot of thought. Where do I draw the line? When is it okay for me to step aside and let you risk your career, maybe your life, on some renegade quest to clear your father’s name? You want to know what I’ve discovered?”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

“No. I’m not. Whether or not you want to hear this, I need to say it. I realize I should have said it a long time ago.”

She leaned up against the arm of the couch. Not quite standing, not quite sitting, but making herself more comfortable in order to listen to him. He was heartened by the message in her body language.

“I’ve always been my own man. Never too dependent on anyone else. There were a few friends along the way, but I didn’t let myself get attached. It was safer. Less chance of getting hurt. When you and I became partners, I tried to keep you at that same distance, and the ironic thing is, until a couple of days ago, I thought I had succeeded.”

“Mul—”

He shook his head at her interruption. “Let me finish, then you’ll get your turn.”

She nodded slowly, giving him conditional permission to continue. This was her turf. She could, at any time, exercise her right to pitch him out onto the curb if she decided she’d heard enough. In truth, a small part of him was hoping she would call a halt to his confession before he reached the point of no return.

With all the thought and rehearsal he had put into this speech while waiting for her, he had expected it to be easier to deliver when the time came. He found the only way he could keep the words flowing smoothly was to pace back and forth, and to look at anything — knick-knacks, pictures — anything except her.

“When I saw what was happening to you — that you were shutting me out because you considered this situation with your father to be too personal — it hurt. I didn’t understand why at first. I wasn’t sure I liked that you had so much power over me. And yet, I’ve concluded it was power I gave you willingly. I allowed myself to need you, even when I kept telling myself I didn’t.”

He stopped in front of her and reached out to caress her cheek, to tilt her face up toward his for a better view of her reaction. “I’m not my own man anymore, Scully. Part of me belongs to you.”

“Mulder —” His name came out more gasp than word.

“Last night, when I saw that car hit you, I felt the impact just as keenly as if I’d been the one standing in the street. My body suffered the pain of every bruise and cut on yours. And when you left me behind today, half of my soul went with you and the rest sat here in this apartment and worried that if you didn’t come back, that piece of me would be lost with you.”

She brushed his hand away from her face and stood, ready to make another escape. “I can’t hear this. I can’t deal with this. Not right now.”

With a restraining hand around her wrist, he kept her from fleeing. “I was a bitter, isolated person. You saved me, Scully. I owe you too much to just stand back and allow you to become what I used to be.”

He knew he’d chosen the wrong word as soon as it left his mouth, and she latched onto it like a lifeline. “You owe me? So this is what? Your way of paying a debt? I bet they love you down at the phone company.”

He leaned toward her and spoke softly in her ear. “You know what I’m telling you. Don’t pretend that you don’t.”

A shiver ran through her body — he felt it — and he took it as a sign. He pulled her closer.

She shoved him away.

“I think you should leave now.”

“Not until you’ve had your say. I promised you a turn, remember?”

“You won’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“If it’s the truth, I want to hear it.”

“All right then.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, and Mulder was hit with the full force of her anger. “You are a selfish, hypocritical man. How dare you try to make this about you.”

“I wasn’t —”

“Shut up. How dare you try to make me feel guilty for leaving you out of my personal life, when you have never, never allowed me into yours.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“And this new openness, Mulder, how long will it last? Until this situation with my father is resolved? Until we find out who is behind these threats to my life? I’ll tell you when. Until the moment you get a lead on your sister. Then you’ll be gone and I’ll be the one left behind and hurting.”

There it was. Fear of being hurt. They had used it to build a barricade on the border between friends and lovers. He had torn down his walls. Now he had to convince Scully to dismantle hers.

“I wouldn’t hurt you.” He meant it. He had never meant anything more. And still she didn’t believe him.

“But you would. You do. Every time you take off without me. Maybe this is a new feeling for you — this pain you say I’ve caused you. Believe me, I know exactly how miserable it feels because it’s not new for me. You say I have power over you. What you don’t realize, apparently, is that you’ve always had that power over me. Why should I give you any more when it will only make the pain more unbearable the next time you leave.”

“I won’t. You have to trust me.”

“I do trust you with so many things, but —”

He closed the space between them and slipped his arms around her. “Trust me with this.”

“I can’t,” she protested, but her voice had lost its strength.

“You can.” He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the temple. The cheek. The lips. “I think you already do.”

He drew back slightly to look at her. Her eyes were closed. Her lips parted just slightly. She looked for all the world like a woman waiting to be kissed again. And so he obliged her.

This kiss was longer, but not relationship-altering. They could kiss like this, and leave it there. Go on as partners without concern that the other was forever reliving the kiss.

At least, he figured, she could. This moment would be eternally ingrained in his memory.

His arms were still holding her, but hers were slack at her side. She wasn’t trying to get away, her lips responded to his, and yet her body was completely non-participatory in the event. Which could mean one of two things: either she was in shock, or she was mustering the strength to tear him into tiny bits and distribute parts of him throughout the room.

Her reaction, when it came, was nothing like what he had imagined. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck. She did use her strength all right, but only to drag him closer to her. It was she who converted the kiss from friendly to passionate. And even beyond that.

Hungry.

Desperate.

His hands began to explore the relatively safe territory of her back. He kept his touch light on purpose, remembering, even though passion was clouding his reasoning, that she was injured.

Then she escalated the touching as well, dragging his arm from behind her and placing his hand on her breast.

And still her mouth seduced his with kisses.

And bites.

He winced and jerked his hand from her breast to touch his lip where she had bitten.

Mulder heard her startled gasp. Apparently she was as surprised as he by her frenzied assault on his mouth. She gently pried his hand from his face and moved in to kiss the hurt, dropping soft, sweet kisses across his lip, and then his chin, and then his throat.

“Scully.”

“Hmmm.” Her hands crept down from their resting place on the back of his neck, and began to work at the knot of his tie while she continued to make a path of licks and kisses down his neck.

It took a few seconds for him to relearn the mechanics of speech. “Stop for a second.”

“No.”

“Scully. Stop.”

She did, although her face remained nestled against his neck and he could feel her breath tickling his skin. The warmth from her hands seeped through the front of his shirt. Her voice, raw with desire, was nearly his undoing. “I need you.”

But her actual words, once they registered, doused his arousal like a cold shower.

Need.

Not want.

Not love.

Maybe he was reading too much into the word, but when coupled with her reckless, impulsive response to his kiss, reality began to sink into his lust-addled brain. Scully was looking for an escape, an excuse to forget that her father’s reputation and her own career were on the verge of ruin.

If they were long-time lovers, he could give her this. It was not, however, an appropriate foundation for a relationship. No matter how badly he wanted her, and God, did he ever want her, he would not risk his future with her by using sex as therapy.

“I should go.” He lifted her hands away from his body.

“Don’t go. Please.”

His body responded eagerly to her pleas, and he found it necessary to close his eyes. His noble intent would never survive if he looked at her. Just the sight of her, flushed from the heat they had generated, was too much for his peace of mind. “I’m going to leave now, but you have to understand that it’s not because I don’t want you. You know I do.”

“Yes.” His eyes snapped open when she brought her hand back to his chest and began to trail it downward. He thwarted its advance before she progressed far enough to find the irrefutable proof she was seeking.

“But sex won’t make your problems go away. It would only compound them. When all this is over, I want to make love to you. I want for us to make love with each other. But only because we want to share that part of ourselves with each other. Not for any other reason.”

Her crestfallen expression stabbed him in the heart. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

“Nothing that happened here was a mistake. I don’t regret any part of it, and neither should you.” He gathered her into his arms for a goodbye embrace and touched his lips to hers for a brief kiss. He found it suddenly very difficult to carry through with his honorable intentions to let her go.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah?”

“Either go or stay, but make up your mind because you’re driving me crazy.”

Willing his arms to release her, he backed toward the door. It was like swimming against a current that was intent on carrying him to her. He wasn’t sure how good sense managed to prevail, but somehow it did, and he was able to get himself out of her apartment.

It took several minutes of just sitting in his car for his head to clear enough to drive. He realized he should have reminded her not to do any more investigating without him, but now, with all that had transpired between them, he was sure the reminder was unnecessary.

❖

She was standing exactly where she had been standing for the past ten minutes. Exactly where she had been standing when Mulder left her apartment.

For the first time in her life, Dana Scully was experiencing complete sensory overload. She was evaluating whether or not she could make it to the kitchen for a glass of water without collapsing to the floor along the way. Yesterday she had been hit by a car and it hadn’t left her trembling like this.

The ringing telephone shook her out of her stasis. She prayed it wasn’t Mulder, calling to ask if he could come back. He had been right to stop things when he did. She knew that. But she hadn’t regained enough control to deny him if he had changed his mind.

She lifted the receiver and someone started speaking before she could even offer a “Hello.”

“Agent Scully?”

“Yes.”

“This is Barry Lucerne. Listen, I think I’m going to need your help.” His voice sounded different. Shakier. “Someone took some shots at me as I was leaving the office.”

The Mulder-induced anxieties were quashed, and her professional demeanor slipped into place. “Are you all right?”

“One bullet grazed my arm. I fell and hit my head on the curb. Doctor says I have a concussion.”

“You said you needed my help.”

“I think you may be right. There’s more going on with the Sullivan story than I thought, and I’m not willing to risk my ass if I’m being played for the fool. I was supposed to meet my source this evening to get the original documents, but obviously I’m not going to be able to make it.”

“Tell me who, where and when.”

She scribbled notes as he relayed the details.

“And, Agent Scully, you were right about something else.”

“About what?”

“About not trusting anyone. Be careful.”

She hung up the phone and looked at her watch: only an hour to get to the meeting. Not much time to decide whether her concern for Mulder’s safety outweighed her desire to have him as a lover, or even as a partner.

Not much time at all.

— ❖ —

Part Five

She had expected a drinking establishment named “O’Reilly’s Pub” to have a bit of character. A polished bar made of fine, dark wood. Gleaming brass. A friendly Irishman tending to customers and yelling out greetings to the regulars.

This place had none of those things.

It was unique only in that it was the most nondescript bar Scully had ever seen.

The interior was drab with mismatched chairs and walls gone gray from the discoloration of cigarette smoke. The clientele was mostly male, mostly white, mostly well on their way to drunk. She wondered how Lucerne’s contact even knew about this place, much less chose it for a meeting location. Then she decided it made perfect sense. This was where people went when they wanted to drown their sorrows without interruption. Everyone here seemed so deeply mired in their own despair that they couldn’t spare the energy to pay attention to anyone else.

She slipped through the crowd, still unnoticed by the woman in the corner booth whom she had come to meet. Unnoticed, it seemed, by everyone except for one man who staggered into her path and used his lack of balance as an excuse to grab her ass. She shouldered past him and he tumbled awkwardly into the booth behind Justine Sullivan.

The Senator’s wife, looking impeccable against the rumpled contrast of the patrons, turned to investigate the disturbance. Her interest in the drunk sliding under the table quickly diverted to the agent standing beside her. The anxiety Scully had been feeling about the legitimacy of this meeting was assuaged by the look of utter shock on Justine’s face. While Mrs. Sullivan might be a master of deception, there was nothing feigned about her surprise.

“Agent Scully. I … I wouldn’t have expected to find you here.”

“I could say the same about you. This hardly seems like the type of place you would go to unwind.”

The woman recovered her self-possession quickly. “Warren and I try to keep in touch with the constituency.”

“Ah, I see. Hobnobbing with the little people. May I join you, or are you expecting someone?”

“As a matter of fact, I am, but perhaps I should check to see if he’s waiting for me outside.” Justine slid toward the end of the bench, intending to make her escape, but Scully moved up a step to block her exit.

“Mr. Lucerne sends his regrets. He asked me to pick up the documents you were holding for him.” The agent settled into the seat across from Justine, still maintaining a neutral expression and forcing herself to speak in a civil tone.

Justine’s was the first to abandon the polite affectation. “That son of a bitch.”

“The documents, Mrs. Sullivan.” Scully held out her hand expectantly.

A dangerous light flickered in Justine’s dark eyes and she shook her head. “No way. If Barry Lucerne doesn’t want this story, there are other reporters who will.”

“Well, you see, there’s a problem with that. You are in possession of stolen diplomatic property. As a federal agent, it is my responsibility to take possession of those documents and bring you into custody. Rest assured, I will do that. But you may finish your drink if you like, because I’m interested to hear why you’ve gone to such trouble to destroy your husband’s career.”

“A little ‘girl talk’?” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “Sounds delightful. But afterwards I’m afraid I really do have to run. Regardless of what you may think of me, Agent Scully, I’m not a stupid woman. I had a contingency plan in place, just in case something should go wrong in my meeting with Mr. Lucerne. You see the man across the room in the red windbreaker?”

Scully peered through the smoky haze. A darkly handsome man in a faded red jacket looked back. He raised his beer bottle and touched it to the bill of his baseball cap in acknowledgement.

“That gentleman is a very devoted companion of mine who is here to insure my continued good health and freedom. He has no such allegiance to you, however, and at this very moment has a nasty looking gun pointed right at your heart.”

The man’s right arm was indeed below table level so it was impossible for Scully to determine whether or not Justine was telling the truth.

“You must not be so devoted to him, if you’re willing to let him go to jail for murder.”

“On the contrary.” Justine took a sip of scotch and then continued. “Who do you think bought him the silencer?”

“How considerate of you.”

“I thought so.” The drunk who had plowed into Scully when she came in now stumbled from his booth again, empty glass in hand, on his way toward the bar. The movement jostled Justine enough to slosh scotch out of her glass and onto her expensive suit. She set the glass on the table and dabbed at the wet stain with a napkin as she continued her conversation. “So, you said you want to hear my story.”

“I have the time, since you’ve apparently canceled my other plans for the evening.”

“Tell me, Agent Scully, do you like my husband?”

“He seems like a nice man, but I don’t know him well enough to say for certain.”

“Very few people know him well enough to know the truth. I think Warren must have been nice once. Maybe back when your father knew him. He can be convincing in the role, at any rate. Had me fooled up until the day after our wedding.”

“If you’re so unhappy, why don’t you just leave him? Why go to all this trouble?”

“You don’t understand. Warren’s only desire in life is to be President of the United States, and he will not tolerate any sort of scandal that might interfere with his chances. He has a large constituency with the conservative factions, and the last thing he wants is a messy divorce damaging his reputation with that group of voters.”

“Still —”

“He would kill me before he would let that happen.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“He has said so. Numerous times. He’s even said it might gain voter sympathy if his wife died unexpectedly on the eve of his presidential campaign.”

“So you masterminded this scandal —”

“To bring him down. Once he’s out of office, he’ll have no reason to deny me a divorce.”

“Are the documents real?”

“As real as they need to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Justine glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry to cut our little talk short, but I really must be going.”

“Just tell me this. Were you responsible for the attempt on my life last night?”

“While in hindsight that might have been a good idea, I give you my word I had nothing to do with whatever you’re talking about. I will take credit for the call on your answering machine. Barry Lucerne told me you were asking questions. If you only would have heeded my advice, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided.”

“What about the attempt on Lucerne’s life?”

“What? What attempt?”

“Someone took some shots at him this afternoon. He’s in the hospital, but he’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure Warren had something to do with it. He saw the blurb in this morning’s paper about Barry’s column next week, and went through the roof. Like I said, he doesn’t tolerate anyone interfering with his agenda.”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of who tried to kill me.”

Scully got her first glimpse of the folder containing the incriminating documents as Justine picked it up from the seat beside her and tucked it under her arm. “I’d love to stay and speculate with you, but I have to attend a benefit this evening. My friend will keep you company once I’m gone.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I thought I made it clear, Agent Scully. It is unfortunate, but you will not leaving here alive. My associate —”

“Is gone. Look for yourself.”

“Justine twisted around in the booth and was visibly taken aback when she discovered the man was missing. “I don’t understand.”

“You see, Justine, regardless of what you may think of me, I’m not stupid either. I decided to bring my own devoted companion along this evening. Do you mind if he joins us?”

Scully gestured to the man who was weaving his way back to the booth behind them. His drunken gait immediately evened out and he moved smoothly up to their table.

“You remember my partner, don’t you, Justine?”

Mulder nodded in greeting. “Mrs. Sullivan. By the way, your friend somehow got himself handcuffed to the radiator in the men’s room. Looks like he’s going to be stuck in there for awhile, so he suggested Agent Scully and I give you a ride.”

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take me home.”

“That’s a little out of our way. We’ll be stopping off at Bureau Headquarters first, and then we’ll talk about where you’ll be going from there.” Mulder pulled the file from her arms and set it on the table.

Scully was pleased by how well things had gone. Mulder had blended into the crowd with ease and had managed to apprehend Justine’s protector without making the slightest disturbance. Never before had they made an arrest where all parties remained so composed and polite during the proceedings. Perhaps it was that civility that caused her to relax her guard.

“Just let me get my purse.”

Mulder opened his mouth to object when Justine reached for her handbag. It was Scully who first saw the tiny gun being drawn from the purse, but she didn’t have time reach for her own weapon or even shout a warning before Justine pulled the trigger.

❖

“Scully, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just want to look at these documents again before I take them up to Skinner.” Mulder found her sitting at her desk — the same spot where he had left her two hours ago — still exhaustively poring over every word of the documents they had seized. She had managed to clean herself up a little after her valiant but futile effort to save Justine Sullivan’s life, but her suit was splattered with the woman’s blood. “Did you get in touch with the Senator?”

“It’s not easy for a man to hear his wife has committed suicide, especially not when accompanied by the news that she betrayed him. He was pretty broken up.”

She sniffed in disbelief. “I bet.”

“You don’t think so?” He crossed the room and leaned up against the file cabinet beside her desk. Scully’s statement surprised him, and he was intrigued by her change of attitude toward the Senator.

“Some of the things Justine said —”

“She organized an elaborate plot to discredit her husband. That doesn’t exactly lend credence to her statements.”

“Maybe not. But it makes sense. Why else would she take the risks she did?”

Mulder was incredulous. “You’re defending her? She was threatening to have you killed. Remember?”

She offered a wry smile. “Understanding her motives doesn’t mean I condone her methods.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Pushing himself away from the cabinet, he moved to stand behind her chair. He ran his hands lightly over her shoulders, a little fearful that she might pull away. When she didn’t, he began to massage her tired muscles in earnest. “Any luck with the documents?”

“No.” She sighed, set the papers down on her desk, and dropped her head forward in a silent request for a neck rub. “Only two of the letters implicate my father and Senator Sullivan. They look authentic. The typeface is consistent with the other documents of the same period. The paper appears to be about the same age. I know they’re forgeries, Mulder. I do. But what if I can’t prove it?”

He swiveled her chair around so she was facing him. “You don’t have to prove it. Skinner’s going to call in an expert from the National Archives to authenticate the documents. This guy is tops in his field. He’ll be able to give you the proof you need.”

“It might take weeks to get the results. You know how that kind of testing goes.”

“I’m sure this will be a priority.” He reached for her hand. “Come on. Skinner’s waiting for you.”

“Just another minute. Okay?” She turned back around and picked up the papers again.

“Even though you recovered the documents, Scully, you’re still not off the hook for disobeying orders. Skinner told me to send you to his office post haste, and he didn’t sound happy.”

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “He’ll be unhappy whether I go up there now, or ten minutes from now.”

Leaning over the back of her chair so his face was near hers, he waited until she looked at him. “Ten minutes. Promise me you’ll go in ten minutes.”

She grumbled softly, “I promise.”

He tapped his watch to remind her that he was keeping tabs on the time.

❖

Even though he had left her side to sit at his own desk, she could feel Mulder watching her. His scrutiny added to the tension she was already feeling as the minutes drained away and her deadline neared. She ran her hand over the velum surface of the paper, tracing the incriminating words with her finger. She read both letters over and over again, looking for the flaw that would prove her father’s innocence.

At last she held one of the letters up in front of her. The light from her desk lamp shone through the yellowing paper and threw the dark type into sharp relief. It was then she noticed something she’d missed.

A watermark.

The unadorned stationery was U.S. government issue with the government’s printing press watermark embedded in the fiber. All those treacherous deeds were inscribed on top of a ghostly image of the American flag. Something in the symbolism made Scully’s heart hurt. She angrily tossed the paper back to the desk.

Mulder was immediately beside her again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She tried to shrug off her disappointment, but she knew he would see through the ruse, so she went on to explain. “This is definitely U.S. government stationery. There’s a watermark.”

“Is there a date in the mark?”

“No. Just a picture of a flag and the words ‘United States Printing Services’.”

He leaned over her shoulder and lifted the paper back up to the light.

They both studied it for a moment and then Mulder moved in even closer to examine the paper. His voice was quiet, urgent when he spoke. “Count the stars.”

“What?”

“Count the stars on the flag, Scully.”

She did as he said, although she didn’t understand the point of the exercise. “Fifty. So what?”

“And the letter is dated July 12, 1956.”

“So?”

“When did Hawaii become a state?”

And then it dawned on her. 1959. “Oh my God.” She jumped to her feet, nearly colliding with her partner in the process. “I’ve got to show this to Skinner.” She rushed toward the door, but stopped suddenly and turned around to look at Mulder. The happiness and relief he felt for her were expressed so clearly in his eyes and the gentle smile on his lips. Something — an almost-tangible cord between them — tugged at her. She let it pull her into his arms. “Thanks, Mulder.”

“Anytime.” Her ear was pressed to his chest, and she could feel the chuckle that rumbled through his voice.

She took a small step back so she could look up at his face, but remained in his embrace. “It’s late. If you want to head on home …”

“I’ll wait for you.”

She shook her head, although there was no strength in the objection. “You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. Now go. Your ten minutes is up.” He put his hands on her shoulders, spun her around toward the door, and sent her on her way with a gentle push.

❖

The path seemed longer, the flowers less colorful, the mansion less grand than before. The tastefully understated wreath on the door was there to inform visitors that this was a household in mourning. Perhaps if she truly believed that, she would feel better about making this visit.

Her fatigue was beginning to catch up with her. The physical and emotional upheaval of the past few days had taken their toll, and maintaining her composure through last night’s two-hour debriefing and stern reprimand by Skinner had depleted the last of her reserves. Once she was certain she still had a job, she had pleaded with her boss to be allowed to deliver the news of Sullivan’s absolution in person. She only wished she was doing so with a few more hours of sleep behind her.

Even after she finally managed to climb into bed last night, her thoughts had kept her awake. Thoughts of her father, of Justine Sullivan, of Mulder. Mulder most of all. He had followed her home, walked her to her door, kissed her. And then he had left. She had expected him to stay. She would have let him. But it wasn’t the right moment, and he recognized that, even when her judgment had deserted her.

He offered to meet her this morning and accompany her to the Sullivan mansion, but this was something she needed to do alone. She hoped he understood. He said he did.

This time when she knocked, it was indeed a servant who answered the door: a formally-clad butler with a fringe of white hair who looked every bit the stereotype. “May I help you, miss?”

“My name is Dana Scully.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved her badge to show the man. “Agent Scully. I’d like to see the Senator for a few moments please.”

“I’m sorry, but the Senator isn’t seeing anyone. His wife passed away last night.”

“Yes sir. I know. I was there when it happened. If you could just ask him, I’m sure he’ll want to see me. Tell him I have some urgent news regarding the matter we discussed on Wednesday.”

“All right ma’am. You may wait in the foyer.”

The entry foyer of the home was larger than her living room and as she was waiting, she studied the paintings and antiques that decorated the space. Justine, for all her faults, had truly been a talented interior designer.

“Dana.”

She pivoted to see Warren Sullivan walking somberly into the room. He greeted her with a brief embrace and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much for trying to save Justine. I understand from the paramedics that you made efforts to revive her well after all hope was gone.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for her.”

“Come. Let’s sit in the study.” He gestured her to a seat in the room where they had held their first meeting. As he sat, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He really was a consummate actor. Had Scully not been studying him closely, she would have been fooled into believing that there had actually been tears there. “I only have a few minutes I’m afraid. I’m supposed to appear at a news conference to announce the tragedy. My makeup people are waiting.”

“I won’t keep you then, but I wanted to let you know we determined the letters were forgeries, at least the two that implicated you and my father of treason. Apparently they were slipped in among the legitimate documents.”

“And Justine admitted to being behind it?”

“She did.”

His expression further crumbled into despair, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Did she say why?”

“She claimed that she was unhappy in the marriage, and that you wouldn’t agree to a divorce.”

“I … I’m stunned.” Again, his face took on the expression appropriate to the sentiment. “As far as I knew, she was very content. This is the first I’ve heard of such a thing.”

“All I can tell you is what she told me.”

“You don’t believe her, do you?”

“I don’t see why she would lie and say she was unhappy if she was not. Nor do I see why a happily married woman would go to such lengths to damage her husband’s credibility.”

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Do you think she was mentally ill, perhaps?”

“I’m not qualified to make that sort of assessment.”

“Well, this has all been a terrible shock. It’s so difficult to contemplate going ahead with the presidential campaign without Justine by my side. But I feel it’s my responsibility to my country to provide leadership, despite whatever personal challenges I may face.” Scully was sickened by his mock grief — so obvious in light of Justine’s words. She would not be surprised to see Sullivan’s popularity surge ahead in the polls after the bereaved Senator appeared before the nation.

“That’s a very noble attitude. I have a feeling, though, that you may have a rather vocal critic in Barry Lucerne, should he come to suspect you were behind an attempt made on his life yesterday.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” Even before she asked, she knew with dreadful certainty what she was about to be told.

“Mr. Lucerne died early this morning of cardiac arrest while in the hospital. It was on the news just a few minutes ago.”

Her anger flared and engulfed her sense of decorum. “So apparently all the loose ends have been secured? Or do I need to keep looking over my own shoulder?”

“What do you mean?” Now he was using his exaggerated sincerity as a weapon, trying to disarm her with the underlying threat in his tone.

“Someone tried to run me down Wednesday night. You don’t know anything about that do you?”

“Why would I want to see you hurt? You were trying to help me.”

“But you would want to see Barry Lucerne hurt. Or dead.”

He shook a finger at her, as if reprimanding her for trying to trick him. “I never said that.”

“Excuse me, Senator.”

“Yes, Geoffrey?”

The butler stepped inside the room when Sullivan acknowledged his presence. “The driver is waiting to take you to the press conference.”

Sullivan turned back to Scully without dismissing his servant. “I resent what you are implying, Agent Scully. Believe me, you don’t want to make an enemy of me.”

If he could ignore the other man in the room, so could she. “Yes, I’ve seen what you do to the people you love.”

“Justine killed herself.”

“Only to save you the trouble, I think.”

Sullivan leaned back in his chair and studied her carefully. “You know, you are just like your father. Too stubborn for your own good.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’ll tell you a secret.” And then, apparently deciding it wasn’t a secret after all, began speaking at a normal volume again. “I was responsible for sending that car the other night. Not to kill you. Only to make you believe someone was trying to stop you from investigating my case. I figured if you really were Bill Scully’s flesh and blood, nothing would get you focused on a goal like having an enemy tell you to abandon it. Your father would be proud of your tenacity.”

She was stunned by his audacity. “Do you really think I’ll let that go? You just admitted, in front of a witness,” she motioned toward Geoffrey, “that you conspired to do harm to a Federal Agent.”

The Senators lips curved up in a feral smile. “I didn’t admit to anything.” He looked to his servant for confirmation. “Did I Geoffrey?”

“No sir. I heard no threat. I did hear Agent Scully make a rather lewd advance toward you, sir. And with your beloved wife dead less than 24 hours. It was shocking. Perhaps you should complain to her superiors.” If Sullivan was an actor, this man had been his coach.

She was filled with a cold, hard rage that propelled her from her seat. “You son of a bitch.”

“I really must be going now.” The Senator rose from his chair. “Even though it will be terribly difficult to face the public at a time like this, the country deserves to know that I’m a man who can be strong, even in the face of adversity.”

“You almost make me wish Justine had succeeded.”

For the first time, she saw a genuine reaction from the Senator: surprise. “She would have destroyed your father’s name in the process. You would have wanted that?”

“My father would have willingly accepted disgrace if it would have saved his country from a man like you.”

“So I take it you won’t be volunteering for my campaign?” He threw a look at Geoffrey who nodded in approval of the Senator’s joke.

Scully stepped right up to Sullivan. She wanted him to hear every syllable as she spoke. “You won’t be able to get elected to dog catcher. I’ll see to that.”

Her opponent didn’t back down. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Dana. If you persist, you may find yourself grieving the loss of people you love.”

Sullivan stepped back and waved her toward the exit. “Geoffrey, see Agent Scully to the door.”

When she didn’t move, the butler put a hand around her arm and dragged her away from the Senator. “And, Dana,” Sullivan added, conversationally. “Give my regards to your mother. And to your partner, too.”

His threat still echoed in her ears long after she had left the mansion.

— ❖ —

Part Six

“Turn that off.”

“Hey, Scully. You just missed hearing the nice things he had to say about you.”

“I’ve heard more than enough from the Senator today, thank you very much.”

Scully strode across the office to the small television in the corner, and smacked the power button with her palm. Punishing the TV because she was powerless to punish the man whose mournful visage stared back at her.

Turning from the now-chastened appliance, she followed her usual morning route — dropping her briefcase beside her desk, grabbing her cup, making the trek down the hall to the coffeepot — but every movement was abrupt and angry. She knew Mulder would want an explanation. She took her time stirring creamer into her coffee, just to delay that inevitability.

The question came the instant she crossed the threshold of their office.

“Is something wrong, Scully?”

She pushed the door closed, walked to her desk, and spoke without looking at him. “No.”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.” She snapped out the answer almost before he’d asked the question.

“Try again.”

She turned her head toward him. He was leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest, scrutinizing her as if she were a piece of evidence.

Tearing her apart.

Studying her.

Trying to get inside her head.

Mulder was an amazingly gifted profiler, but she resented him for using those gifts to get past her resistance.

No. That wasn’t entirely fair. Mulder wasn’t doing anything he hadn’t done a thousand times before when he suspected she was withholding something. It was the same game they always played. She would claim all was well. He would look at her in disbelief. Then they would play a silent waiting game until she came clean or he decided to drop the issue. But now, while seething with rage toward Sullivan, and still reeling in an emotional whirlwind from Mulder’s confessions the day before, she found herself reacting differently.

She sat down and breathed deeply, trying to exhale some of her pent-up hostility, none of which should be directed toward her partner. “I’m sorry, Mulder. Everything’s okay. Really. I’ve just had a lot on my mind. Did you get a chance to interrogate Justine’s friend from the bar?”

“His name is Tim Barth. And he and Justine were more than just friends.”

“Oh?”

“That’s his story, anyway. He admitted to stealing the documents for her and to arranging for the forgeries. Your father’s name was included to add some credibility to the document, and since he was deceased, they had assumed he wouldn’t be the focus of any attention.”

“Guess they didn’t count on him having an FBI agent for a daughter.”

“No. I think that was most definitely a surprise.”

“Why would Barth do all that for her?” she asked, more to herself than to him.

He answered anyway. “A man will do anything for the woman he loves.”

When Scully’s eyes met her partner’s, the electricity arced between them. His intensity unnerved her, and she had to avert her gaze. She tried to mask her discomfiture in nonchalance. “So, um, what did Sullivan say in his press conference?”

“The gist of it was that he was devastated over the loss of his wife. According to him, she suffered from severe depression and he blames himself for not making sure she took her prescribed medication. He was grateful to the two off-duty FBI agents who were present at the scene when she died, and most especially to Agent Dana Scully, for her efforts to save Justine’s life. He announced that he will be setting up the Justine Sullivan Foundation in hopes that someday there can be a cure for depression, and others will be spared such a grievous loss.”

She stood and started pacing. “What a load of crap.”

“It’s what this city is built on. Did something else happen at your meeting with him? You seem … I don’t know … more stressed out than I expected considering that your father has been cleared.”

Yesterday she and Mulder had talked about trust. The importance of honesty. And yet, if she told him of Sullivan’s insinuations — that Barry Lucerne had paid with his life for believing Justine’s story, that her own injuries were part of a scheme to entangle her more deeply in the case, that no one she loved would be safe if she tried to stand between the Senator and his ambition — Mulder would adopt this crusade as his own.

Her partner risked his life too often, fighting with a legion of personal demons, in a war against an army of nameless enemies. Warren Sullivan was her adversary. She would make any sacrifice required to see that the Senator was held accountable for his deeds. Any personal sacrifice. First, though, she had to find a way to protect those she loved. The only way to shield Mulder was to keep him out of her battle.

“The meeting went okay, I guess. It was just the usual politician double-talk. Justine was driven to commit desperate acts by this man, and all he cares about is how to put a good public relations spin on her suicide.” Her pacing carried her across the room until she was standing directly in front of Mulder, looking down into his worried eyes. His tender expression melted her bitterness and she was filled with a precious sense of relief. “But I am glad that my father was cleared. Very glad.”

Mulder reached for her hand and caressed it between his palms. “Me too.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and placed tiny kisses on each fingertip. “And I’m glad it’s all over.” Little nibbles along her wrist. “And I’m glad that you’re okay.” He seized her and pulled her into his lap.

“Mul —” The rest of the word was captured by his mouth when it closed over hers.

Their kisses were slow and long. There was none of the hurried frenzy of the day before. This time she allowed herself to revel in the taste of him. To let his scent surround her. To feel the tingling warm trail left by his hands as they stroked her back, her arms, her sides.

His mouth left hers and he ran his open lips across her cheek to her ear. “Come home with me, Scully.”

“But, it’s, it’s not, but …” She was embarrassed to find her vocabulary reduced to gibberish. He didn’t help matters any when he began running his tongue around the rim of her ear. She reluctantly pulled back to regain her mental equilibrium. “It’s not even noon yet. I have to write my report for Skinner and I promised he’d have it by the end of the day. I don’t think he’s going to be giving me much latitude for the next few weeks.”

“I’ll help you with your report, and then we can leave early.” His lips returned to hers, and his hands continued their exploration, moving underneath her jacket to finger the silk of her blouse, sliding up and down her spine, making occasional trips over to her sides, journeying farther toward the front each time.

Her own hands clung to his shoulders; they were all that kept her from tumbling out of his lap and onto the floor. Although the floor did have some appeal. Her body wanted nothing more than to have him on top of her, making love to her on the dingy carpet. She twisted and arched in his arms, guiding his hands with her movements.

It wasn’t until his hand closed over her breast that a coherent thought pierced through the erotic fog in her mind, and she realized what they were doing. And where they were doing it.

She wriggled from his arms and managed to stand without her knees buckling. The sight of Mulder, sprawled back in his chair, panting to recover the breaths she had stolen, lips wet from their kisses, nearly stole her newfound willpower. She was glad she couldn’t see herself, but suspected she looked as ravished as she felt.

“Mulder, we can’t do this.” Her voice was thready and raw.

His eyes widened slightly and he sounded a little wary. “You mean we can’t do this here.”

“I don’t know.” She turned and started to walk back to her side of the room. Somehow it felt like safer territory. An arm snaked around her waist before she had moved more than a couple of steps and Mulder pulled her against him.

“Scully?”

She let her head fall back against his chest. “As much as we want this right now, and as good as it feels, what if it turns out to be a mistake? Where do we go from there?”

“What makes you think it would be a mistake?”

She turned in his arms to face him. “Look at us, Mulder. I say poodle, you say werewolf. We disagree more than we agree. We don’t like the same kinds of food. We don’t read the same books. I’m just afraid that, outside of work, we wouldn’t be very compatible.”

His hand ran up her back and into her hair. “We felt pretty damned compatible a minute ago.” Her eyes fluttered closed and she leaned into his body again.

“I’m not just talking about sex, Mulder. For what it’s worth, I don’t think we would have a problem with that part.”

He brought his hands to her face and tilted it upward, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think we would have a problem with the rest of it either. You and I aren’t so different. We’re two insanely intelligent people doing jobs no one else could possibly understand. Honest. Committed. Loyal. We’re alike in all the important ways. Sure, we’ll have our problems, but no more than anyone else. Relationships require adjustment. I’m willing to try if you are.”

“What if that’s not enough? I don’t want to lose you.” Again, Sullivan’s threat intruded in her thoughts. Even if she and Mulder succeeded in building a solid relationship on their somewhat shaky foundation, it would make her more of a hostage to Sullivan than ever.

“You won’t.” He made the untenable promise with such assurance that she almost believed it. “Look, Scully, if you’re not sure, then I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes until you are certain.”

She shook her head. “That’s not fair to you.”

“Maybe not, but that’s just how it is. You know me, Scully. When I get my mind set on something, I’m not too willing to consider other options. Like it or not, I’ve decided that you are the only woman I want.” His sweet words called unexpected tears to her eyes. They glittered on her lashes until he kissed them away. “Do you want to know what I think?” He folded her into his embrace. Her ear was pressed into his chest and she could hear his heartbeat keeping rhythm with his words.

“What?”

“I think you’re scared. I know I haven’t always been a model partner. I won’t be the perfect lover, either. But I promise, as both your partner and, hopefully, your lover, that I will not abandon you.”

She lifted herself on tiptoe and planted on soft kiss on his lips. “Thank you.”

Moving back a step, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and turned her toward her desk. “Now, I guess you should get busy on that report. I think I’m going to head home and take a nice cold shower. If you change your mind, you know where I’ll be.”

Guilt hit her hard. She felt like the worst kind of tease. “I’m sorry, Mulder.”

“Are you telling me there’s no chance?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no reason to be sorry.” He pulled out the desk chair for her in an overt display of gentility. “I meant what I said about waiting, if that’s what you want. But I’m not going to pretend that you don’t affect me. Blame it on my years of self-imposed celibacy, or chalk it up to the predictability of the male animal. Whatever the reason, I want you so badly right now, my hair hurts. So be aware that if you do come over tonight, you’ll need to bring your overnight bag.”

“And my jammies, too?”

“Pajamas are optional. You won’t be wearing them for long, at any rate.” He slipped a hand over her shoulder and ran it along her collarbone to her neck. He toyed with the edge of her collar, finally tugging it aside so he could place a string of kisses along her neck and shoulder.

She groaned. “This is cheating, Mulder.”

He punctuated his sentences with kisses and licks and nibbles. “I didn’t promise to play fair. I’ll use any means at my disposal to persuade you.”

With every caress, it was becoming more difficult for her to think of reasons to refuse.

“I want to undress you.” He flicked open the top button of her shirt. “I want to touch you. Everywhere.” His fingers slipped inside her shirt and flirted with the lace edge on her bra. “I want to —”

Tugging his hand out of her blouse, she scolded it with a light swat. “Stop. Go take your shower.”

“Will I see you later?” He breathed softly into her ear.

She turned to face him. He looked so hopeful. But how could she give him an answer when she herself didn’t have a clue what she was going to do? “I don’t know.”

He didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. “Well, if not, have a good weekend, Scully.”

As his footsteps faded down the hall, logic and wisdom — the building blocks of her character — cheered for the victory of reason over passion.

Her heart quietly mourned its defeat.

— ❖ —

Epilogue

My father took me to see the tree when I was a little girl. We hiked a long way to get there, and I had expected something grand and extraordinary. So I was disappointed when I finally saw it. It was scrawny. Just a bush really.

I couldn’t understand what made this particular tree special, when we had passed so many others that were larger and more beautiful.

And then my father explained. This tree was more exceptional than all the rest because it had fought the hardest to survive. And it was true. While all the others grew in fertile, mossy soil, this one had somehow taken root in the crevice of a stone.

For years afterward, I would revisit that place. The tree would be a little bigger. The crack in the stone wider.

I think my father recognized that I would never be content doing things the easy way. That for me, the achievement was made more sweet by the struggle. It was why I went to medical school. It was why I became an FBI agent. It’s why I’ve stayed with the X-Files. I could have flourished anywhere, but success without challenge would have made me less than who I am.

I’ve never backed away from a challenge. Justine Sullivan realized that too late. The Senator will come to know it.

Yet when it came to Mulder, I nearly succumbed to my cowardice. It seemed foolhardy to cultivate a relationship on such inhospitable ground. Our personalities, our jobs, his quest for justice, and now my own — these are not obstacles to be taken lightly.

The rewards, though. Pleasure. Intimacy. Love. The promise of those things led me to him tonight.

I found those things in his arms.

I found more.

What happened between us tonight wasn’t sex. That term is too small for the experience. This was lovemaking in its purest form. A part of my soul that had been sleeping, stirred at his touch. Awakened with his kiss. His body and mine found joyful physical release. The spiritual release defies description.

Our bodies merged. Our souls kissed. And all the obstacles became less than nothing. How could anything survive the force of what we are together?

We will be tested. There will be storms. There are truths I haven’t told him. I suspect there are things he hasn’t told me.

There is always the chance that our relationship won’t survive.

But I find hope in a scrawny tree that pushes relentlessly against a rock.

One day the stone will crumble into dust and blow away.

The stone will be gone, but the tree will remain.

And still it will grow.

— ❖ —

End of “Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone”

Endnote: One can never be too rich, too thin, or receive too much feedback. I appreciate all feedback — from the lengthiest critique to the briefest acknowledgment. Sequel requests will be considered, but only if accompanied by chocolate. — JS ([email protected])

—— ❖ ——

THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE by J Selby ([email protected])

Summary: As Mulder leads a desperate search, Scully learns the price she must pay for deliverance from the hands of a madman.

Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All others are the author’s creation. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No infringement is intended.

Classification: XA Relationship: MSR Rating: PG Spoilers: None

Author’s Notes: This is a stand-alone story that fits nicely in a post-“Scattering Seeds Upon a Stone” universe. However, it’s not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one. Additional research notes appear at the end.

Thanks to Meredith for her editing expertise, but most of all for her friendship.

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.**

— ❖ —

THE BITTER TASTE OF REVENGE

She remembered being torn from Mulder’s arms by rough, calloused hands.

And nothing more until she woke up on a hard bed in a cold, dark room.

The case they were investigating was brutal. The agents were exhausted. Their lovemaking that night had been more cleansing ritual than an expression of their feelings. Scully was sorry for that. It was a fear neither had acknowledged aloud, but both were aware of the danger inherent in their jobs. Always make love to him as if it will be the last time — that was the promise she had made to herself. It was the only time she had ever ignored that pledge.

And now, when she realized she might never see Mulder again, the shards of that broken promise ripped into her heart.

Mulder was convinced it was some sort of beast who had abducted and murdered five women in northwest California over a period of three months. As was typical for the two of them, they had argued over the plausibility of his conjecture. Two full days of interviews and autopsies, crime scene visits and lab analyses, had yielded no clues to the killer’s identity. Scully had determined that the cause of death was the same in all cases: internal injuries precipitated by severe beating. One body bore a handprint larger than any she’d ever seen, which, to Mulder, was proof that the beast was real.

Mulder was right.

Beast was an apt description.

But Scully’s abductor was human, nonetheless.

❖

Every officer, clerk and janitor with a passing knowledge of the case offered him condolences and food.

Mulder didn’t want their sympathy because he refused to accept that his partner could be dead.

He didn’t want their food, because his stomach hadn’t stopped churning from the moment he realized she was gone.

She had been gone for 42 hours, and from the instant he realized she was missing, he had repeatedly, agonizingly forced his mind to replay the events of that morning, thinking that if he concentrated hard enough, some all-important clue would surface through his hazy recall.

His memory of her kidnapping unspooled in painful, sensory flashes.

She had cried out for him. There was an unfamiliar note of terror in her voice that rang in his ears still.

He felt her body being yanked away. The warmth of her skin against his replaced with a biting chill that raked across his flesh and seeped into his heart.

There was a foul stench in the air that permeated the motel room and hung like an acrid cloud around the shadowy outline of a man looming above them.

And then … and then the memory faded to black.

Precious hours had been wasted in the hospital emergency room as a team of weary, post-pubescent doctors assessed his head injury. Eventually he was judged fit to join the search, but there was nothing to find. No trail of evidence. No useful shred of memory to aid him.

She was simply gone.

Taken without resistance from the man who had sworn to lay down his life to protect her.

Despite her fatigue, he had cajoled her into a quick lovemaking session that night. Mercy sex on her part, since he was fairly certain she had received no satisfaction from it. He knew he should be sorry for taking advantage, and yet the memory of his passion for her was all that sustained him.

Consumed by grief, devoured whole by guilt, he took out his frustrations on the officers assigned to the case. After one too many of his outbursts, the sheriff pulled him aside for a little pep talk. “Don’t lose your cool over this,” he’d warned.

Such easy advice to give, Mulder thought, when it isn’t your world that just disintegrated into nothingness.

❖

For the first few days he kept her locked in a small, windowless room. She pleaded with him to talk to her. To tell her what he had done to Mulder. To let her go.

For as long as she yelled, he ignored her.

Scully didn’t think it was coincidence that he opened the door only after her voice gave out and she ceased her demands. He brought her food, water, and a clean shirt to replace the bed sheet she had wrapped around her body. He used his bulk as a barrier to block the open doorway as he watched her eat, then he retrieved the dishes and left, bolting the door behind him.

In medical school, she had seen pictures of people with his disorder, but she’d never witnessed a living example of gigantism. His features had been hideously deformed by the condition — his hands and feet disproportionately enlarged, his brow set on a bony ridge, his decaying yellow teeth spaced widely apart. The disorder could not, however, account for his shaggy hair and beard or his repulsive body odor. Those were the result of his own neglect.

Scully spent her endless days and nights of imprisonment trying to calculate an escape plan. It was difficult to be optimistic about her chances. She knew she didn’t have all the facts about the situation, but there were a few things of which she was sure. It was November, and colder than usual for that time of year. She had no shoes and, except for an oversized shirt, no clothes. And, she surmised from the sounds of the wind in the trees and the thickly layered music of animals, birds and insects, she was somewhere deep in the woods.

Her own body was beginning to itch and stink from the filth of the place, but aside from the bucket he had given her to use as a toilet, he’d made no provisions for her personal hygiene. She found herself taking a small comfort in the possibility that, maybe, some essence of Mulder was still on her skin or inside her body.

She wasn’t sure if it was the fourth day or the fifth, when her captor let her out of the room.

❖

Their first lead came on the fourth day of the search. A hiker reported hearing screams coming from a cabin near Clearwater Lake.

A team was sent to investigate, but it turned out to be nothing more than a couple of college kids on a weekend sex romp.

Mulder received word after the fact.

He was livid when he got to the sheriff’s headquarters. He didn’t give the receptionist a chance to announce his arrival before he barged into the office. “You had no right —”

Sheriff Wilson held up a forestalling hand, and sent the young deputy who had been giving him a report, out of the office. He rose from his desk, shut the office door, and motioned for the agent to take a seat. Mulder remained standing.

He slammed a hand down on the sheriff’s desk. “How dare you send officers to follow up a lead like that and not tell me. What if she’d been there? Did it occur to you that she might need me there?”

Mulder assessed the frail looking older man. Obviously he was near retirement age. Perhaps his judgment was impaired. But the man’s demeanor was assured and his voice strong when he responded. “What if she had been dead, Agent Mulder? Is that a picture you want to carry with you for the rest of your life?”

Wilson’s words conjured up a horrifying mental image, and Mulder closed his eyes momentarily to ward it away. His throat tightened around the words, “It wasn’t your place to decide that for me.”

“I’ve made plenty of allowances here. You’ve been kept informed of our progress, despite your obvious personal involvement with this case.”

That was no secret. Mulder had gone on record stating that Scully was in his bed when the kidnaping took place. But there was no way he was going to trust these small-town deputies to find her, and he would be damned if he would leave her fate in someone else’s hands.

His frustration emboldened him, and he went for the low blow. “What if it was your wife, Wilson? Wouldn’t you want to know every detail of the case, no matter how small or inconsequential it might turn out to be?” Mulder grabbed the picture from Wilson’s desk and shoved it in the old man’s face. “What if it was her?”

The sheriff dismissed Mulder from his office then, but the agent could tell by the look in the older man’s eye that they had a new understanding. After that, Mulder received hourly updates from Wilson’s office.

Days later one of the deputies told Mulder that Sheriff Wilson’s wife had been kidnapped and murdered two years ago when a man he had captured early in his career decided to exact some payback.

Mulder wasn’t sure how, or even if, he should apologize.

❖

As she had assumed from the rough hewn logs that made up the walls of her tiny prison room, the place was a cabin. A very rustic cabin. What few pieces of furniture there were, looked like a collection of shabby garage sale finds. The kitchen consisted of nothing more than a wood-burning stove and a wash basin. There was no refrigerator. No running water. No electricity. No telephone.

But there was a window.

The sunlight seared her eyes. She had become so accustomed to the darkness, that daylight was a shock to her system. When, finally, her eyes adjusted, she made her way to the window and saw her worst fear realized. There was nothing visible in any direction except for trees.

Under other circumstances, and with a different companion, the place could have been a romantic hideaway. To her, the trees were nothing more than headstones in a graveyard. Testament to the hopelessness she was feeling.

The kitchen stove provided the only heat in the cabin, and it wasn’t enough against the unseasonable chill. The thin shirt she wore engulfed her body and brushed past her knees, but the single layer of fabric was poor insulation. Only slightly less than naked, she felt too cold and too exposed.

“I brought you some flowers.”

It was the first time he had spoken, and it startled her. The days of silence had left her convinced that he couldn’t speak at all. Her attempts to engage him in conversation had been met with stony-faced disregard.

She turned to face him, and there, clutched tightly in his enormous hand was a bunch of wildflowers on weedy stalks. Her impulse was to grab the flowers and throw them in his hideous face. Because of him, she’d suffered days of anguish and discomfort, and worst of all, the relentless psychological torture of not knowing how badly he had hurt Mulder in order to kidnap her. Her partner would never have let someone take her if he had been conscious. She was certain of that much.

Mulder was the profiler. Not her. But her intuition told her she would stay alive longer if she hid her revulsion for this man. He had given her a clue when he rewarded her with food after she stopped berating him through the door. Displays of angry hysterics would gain her nothing except perhaps an even earlier death.

Convincing herself of the wisdom of her plan was, intellectually, easy. Forcing her emotions not to betray her was nearly impossible. In fact, she couldn’t have managed it had it not been for the flowers.

One of the flowers, in particular.

Foxglove.

The irony of the name didn’t escape her. And for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of hope warming her spirit.

“They’re pretty flowers, uh …”

“Jimmy.”

“Thank you, Jimmy. Do you have a vase or something I could put them in?”

He approached until they were toe to toe. At such close proximity, Scully became keenly aware of just how massive Jimmy was. At least seven feet tall, no less than 300 pounds. A bare-handed killer. She shut her eyes and suppressed a shudder as he pressed the flowers into her hand.

When she opened her eyes again, he was moving dishes around in the cupboard. At last he pulled a china vase down from the top shelf, filled it with some water from the wash basin, and set it on the table. The vase, and indeed, all the dishes she could see in the cabinet, were exquisite. He must has sensed her question. “The dishes belonged to my grandmother. She said I should keep them and give them to my wife someday.”

If he heard the tremble in her voice, he didn’t give any indication. “They’re beautiful. Bone china, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know. I don’t use them, normally.”

She nodded, and managed to still her shaking hands enough to drop the slender stems into the vase. The flowers drooped from the ordeal of being so savagely plucked from their roots. It was a feeling with which she could sympathize. She arranged the flowers with painstaking slowness, not so much to showcase their beauty, although that was the impression she hoped to give Jimmy, but to confirm her earlier suspicion that the tallest stalk of pink, bell-shaped blooms was indeed foxglove.

For the next two days she was allowed to stay out in the main part of the cabin as long as he was awake. In the afternoon when he napped, and at night, she was again led into the dark little room and locked away.

With every hour that crawled by, she could tell he trusted her a little more.

❖

Mulder allowed himself to sleep only when his body gave him no choice. A few hours at a time. Impromptu naps at the sheriff’s office or sitting in an uncomfortable motel chair with a lap full of files.

This night he couldn’t sleep at all. He didn’t think he deserved the luxury as long as she was suffering. He wondered if she had been able to find an escape in sleep.

He was mildly comforted by the knowledge that her abductor wasn’t a rapist. None of the other women had been sexually assaulted.

But none of the other women had been missing for this long.

❖

The following morning, Jimmy brought her some books to read. Cheap, paperback romance novels he must have assumed she would enjoy. She skimmed through them, but couldn’t stomach the stories of naive young women being swept off their feet by dashing strangers. A volume on the shelf caught her eye. She stood and wrapped her hand around the book’s spine.

He hit her.

Not hard, but her cheek stung from the slap. All the progress she’d made toward gaining his trust seemed to vanish as he glared at her with angry, coal-black eyes.

She touched a hand to her burning cheek. Even as a child, her first instinct when someone hit her, had been to hit them back. That impulsiveness landed her in trouble with her parents on countless occasions after she’d bloodied the nose of one of her brothers. Of its own volition, her hand curled into a fist. But then she looked past Jimmy’s hulking form to the wilting flowers on the table. If she engaged him now, she was as good as dead. She unclenched her hand and bowed her head in a contrite gesture. “I’m sorry Jimmy. I didn’t know it was a private book.”

He reached for her then, and she flinched, but he merely laid one gentle finger on her cheek. Running it over the reddened imprint his hand had left behind.

His voice was gentle. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have hit you. It’s just that …”

She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want him to become more human to her. But she was curious and blurted out an encouragement for him to continue before she could stop herself.

“It’s my high school yearbook.”

“Oh?” Something about his yearbook upset him, and she sensed he wanted to tell her. Or show her. He pulled the book from the shelf and sat down on the sofa, patting the cushion next to him. Exerting enough willpower to overcome her repugnance, she sat down beside him. The book fell open to a dog-eared page near the front.

He pointed to a photo of an incredibly handsome young man with wavy dark hair, piercing eyes, and a full, generous smile. The picture bore no resemblance to the bedraggled creature he had become.

“I was voted the best looking guy in my class. If they could see me now, huh.” His gaze didn’t waver from the photograph.

“Jimmy, I don’t know much about your condition, but there are treatments —”

“No!” He threw the book down on the floor. “No. This is what I am. This is what I deserve.”

“Why?” She angled her head to better see his face, but he kept his eyes focused downward.

“Because, God is punishing me.”

“For what?”

He sat up straight and turned toward her. “I can’t help it. I just get angry sometimes, and then I hurt people.” He grabbed her hands and squeezed them in the painful vice of his grip. The sorrowful, pleading tone in his voice didn’t alter. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Jimmy —”

“You’re so pretty. I could make you happy. I know I could. You don’t need that other guy.”

She broached a subject she knew she shouldn’t, but she needed to know. “What did you do to him, Jimmy? Did you kill him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me. Please, I —”

He dropped her hands, and this time put his full force behind the blow. She fell from the sofa to the concrete floor. Before she could gain any leverage, he had straddled her legs and was pummeling her with his fists. There was no way to fight back. She was pinned, face-down on the floor.

“Don’t talk about him! Don’t you ever talk about him again!” His enraged screams faded with her consciousness.

She awoke, shivering violently, on the cold floor of her prison room. The first lucid thought that worked its way past the pain was that the next time he would kill her. Her only hope was to kill him first.

If she was armed and he pointed a gun at her, there would no ethical quandary. Then it would be “kill or be killed.” But the plan she was devising wasn’t so straightforward. She only had one weapon — a limp wildflower. It wasn’t a defensive weapon. She would have to take the offense.

And that, regardless of her desperation, seemed very much like murder.

❖

“Look, Mulder, don’t get your hopes up. The guy is about three sheets to the wind. He may have hallucinated the whole thing.”

Mulder kept up with Wilson’s surprisingly brisk pace as they made their way to the briefing room where the witness was waiting. “What did he say exactly?”

“Says he came across a cabin last night while he was setting traps, and saw a real messed-up looking hairy guy walking around outside. Claims the guy had the biggest hands and feet he’d ever seen on a human being. It’s entirely possible our informant here is just out to get his hands on the Crimestoppers reward, but if he’s telling the truth, and if he can find the place again once he sobers up, we may have gotten our break.”

The agent sprinted ahead, filled with hope, despite the sheriff’s admonishments to the contrary. It was the first good news he’d received in days, and he drank it in like water to a man too long in the desert.

Even the sight of the witness, slumped in a chair, head tilted back, mouth open to emit thunderous snores, didn’t discourage him.

It took some time — much longer than Mulder had hoped — but the inebriated Good Samaritan finally regained his bearings, just as the sky was beginning to brighten on the dawn of the eighth day.

❖

Jimmy didn’t stay to watch her eat, as was his usual habit. He silently entered the room with her breakfast, set the tray beside the bed, and left. The door stood open as an invitation for her to join him in the main part of the cabin.

Breakfast was hard biscuits, deer jerky, and water. She wasn’t hungry, but she choked down the food rather than risk making him angry.

Her body hurt. Every breath was accompanied by a deep ache in her ribs. Not broken, but certainly badly bruised. Walking was difficult and excruciatingly painful, but she forced herself into a straight posture as she moved across the room. She approached him cautiously, knowing she needed to regain some of the false rapport they had established if her plan was ever to have a chance of success.

He was sitting on the couch, head bowed, and his shoulders were shaking. He was crying. Mournful little sobs coming from the soul of a wretched beast. She felt her resolve weakening, even though she knew that in seconds he could turn into the murderous monster who had already slain five women.

Her voice came out as a tentative whisper. “Jimmy?”

“I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay, Jimmy. I forgive you.” She laid her hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her, clearly surprised by the overture. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Would it be okay if I made us some tea? I think it would make you feel better.”

His silence was eternal. With each passing second, she became more dismally certain that he would refuse. But he relented. “Okay. There’s some tea in the cabinet.”

Those pitch-black eyes followed her every movement. She could feel him watching.

There was a pitcher of fresh water on the counter, and she poured some into the kettle on the stove. The fire still burned inside from his attempt to make biscuits, so the water heated quickly.

She opened the cupboard to retrieve two of the fragile cups. They were made of thin, nearly translucent china. The most elegant she had ever seen. The presence of such finery struck a bizarre contrast in the modest surroundings.

Handling the heirlooms with respectful delicacy, she set the cups on the table beside the pitiful little arrangement of flowers. There were no tea bags, she had discovered, only loose tea, but under the circumstances that was to her advantage. A cloth dish towel sufficed as a strainer. She laid it across one of the cups, dropped a pinch of tea into its center, and poured the nearly-boiling water through the towel, into the cup. After allowing the tea to steep for a few minutes, she removed the towel, discarded the leaves, and began the process again for the second cup.

She couldn’t have choreographed the scene any better. Jimmy diverted his attention at just the right moment, and when he turned his head to look out the window, she pulled off several leaves from the foxglove and mingled them with the tea in his cup. Doubt began to brew in her mind, even as the mixture in the cup darkened with tea and poison. But if she were inclined to forgive, the pain that spiked every breath made it impossible to forget what Jimmy had done. She withdrew the towel, tossed the damning leaves in the garbage, and washed her hands to rid her skin of the toxin. To try to rid herself of the invisible stain she knew would forever taint her self-respect.

She left her cup of tea on the table, but carefully carried his to him. Her hand trembled slightly. So did her voice. “Jimmy, here’s your tea.”

“Thank you.” It sounded, to her, as if he were saying thanks for more than tea. That he was thanking her for showing acceptance and kindness that he never expected to receive again. Guilt tugged at her to pull the cup away, but she did nothing as he took the tiny cup in his giant hand and lifted it to his lips. His eyes shone with a happy light that she was certain hadn’t appeared there for years.

And then the light flickered.

And then the light died.

❖

The officers made a stealthy approach to the cabin, carefully avoiding any position which might allow them to be seen from the window.

One by one, the team assembled near the door. At Mulder’s signal, Deputy Cox kicked in the door and the group of armed men poured into the entrance.

Everyone there, even, to some extent, Mulder, had braced themselves for the worst. No one was prepared for what they encountered.

Dana Scully, bending over the body of her kidnapper, pumping on his chest, breathing into his mouth. Using every ounce of strength in her obviously abused body to save the man’s life.

She didn’t even seem to notice that the cavalry had arrived.

Mulder went to her and tried to pull her away from her task, but she leaned back toward her abductor and blew another breath into his mouth. Someone yelled for the paramedics. Scully continued her desperate attempts at resuscitation, even after they arrived. Mulder literally had to pick her up to get her out of their way.

His relief at finding her alive and, if not well, at least not seriously injured, was overwhelming. He wanted to tuck her into his embrace and hold her until she forgot everything she’d had to endure over the past week.

But she stood facing away from him, intently watching the paramedics work.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her against his body. She felt so cold. “Scully, are you all right?”

She continued to stare silently until the paramedics ceased their futile efforts. Only then did she turn around in his arms and return his embrace. She spoke quietly, so only he could hear. “Take me home, Mulder.”

Thinking that perhaps she hadn’t heard his earlier question, he repeated it. “Are you all right?”

But the answer was the same. “Take me home.”

❖

He was waiting for her to cry.

She knew that. He had been hovering by her like a personal wailing wall for a week, expecting at any moment her facade of control to crumble and the tears to come.

“Since when are tears more intimate than sex?” he had asked her, when again she refused his overture of comfort. With all they shared, both personally and professionally, he didn’t understand why she couldn’t share the hurt. Not when all he wanted to do was heal her. That was the problem. The wound was too deep. Each time she thought she was ready to put the ordeal behind her, Mulder would probe, and her soul would start to hemorrhage all over again.

When the tears came, they were private tears. Mulder never knew they had been shed. He continued to wait for the dam to burst, when in actuality, it had collapsed days ago.

He had asked for, and she had given cursory details of her captivity. He hadn’t yet found the courage to ask the one question she sensed lying beneath the surface of every conversation: why had she tried so hard to save Jimmy’s life?

It didn’t matter. She didn’t think Mulder would understand her answer.

She knew when she put the foxglove in Jimmy’s tea that a heart attack was imminent. She thought she was prepared to see him gasping and clutching his chest. She thought she could stand back and watch him die.

He had fallen to the floor, eyes clenched shut against the pain.

And he had reached for her. Jimmy’s last act was to reach out for her help.

She couldn’t deny him.

It had nothing to do with the oath she had taken as a physician. It was a human response to human need. As much as she wanted to see him as something inhuman, he was not.

Mulder, she realized, would never comprehend that, because to him, Jimmy was an abstraction. An enemy, but not a person.

The bitter hatred she harbored for Jimmy was not because of the torment he had put her through, or the injuries he’d inflicted.

She could forgive him those things.

She hated him because he had forced her to kill in order to spare her own life.

She hated him, because she would never be sure which of them was truly the monster.

❖

End of “The Bitter Taste of Revenge”

— ❖ —

Author’s Notes: Foxglove is a real plant, sometimes used as an ornamental, with real potential to kill if ingested. Before digitalis was manufactured synthetically, it was derived from the foxglove plant. And gigantism is a real disease, albeit extremely rare with an annual incidence of 3:1,000,000. It is caused by overproduction of growth hormone, and is characterized by increased growth, most especially of the hands and feet. Facial features coarsen, and the teeth begin to spread apart. It typically develops in adults 30-40, and can be treated medically and surgically.

Feedback (please!) to [email protected].

—— ❖ ——

SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD by J Selby ([email protected])

Summary: A follow-up to “The Bitter Taste of Revenge.” Scully’s ordeal with Jimmy continues to haunt her and, by extension, Mulder.

Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All others are the author’s creation. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No infringement is intended.

Classification: SRA Relationship: MSR Rating: PG Spoilers: None

**Feedback always sincerely appreciated.**

— ❖ —

SHELTER FROM THE BITTER COLD

She looked cold, huddled near the edge of the bed with the covers bunched up around her knees. Mulder tugged on the blanket and drew it over her until she was once again cocooned in its warmth. Not so long ago, she wouldn’t have needed the blanket.

During their first night as lovers, and routinely during every night they had spent together since, some insecure part of Mulder made frequent Scully-checks. If he awoke to find she had rolled away from him in her sleep, he would gently pull her back into his arms. She had always come to him willingly. Sometimes sleepily aware, sometimes unconsciously, she would relax against him with utter confidence that she was safe and loved.

Until four weeks ago.

Until a deranged monster named Jimmy broke into their motel room and ripped her from her lover’s embrace.

She had survived her captivity, and for a time, that was all that mattered to Mulder. She’d been found, battered, but whole. And that was enough.

It had taken eleven days for her injuries to heal enough for lovemaking to be possible. They had spent the night of every one of those days together, but separated by her need for recovery time. Her bruised flesh was still too tender. He didn’t want to risk hurting her further by unwittingly tightening his arms around her in his sleep. They had shared a bed for those eleven nights, but little in the way of physical contact.

She was near. And that was enough.

When her pain eased, it was enough that she allowed him to touch her again, even if he had to slide his hands beneath a nightshirt to do it. They’d been suffering a frigid, blustery December. It was understandable that she might want to wrap herself in flannel to ward off the chill, although a month ago she had been content wrapped in nothing more than his arms.

The energetic, adventurous edge had disappeared from their lovemaking. The pace now was reverent. Slow. Not a bad exchange, he had reasoned. He had left it to her to tell him when the time was right, and a little more than a week ago she had informed him that her injuries were sufficiently healed. She hadn’t initiated the encounter, exactly. Just given him permission.

She had freely offered him access to her body, even though it was always partially cloaked in soft cotton. He had touched her body, her skin, every night since then. The intimacy inherent in the act should have reassured him, and yet he was feeling anything but confident. Those beautiful, abstract parts of her he had once touched with such reverence, her heart and soul, were still wrapped in layer upon layer of self-protection, out of harm’s way. Out of his reach.

Now, the emotional cord that had always held them entwined, even when their bodies were separated, had begun to fray dangerously thin. As Mulder tried to compensate for the new fragility of their connection by moving closer, Scully was pulling away. He couldn’t help but wonder if she had returned as whole as he had first believed, or if part of the woman he loved had been left behind in a secluded cabin in California.

Just hours ago, she had again selflessly offered her body up to serve his physical needs. And there was no question his body enjoyed it. But it wasn’t everything they’d had before.

And anything less than everything just wasn’t enough.

❖

She was awakened by the menacing whisper of footsteps on the carpet.

Fear closed her in its vice as each hushed footfall brought the threat nearer. Every muscle in her body coiled, preparing for defense against a would-be attacker. A scream tore at her throat like broken glass, but she held it there. She didn’t dare make a sound. Didn’t dare move, even to nudge Mulder awake. Not if it meant giving up the precious tactical advantage of surprise.

A step closer.

Beneath the covers, her hands clenched into fists.

Closer.

She begged for strength in silent prayer.

Another step brought him right to the edge of the bed.

She was certain he would hear the rapid pounding of her heart.

And then he touched her. Ran a caressing hand over her cheek and into her hair.

With speed and strength honed by training and fueled by adrenalin, she jerked away and captured his wrist in a powerful grip. Her attacker, masked by midnight shadows, took a startled step back, but Scully held on and let his movement pull her upright. She drew back her right arm, punched forward, connecting solidly with the man’s jaw. She released him then, but only to put enough space between them to drive her foot into his abdomen and propel him backward into the dresser.

He fell with a satisfying thud against the heavy piece of furniture.

“Mulder, get the light.” Her voice was breathy, raw, but loud in the stillness of the room. Even so, Mulder didn’t respond. The only answer came in the form of a groan from her defeated opponent. She couldn’t suppress the flash of angry disappointment that Mulder had managed to remain asleep and oblivious to the danger. She fumbled for her gun on the nightstand, and once it was firmly in her grip, switched on the bedside lamp.

Her vision was blurred by the sudden brightness, her arms trembled, but her aim didn’t waver. She barked a warning to the predator crumbled in a heap on the floor. “Don’t move.”

“Whatever you say, Scully. Do you know you have dust bunnies under your dresser?”

His voice registered at the same instant her eyesight cleared. She was across the room and kneeling at his side in the space of a heartbeat. “Oh my God, Mulder. I didn’t … I thought … I’m so sorry.”

Mulder began to uncurl from his huddle on the floor, and eased himself into a sitting position. When Scully reached for him, he leaned away and held up a hand to halt her. “Wait.”

She followed his wary glance and was astonished to find the gun still in her grip, aimed at Mulder. His life was resting on one shaking finger still poised over the trigger. Her eyes traced over the polished metal as she lowered the gun to the floor. She shoved it aside, beyond reach, but still in sight.

In California, a frightening stranger had abducted her with the intention of separating her from Mulder for the rest of her life. The experience had terrified her. Wounded her. Added new scars to a collection of deep, but healing, cuts into her psyche. Now as she stared at the weapon on the floor, her soul began to bleed again as realization stabbed her and conscience twisted the knife. With careful deliberation, she had killed the man who tried to sever her bond with Mulder. She had survived, only to find herself, in a moment of reckless panic, nearly succeeding where Jimmy had failed.

❖

It had been a colossally stupid thing to do. He should have known better than to try to steal up beside her while she was sleeping, not after what she had been through. Now he had souvenir bruises to prove that he had taken vacation from his senses. His jaw ached, his stomach churned, and he would probably have a nice imprint of the dresser drawer handle on his ass. But his own pain was incidental at the moment.

She was motionless, mesmerized it seemed, by the gun on the floor. The fear and rage had evaporated from her expression. Guilt and embarrassment, although surely roiling just beneath the surface, were not yet discernable in the neutral set of her features. It was a traitorous tear that gave her away; a tiny drop clung to her lower lashes and glittered in the soft light.

“Scully?” He spoke gently, afraid of startling her again, but she didn’t react. “Scully, it’s okay.”

The motion was nearly imperceptible. Just a slight shake of her head accompanied by the barest whisper of “No.” She turned to face him then, and repeated the motion and the word with more force. “No. It’s not okay.”

She launched to her feet and strode to the closet. Yanking a large suitcase down from the shelf, she flung it on the bed and turned back to pluck his shirts and suits from their hangers. She tossed the bundle of clothes on the bed beside the suitcase and returned to where he was sitting, still leaning against the dresser. “Can you scoot over? I need to open this drawer.”

“What are you doing, Scully?”

“I’m packing your things,” she said so matter-of-factly that at first he wondered if they were going on some trip he had forgotten. “You’re moving back to your apartment.”

“What?”

“You can’t stay here anymore.”

He ignored the complaints of his battered body and pushed to his feet, planting himself in the small space between her and the dresser. “I’m not leaving, Scully.”

“This is my home, and you’ll leave when I decide. I’ve decided you’re leaving tonight.”

She was putting as much authority as she could marshal into her voice, but he detected the uncertainty she was trying to camouflage. He held his ground when she attempted to shoulder her way around him to reach his sock drawer. “No. Not until you give me a good reason.”

Scully took a step back from him and crossed her arms over her chest. He’d seen her examine mutant cellular material with this exact same expression of incredulity. “Christ, Mulder, I could have killed you tonight. How much more reason do you need?”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“No? Whose fault was it then?”

He closed the distance between them and brought his hand up to smooth down the unruly strands of her sleep-mussed hair. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

She sighed and pulled his hand down to her lips for the faintest hint of a kiss. As his hand fell away, her lips turned up in a small, sad smile. “Your infinite capacity for self-blame never ceases to amaze me, Mulder, but I truly can’t follow your logic on this one.” She brushed her fingers over the darkening bruise on his face. “I did this.” She dragged up the fabric of his t-shirt to reveal the red, foot-sized mark on his stomach. “I did this. And I came close —” Her voice snagged on a small, anguished sob. “Too close to putting a bullet through your brain. So, while I appreciate your willingness to confess responsibility, the evidence doesn’t point to you as the culpable party.”

“Come here.” Slipping his hand into hers, he pulled her toward the bed. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and patted the space next to him in invitation. Though she looked uncertain about his intentions, she didn’t hesitate to sit beside him. “I’m sorry I startled you tonight.”

She shook her head. “Mulder, it was my —”

“You overreacted, Scully. We both know that. But it was a natural, justifiable reaction after what happened in California.”

In contrast to his soothing tone, her voice took on a note of high-pitched desperation. “Don’t you see? No matter how you try to explain it away, it doesn’t excuse it. I hurt you. I could have killed you. I’m not going to take the chance of it happening again.”

He tilted his head to catch her troubled gaze. “I promise not to take any more nighttime strolls around the bedroom if that makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t.”

In the hours before he’d awakened her, he had rehearsed every possible segue into this most difficult of conversations. Now that the moment had arrived, he realized that levity and circuitous word games would fail him here. Scully deserved the direct approach. “We have to talk about California.”

Frustration marred her pretty features. She had made it abundantly clear that she wanted to put that event behind her. His refusal to talk about it had been a festering irritation between them for weeks. “We’ve talked about it. I murdered a man to save my own life, even though the rescue team was about ten minutes away at the time, and now I have to live with that.”

“Yes, you do. And I won’t lie to you and tell you that it will be an easy thing to live with. I’ll be as supportive as I know how, I’ll talk about it whenever you want to talk about it, but you have to be the one to make peace with yourself. I can’t do it for you.”

His candor seemed to take her aback and she studied him for a moment before nodding her agreement. “So there’s nothing to talk about.”

“There’s one thing we’ve never discussed. Something we’ve both been afraid to bring up.”

“Nothing happened, Mulder.” She squeezed his hand in a reassuring gesture. “He didn’t touch me, I told you that.”

But she had misunderstood. “This isn’t about Jimmy. It’s about me.” Dread poured into his veins, bile bubbled into his throat. His relationship with Scully was the foundation on which he had built his entire future, and now it threatened to collapse beneath the weight of a single question.

“Scully, do you blame me for letting him take you?”

❖

Disbelief rendered her mute. For long seconds she could only stare at Mulder as she tried to comprehend his question. Even when she found her voice again, she could manage nothing more profound than “What?”

“I would understand, you know, if you blamed me.” His tone, his posture sagged in disgrace. “If I had done my job, Jimmy never would have been able get to you.”

“Your job?”

“To protect you.” He raised his eyes to look at her, and gripped her hand a little tighter to punctuate his statement.

“That’s not your job, Mulder.” With her free hand she brushed his hair away from a nearly-healed wound near his temple. “You’re my partner, not my bodyguard, and even if you were, he knocked you unconscious. There was nothing you could have done.”

He shrugged away her answer. “I’m sure, intellectually, that’s what you believe.”

“But you’re suggesting that, emotionally, I expected my lover to come charging up on a white steed to whisk me out of danger?”

“Maybe.”

Mulder wore guilt like a second skin. That she hadn’t anticipated his self-blame was an alarming indication of just how distracted she had let herself become. “You’re wrong, Mulder.” She spoke with such conviction, surely he would have to believe. “I never blamed you. Neither intellectually, nor emotionally. There wasn’t a minute when I was trapped in that cabin that I didn’t wish for you to find me, but it never crossed my mind to hold you responsible for my being there.”

He still looked uncertain, so she moved closer and slid her arms around him. She kept him snared in her embrace, fastened to her gaze, as she spoke. “I was frightened for my own life, yes, but even more terrified of what Jimmy might have done to you. I knew, though, that if it was humanly possible, you were out there searching for me. I was absolutely certain of that fact. It gave me strength. Hope.” She caressed his cheek. “You gave me those things. I wouldn’t have survived without them.”

The first glimmer of acceptance appeared in his eyes, although he continued to resist. “Still —”

“Don’t martyr yourself over this. You’re not the villain here.”

He seemed to consider her words for a moment, then conceded the argument with the slightest of nods. She felt enormously relieved to have averted that particular crisis, until a reassured Mulder, turned her own argument against her. “Neither are you, Scully.”

It was the same tiresome chorus, and one she had become adept at ignoring. She untangled herself from him and headed back to the dresser, still determined to pack his things and send him home.

He chattered on, but was forced to talk to her back as she rifled through the dresser. “No one but you considers your defense against Jimmy to be an excessive use of force. You can’t keep punishing yourself for crossing a line you never even approached.”

Love, she surmised, must be blinding him since only minutes ago she had demonstrated rather dramatically her precarious balance on that line. “You keep telling me that, but how can you believe it, especially after what happened tonight?”

“There is nothing dishonorable about self-defense.”

She returned to the bed with an armful of his t-shirts and laid them in the suitcase, putting unnecessary attention into straightening the pile, solely to avoid looking at him. “There is when it makes you point a gun at the man you love.”

“No.” He rose and moved behind her, reaching around to still her fidgeting hands. His body pressed against hers and his voice rumbled in her ear. “You pointed the gun at a threat, to neutralize it until you could make an identification. There’s nothing wrong with your procedure, Agent Scully.”

“But —” Her voice was faltering, and so, she feared, was her determination.

Mulder must have sensed that she was weakening. He turned her to face him and drew her close. “Now if you had shot me after you knew it was me … well, then I might have wondered if some of the magic had gone out of our relationship. The fact that you didn’t leads me to believe that you still like me, at least a little.”

At the touch of his lips to her forehead, her eyes squeezed shut. Emotion choked her, and the words would barely push past the lump in her throat. “I love you.”

“I know you do.”

She gathered the crumbs of her resolve and took a step back from him, hoping the stubborn expression she adopted was even remotely convincing. “And that’s why you have to leave. I’m afraid I might accidentally hurt you again.”

“You’re hurting me now.”

Pain ravaged his expression. She could feel it squeezing her own heart in its unmerciful fist. Still, she tried to argue. “It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right.” He captured her hand and brought it up to his bruised cheek. “Punch me in the jaw and the bruise will fade in a week or so. Shut me out of your life, and I’ll never recover.”

She let her hand linger on his face. “I don’t want to shut you out. I just … I just want you to feel safe.”

“I only feel safe when I’m with you.”

She stumbled back. His words, so tender in intent, hit in the very center of her anxiety. Knocked her emotionally off balance. Even her physical equilibrium couldn’t compensate, and she sank to the bed. Her limbs trembled and no amount of willpower was sufficient to slow her hammering pulse.

His warm hand rested on her leg and Mulder’s concerned voice drifted up from where he was kneeling in front of her. “Scully?”

Her first attempt to answer failed altogether. She cleared her throat and managed to rasp out a few words. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“Tell me.”

Such gentleness threatened to snap her tenuous control, and it was only made worse when he leaned in to try to make eye contact. She turned her head to avoid it. “I can’t.”

His hands came up to cradle her face, to turn her toward him, and to make avoiding him impossible. “Don’t pull away from me, Scully. You say you don’t blame me for what happened in California, but something’s bothering you. Have I done something to upset you? You have to tell me or I can’t fix it.”

“You can’t fix this.” She was certain he couldn’t. She also knew, despite her protests, he would persist until she told him the truth.

“I can try. But you have to tell me what it is.”

Her fingers twined with his and she pulled his hands down into her lap. “Do you remember …” she began in a watery whisper. “Do you remember the first night we made love?”

He winked. “Vaguely.”

Her own recollection of that night, at once beautiful and bitterly painful, washed over her as she described it aloud. “That night as I was falling asleep in your arms, I remember thinking that I had never felt so safe. That nothing evil could find me there. And all the nights after that, no matter what kind of monster we had faced during the day at work, I could retreat to that shelter and feel safe again.”

“Oh, God, Scully …”

She couldn’t let him interrupt. Couldn’t give him an opening to start the self-flagellation all over again. “It was childish, Mulder. You aren’t my security blanket.”

“But when I let Jimmy take you …”

“Please try to understand, this isn’t about your being unable to help me. It’s about an illusion that was shattered the instant Jimmy touched me. You could have killed him right then and it wouldn’t have changed that. Darkness is part of our work and it’s part of our lives. It doesn’t respect boundaries, no matter how I might wish for a place that was off-limits.” Tears were tracking down her face and she angrily wiped them away. “I was stupid to let my guard down. I realize that now. It was a beautiful sanctuary for awhile, but Jimmy destroyed it when he pulled me away from you that night.”

“We could rebuild it.” Mulder sounded more pleading than assuring. Begging, almost, for her to cling to something that had never been a tangible reality.

“It’s not bricks and mortar. I can’t just slap a fresh coat of paint on my sense of security and forget everything that’s happened.”

“No. But you can get it back if you want it badly enough.”

He seemed so certain, and she desperately wanted to believe it was true. “How?”

He tugged on her hand and pulled her down from the bed, into his lap. She relaxed against him, waiting for him to whisper the greatest of all secrets in her ear.

“Slowly.”

Which was better than not at all, she supposed, but disappointing just the same.

“One brick at a time.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, rubbed her cheek against the soft cotton of his t-shirt. It would be so tempting to try, but, “I don’t know where to start.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” She raised her head to look at his face, and was surprised to find something like mirth sparkling in his eyes. With a lift of a curious eyebrow, she gave him permission to continue.

He fingered the top button of her flannel nightshirt. “I really hate this shirt, Scully.”

❖

He wished he could snatch the words out of the air. In one breath he had spoken of the need to move slowly, and in the next he was cajoling her to take off her shirt. He’d known teenagers with more finesse.

She crawled out of his lap and settled down on her knees in front of him, but she didn’t speak, and her expression gave nothing away.

She smoothed the nightshirt over her thighs and fingered the fabric for an eternity before she looked at him again.

“This shirt?”

Verbosity would likely get him into further trouble, so he did nothing but nod.

“My mother bought me this shirt.”

He wondered if he was actually shrinking, or if it was only wishful thinking on his part to suddenly be able to hide in the carpet fibers.

“Mom loves this color.”

Some sort of gurgle came from his throat, but it hardly qualified as a response.

“I have to tell you, Mulder …”

He braced himself.

“I’ve never liked lavender.”

“Huh?”

“Lavender. It washes me out. But it’s Mom’s favorite color, and she’s unconsciously foisting her preferences on me.”

He opened his mouth, but hesitated to speak, not yet certain of what had just transpired.

“So, Mulder, you don’t like it either?”

With a tentative hand he reached for her and brushed his fingers across her shirt sleeve. “I just know that it’s not nearly as beautiful as what’s underneath.”

She answered with an embarrassed smile and her eyes flickered downward. He’d never known her to be shy, though he had rarely been so bold in his compliments of her body. He’d always been one for showing appreciation rather than stating what he thought should be obvious. “I still have bruises.”

His fingers wandered back to her top button and slipped it free. Keeping his touch delicate and watching her for any sign of resistance, he ran his hand down her skin until it met another button obstacle. Her stillness gave him permission to continue and he made his way slowly, breaching each button barrier he encountered during the journey. Once the shirt hung loose, he slipped his hands inside, letting them travel over her shoulders to nudge at the offensive lavender material until it fell down her arms.

The agent looked at his partner and saw the greenish-yellow splotches around her ribs. Ugly reminders of the beating she had taken from a madman.

But the man looked at his lover and saw white skin, perfect breasts, pale freckles and a sexy little birthmark on her stomach. “I don’t see any bruises, Scully.”

There was no doubt that it had been exactly the right thing to say. His reward was immediate: the gentlest, sweetest of kisses. Her lips didn’t linger on his, but neither did she move away. He only had to lean forward a fraction of an inch to meet her lips again. And again.

A dozen breathless kisses later, she whispered to him. “Mulder?”

“Hmm?”

“I really hate your shirt.”

❖

It didn’t take long to discover that they had a similar loathing of each other’s underwear, and the garments were cast aside with the disrespect they deserved.

Scully pushed to her feet, dragging Mulder up with her, and took two steps back until her legs bumped into the bed. She started to sit but Mulder yanked her forward.

“Scully, the suitcase.”

She twisted around to survey the bed; it was a mess. The suitcase yawned open, empty except for a well-organized pile of undershirts.

Mulder’s suits and dress shirts were tangled in a heap amidst the blankets. Another time she would have shown more concern for his belongings, but Mulder’s hands were sweeping across her body and erasing any cares she might have had for his apparel. She swept the suitcase off the bed, then fell forward into the mound of shirts and suits, carrying Mulder down with her.

“You’re paying for my dry cleaning, Scully,” she heard him grumble in her ear.

She wriggled beneath him and he eased his weight from her so she could turn over. Her arms looped up around his neck and pulled him back down atop her. “If you’re going to live here, Mulder, you’re going to have to learn to hang up your clothes.”

“I’ll get right on that.” He pushed away and reached for a shirt.

She intercepted his hand with her own. “Later would be okay.”

His hand slipped from hers to continue with its rediscovery of her body. “Do you have something else you want me to do right now?”

She had forgotten how delicious it was to feel him touching her so intimately. To have her skin pressed against his. She vaguely recalled that he had asked her a question. While the teasing banter had been fun, and a long-time missing from their lovemaking, her quick-wittedness had slowed to match the languid crawl of Mulder’s hands on her body.

“What do you want me to do for you?” He must have perceived the shift in her mood, because his tone wasn’t playful anymore.

“Touch me.”

And he did. With his hands, as he had on their first night together. With his mouth, as he kissed her with a newness that excited her and a familiarity that soothed her. With his spirit, as he stripped away her fear and made her forget, even if only for a few minutes.

When it came to loving Mulder, she’d always found it much easier to give than to take. But tonight, just this once, it felt right to be greedy. What she demanded of him, he gave. And then he gave more still.

❖

For a time there was no sound in the world except their gasping breaths. No life in the universe beyond that room. His awareness of her so complete, he knew she was watching him even before he opened his eyes for confirmation.

“You okay, Mulder?”

“Never better.”

She pulled one of his wrinkled dress shirts from beneath her. “The same can’t be said for your clothes. I’ll take them to the cleaners tomorrow.”

“I’ll take them, Scully, as long as I can hang them here when they’re done.”

She rolled away, rose from the bed, and began gathering his clothes. She dropped a bundle of suits and shirts in a chair and turned toward him. “You aren’t afraid?” The question was asked almost casually, but he knew its import.

“Only of losing you.” He sat up and held out a hand to her. “Come here.”

He stopped her before she could sit. “Just a second, Scully.” She remained still as he slid from the bed and walked behind her. Mulder picked up the nightshirt at her feet and then tenderly threaded her arms into the sleeves. Beginning with the top button, he fastened each closure one by one until she was again covered by soft, lavender cloth.

Except that her hands were trailing behind his, unbuttoning each button in his wake. She shrugged out of the garment and let it fall away.

Wrapping herself instead in the shelter of his arms.

— ❖ —

End of “Shelter from the Bitter Cold”

Author’s Notes: This story was literally salvaged from the trash bin by Shari and Lisa who convinced me there was something here worth saving, even without the smut. If you disagree, blame them. <g>

Feedback to [email protected] is welcomed and appreciated.

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