From: Terma99@aol.com
Date: Sun, 28 May 2000 19:12:23 EDT
Subject: Cadenza by Terma99 (17/44)
Source: xff


Cadenza
by Terma99

Chapter Nine (17/44)

Missing chapters? Go to:
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Feedback: Terma99@aol.com

******************************

10:15 PM


The statue was coming to dinner. Don Giovanni had insulted 
the dead commander's brass image--and he had risen from 
his grave to embody the effigy, seeking revenge on the 
brazen young man who had flaunted his talent for deceit and 
heartless seduction in the faces of an entire village.

The theatrical table was set and a resounding knock 
thundered against the tall door. The statue was admitted by 
the sniveling servant who soon fell to his knees. The voice 
from the grave called out to Don Giovanni, reaching out to 
him...leading him to his judgment.

"Joshua..."

Joshua dropped the hand of the maiden who had been 
holding fast to him all evening to turn around. In the 
shadows of the thick purple curtains at the back of the 
private box, he saw the Thin Man--gaunt and disheveled. With 
a cracked and bleeding smile, its bony hand reached out to 
him through the pleats. The horrifying pulse of the final act 
of Mozart's darkest opera rose as Joshua got to his feet to 
face him. The arm of bone slipped back through the slit and 
vanished.

"Joshua...?" The lady was touching his coat. "What is it?"

He shook his head. He couldn't have seen what he just saw, 
but the curtain was still rocking from the intrusion. He 
touched her shoulder. "I'll only be a moment."

He paused at the curtain before yanking it aside to reveal the 
darkness of the sloping carpeted hall, dimly lit by flickering 
simulated brass lamps. At the far end, the sidewing door was 
slowly easing shut.

Joshua felt his pulse rising as he jogged to the end of the hall 
and caught the door that led into a long stone hallway--
backstage. He entered and his own footfalls echoed in the 
cold hall as he walked past empty dressing rooms and racks 
of flowing bedazzled costumes. On the floor were half-
opened boxes of hats and shoes and powdered wigs. Ahead, 
he saw a coat rack tip over, casting woolen vestments across 
the floor. Joshua stepped over them and turned about, trying 
to catch sight of the phantom hand that had pulled it over. 

"Hello...?" he called out, but no one was there to answer him. 
He moved ahead through a stone arch into a tall, wide room, 
cold and dark--filled with chairs, tables and props, covered 
in sheets and bound with cords, stacked one upon the other, 
smelling of dust and damp mold. 

"Joshua..." it whispered to him. In the back, beyond a 
standing forest of fifty-foot-tall rolled backdrops, he saw a 
door opening and heard the sound of the street beyond, 
blowing a fog choked wind into the dark room.

"Who are you?" Joshua called out, shivering as his steps led 
him forward past a row of half-dressed mannequins caught in 
odd poses, staring blankly into space. He couldn't tell where 
the voice was coming from. It was as if it was calling from 
inside his own head--but it was a voice he didn't know. The 
opened door blew and thudded against the jamb, bouncing 
back open a crack. Joshua walked into the canvas forest, that 
stank of cracked oil paint and turpentine, and found a way to 
push through, careful not to knock one of the three-hundred 
pound trunks over on himself. It was tight and dark within 
the grove, but he could see the thin line of the door blinking 
ahead, leading him steadily until a hand reached at him from 
within the solid columns and he screamed, ripping his arm 
free of the fingers.

In the opera house proper, Don Giovanni raised his voice in 
one last bellow of defiance as black and twisted hands 
reached up from the stage trapdoors, belching smoke, 
dragging him down into hell.

Joshua stumbled his way through the forest of forgotten 
scenes and leapt out the door into the alley. The lights of a 
car were on him and the brakes screeched as the wheels 
skidded toward him.

###

10:16 PM

From his lower berth, Mulder saw Joshua rise from his seat 
and touch the shoulder of the woman seated next to him, 
then move toward the rear of the box, out of view. 
Something was going on. It wasn't like a musician to wander 
off during an opera's climatic scenes. Mulder excused 
himself from the pack of viewers and slipped out through the 
back curtains and into the hall. He turned to his left to rush 
up the curved passage to the private boxes. An usher stopped 
him at the top of the rise and Mulder pulled his badge, 
explaining that he was following a suspect.

Once cleared, Mulder made his way up the steep hallway, 
circling the edge of the opera house until he came to the row 
of box alcoves. The hall was empty; there was no way he 
could have missed Joshua leaving. He counted the number of 
openings until he found the right box and with a finger, 
pulled the curtain open an inch and peered in. The lady was 
seated alone in silhouette.

Looking up the hall to his right, he saw a backstage door, 
resting slightly ajar. He hurried over to it and slipped into the 
bowels of the structure, calling Joshua's name.

There were footstep ahead and Mulder heard the clatter of 
something falling and Joshua's voice calling out to someone. 

"Joshua?"

There was no reply, and soon Mulder found himself standing 
before a dark archway which led into a large scene storage 
room. The lighting was very dim, but he could just spot a 
form slipping into the canvases piled up at the far end. He 
ran forward and followed him in, calling out to him. Joshua 
failed to respond and slid into darkness, screaming when 
Mulder made a reach for his arm. A moment later the 
violinist was rushing out the back door, oblivious of the car 
speeding up the narrow alley. Mulder made a leap for him, 
knocking both of them across the brick passage to safety as 
the car swerved at the last minute, plummeting into a wall 
with a deafening bang of buckling metal and shattered glass.

###

10:30 PM


"... Joshua's okay--I've got him back inside. Meet me in back 
of the opera house as soon as possible."

Mulder ended the call to his partner as he pushed the 
dressing room door open, letting Joshua in ahead of him. The 
violinist reached for the nearest bench and eased himself 
down on it, brushing the dirt and powdered glass from his 
left pant leg.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, pocketing his phone. "You 
nearly scared the shit out of me."

Joshua looked down at his left side, wincing. "I'm okay, but I 
think the fall may have torn my stitches." He was beginning 
to pull his shirt loose from his pants. "Can you see...?"

Mulder kneeled on the thin carpeting and helped Joshua pull 
back the bandage. The wound was torn a little on one side. 
"You're bleeding. We'll have to get you back into the ER 
tonight."

"No!" Joshua said vehemently.

Mulder looked up at him, holding the bandage back against 
the man's side, feeling Joshua's agitation in the heart rhythm 
under his fingers. In truth, his own heart had yet to approach 
a normal tempo. The valet was dead, crushed behind the 
steering wheel. Mulder knew his call for an ambulance had 
been a futile gesture.

"If I go back to the hospital, they'll pick up the story for sure. 
A man was killed. You saw him...the blood. I want no part in 
this."

Mulder tightened his lips. "If you neglect this wound, I'll have 
no choice but to haul you in. What the hell were you doing, 
running out like that?"

Joshua looked pensive. "I was following someone."

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play guessing games. "Who, 
Joshua?"

Joshua regarded him obstinately for a few seconds, then he 
relaxed, giving in. "I saw the Thin Man again."

"Here? In the opera?"

"Yes. I don't have the slightest idea how he could have gotten 
in."

Mulder kept his hold tight on the man's side. "I do."

Joshua gave him a look of irritated disbelief.

"Dammit, Joshua. This...thing means business. You're going 
to get yourself killed if you don't start trusting your own 
eyes."

Joshua began to shake his head, "I don't think..."

"Did anyone else see this man? Did that woman see him?" 
Mulder couldn't help but let a little venom into his voice at 
the mention of her. It was easy to see Joshua picked right up 
on that. Well, at least he was selectively observant--his whole 
expression was changing to one that made Mulder's stomach 
drop.

"No, she didn't see him..." Joshua said absently, as if he 
didn't care to waste another word on her. He reached his 
hand out to touch Mulder's chin. The agent flinched away.

"God, she really upset you. Mulder, I was doing a favor; she's 
the Symphony Chairman's daughter." Mulder let his hand fall 
from Joshua's side and he looked away, resting his arm on 
his own knee, feeling heat rising to his neck. "I'm sorry. 
There was no time for me to call you. Dillmont didn't exactly 
get the hint and I sure as hell wasn't about to explain it to 
him..."

"That's enough, Joshua. It's over; it was a mistake."

Joshua leaned over closer to him despite the pain it caused 
him. "I don't believe that for a second."

Mulder didn't respond, just kept his eyes on the end of the 
bench.

"Don't sit there and tell me you haven't been thinking about 
me all day like I've been thinking of you, of how much I 
wanted you last night and how much more I need you 
tonight."

Mulder felt like he couldn't catch his breath, but refused 
himself the luxury of air as his eyes closed and he feigned 
resistance.

"Look at me and tell me you're going to put an end right now 
to something that's just beginning."

Mulder turned to face him before he opened his eyes *...tell 
me you haven't been thinking about me all day...* He 
couldn't tell him that; it would be a lie. He opened his eyes 
and met his adversary head-on.

Mulder couldn't tell who moved first, but somehow they met 
halfway with mouths eager to finish off this argument with a 
kiss. It wasn't gentle or subtle, and in Mulder's mind it quite 
simply blew off the last of his pretenses and false 
assumptions about the irrevocable attraction he felt for this 
man. Their kiss was deep and powerful. He felt Joshua slip 
off the bench toward him so his arms could grip him and 
Mulder felt the violinist's hands reach up and dive into his 
hair. The warmth of Joshua's mouth and tongue moving 
against his own was devastating, wreaking far more damage 
than any of the pleasures they had explored the previous 
night.

Mulder was ruined. This first taste, this first introduction to 
the inside of the man was making his mind bend with desire. 
He wanted in, as far as he could reach--as deep as he could 
fall, slip or move.

There were footsteps in the hall and the two men broke 
apart, coming quickly to their feet as War Memorial Security 
officers kicked the door open.


*****************************

12:15 AM
SUNDAY

"Why should I be surprised to find you here?" 

Mulder didn't need to turn around to know that was Lt. Jarvis 
about to come chew his ass from where it was poking out of 
the passenger's side of the crushed '98 white BMW now 
sporting a brick and leather dashboard. The victim had been 
removed with the help of a hydraulic arm and a couple of 
body bags. What was left of the valet remained smeared in 
bloody splatters across the crumpled windshield.

Mulder reached for the claim stubs that had spilled from the 
victim's pocket onto the floor with a latex-covered hand, 
before easing himself back out of the stomach-churning 
mess. Jarvis was at his hip, chewing the front of his 
mustache.

"Mind telling me why you got your paws all over this car 
before my men arrived?"

Mulder wasn't in the mood to play 'territorial cop' as he fit 
the stubs into an evidence bag. "I was almost turned into 
hamburger by this vehicle when I chased a suspect through 
the backstage door into the alley."

"Which suspect?" Jarvis asked, doubtful.

"The unidentified thin man."

Jarvis' eyes grew suspiciously wider. "You saw the fella?"

Mulder nodded faintly and scanned the bystanders lit by 
flashing police lights to make sure Joshua hadn't wandered 
off again. He saw him lingering in the back, far from the 
yellow tape, trying to remain inconspicuous. Mulder had 
offered the musician his long trench to keep warm in the 
chilled late evening and to help hide him from the media that 
was beginning to file in by ones and twos. So far this incident 
was announcing itself over the scanner as a solo head-on, not 
an attempted murder. Mulder hoped it stayed that way for 
Joshua's sake, but if he didn't get him out of here quick 
someone was bound to recognize the violinist and start 
telling stories.

"I followed the suspect through the opera house into this 
alley just as the car struck the wall," Mulder explained to 
Jarvis. "The valet may have swerved out of control in an 
effort to miss him."

"That's a nice theory, son; but from the tire marks, I'd say 
the driver was aiming for the stage door, not away from it."

Mulder pretended to find this news enlightening, never mind 
the fact he'd observed that very thing from the start--before 
shouting at a nearby parking attendant to call security and 
rushing a stunned and shaken Joshua back inside to make 
sure he was safe and uninjured. 

Since the crash, Mulder had insisted Joshua keep close to 
him until Scully arrived--but he had slipped off to locate his 
date and get her to her car before "the Chairman gets wind of 
this." It was the least the musician could do to stay put, 
Mulder thought, considering he'd elected to lie to the SFPD to 
cover him. Scully knew the real story, however, and Mulder 
wondered what was taking her so long to get to the scene.

Just as he thought it, Mulder saw his partner exiting a cab at 
the curbside. Her hair was a little damp at the edges--there 
wasn't likely to be much sleep for either of them tonight. 

"My God, Mulder. What the hell happened here?"

"The fat lady was singing," Mulder grimly replied, leading her 
to the passenger's side so she could take a look. Jarvis had 
eased back and was talking with his men, hopefully placated 
for a while. In a low voice, Mulder related the true details of 
the crash and Joshua's narrow escape to her.

She leaned in to inspect the damage. "Where's the victim?"

"Scooped out and deposited in the morgue's freezer. I'd like 
you to autopsy what's left of the body, and determine if the 
valet had any brain or blood abnormalities like we've seen in 
Harris and Schmidt."

"Do you think the valet was deliberately aiming for Joshua?" 
Mulder held up the bag of claim tickets, spreading them out 
through the plastic. Written on the backs of them in felt-tip 
were hauntingly familiar phrases and on one, a line of 
Cyrillic.

"Joshua would appreciate it if we kept this aspect of the case 
under Federal jurisdiction," he said quietly and she 
understood. Stealing a glance at Jarvis, she slipped the bag 
into a deep coat pocket.

"I've gotta get out of here," Mulder said, beginning to move 
away from the mangled car.

"Where are you going?" she called after him. 

"I need to take somebody home."


******************************

Chapter Nine
END (17/44)

Chapter Ten (18/44)

********************************

Chapter Ten: The Sound of Silence

********************************

12:40 AM

The backseat of the yellow cab lacked a certain level of taste 
and privacy the two men had come to appreciate recently 
while traveling by car together. They weren't really free to 
communicate openly as the cabbie drove them carelessly 
toward the Marina. All Mulder could do was look.

Joshua appeared less shaken, but still agitated by the 
evening's events. The musician kept fiddling with the clip on 
the seatbelt neither of them wore, watching the road spin by. 
Mulder was surprised to feel a strange sense of calm, of 
resignation, and ultimately, a rising undercurrent of desire. 
He couldn't shake the recent arresting memory of pressing 
his face to Joshua's, hunting for his tongue. At the opera 
they'd kissed like secret lovers caught backstage at a dance 
before the chaperones forced them apart. He was somewhat 
glad for that intrusion. There was no predicting when they 
would have pulled away from each other. A strange romance 
was this, but one Mulder seemed powerless to stop. Soon 
they'd be at Joshua's apartment and Mulder could only guess 
at what was going to happen next. He just hoped they 
survived it.

Joshua's dark eyes were regarding him with apology and 
apprehension. Joshua knew he'd upset him, and was now 
plainly showing concern. Why wasn't he more concerned for 
his own life? His sanity? It wasn't every day a man in Joshua's 
line of work found himself face to face with death. For 
Mulder, however, it was just another day at the office. 
Mulder knew how to handle danger; it was seduction that 
remained a mystery to him--he'd have to trust Joshua in that. 
He had no idea what to expect now--all he knew was that he 
needed to feel the warm welcome of the man's mouth again, 
and soon.

###

Mulder paid the cab driver and the two men walked briskly 
up the entry to Joshua's flat. Joshua was fumbling for his 
keys under Mulder's coat, which he still wore over his 
shoulders. As much as he had wanted Mulder to come back 
to him tonight, he was nearly frightened by the quiet 
intensity he sensed coming from the agent who stood close 
to him, the soft green in his eyes growing sharper by the 
minute. It had been years since he'd been with a man. He 
wasn't going to get the door opened fast enough. 

The agent uttered an expletive and Joshua was taken by the 
shoulders and pressed back against the wall as the man's 
mouth descended on his, pressing a hungry tongue past his 
own, slipping deep into him. Joshua felt himself harden in an 
instant as his head thudded against the white stucco wall and 
he gave up the search for his keys to the taste and feel of 
Mulder's warm tongue working its way around his lips and 
teeth.

Mulder was kissing him openly and passionately, with the 
urgency of a starving man. His mouth hard on his, Joshua 
could smell his sweat and cologne as his evening brush of 
stubble grazed his lips and chin. Mulder's hand was holding 
his head up to the wall for leverage as he sucked at his 
mouth with a less-than-tender force. Joshua noted it hadn't 
taken Mulder long to realize he was kissing a man and could 
come at him with a man's drive for physical pleasure. 
Mulder's long fingers were rifling through his short hair, 
adjusting Joshua to fit his mouth as he bore down on him 
from varying angles and pressures. Joshua found he had no 
clear memory of the last time he'd been kissed half this 
intensely. Mulder's tongue was exciting some long-forgotten 
pleasure center in his head. He wanted to drop, fall to the 
ground and be taken into the agent's rough custody. Mulder 
was taller and heavier than him and Joshua ached to submit 
to him--to lie down on his belly and be taken over without 
mercy. 

Their mouths still moving together greedily, Joshua felt 
Mulder flip the coat lapel open and reach into his front 
pocket for the elusive keys. The agent's knuckles brushed the 
side of his cock where it lay prominent against the pleated 
fly. Joshua choked down the whimper he felt rising in his 
throat--he needed to be stronger than that. He reached up to 
grip and pull on Mulder's neck and shoulder. He needed to 
fight him to regain himself before he shocked them both with 
his capacity for physical possession. 

Mulder looped his finger through the keychain and extracted 
it. His other hand held a fist-full of Joshua's hair as he pulled 
him back from his mouth. "I need to fuck you tonight," he 
said lowly between thick kisses, his eyes dark and wild. 
"Anywhere. Any way. Show me. I need to know."

Joshua found he had to look away from what he saw 
reflected in that beautiful face to keep himself in a 
manageable state of emotion. He closed his eyes and 
conjured a slow smile. "I'll show you everything."


###

Sooner or later a man in deep arousal will find the instinctive 
urge to thrust just takes over. Mulder meant it when he said 
he needed to fuck. The mechanics were foreign to him, 
however, and he needed some guidance--but tonight his body 
was far too impatient to wait politely for the official tour into 
this chapter of male sexuality. 

Joshua was under him in the bed, as naked as he. They were 
sliding over one another, slick with sweat and slippery where 
their cocks met hard and hot, a tense friction building 
between them as they rolled over the sheets, knocking 
pillows to the floor. Mulder was too far gone with arousal to 
stop the hand that kept insinuating itself between them, 
squeezing the head of his cock almost painfully as he fought 
to keep the man still under him, his mouth busily devouring 
his own, muffling their harsh, unguarded sounds. 

If it had been a struggle with the keys outside, inside it was a 
battle of the removal of clothes. Men were too overdressed--
there were coats, and buttons and other needless things that 
tied and clipped and fastened. Women needed a gentle 
undressing, a seduction. For men in this mindset, seduction 
was entirely unnecessary--foreplay, a joke. 

Joshua's pants were barely to his knees when he'd dropped 
to the floor and made for Mulder's belt, pulling it aside with 
a grunt of quiet fury. Mulder's mouth was still numb from 
the bruising kisses Joshua and he shared, both outside and 
while stumbling through the door, when he found those 
perfect smooth lips around his hard and aching cock. Joshua 
loved to give pleasure; that was not only obvious in the way 
he was expertly stroking and licking his length, moaning, but 
also in how he played the violin. He gave himself over to each 
task fully, without restraint. It was easy to fall prey to it and 
just let the virtuoso have his way with his body, or his mind, 
through music or touch. But what Mulder really wanted 
tonight was to take pleasure rather than receive it, which was 
why he dragged Joshua to his feet and pushed him back onto 
the bed, pulling his shirt up over his head with two frugal 
moves of the arms and fists, parting the sheets for them to 
fall into together.

Joshua's tongue and teeth were taking long hungry tastes of 
his neck and shoulder while his practiced hands struggled 
between them, wet with saliva to find the organ thrusting 
against his pelvis and groin. "Come for me, come for me..." 
he kept saying, but Mulder was too busy trying to bury 
himself in a curve of thigh or a patch of slick soft belly as his 
arms reached under the man's shoulder and waist, trying to 
bring him closer--to thrust against him harder. Close as a 
kiss, Joshua's fist found him tightly and the urge to climax 
struck Mulder like an iron brand. There, it was right there 
and he raised himself, rearing to throw his ass into it--so the 
warm slippery fist could grip and pull and squeeze and he 
could close his eyes and thrust and feel it rising in him and 
peak, surging into climax. He groaned and came over the 
smooth pale chest of the man who moments ago was 
whispering to him and kissing him mindless.

******************************

Mulder's cheek was resting against the tile, his forehead on 
his hands. His hair and skin were warm and wet as the mist 
and spray of Joshua's shower gathered around him in a damp 
cloud. He was standing while Joshua was down on his knees, 
lathering and massaging the backs of his legs. The hands of a 
violinist are strong and stimulating to whatever surface they 
touch. It was heaven to be that surface as the warm soapy 
hands came up over his ass, rolling and kneading, pressing 
into the dip of his spine. There was a spot that had been 
sorely neglected and the shot of pleasure made him give into 
a shameless whimper.

A tenor's chuckle breathed across the tingling skin of his 
shoulders as Joshua came up closely behind him. "Have you 
forgiven me yet for making you stand for four hours?"

"Ask me again in ten minutes," Mulder answered. His eyes 
remained closed, enjoying the massage as it continued up his 
back and shoulders.

"I will. And again and again until you respond the way I want 
you to." Joshua's hands slid down around his hips to his 
balls, coating them in foamy lather and dragging Mulder's 
long, slippery, limp cock through his fist.

"You shouldn't have made me come," Mulder mumbled to the 
tiles. "Now you're in for a wait, regardless."

Joshua's chin was at his shoulder, his lips against his ear. "I 
enjoy waiting."

Mulder slipped an arm around him and pulled Joshua 
between himself and the tile wall, reaching for a kiss. He 
could feel the man still hard and impatient against his 
abdomen. His mouth moved from the musician's lips to his 
ear where he licked the delicate curves line for line. He ran 
his hand over Joshua's hip and gripped the offending organ, 
stroking it, as mouth met mouth again, kissing slower this 
time, dragging their lips over one another's, lingering.

"How's your wound?"

Joshua's head was tipped back, his lips parted awaiting 
another kiss. "What?"

"You were bleeding, remember?"

Joshua looked down at his side, slowing his breathing to 
touch the edge of the pinkish ripple of flesh. "It's stopped; I'll 
be fine. The hospital sent me home the other day with plenty 
of bandages..."

Mulder cut the health report short with a long tugging suck 
at Joshua's exposed neck. Still savoring the musician's 
throat, Mulder made a blind reach for the soap, lathering his 
hand with every intention of pleasuring this man in his own 
shower. 

Joshua struggled against him, catching his wrist, rinsing it in 
the spray. "Not yet," he smiled. "Not yet. I want you in me 
when I come."

Mulder looked at him. The young man's dark hair lay wetly 
across his forehead, giving him an almost Roman look. "You 
were supposed to show me."

"Not like that, I wasn't. It's been too long for me. I need you 
to be gentle."

"I can be gentle," Mulder said, relaxing his arm, feeling 
suddenly very irresponsible.

Joshua kissed and nipped his lower lip, fondly. "*You* needed 
to get off. In the worst way, I might add. There was no 
slowing you down to point out the scenery."

Mulder felt a little embarrassed, sorry he'd been rough with 
him. Man or no, he still didn't feel 100 percent satisfied 
unless he served his lover just as well. "Give me a minute and 
we can take all the time you want."

"I'd like to show you something first," Joshua said, sliding 
down the wet wall to seat his ass on the edge of the shower 
lip, drawing Mulder's sudsy groin closer to his face.

"I'm an old man. I told you; he's down for the count."

Joshua looked up at him like a misbehaving child. "You're 
never too old for sex, Mulder. There's a lot you need to learn 
about the sexual nature of men." The young man's eyes 
returned to his swiggling cock as the soapy fingers of his 
right hand slid between his legs, stroking him from ass to 
balls.

Mulder knew what Joshua wanted and closed his eyes, giving 
in to the feeling. There were many apprehensions he still 
needed to shed. The last time anyone had touched him this 
way it had been anything but tender and it had ended in 
death. 

Kristen. In the empty house they'd kissed for what felt like 
hours. He ran his tongue over every inch of her pale skin, 
between her legs, licking her to orgasm. She'd returned the 
favor, rubbing herself over his brazen hardness, teasing him 
with her moist cunt, and finally rewarding him with her 
mouth. She sucked him as a bloodsucker feeds, intensely, 
voraciously. He felt he might burst when her slick finger 
found its way up into his ass--probing. It was the first and 
last time he'd been penetrated. Her long nail made the 
invasion as painful as it was enthralling. It hurt and it felt 
good; what he wanted--he needed the pain. He couldn't come 
until he felt it so deep in him he wanted to scream.

But this was different. He no longer wished to be punished. 
He wanted a sanctuary from the guilt and obligations. He 
wanted to be free. He wanted to be taken. He wanted to 
nestle in and be safe.

Joshua--handsome, seductive, and gifted in more than just 
music, perhaps wasn't so unusual a lover for him after all. At 
least he hadn't asked for his blood. His slender, precise 
fingers were asking for something, however: entry, and 
Mulder took a step apart to let him in.

It felt better than he remembered. The teasing swirls around 
his anus coupled with the flow of warm water over his back 
was inviting, helping him relax. Joshua's mouth was against 
his bellybutton, his tongue mimicking the movements of his 
finger--more circles and a gentle push. 

It wasn't like he remembered. This was different, pleasant, 
tender. More than the sex, what Mulder was starved for was 
the affection, the delight you feel from just being physically 
close to another human being. Joshua's tongue began to 
poke around his bellybutton, almost ticklish, as his finger 
worked its way deeper. Suddenly, Mulder found himself 
getting hard again--quickly.

"Ah, found you," Joshua smiled, licking his abdomen like it 
was made of sugar. He continued to press and vibrate his 
finger in that exact spot. Incredibly, Mulder felt a sudden 
urge to ejaculate. But somehow that couldn't be right; he 
wasn't nearly ready. Still, the sensation was the same. He 
gasped, gripping Joshua's hair as the musician slowly worked 
his finger out, standing up again and kissing him softly.

"That's what you need to find in me," he said, taking both 
hands to draw Mulder's face to his for another deep, wet 
kiss.

******************************
Chapter Ten
END (18/44)

Chapter Ten (19/44)

******************************

"Despite how it may seem, I'm not promiscuous," Joshua 
explained, tossing Mulder a towel as they made their way 
dripping out of the shower to dry off in the steamy air. "I 
haven't had a great number of lovers. I was truly lamenting 
when I said my fans were usually much younger or older. 
Maybe I should have been a rock star."

Mulder caught the towel and unrolled it, laying it over his 
back and sliding it forward over his chest, drying himself. 
"Hook an amp up to the violin? I've seen that act. They're 
called Jethro Tull--went out in the '80s. Stick to the classics--
you're doing just fine."

Joshua looked up at him from where he was bent over drying 
his legs, to laugh outright. Mulder smiled, realizing how 
much he was enjoying this--making someone happy, sharing 
his body with someone again, awakening to their touches. He 
couldn't believe how long it had been for himself. What had 
he been waiting for?

"If you keep looking at me like that, Mulder, I might have to 
ask you to fuck me right here on the bathroom floor," 
Joshua said in a lower voice, as he ran the towel over his 
groin, squeezing the tip of his still-engorged cock in a 
toweled fist.

Mulder buzzed his short hair through the towel, getting it 
dried quickly, feeling his own half-filled penis stirring at the 
image that comment evoked. "Get us out of here, then."

###

Joshua brought an extra towel from the bathroom and 
unfolded it over the bottom sheet. "I hate messing the bed," 
he explained. He then bent next to his dresser, opening the 
bottom drawer, rummaging around. He tossed a tube of 
lubricant and a packet of condoms on the bed--the sight of 
which sent a stark signal of reality to Mulder that things were 
going to be a bit different from here on out. Fucking a 
woman required fewer drug store supplies. He wondered if 
he really had the guts to go through with this. Joshua stood 
up and laid himself down on the bed before him. Even if his 
mind wasn't quite tuned to this yet, his own cock was 
certainly interested, jerking involuntary at the sight of 
Joshua hard and waiting for him. 

"I know you're nervous, Mulder. I won't hold you to 
anything. Just come lie down and relax."

Mulder slid down onto the cool sheet next to him and Joshua 
reached up and kissed his nose. The sweet gesture made him 
smile a little. "You don't like your nose, do you?" Joshua 
asked, amused.

"No," Mulder readily admitted.

"You shouldn't feel that way. It's one of your sexiest features. 
You have an incredible face--it's fascinating to look at," he 
said, running a finger over his chin. "I love unusual looking 
men. Calvin Klein models don't interest me in the least--
they're too pretty. I like men who resemble men."

Mulder set his head on the pillow, feeling like a high school 
kid on his first date--both nervous and flattered.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I'd be just as pleased with 
your mouth."

Mulder came up on his elbow. "I want to do this; roll over."

###

Joshua grinned and rolled while Mulder came up behind him, 
spooning him. He shivered when Mulder began to touch him, 
running his hand over his chest and back and ass, 
unhurriedly, almost lovingly. His warm fingers wandered to 
his groin, caressing his balls, rolling them slowly, making him 
want to purr like a cat, but he decided it was best to keep 
himself somewhat in control. Not all men enjoyed 
enthusiastic displays of appreciation. So far Mulder had been 
relatively quiet in his passion, so Joshua reined himself.

Despite his assurances to Mulder, Joshua knew very well he 
wouldn't be half as pleased with fellatio. He'd spent most of 
the day fantasizing about Mulder's long beautiful cock--in his 
hands, in his mouth, moving deeply into his ass. Joshua loved 
being taken by a man. To him, being penetrated by a strong 
virile man, intent on reaching orgasm in his body, was the 
greatest pleasure on earth--an experience he hadn't received 
in nearly six years. He'd forgotten how much he hungered for 
it, how aroused thoughts of the act made him. It had been a 
struggle to resist the urge to relieve himself at some point 
today. That discipline was hopefully about to pay off for him 
in a most satisfying way.

Mulder stroked his cock with a maddening light touch until 
Joshua couldn't take it anymore and moved Mulder's hand, 
pressing himself onto his stomach, spreading his legs. "I hate 
having to put you through all the work," he said to him, 
quietly. "But it's unfortunately necessary. Open the tube."

###

Mulder kneeled behind Joshua and popped the top on the 
tube, somewhat relieved to see it had never been opened. He 
broke the seal and squeezed the clear gel out onto the tips of 
the fingers of his right hand, warming it with his thumb. "Use 
it like I used the soap a few minutes ago."

Mulder slipped his fingers in the warm valley of Joshua's ass, 
slickening the area and swirling gel over his pale anus. 
Joshua's back rippled as he moved against his pillow, burying 
a moan in the downy feathers. It sent a rush of erotic pride 
through Mulder that this simple touch seemed to affect him 
so much. "Does this feel all right?"

"Yes, it feels incredibly good," Joshua said serenely while 
Mulder ministered to him. "I've always been anal-erotic--
since I was a child. It never occurred to me that I shouldn't 
be. It wasn't until I was older, in my teens, when some boys 
told me it made me queer. Whatever. I tell you, there are 
advantages to being raised apart from your peers. You grow 
up being more honest about yourself."

"Can I ask you something?" Mulder said, applying more gel, 
tracing his fingers around Joshua's opening, massaging the 
muscle, feeling braver about it. Joshua was a finely-shaped 
man, from all angles. It felt good to be touching him, like he 
was somehow connecting to a beauty within himself. 

"Sure."

"When did you realize...? I mean, you were engaged to a 
woman..." Mulder stopped himself before he said all the 
wrong things.

Joshua just smiled. "Sometimes I want women; sometimes I 
want men. I don't attempt to explain it. I like certain people 
for who they are, not by their physical make-up. I often ask 
women to touch me this way. They won't always do it, 
though. You can slip your finger inside me now."

Mulder took his middle finger and pressed in, feeling the 
muscle give under the small pressure. He found it wasn't a 
particularly aversive thing to do. With the lubrication, the 
inside of a man felt a lot like the inside of a woman, only 
much tighter. It occurred to him there was no way in hell his 
cock was going to fit in there.

"Just slide your finger in and out, slowly going deeper," 
Joshua said in a hushed voice as he began to rock his hips 
slightly with Mulder's delving finger. He told him how good it 
felt and after a while to go with two fingers and how to tug at 
the resistance of the ring of muscle and how it would 
gradually open to allow for a third. 

Joshua was plainly becoming more and more distracted by 
the sensations as he mumbled less directions and gave into 
longer sighs, closing his eyes and rocking into the terry cloth 
surface of the towel beneath him, stimulating his cock. 
Mulder found it incredibly erotic to watch him becoming so 
aroused. His own cock began to ache to be given the same 
attention. He wanted to rock his own hips, to thrust and find 
mutual arousal and gratification along with him. Mulder was 
suddenly hit with a wild fantasy image of secretly watching 
Joshua as he fucked that girl from the opera. He imagined 
watching the rise and fall of his ass, knowing how much he 
wanted her to touch his ass, to penetrate him. He saw himself 
naked and hard above him, moving over the two of them, 
entering him and fucking him while he moved deeply into the 
woman beneath him.

"Mulder...?" Joshua had turned his head and was looking at 
him, bemused. "Why don't you put a condom on. I think 
we're both ready."

Mulder pulled out his fingers and wiped them on the end of 
the towel. He reached back and tore off a plastic packet, 
removing the rubber ring, sliding and unrolling it down his 
cock. Joshua watched him with great interest as he 
lubricated the condom with an extra glob of gel.

"I haven't had anyone quite like you," Joshua said, with 
admiration, settling his head on his arms. "You're straight 
and narrow which is good, but longer than most. Take your 
time going in."

Not entirely sure how to go about this, Mulder just did what 
came naturally, and eased himself between the musician's 
splayed legs, aiming his cock down and forward. At first it 
didn't feel like it was going to go anywhere. He backed off.

"This won't hurt you?"

"Not now. You've readied me. You'll only hurt me if you make 
me wait. Just push until you feel me give."

Sitting up a bit, Mulder held the base of his erection and 
aimed it more carefully, shifting his weight forward onto his 
hips. Joshua's expression remained passive even though it 
felt like he was about to puncture something. Then, like a 
window suddenly opening, he was sliding in tight and 
smooth. He paused halfway, watching Joshua groan and roll 
his forehead on the pillow in ecstasy. "More," he whispered. 
Mulder pushed forward, grateful for the dulling sensation the 
condom lent him. A man was so much tighter than a woman, 
there was no room to adjust to a less-stimulating angle. His 
submerged cock was being born down upon with a 
tremendous pressure--it was everything or nothing. Mulder 
decided everything was a good place to be and slid in full.


###

The realization of being penetrated by someone you desire 
was an experience Joshua believed no one should be denied. 
There weren't enough words to describe the feeling--to feel 
whole and complete, possessed, while aroused was something 
he'd been missing for far too long. His very first sexual 
experiences as a teenager had all involved penetration, with 
that young man he'd played on stage with for over a year. 
The closeness he'd felt opening up to someone else for the 
first time had been a divine experience, a celebration of the 
self. You know who you are when you begin to let another 
inside.

This was how he felt now that Mulder's body was merged 
with his. There was no other way to describe it--it felt like joy 
and peace and laughter. It also felt like his cock was going to 
burst if things didn't get moving along. 

"Is that okay?" Mulder was asking him.

"It's perfect. Go ahead and move. Go gently at first."

Mulder was uncertain and his movements were almost 
annoyingly gentle. But Joshua decided it was better to start 
slow and build; he'd hate to ask Mulder to back off at any 
point. That might intimidate him and Joshua knew once he 
adjusted to the full depth of Mulder's gorgeous cock, he'd 
want everything the man could offer in drive.

Joshua fed another long moan to his pillow and tried to hold 
still while his body warmed to the deep sliding sensations 
coursing through his rectum. Some say the male body is 
designed for only one form of sexual satisfaction--the 
stimulation of the penis to orgasm. Bullshit. Joshua knew 
very well he craved a darker, more intimate form of sexual 
experience, one that drew his entire body into the act. Being 
slowly fucked by a man as beautiful and intelligent as Mulder 
was pumping a steady stream of spine-melting pleasure from 
his ass to his brain stem. His penis had nothing to do with it--
he was only marginally aware of it right now, slowly rubbing 
against the terrycloth beneath him.


###

"Come closer. Lay down over me."

Mulder came down off his arms so he could rest the majority 
of the weight of his body against Joshua's back and ass. It felt 
so good being this close to another person. Joshua's back 
was warm and smooth against his chest. He found himself 
slipping an arm around his waist, trying to hug him, setting 
his cheek to the man's shoulder as his cock continued to 
stroke in and out of the warmth of his ass, pressing them 
both into the soft give of the mattress. 

Joshua's head was turned against the pillow, his eyes closed 
in what looked to Mulder to be utter bliss. He was moaning 
softly to him under each pump of his hips in an innocent 
keening way, like a child soothing himself to sleep. Mulder 
had assumed that when men had sex with one another they 
made sounds similar to jocks watching a football game, loud 
and obnoxious. Joshua was instead displaying a very delicate 
and private part of his emotional make-up, and that honesty 
was making Mulder's throat ache. It made him want to please 
him that much more, to keep him safe and sheltered in his 
arms. He kissed Joshua softly on the back of his neck, 
stroking his hair, letting this connection between them slowly 
build.

Joshua suddenly began to resist under him. A body that had 
been so pliant was now fighting him; he'd turned his face into 
the pillow, pushing up against Mulder with his arms. "Let me 
up," he groaned. Mulder immediately withdrew from him as 
Joshua came up onto his knees. "No, God, don't stop...I need 
to come." Baffled, Mulder shifted up behind him and 
reentered, pushing deep. Joshua's hand moved to his own 
cock, jerking quickly. The musician sighed loudly and came 
in several quick sharp spurts into the towel beneath him, 
squeezing the head of his penis, emptying himself. "Keep 
fucking me," he whispered, tossing the towel away and 
dropping back onto all fours. "Please, as long as you want, as 
hard as you want. Let me feel you."

There was a real pleading in his tone that drove a deep rush 
of sexual power into Mulder. He did as he was asked, pulling 
back and pushing in deeply until his groin thudded against 
Joshua's ass. The musician groaned and lowered his head, 
pushing back against him, submissively. "More," he pleaded. 
It was astounding to see a strong adult male presenting 
himself for such an invading act, in a sense begging for it. All 
those forbidden notions, those sins of sex, of sodomy, that 
had been only hinted to Mulder as a child, were making 
themselves known to him in real adult experience. He should 
have known better; he should have realized years ago that all 
the most forbidden acts between human beings are also the 
most exciting.

Mulder gave himself over to the pleasure of fucking, of 
overpowering someone--just letting go of his mind and giving 
his starved body permission to lose itself in the gripping, 
thrusting motions it was made for. Mulder's groin was 
brimming with pleasure as it moved with abandon in this new 
erotic environment. The sensations were all foreign; his cock 
was being too tightly held; he had lost his sense of knowing 
what to expect and it was locking his release in his balls. It 
was hell and it was heaven and he was helpless to do anything 
about it, so he stopped thinking and  began to lose himself in 
the all-encompassing psychological grip of lust, thrusting and 
pumping short and quick until the resistance gave away in his 
groin, and he opened his throat to moan in pleasure as he 
felt his semen rushing from his balls and through his cock, 
gathering warm and wet into the tip of the condom buried 
deep inside Joshua's ass.

******************************

Chapter Ten
END (19/44)

Chapter Ten (20/44)

***************

"Please don't get up," Joshua pleaded, softly, opening his 
eyes, as Mulder exited the bathroom to come back to bed 
and lie down. "I know you need to stay awake. But don't get 
dressed yet. Sit up if you have to."

Mulder could see Joshua was in a fragile state of mind. He 
supposed that wasn't too unusual, considering he hadn't 
done this in a while. Joshua seemed sluggish to him, almost 
drunk with lassitude. It occurred to Mulder the man hadn't 
moved a limb from where he had pulled out of him.

Mulder got back in bed and pulled the sheet over them both, 
resting on his side, stroking Joshua's arm where it lay limp 
against the bed. "Are you okay?"

Joshua closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "Yes. I'm just 
acclimating. This act takes some breaking in, both before and 
after. I feel wonderful, though. Thank you."

Mulder touched Joshua's hair where it had wound itself into 
a small tangle over his brow, evening it out. "You're 
welcome."

"I don't know if I told you, Mulder. But I haven't done this 
with a man in over six years," he said opening his eyes, 
looking somewhat embarrassed. "I forgot how much I missed 
it."

"Well, I've got you beat," Mulder said, dryly. "I was working 
on forty years."

Joshua smiled, beginning to come back into himself. "Is that 
how old you are? I would have guessed younger."

"Thanks, but I don't believe you," Mulder said, tracing a 
reddish mark on the low curve of Joshua's neck. "Did I do 
this?" 

Joshua grinned. "No. It's the violin. My mistress marks me 
where I hold her under my chin. All fair-skinned violinists 
and violists share this branding. You don't want to see what 
happens to tubists."

"I suppose I don't."

Joshua's expression turned curious. "How long has it been 
since you've been intimate with another person?"

Mulder looked at the pillow, saying nothing.

"You aren't going to tell me?"

"I'm embarrassed to tell you. Intimacy isn't a regular part of 
my life right now. It hasn't been for a very long time."

"Since your engagement?" Joshua offered.

"Aside from a few isolated incidents, yeah, as long as that."

"So you and Scully haven't...?" Joshua started to ask.

Mulder looked up, startled. "No. No, we haven't. She's my 
*partner.*"

Joshua seemed mildly surprised. "You make it sound like 
that's an excuse."

"I'm going to ignore that," Mulder said, coolly. He found 
himself defensive as he always was when he and Scully were 
mistaken for lovers. No, he thought, we're mistaken for 
spouses. Lovers carry about an air of mystique--he and Scully 
bickered like Ma and Pa Kettle.

"I'm sorry. I was only curious. I didn't mean to offend you."

Mulder touched the violinist's hand, realizing Joshua would 
have no idea how complicated things had become between 
Scully and him over the years. "I think I've just grown tired of 
being accused of something I've not had the pleasure of 
experiencing."

"So you want to sleep with her," Joshua stated cautiously. He 
seemed to understand this might not be an area he had 
privilege to, but couldn't help himself from inquiring. 

A knot of tension wound itself at the center of Mulder's 
brow. "I don't know, honestly. It's complicated."

"Are you attracted to her?"

"Of course."

"Then...?"

"I think Scully and I have managed to evolve as a couple 
without actually engaging as a couple. We're devoted, 
protective, caring, yet some days we hardly seem to know 
what to say to one another."

"So you have the weight of commitment without its simple 
joys?"

"Perhaps. I'd rather not talk about it. She has no place in 
what happens between us. Let's leave it at that."

Joshua nodded in agreement, averting his eyes. "I respect 
that."

"The odd thing is, just these past few weeks I've been 
thinking about how much I've wanted to be involved with 
someone again, romantically. And to be perfectly honest, I 
wasn't sure until now if what happened between us last night 
was just a lapse of reasoning for me."

Joshua stilled, but didn't interrupt, letting him speak freely.

"It wasn't a lapse. It's...well, I don't know what it is, but I like 
it."

Joshua sighed, letting his tension go. "I think I'm very 
relieved to hear that."

Mulder exchanged a long look with him--conveying an 
unspoken understanding that neither of them was taking this 
situation lightly. "Joshua, I know I don't need to tell you that 
what happens in this bed or elsewhere needs to stay between 
us."

Joshua nodded. "Of course."

"You're a protected witness. It could mean my job."

"I'm also a man," Joshua said matter-of-factly. 

Mulder wondered why he chose now to point that out. It 
sounded like a prepared statement.

"I'm not saying this to reproach you," Joshua continued. "I 
just know it can take some time to accept. I want you to 
know I'm very patient in that regard."

Mulder could sense Joshua had experienced rejection of this 
kind before. It was almost as if he was apologizing for not 
being female. The truth was, if Joshua had been female, 
Mulder never would have let him get this close. "Joshua. I'm 
okay with this. I really am."

"All I can advise you is to try and not think about it too 
much," Joshua said, finding his limbs and sitting up, 
wrapping a small blanket around himself. "Don't try to label 
yourself--just be honest," he said with a hopeful smile and 
headed for the bathroom.

###

When Joshua emerged, he tried not to let himself feel too 
disappointed at finding Mulder dressed and seated at the 
couch with his book light on. The rest of the apartment was 
dark. Mulder turned when he heard him, setting whatever he 
was reading aside.

"Hey," he said gently with those kind eyes that had been the 
first thing Joshua had learned to love about him. "Come 
here."

Joshua wrapped his blanket around himself and came to 
stand behind the back of the couch. Mulder reached up for 
him and Joshua bent to receive his kiss. "I'm sorry I can't 
sleep with you," Mulder said, stroking his cheek. Joshua 
began to feel a little less hurt. "Why don't you put something 
comfortable on and come join me?"

***************

3:11 AM


"My childhood wasn't all bad, you know." 

Joshua had settled in next to Mulder, warm under a blanket, 
reclining against him. Mulder was half-lying against the end 
of the couch with his arm around Joshua, stroking his hair. 
They were sitting in the dark, talking quietly, discussing what 
Mulder and his partner had deciphered from the contents of 
Nanette's lock box earlier that day. Joshua was relating how 
some of the photo images had reminded him of his first 
home.

"The farm in winter could be beautiful. I had a dog, Nell. We 
found a way out through a loose board in the back of the 
barn one day. In the morning, just as the sky began to turn 
light gray, we'd escape and run out across the fields coated 
in frost past the rows of icicles that would hang from the 
irrigation pipes. Beyond the fields there was a small pond and 
it would be frozen solid by the first of the year. I'd push her 
out onto it. She was always spooked at first, feeling the solid 
water under her paws. I'd run and slide and she would bark 
and chase me into the bare tree branches at the far end. The 
dog would curl at my feet, covering her nose with her tail to 
sleep and I'd sit there under that twisted canopy in the snow 
and listen to the morning. 

"Have you ever listened to an early country dawn before the 
stars have completely failed?" Behind him, Joshua could feel 
Mulder shake his head. "It sounds like emptiness and 
wholeness--everything and nothing at all. I would listen to its 
grand pause--'tishena,' my grandfather called it. 

"'Listen, Sasha,' he would say to me when it was quiet. 'The 
sound of silence is the most beautiful chord of all.'"

"Why did your grandfather call you Sasha?" Mulder asked. 

"Sasha is a nickname for Alexander, my middle name. There 
was some argument over my birth name. My father wanted 
Joshua; my grandfather made a fuss over Alexander. 'A 
proper Russian name,' he said."

"Joshua," Mulder said with surprise. "Alexander is the first 
name of the child on the birth record Nanette kept locked 
away for so long."

"Is it? Well, it is a very common name. It could be anybody."

"But think about it. I can't keep track of my gas bill longer 
than three days. I don't imagine someone would hold onto a 
birth record for 86 years without a very good reason, or 
close association."

"Who do you think it is?"

"I think it's the man standing with your grandfather in that 
1929 photograph."

"Why do you think it's him? The photograph doesn't name 
him."

"I don't know yet--it's just a feeling I have."

Joshua chuckled silently, rolling his head against Mulder's 
arm, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of pressed 
suit sleeve. He was beginning to lose the battle of staying 
awake. "Do you always work on hunches and feelings?" he 
asked, stifling a yawn.

"Mostly."

"Are you usually right?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Joshua..." Mulder paused 
before changing the subject. "Did your grandfather ever talk 
about a famine in Ukraine?"

"A famine? No. He mentioned times were hard and people 
were losing their land, but he never said anything about a 
famine. He spoke very little about his past."

"I learned today at the library that there was a Soviet-induced 
holocaust in Ukraine between 1932 and '33--nearly nine 
million people died."

"That's around the time I understand my grandfather left his 
country. How horrible. I wonder why he never mentioned 
anything about it."

"So do I...Oh, I meant to mention," Mulder said, tapping his 
arm. "I saw your concert review in the paper today."

Joshua made a grumbling sound.

"That's what I thought, too. Who are these people to be so 
critical of what you've spent a lifetime perfecting?"

"One moment they spear me for being empirical, the next, 
they accuse me of being pedantic. I learned a long time ago 
not to read my reviews too closely. Yet the mention of Nigel 
Kennedy didn't slip past me."

"Who is he?"

"A British violinist who recently made classical music history 
by bringing back the art of the improvisational cadenza--a 
practice unobserved since Mozart's time."

"Improvisation?"

"Yes. The idea is the musician should be so melded to his 
instrument, and the heart of the composer, that when the 
cadenza begins, he or she will slip into an improvised solo. 
Only jazz and rock musicians improvise solos. Classical 
music has been a planned form of musical expression for 
hundreds of years, but modern virtuosos are changing that, 
and critics are expecting the rest of us to follow suit."

"Have you ever tried it?"

Joshua closed his eyes, feeling sleep coating his mind. "Not 
onstage, but often, when I'm alone, I'll play something that 
comes into my heart."


###

The next thing Joshua was aware of was the sound of 
Mulder's voice, whispering to his partner as he slipped out 
the front door. Something to the effect of, "I don't know why 
he fell asleep on the couch."

Joshua's head had a pillow set under it and an extra blanket 
had been thrown over his legs. He closed his eyes and went 
back to sleep.


************************************

Chapter Ten
END (20/44)

Chapter Eleven (21/44)

********************************

Chapter Eleven: Nanette

********************************

SF FBI Field Office
12:11 PM


Mulder flipped through the photocopied threat letters sitting 
on the evidence table in front of him one by one, going 
through the motions, not really seeing the words anymore. 
His mind was elsewhere as he waited patiently for the 
handwriting analyst to reach her conclusion. He could see 
her through the interior window to the lab, bent over a 
binocular microscope, carefully shifting the brittle pages of 
the Cyrillic farm log over the lighted base. They were looking 
for a match. 

Mulder shifted his legs in the cold chair, trying to stay alert 
and keep his mind from reoccupying itself with memories of 
last night. It was too easy to lose himself in remembrances of 
the smells and sounds and visions of sex. He'd slept like the 
dead last night, mollified by the endorphin rush. It's amazing 
how quickly the body readapts itself to an active sexual 
status--once it gets a really good taste, it only wants more. 
Joshua, naked and warm, moving under him, making small 
sounds, responding to his touch, was everything he could 
need right now. It would be so easy to just blow this whole 
investigation off and go lock themselves in a secluded hotel 
room somewhere and fuck each other senseless.

"Agent Mulder?" 

He sat up straight, wiping the fantasy clear from his mind. 
Dammit, he needed to get his priorities straight quickly 
before he made an ass of himself, or gave himself an 
erection, whichever came first.

"Yes?"

"I think you're going to want to see this."

He stood and moved through the connecting door, joining 
the analyst behind the magnifier. She offered him to take a 
peek. He bent to peer through the lenses. He was looking at a 
close-up of a Cyrillic character that looked similar to an 
uppercase "B."

"Take a look at that letter and note how the bottom stroke 
fails to connect to the stem."

"I see that," he said as the paper was whipped away. He stood 
back and let her readjust the viewer to a cell wall 
photograph, same character. He looked again. "And this is a 
match, right? I see the same anomaly in the bottom stroke."

"Yes, it is a match--a definite match. But look again, here." 
She removed the photo and set in one of the earliest 
handwritten threat letters made before Joshua had arrived in 
San Francisco. Mulder peered into the dual eyepieces again. It 
was English, but a similar letter, a capital "B" had the same 
unconnected characteristic on the lower loop.

Mulder stood up. "They're all a match. So, I'm correct in 
assuming that the phantom author is also the same person 
who wrote this farm log and register?"

The analyst nodded in agreement. "Except, from what you've 
told me, this would have to be a very old suspect to be 
writing in adult penmanship from the late 1920s until today. 
How old is the woman who had these documents in her 
possession?"

"She looks to be about seventy."

The analyst shook her head. "It's not her, then--she'd be too 
young. A child's writing takes time to develop into an adult 
script."

"Do you think the 1930 documents could have been forged?" 
Mulder asked, leaning against the edge of the examining 
table, tapping the yellowed farm log page with his finger.

The woman looked skeptical. "I doubt it," she said, taking 
another look at the farm log sample under the scope, 
readjusting the knobs. "No, I don't think so. The implement 
used to script this document is consistent with free-flowing 
ink pens common to the late 1920s. It's not a ball point, in 
other words. Plus, the India ink has faded to a brownish hue--
that takes at least forty years. If someone alive today forged 
these papers, they did an extraordinary job."

************************

12:35 PM

Mulder was just thanking and sending the analyst on her way 
when Scully arrived at the field office, meeting him at the 
front door. He held it open for her.

"You're going to be very interested in what I found out this 
morning," she said, leading him into the first conference 
room.

Mulder sat across from her at the table as she pulled out a 
set of photocopied documents from her file bag. "I tactfully 
asked Dillmont to pull an early shift so I could get a head 
start on a hunch," she explained.

She slid two documents out side by side so Mulder could 
read them--a marriage certificate and a death certificate. 
"The San Francisco County Recorder was kind enough to drop 
everything and dig these up for me this morning," she said.

Mulder glanced them over. "This is Nanette's marriage 
license," he realized.

"Yes, and her ticket to US citizenship. The problem is, she 
married a dead man."

Mulder looked up. "Is the certificate a forgery?"

"Yes, and so is the death certificate. When I followed Joshua 
to Nanette's home office, he mentioned she had married a 
Barry Anderson out of convenience while Joshua was away 
on tour in Europe in 1989--which, I've found, happens to be 
the year her working VISA was due to expire. According to 
these two official documents, she would have married 
Anderson five months before he succumbed to bronchogenic 
carcinoma, lung cancer. The records looked good until I put 
in a call into SF Hospice. They gave me the name of the nurse 
who had been assigned to Anderson's care. I reached her 
about an hour ago. She can testify for certain that Barry 
Anderson died two weeks before Thanksgiving, in his home, 
over a month before his supposed wedding day."

Mulder stroked his lower lip. "So Nanette's been living here 
on borrowed time."

"And stolen money."

"You've got a lead on Joshua's missing $60K?"

Scully nodded and passed a bagged canceled check and 
several bank account statements across the table top. 
"Nanette opened an account with Golden Gate Savings two 
days after her 'marriage,' under the name Anna Anderson. 
The account held a small savings of five thousand dollars 
until just six months ago, when deposits and withdrawals in 
the amount of $10,000 began to come and go monthly."

"Where was the money being sent?"

"That's where things get really interesting," Scully said, 
pointing to the canceled check. Mulder smoothed the plastic 
down so he could read it. The check was made out in the 
amount of $10,000 to the 'Recovery Foundation of Poltava 
Province.' On the memo line Nanette had written 'final 
payment.'

"She's been paying back a debt to charity," Mulder realized.

"Yes, it would appear so. I checked my Eastern European 
geography--Chutove is a village within Poltava Province."

"Interesting that she's been paying it back with Joshua's 
money," he said, tapping the table's edge with his finger. 
"Why?"

"I think we should ask her ourselves. We have grounds to 
bring her in on document forgery."

Mulder agreed, but added, "I also want to call in a 
psychoanalyst."

"Why?"

"I just had the Cyrillic handwriting in the farm log compared 
to the legible scrawling on the cell wall. They're a match."

"But Mulder, aren't we assuming Joshua's grandfather, Ivan 
the farmer, penned that log in the 1930s?"

Mulder shook his head, admittedly befuddled. "I'm thinking 
they're a forgery--some sort of blackmail Nanette concocted 
to get Joshua's grandfather to help her defect to the US. I 
want Nanette to submit a handwriting sample while under 
hypnosis. If she's an expert forger as these documents would 
lead us to believe, then she can forge her way right through 
the test. But if she's in trance, there's no telling how many 
multiple 'personalities' may come to light on paper."

Scully caught his logic. "You think she might be the hand of 
your Thin Man, Mulder?"

"I'm not positive. Not everything adds up, but she's the best 
shot we've got. That, and I find it ironic that 'Anna Anderson' 
was also the Americanized alias of the Polish mental 
institution patient who fooled experts for decades into 
believing she was Anastasia."

********************

2:24 PM

Mulder stepped out of the interrogation room, where Scully 
was still trying to calm a very frightened Nanette Anderson, 
and made his way over to the coffee vending machine. He 
plunked in a few quarters and waited for the cup to drop and 
fill. Mulder had decided not to read Nanette her forgery 
charge in the event she would kindly submit to the 
handwriting exam. He was dead wrong. She wouldn't agree to 
anything. He could see the psychologist he'd requested from 
Behavioral Sciences pacing the hall just outside, giving him 
that 'look' again--the therapist had 'real cases' to get back to, 
he'd said.

This whole scheme hadn't gone nearly the way Mulder 
thought it would. The old woman was acting panicked and 
erratic--begging for a phone call. He'd granted her one about 
forty minutes ago. One guess who she'd called. The gurgling 
machine shut off and Mulder picked up the paper cup, only 
half-filled with thin, brownish, tepid fluid. He drank it back 
quickly--he needed the caffeine to brace himself for the 
ensuing encounter. 

Mulder tossed the crumpled soggy cup in the wastebasket, 
rinsing the foul taste from his mouth with a swallow of 
equally awful-tasting drinking fountain water. It didn't 
surprise him one bit to hear some familiar commotion 
coming from the lobby. 

"No, I won't take a seat. I need to speak with Agent Mulder 
immediately."

Joshua was coming up the hall, not sounding very pleased. 
Mulder spared the clerk and popped his head out the door. 
Joshua stopped in the hall where he had marched just past 
him and turned, flustered. It seemed he had given Dillmont 
the slip.

The clerk caught up with him. "Sir, this man is insisting..."

"It's all right," Mulder said, opening the door the rest of the 
way. "Joshua, please come in and have a seat." Mulder could 
see the man was beyond agitated with him. So much for the 
afterglow. He addressed the clerk. "And could you please call 
Agent Dillmont and tell him we have Mr. Segulyev?"

"Agent Dillmont knows exactly where I am--he's parking the 
damn car," Joshua said, following Mulder into the room, 
waiting impatiently for the door to shut before he started up 
again. "What's going on here, Mulder? I came home to hear a 
call on my voice mail from Nanette, in tears, telling me you'd 
arrested her."

Mulder shook his head. "She's not charged with anything. I 
have her here to submit to a writing test."

Joshua still didn't look remotely satisfied. "What the hell 
for?"

"The letters you brought us from her lock box--some of the 
handwriting matches the Cyrillic in the threats."

Joshua stood with his mouth slightly open. "I didn't bring you 
those letters so you could throw her in prison--she's an old 
woman for God's sake!"

"Joshua, please calm down. It's okay."

Joshua set his hands on his hips. "Don't tell me to calm 
down. I want her released."

Mulder reached for Joshua's elbow to still him, but he took a 
step back. "Joshua, I'll let her go as soon as she agrees to the 
exam. If she's innocent, she has no reason to resist."

"No reason? How about scaring her half to death by locking 
her in this place?" Joshua pointed in the general direction of 
the interior offices. "That woman has seen first-hand how 
'authorities' deal with suspicious people. She grew up in a 
country where women's heads were blown off for so much as 
saying a prayer. She has absolutely no reason to trust you."

Mulder folded his arms and looked down, waiting for Joshua 
to finish his rant. Joshua waved his arm up into the air in a 
gesture of frustration and turned around, pacing.

Mulder spoke quietly to him. "If you could talk to her--tell 
her it's okay--she'll take the test and be home in time for 
dinner."

Joshua still had his back to him, but he could see the violinist 
was rubbing his forehead, beginning to give, having blown off 
the top layer of his anger. He looked over his shoulder at 
Mulder. "You *promise* me you'll let her go as soon as she's 
done?"

"I promise, but there's something you need to know."

"What?"

"Nanette's been sending your mortgage payments to Chutove, 
Ukraine."

************************************

Chapter Eleven
END (21/44)

Chapter Eleven (22/44)

********************************

When Joshua entered the interview room, Nanette got 
immediately to her feet. He held her tightly while she shook 
in his arms. "Joshua, darling, please don't let them take me 
away."

"Nana...shh, you're not going anywhere. They haven't 
charged you with anything. I won't let them...shh."

Once she calmed, he was able to get her to come sit with him 
on a short pea-green vinyl couch at the end of the room. He 
held her hands.

"Nana. Please listen to me. I've talked to Agent Mulder. We 
can trust him. He only wants a sample of your handwriting."

She was shaking her head, looking very fragile and scared.

Joshua leaned in close to her so they could speak quietly. 
Agent Scully had exited the room, leaving them in privacy. 
"What are you afraid of, Nana? Tell me and I'll make them 
release you."

"They want you to think I wrote those letters, Joshua. I 
didn't! I swear it on my soul. I didn't write them."

Joshua touched her arm. "I know you didn't, Nana. The 
writing test will prove that."

She gripped his hands tightly. "How can they tell? They want 
to trap me. Like GPU officers, always forcing people to 
confess. You cannot trust these men, Joshua."

Joshua had assumed this was the true nature of her fear, 
echoes of her past. But still, he felt somewhat relieved she 
wasn't resisting due to guilt. "Nana, this is America, not 
Soviet Russia. You are innocent until proven guilty. They 
can't keep you here for over 24 hours without charging you 
with something. You haven't done anything wrong. You are 
innocent. Take the test and prove it to them so I can take you 
home."

She smiled through her misery and patted his shoulder. "But 
you see, Joshua, I am not innocent. I have never been 
innocent--since the day I came to America."

Joshua felt cold dread creep up on him and he spoke even 
more softly to her. "What do you mean, Nana?"

"Did I ever tell you, Joshua, that I saw you for the first time a 
week before I came to work for your grandfather?"

"No."

She patted his hand and started to relate a story to him from 
13 years ago.

"When I came here to America I was filled with bitterness. I 
had very dark feelings in my heart for your grandfather who 
had done so well for himself in America. When I arrived at 
the train station, your grandfather had a car waiting to bring 
me to Berkeley. I met him again for the first time in 50 years 
sitting in the audience at Zellerbach Hall waiting with a seat 
for me. I was still wearing the same dress and shoes from 
three days of traveling. I asked him why he had brought me 
to the Hall instead of home where I could rest. He told me he 
wanted me to meet his grandson. I sat and waited for you. 
The people came in and I saw there was no seat for you. It 
was then that the lights went down and he leaned in to me 
and said in Russian, 'He will be holding the violin.'

"I cannot tell you, my darling, how beautiful you were, 
seventeen years old and so handsome and proud with your 
instrument. Then you played, with another beautiful young 
man, a Schumann sonata for violin and piano. All the 
coldness in my heart melted away as you played for me. I 
remember I cried for you, because all the misery of our lives 
we left behind had come to good--it had come to you. I know 
you never learned I was there that night. I waited in the car 
until your grandfather kissed you good-bye and sent you on 
your way for the evening. 

"'Now you understand,' he said to me as he entered the car 
and I dried my tears, not wanting to cry anymore. Those were 
the last words of Russian we ever exchanged and there was 
no more bitterness in my heart." 

Nana's voice trembled and she reached to touch his cheek, 
gazing lovingly into his eyes. "You had the power to help me 
forgive. You are my salvation, my darling. I love you like my 
own child. Why have they brought me here? I won't go back 
to that world, Joshua. Make them send me to France...please. 
If I have to leave, let it be France."

"Nana. What have you done that would make them deport 
you?"

"I know you know, Joshua. The mail--it comes to you. You 
know the money is missing now, I'm sure of it."

"I don't care about the money, Nana. But why did you take 
it?"

Her eyes grew wide, desperate, and her voice rose as she 
went on, almost babbling. "I sent it away. I sent it so they 
would stop hurting you--but I was wrong; it's done no good. 
The debt is paid, but they're still after you. He won't let you 
go, Joshua. He told me when he died that he'd never let your 
family live in peace. I believed it; I wished for it, and now I 
know the devil was in me--he lived in that land of suffering 
and death. He drove us all mad and we forgot God, we forgot 
who we were. I would give anything to take it back. I would 
give anything."

"What did you do, Nana? Who are you talking about? Why 
does he want me dead? Is this the man standing with my 
grandfather in that old photo you kept?"

She didn't answer; she just covered her trembling mouth with 
her hand, closing her eyes.

"Is his name Alexander? Why did Grandpapa call me Sasha, 
Nana? Can you please tell me?"

She wiped her eyes and shook her head. She would say no 
more. 


###

2:54 PM

Nanette had agreed to submit to the writing examination, on 
one condition--that Joshua remain in the room with her the 
whole time.

Mulder sat across from Joshua at the opposite end of a table 
while Nanette faced the therapist in the center. The 
psychologist had set a pen and several wide sheets of thick 
paper in front of her. He held up his finger in front of her 
face, asking her to follow it with her eyes.

"Why is he doing that to her?" Joshua complained aloud, and 
the therapist dropped his hand, giving Mulder another 
impatient look.

"Joshua, I'd like Nanette to be in a light trance for this 
examination."

Joshua glanced at his manager. She looked pale and scared 
even though he was holding her left hand. "Why?"

"Trust me. It's to make sure she's writing in her natural 
hand."

Joshua opened his mouth as if to launch a whole new 
complaint campaign. Mulder broke his official FBI persona 
and looked pleadingly at him, as his friend. "Just do this for 
me, Joshua...please."

Joshua dropped his eyes, relenting. He nodded gently.

"Can we resume now?" the therapist asked.

"Yes, please."

###

Nanette was in trance and the pen was moving on the paper 
before her. Her writing was small and precise--it didn't 
resemble any of the samples. To get at her most primitive 
consciousness, the therapist was gradually regressing her--
asking her to write from her point of view, memories from 
the previous years. Joshua and Mulder both watched her 
make short descriptive responses to particular memories--a 
walk in the park, a concert, a holiday, a breakfast. Her 
writing remained steady and unchanged.

They tried other things. The therapist told her to write short 
responses about Joshua, Ivan, Alice Schmidt, the letters. Her 
replies were all steady and neutral, no change.

After twenty more minutes, Mulder passed a note to the 
psychologist. "Ask her to describe 'zariezam.'" It was the 
Russian word for 'slaughter.' From what Scully had told him, 
that particular word had upset Nanette a great deal during 
her translation of the cell writing.

The therapist said the word as requested and Nanette's whole 
body tensed and her lips twitched as she gripped the pen. 
Her handwriting abruptly changed and she began to write in 
French, in a blocky, rough manner. The words were odd, 
disjointed, like a child's lettering. She wrote:

The soldiers come now. 
There is blood on the road. 
I run home. 
I have grass and bark which I must not drop. 
We are hungry.
The soldiers want grain and animals. 
There are no animals. 
They are slaughtered. 
There is no grain. 
It is eaten.

I see the house and run inside. 
The men are gone. 
They are dead or gone away. 
Auntie is dead now since winter.
We buried her beside the back door. 
Joseph has run off to beg for food. 
He has not come back. 
I hide under the table. 
The room smells. 
Tatiana is dead, her bones are in the hall. 
She died a week ago.
Mama will not move her.

I hear Mama coming.
She is walking.
I did not know she could stand.
She is calling for the piggies.
There are no piggies.
She has a knife in her hand.
She is coming into the kitchen.
She is calling to me.
She is looking for me.
Her eyes are bad.
She thinks I am a pig.
I run.

My feet are swollen.
My shoes hurt.
I will be dead, soon.
I run.


"That's enough!" Joshua insisted, grasping Nanette's hand, 
stopping the writing. It seemed his French was at least as 
good as Mulder's.

Nanette came to, shaking, looking at Joshua. "What 
happened? Am I done?" She looked to the writing in front of 
her, dropping the pen from her clenched hand.

"Oh no..." she said weakly, and began to weep.


********************************

Evidence Room
4:10 PM

Mulder stretched his neck, hearing it crack painfully. He 
couldn't believe just 12 hours earlier he'd been in such a 
state of total relaxation. This job was eating him alive. He 
flipped through the test papers again. The images the words 
described were horrible, most likely from Nanette's 
childhood traumas, her pitiful fight to survive the famine. 
None of it was close to the type of handwritten evidence 
Mulder had hoped for. Soon after the exam, Nanette was 
cleared and released. Mulder told Joshua he would withhold 
the evidence of Nanette's false marriage as a gesture of good 
faith. 70-year-old self-reliant women weren't generally 
menaces to society.

Still, he felt low, cheap. He was hitting dead ends and Joshua 
knew it. Joshua had helped his manager out to his waiting car 
a half hour ago to take her home, without FBI escort. Mulder 
didn't know if he'd be coming back, although he'd asked him 
to. Joshua's returning look had held a visible hurt--a 
wavering of trust. Mulder felt like he was going to be sick.

The evidence room door opened and Scully slipped in, 
reading over a fax. 

"What's that?"

"The results of the blood work-up I ordered on the valet last 
night," she said. "The autopsy itself didn't reveal any 
abnormalities in Thomas Philmaker's brain function--or what 
was left of it."

"The SFPD interviews with his co-workers I read this 
afternoon also seemed to clear him of mental deficiencies," 
Mulder offered.

"Not to mention the fact he's never had a police record," 
Scully said, passing the fax to him. "I'm sorry, Mulder. For all 
I can tell, this guy was a perfectly normal, law-abiding citizen 
right up until the moment he drove into the wall," she said, 
dropping into a nearby chair. She looked like she hadn't 
caught much sleep last night between the autopsy and her 4 
AM shift. "Maybe his remains were too traumatized for us to 
find a connection?"

Mulder leaned forward on his elbows, pressing the heels of 
his hands to his eyes. "Well, I'm out of ideas. You?"

"I think there's still one question we haven't addressed 
properly yet."

"What's that?"

Scully chose a page of the farm log from the table in front of 
her and held it up to the light. "Do we know if this is really 
Ivan Segulyev's handwriting?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because of something I found on the back of this valet 
ticket." Scully pushed forward the evidence bag containing 
the ticket with the Cyrillic lettering. "I was in here earlier, 
doing some translating of my own. The first word on this 
ticket looked familiar to me. It's a name, Alexander. I then 
looked at the ledger of names Petrovsky translated for us. Of 
the five or so Alexanders on the list, one is an exact match 
for the next string of letters on the ticket--a last name, 
Kosynakov. Alexander Kosynakov, the half-burned name on 
the synagogue birth certificate."

Mulder raised his head, feeling hopeful. "Who is he?"

"I don't know, but I'd like to ask Joshua if he can locate some 
of his grandfather's US correspondence. Forged or not, I 
want to see if we have correctly identified the author."

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

"What is it?"

"That's not going to go over very well with Joshua. It looks 
like we're accusing his dead grandfather of attacking him."

"Mulder, it doesn't matter what he thinks. We have to get to 
the bottom of this."

Mulder folded his hands on the table in front of him, pensive. 
"I'm just not scoring many good points with him today. He's 
upset with me already over bringing Nanette in."

Scully gave him a questioning look. "Mulder, since when did 
you develop such a paralyzing sense of empathy? Joshua's an 
adult; he'll survive this. We have a responsibility to 
investigate his case from all possible angles, whether they are 
pleasant to the subject or not."

Mulder didn't answer. He tapped his thumbs together, trying 
to figure a way around this without letting Joshua know 
directly.

"Mulder?" Scully touched his hand to attract his attention. "I 
don't understand. What's going on? Did Joshua say 
something to you about his case?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, Scully. It's nothing. I just don't 
want him to feel betrayed by me."

Scully gave him an odd look. "You're speaking in the singular 
again, Mulder. We're both conducting this investigation--you 
mean *us.*"

************************************

Chapter Eleven
END (22/44)

Chapter Twelve (23/44)

********************************

Chapter Twelve: Four Seasons

********************************

1223 Divisadero
4:47 PM


Joshua sat in the backseat of the car, watching the light blue 
and gray house pull into view. Mulder stopped the car, asking 
him if this was the correct address--1223 Divisadero. It was. 
He could still see the chip out of the front awning caused by 
a zealous overthrow of a baseball. His silver ten-speed 
bicycle used to rest against the turned column at the 
entrance to the garage side-door. The vacant pathway was 
now choked by fallen autumn leaves. This had been his home 
for three years--the first three years of his professional 
career--at sixteen, he'd been a musician coming into his own.

"Do you think your mother is home?" Mulder asked, twisting 
in his seat behind the wheel to determine why Joshua was 
reluctant to move a hand to the door handle.

Joshua didn't know how to answer his question. In Joshua's 
mind this was never his mother's home. This was his 
grandfather's home--the home he had remained in after 
Joshua moved on to London, Venice, Cairo, Hong Kong. 
Although he'd sent his mother the keys to this house after 
the reading of his father's meager will, Joshua hadn't set foot 
inside the home since his last visit with his grandfather, a few 
months before he died. "I don't know if she's here or not," he 
said, opening the car door. "I hope not."

The agents followed him up to the front door where he rang 
the bell. It was an odd thing to do. He'd never rung the bell 
before--he'd always strolled in. When no answer came, he 
took out the tarnished keyring they'd picked up at his flat 
before heading over. Joshua selected the longest key in the 
loop and unlocked the door.

Inside, the wide wooden staircase with the cream and teal 
runner welcomed him like it always had. It was still faded in 
the same sunlight-exposed spots. The light fixture over the 
landing still hung from a looped chain. It was strange how 
little things changed. He walked in and invited Mulder and 
Scully to have a look around and to head upstairs if they 
wished. His grandfather's room used to be at the back of the 
long hall upstairs if his mother had left it alone. He didn't 
quite understand why Mulder felt it was important to look at 
his grandfather's handwriting. Joshua *knew* it wasn't his 
grandfather's writing; he didn't need an analyst to tell him 
so.

The agents started up for the room, but Mulder paused, 
noticing Joshua was still standing at the landing, looking into 
the living room. Mulder asked him if he was okay.

Joshua sat himself down in a chair near the front door. "I'll 
be fine. I'll come up in a minute." Across the room from him, 
its back to the windows that looked out at the street, sat his 
grandfather's wing-backed leather chair.

###

"Let's hear a season, Sasha."

It was early autumn. Joshua was in-between concert dates for 
almost a week's reprieve. He'd had Nanette book him a flight 
back to San Francisco so he could have a quick visit with 
Grandpapa before heading off for a six-week French and 
German chamber concert series with Philharmonia Baroque. 
He was playing lead violin for Vivaldi's 'Four Seasons' with a 
group of historical musicians who performed on instruments 
made during the same era Vivaldi composed the music. 
Joshua's Stradivarius was a precise historical match for 1726 
and he was invited to join them as guest soloist.

Although he didn't even have his coat off yet and had barely 
set his bags down, Joshua gladly kneeled on the wide stair 
landing to unlock the case and shoulder the violin for 
Grandpapa. He always played for him first as the old man sat 
in his leather chair, wanting to hear the music before hugs 
and kisses and conversation.

Joshua tightened the horsehairs on his bow, standing again. 
"Which season would you like, Grandpapa?"

"Any but winter. It is too cold for winter."

"Summer, then," Joshua decided, and began to play. The 
brightness of wide grassy meadows and green leaves and pale 
blue skies sang through the violin. Joshua closed his eyes and 
let the warmth of the melodic sun take the chill of November 
out of his limbs as he played. When it was done, he opened 
his eyes again to his grandfather's pleased and proud smile.

"It is good you are home, Joshua. I had forgotten the sound 
of sunshine."

The lasting memory of that final homecoming, playing 
summer out of season for his grandfather, would have been 
perfect. Every note still sang in his ears--his grandfather 
opening his arms for him as Joshua set the violin down and 
came to the chair to kneel before him and wrap his arms 
about him. He could still feel his long soft beard against his 
face. It would have been perfect to see it all again, except the 
chair was moved. His mother had turned it away from the 
windows and back toward the hearth. It was wrong. 
Grandpapa always looked outside, not inside. Joshua felt he 
should get up and set it right, but somehow he couldn't 
move. He turned his hands over; the sunlight from the bay 
window passed over the knuckles of his left hand. In full 
sunlight you could still see the discoloration, faint reminders 
of a child's discipline gone horribly wrong.

###

The wrappings on his small hands had come off in the spring, 
just as the last of the snow was melting, running into the 
gutters outside his new Philadelphia home. Joshua had never 
lived in such a crowded and busy place. The city scared him, 
as did the vivid pink and white scarring on his hands. The 
healing skin was stiff and thick and needed softening and 
stretching before they could be retrained on the violin. His 
left hand was the worst. It took most of the spring and the 
aid of daily physical therapy to get the digits to fall into 
precise position on the neck of the violin. His vibrato lacked 
the finesse his nimble child's fingers had once brought to the 
instrument. It was humbling and frustrating for a child of 
seven to relearn what had once come so easily to him. From 
that spring on, Joshua would understand the value of a sound 
body. He became afraid for his hands, overly cautious when 
handling sharp objects or riding his bike. He was afraid he'd 
fall and break them like glass.

After the bandages had come off, Joshua could count on one 
hand the number of times his mother took the five-hour 
bustrip to Philadelphia to visit them, before Grandpapa and 
he moved to San Francisco--distance ending the infrequent 
visits altogether.

Grandpapa opened the door to her in surprise late that first 
spring. "Mirriam? Why are you in Philadelphia?" She had been 
delivered from a cab near the front of their small flat, lost 
and nervous. 

When Joshua saw her standing in the open doorway he ran 
for his bedroom and closed and locked the door, terrified 
she had come to take him back. He grabbed his violin case 
and hid under the bed with it, hugging it to his chest. It was 
some time later when his grandfather, talking through the 
door soothingly, assured him it was safe to come out.

"Your mama wants to see you, Sasha," he said, sitting with 
him on the bed, speaking softly, patting Joshua's head where 
he had clung to his side, wide-eyed and shaking. "But she will 
not take you from me. You are my child now--she cannot 
claim you."

The only way his grandfather could get him downstairs was 
to carry him gently, still clinging. At seven, Joshua had gotten 
to be a large potato to carry. He remembered very little from 
the visit other than he rarely let his head up from 
Grandpapa's beard. He sat in his lap on the couch next to 
her, refusing to let go, even for a second. Already he had 
learned what being loved and kept safe under a caring 
parent's guardianship meant to him, the difference it made. 
His mother sat near them, trying to hold his scarred hand, 
but he kept moving it away to hold onto Grandpapa. He no 
longer recalled what she said to him. She cried; that he 
remembered.

Afterwards, Grandpapa took him back upstairs and got him 
changed and into his bed. He brought him a glass of milk, 
and wiped the tear-stains from his face, rubbing his back 
with a warm hand, calming him. "You don't have to be afraid, 
Sasha. I will always be here with you to keep you safe."

Over time, Joshua began to believe that no one could take 
him away. As the years passed he wasn't nearly so terrified 
by her brief visits. He learned to accept them and would 
entertain her like he would any occasional friend of his 
grandfather's. But he would not play the violin for her. 
Never. He hid it in the darkest corner of his room whenever 
Grandpapa told him she was coming for a visit.

Joshua wouldn't see his father until he was sixteen. The week 
before Joshua and Grandpapa moved to San Francisco, 
Grandpapa arranged for them to stop by the farm. Joshua 
didn't want to go, but Grandpapa told him it was the brave 
thing to do, to face the past, so he went. His mother was 
weepy and overly sweet as usual, while his father remained a 
closed, dark face sitting at the back of the room. Joshua 
wouldn't look at him as his Grandfather told them about his 
awards and studies he was to receive in California. As he 
recalled, they weren't even invited to sit down. Eventually, his 
father just got up and walked out of the room. Joshua never 
saw him alive again. The only other thing he could remember 
from that visit was driving away, looking out the back of his 
grandfather's car, watching the barn grow smaller and 
smaller in the window.

Today, his mother was someone Joshua had grown to 
tolerate. He saw her when he had to--a brief cordial visit on 
the holidays, or when he happened to be in town. He kept to 
himself, otherwise, and when they did meet, spoke only when 
he had to--telling her only what he had to. The way he felt 
about his father now was irrelevant. He had shut off those 
emotions years ago, buried them over and covered the dark 
seething pit with renunciation. He was relieved when he 
heard his father had died. It was a pale footnote on a death 
that had crushed his spirit a little over a year before.

###

It was the Black and White New Year's Eve Ball in Paris, 
France, 1997. Outside, snow fell on the steps of the Theatre 
du Chatelet as frozen winds blew along the Rue de Varenne. 
Inside, the harpsichord was metering the brisk tempo going 
into the final three movements of The Four Seasons, entering 
winter. Joshua's solo violin broke free from the mincing 
steps, struck like icicles from the first and second violins, his 
solo blowing swirling slurs and biting staccatos into the 
phrase, shattering into finer and finer notes that flew over 
the instrument's range. Spring, summer, autumn--the prior 
movements had seemed fake and distant to him, but winter--
winter was cold and heartless, bringing a frozen and brittle 
death to everything it touched. Winter was something he was 
akin to.

Earlier, at intermission before taking stage for the Vivaldi, a 
woman in a long velvet red dress had pulled him aside from 
his green room visitors to whisper four simple words in his 
ear. 

"Your grandfather is dead."

Movement II-Largo. Vivaldi's melody flew over the snowy 
waste with charm. The music spoke of gold sunlight breaking 
through thin blue clouds over a stiffened meadow. It sang of 
peace and splendor in brilliant reflecting prism hues on each 
blade of grass. It lied to him; it lied to those who listened 
quietly to the way he played it. Under that frozen and 
glinting carpet, nothing stirred.

The final Allegro could not come soon enough. A cloud had 
risen from somewhere deep inside him. Joshua was cold; the 
heat of the blinding auditorium lights could not stop the 
frost's gradual consolidation as it poured into his veins. He 
was locked in the winter night again, the dog pressed against 
his side. The shivers were coming, those shivers that left him 
weak and exhausted as they wracked his small body. No 
amount of burrowing into the hay would stop the oncoming 
chill. But he played against it, fast and furious, as the tempo 
rose and the chamber orchestra followed his accelerando out 
through the loose board in the barn wall, out across the 
frozen fields to the pond. He ran as fast as he could, but they 
could still follow him, blowing ice stinging his eyes, catching 
him in a final F-minor chord as his feet broke the crystal 
surface of the pond and he began to drown.

Later, someone would tell him he had seemed collected, 
calm--his playing spirited and chilling. He hadn't heard it, but 
he was told the audience had been stunned into silence for 
several moments at the suite's conclusion before erupting 
into applause, standing from their seats.

Joshua could not remember any of it because in his mind he 
was playing to an empty room, a blindfold over his eyes ever 
since intermission. The message of death only came to him in 
full realization when his head struck the snow-littered steps 
outside the stage door--blood from his nose staining the 
pristine blanket in fingers of red.


###

The day was ending. The sunlight seeping through the 
windows of the living room was falling toward his knees, 
growing more orange. Upstairs, Joshua could hear the agents 
shuffling and clunking about. He knew he needed to see to 
them and rose from his seat, ascending the stairs.

************************************

Chapter Twelve
END (23/44)


Chapter Twelve (24/44)

***********************

"Let's move this thing back from the wall," Mulder suggested, 
taking the opposite end of the large locked trunk they'd 
found under the window in Joshua's grandfather's bedroom. 
Pushing together, the weighted and leather-strapped trunk 
slid forward so they could take a better look at how it was 
latched.

"Wait," Scully said, tracing a strap with her fingertip. "It 
comes back to here and then...Hold it..." She pushed 
something in and a latch gave way, freeing the brass lock at 
the front of the lid.

Together they moved to the front and lifted the lid. Inside, 
the trunk was filled with the musty smell of age along with a 
few items of clothing, framed photos of Joshua and various 
friends, and envelopes containing papers and documents.

"I think we've found the lost treasure," Mulder mumbled as 
he kneeled to begin rummaging through the items on the 
right-hand side while Scully covered the left.

The agents had wandered upstairs together at Joshua's 
invitation. Along the hall, Mulder had noticed in passing what 
looked to be a child's bedroom, complete with awards and 
photographs. The next room was obviously occupied by 
Joshua's mother--a woman's dressing gown was hanging over 
the end of the bed along with other, older feminine effects--
slippers, a knit sweater, a hair brush.

The room at the end of the hall had belonged to an older 
man. The arrangement of polished antique furniture--the 
bed, the desk, the trunk--suggested a solid, home-bodied 
personality. Some of Joshua's grandfather's suits still hung in 
the closet along with casual clothing. The dresser had been 
cleared, however, and filled with books, magazines, and 
other common household items--none of which seemed to 
have belonged to Joshua's grandfather.

The trunk appeared to hold what they needed.

"Look at this," Mulder said, unfolding an infant's colorful 
heavy woolen jumpsuit. It looked as if it was finely crafted by 
knowledgeable hands. The pattern looked Russian. 
Underneath it was a long, worn, black felt coat. Wrapped in 
the coat was an old children's book. Scully watched as 
Mulder opened it, turning the pages. The text was in Russian, 
and the water-color illustrations were stylized after classic 
Slavic artwork. On one page was a drawing of a frightening-
looking gaunt old man, with long gray hair and a beard, 
locked in a closet in chains. Mulder exchanged a knowing 
look with Scully and set the book aside as they continued to 
dig deeper into the trunk.

"These look like they might be Mr. Segulyev's," Scully said as 
she pulled some letters from a manila envelope. She flipped 
through a few pages, passing some to Mulder. Mulder looked 
at the handwriting. They were business letters addressed to a 
New York legal office relating to common investments, 
securities, and properties. 

"This isn't the handwriting we've been seeing," Mulder said, 
handing the pages back. "You were right, Scully. These are 
signed by Ivan, but they're not a match, and I've been staring 
at the threats long enough to put the FBI handwriting analyst 
out of a job."

"Don't be too discouraged," she said, lifting a stack of folders 
out of the way. "There's more. I think this trunk has a false 
bottom."

"It does?" he said, assisting her in lifting out the remainder of 
the contents. Scully reached into the bottom of the trunk and 
tapped. It did sound hollow. Mulder helped her feel around 
the edges for a release or seam.

"Let's tip it up," she suggested. Together, they lifted the 
heavy trunk back on its edge and Mulder held it in place 
while Scully felt around under the base. Presently, he heard a 
click and a bolt sliding back. They set the trunk back down 
and looked inside.

"The edge is raised," Scully said, reaching in to wedge the 
bottom panel up and off with her fingertips.

Nestled in the bottom, yellowed with years, was a wrapped 
parcel, tied with string. Scully lifted it out and set it on the 
floor between them. The package had been mailed to a 
Philadelphia address in 1984 and then forwarded to 1223 
Divisadero in 1986. It looked like the San Francisco address 
had been written by Ivan Segulyev. The first address had been 
typed.

"It looks like this package was resealed, but never opened 
after its second mailing," Scully said. "There's no return 
address, but the stamps look Russian."

Mulder pulled out his pocket knife and began to cut the 
string loose. "Let's see what Santa brought."

Mulder unwrapped the parcel to reveal an old, woman's 
shoebox. The tape that had once held the lid on had long lost 
its stick and the top slid right off. 

There was a dark cloth-covered bundle inside. On top was a 
Russian birth certificate. Scully picked it up and looked over 
the Cyrillic. "It's Ivan's," she said after a moment, handing it 
to Mulder.

He took it from her. The only character he could recognize 
was the cross at the top center of the document. "How can 
you tell?"

"I recognize his name. Joshua made a point of showing it to 
me on the 1929 farm photo. He also said his grandfather was 
born in 1912. This document is dated that same year."

Mulder fingered the edges of the paper. It wasn't burned like 
the first one they'd found. "This can't be Ivan Segulyev's 
birth certificate; I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

Mulder ran his thumb over the cross at the top. "Because 
Joshua was raised Jewish."

"Maybe Ivan converted?"

"Maybe. But something tells me immigrant refugees of war 
don't lose their religion that easily."

"Unless he was trying to hide his identity...Oh my God, 
Mulder. You don't think Joshua's grandfather was a war 
criminal, do you?"

Mulder looked up. "Why would you say that?"

"Well, the fact that Nanette seems to have had some leverage 
against him in order to get into this country. And...Joshua 
has stated many times that his grandfather was very closed-
mouthed about his past and deliberately failed to keep old 
photographs of himself. I think he was hiding something."

Mulder shook his head, brooding. "I don't know what it 
means. But I do know I want all the answers before we show 
this to Joshua. I'd hate to present anything that might 
wrongly accuse his grandfather without definite proof."

Scully nodded her agreement. "Let's see what's in this 
bundle." She held the dark cloth on her lap and began to 
unfold it. "Oh..." she said in mild disgust, moving the 
wrapping to the floor. "There's a dead bird in here." Mulder 
watched her nudge the feathery corpse aside. Beneath it was 
a smaller wrapping. Scully exchanged a look with Mulder. He 
told her with his eyes that *he* wasn't about to touch it. She 
carefully unfolded the smaller wrapping with her fingers. 
Inside was part of a charred bone. On the bone was writing.

"That's...that's not human is it?"

Scully snapped a Latex glove on her hand and lifted the bone 
to her eyes for closer inspection. "It's human all right. It's 
part of a mandible."

"And the writing...please tell me it's English. I really don't 
want to take a human jaw to Leo for his translation."

"Sorry, Mulder. It's Russian."

Mulder looked in the shoebox. There was one more item 
wedged in the bottom, a letter. He removed it and unfolded 
it. The letter was in Russian, unreadable to him except for 
two things: the year, 1933, and the identification of the 
handwriting.

Mulder looked up at Scully, who was still fingering the bone. 
"We've got a letter here, Scully, from the Thin Man and it's 
signed Alexander Kosynakov."

***********************

Satisfied with their find, the agents began to repack the 
evidence for easier removal.

"Where's Joshua?" Scully asked, rewrapping the bird bits. 
"Did he ever come up?"

"I thought I heard him in the hall a few minutes ago," Mulder 
said. "This is upsetting him. I'll go check on him if you can 
finish reassembling this trunk."

She nodded and Mulder stood, brushing the dust from his 
knees.

Mulder found Joshua at the other end of the upstairs hall, 
sitting on the edge of his childhood bed, looking up at the 
trophy shelf. Bits of dust hung suspended in the setting 
sunlight that broke through the parting in the curtained 
window.

Tarnished awards, urns and medallions occupied the 
crowded shelf. Joshua was sitting with his back to the door, 
idly fingering a faded blue ribbon.

"'And on his head they'd placed a garland, briefer than a 
girl's'," Mulder quoted. 

Joshua turned his head, letting his arm drop at his side. "'To 
an Athlete Dying Young'...Housman, Mulder? I thought you 
were sent to protect me from an untimely end?"

Mulder leaned on the door jamb. "I am, but that still doesn't 
keep the awards of childhood from fading when the boy 
becomes a man."

Joshua's thoughtful blue eyes met his. "No, I suppose it 
doesn't. Although I think I've outgrown the thrill of being 
pinned. Don't tell me--your room at home is lined with 
similar adolescent achievements."

Mulder let his eyes take in the rest of the room. In addition 
to the trophy shelf, framed newspaper and magazine articles 
about the young virtuoso hung on the walls. "No, my room 
no longer exists. The tracks of my lifetime achievements have 
all been swept away by Baba Yaga's broom. I like it that way. 
It keeps people from pointing out what I could have been. 
Most people at least."

Joshua took in his space as well, glancing up at the ceiling. "It 
is true; it all looks smaller than you remember. I'm sorry I 
stalled myself here, Mulder. I was coming to assist you, but I 
can't seem to make it the rest of the way down the hall."

"You don't have to, Joshua. I think we found what we were 
looking for--correspondence, in Russian, dating back decades 
it seems."

"Did you find it in a big leather-bound trunk under the rear 
window?"

"Yes."

Joshua smiled, wistful. "Good, then his room hasn't 
changed."

"It doesn't look like anyone's been moving things around. 
The room is dusty; untouched is my guess."

Joshua ran his fingers over his eyebrow. "Do you think we 
can go soon?"

"Yeah. Just give Scully another minute or so."

Joshua poked at the blue and black pattern on his bedspread. 
"When I was nineteen, I was in this room, lying on this bed 
the night before I left for tour. I couldn't sleep. My bags were 
already sent on--all I had to do was wait for the car to come 
pick me up," he said, taking a glance at Mulder before 
continuing. "I kept feeling like I was forgetting something. My 
mind wouldn't rest until I figured out what it was. I was 
scared. I got up and walked to my grandfather's room. His 
bed was empty, but from the hall I could see there was a light 
on downstairs.

"I found him sitting in his chair staring out the window. The 
sky was turning gray; it was nearing sunrise. I came and 
kneeled next to his chair, putting my head in his lap while his 
hand rested on my head.

"'I won't go without you,' I told him. I'd never been anywhere 
without him. He'd always accompanied me. We sat in silence 
for a while before he spoke.

"'I came here from far away, from a different land with 
different skies,' he told me. 'I did not know at the time if 
what I had done was right, if leaving my home behind was 
what God wanted me to do. But now I know there was a 
reason I was supposed to leave that place, Joshua--the reason 
was you. God brought us together, but now he says it is time 
for you to leave your Grandpapa and go be a violinist for the 
world.'

"He told me to go get dressed and that he would sit with me 
until the car arrived. I did and we sat together watching the 
sun come up. I said very little to him other than good-bye. I 
don't know if it was his words or the hand of God, but I recall 
riding away from the house feeling safe, protected. I wasn't 
afraid anymore."

Mulder regarded Joshua affectionately. "It must be the artist 
in you--that you can pin-point the exact moment you became 
a man."

Joshua smiled softly and got up, walking over to his old 
wardrobe. He opened the stiffened door with a creak, 
looking in. "Oh my God," he said with wonder.

Mulder took a few steps into the room to stand behind him. 
"What?"

"Grandpapa's kept all my old violins in here. I told him to 
give them away--to the Conservatory." Joshua opened the 
second door, wide. In the wardrobe Mulder could see five 
violin cases resting one next to the other on a deep shelf. 
Joshua picked up the smallest one and blew the dust off the 
case, coughing. He held it in one hand, unlatching it and 
opening the velvet-lined lid. A diminutive violin lay inside 
with a reduced bow. "I thought my room looked small...my 
God, the strings are so close together. I must have been a tiny 
child."

"Was that your first violin?" Mulder asked. 

Joshua shook his head sadly. "No, it was my second. My first 
was tossed in the fire by my father. This one is slightly larger, 
but still so small compared to the Stradi."

"Does it still play?"

Joshua smiled fondly at the pint-sized instrument. "A child 
could play it. I should give it to the Philadelphia Conservatory 
along with the others. An instrument deserves to be played. 
They gave me the Stradivarius, after all. Still, I'm glad to see 
it again."

"What's this?" Mulder reached in and pulled a wide, thick, 
strap-tied book from where it was resting behind the violins. 
Joshua closed the case and set the violin back in the closet, 
taking the heavy ring-bound tome from Mulder's hands as he 
lifted it out. 

"I don't know," Joshua said, bringing it over to set it on the 
waist-high cabinet at the end of his old captain's bed. He 
brushed the bits of dust and web wisps from the blue 
marbled cover and releasing the straps, opened it. 

Mulder watched Joshua's reaction as he examined the first 
few pages of what was clearly a scrapbook of his career 
assembled by his grandfather. 

"I never saw this before," he said with amazement, turning 
the next page. His eyes caught the memories as they 
presented themselves page by page. "I had forgotten half of 
this. This was when I first entered the Philadelphia 
Conservatory," he said, pointing to a photo of a puffy-haired 
boy holding a bow in line with a group of similar-aged 
children. "The eighties did a number on my head. I look like 
a mushroom," he laughed, turning another page. At the 
bottom of each photo and in some of the margins, Joshua's 
grandfather had written captions in a strong, bold hand 
similar to the business letters Mulder and Scully had just 
gathered.

"Is that you?" Mulder asked, when Joshua paused at a page 
showing a newspaper photo of a child in silhouette in front 
of a professional symphony orchestra. 

Joshua looked delighted as he read the handwritten caption. 
"'Joshua surprises New York City with his rendition of 
Mozart's Violin Concerto #3.' Remarkable, that was my first 
professional gig. I was twelve years old. They always want 
children to play Mozart," he said and turned the next few 
pages. "My God, Grandpapa saved every clipping of every 
show I ever did. I knew he watched the papers for my reviews 
and we would read them together and framed a few of my 
favorites, but I had no idea he'd saved them *all.* He must 
have been working on this for a very long time..."

Joshua turned more pages and paused, looking at a photo of 
himself as a teen in San Francisco standing next to an old 
man with white hair. "That's Master Gregory; he taught me 
everything about being a showman. He died not too long 
after I left for Europe."

The next section of the scrapbook was all about Europe, from 
the newspaper story announcing Joshua's tour contract after 
the recording of the Brahms, on through the foreign press 
reviews of performances in Spain, France, England, Germany, 
Switzerland, Japan, India, all in diverse languages.

Joshua was plainly moved and amazed by the thoroughness 
of the coverage. "I can't believe it. Some of these papers...I 
don't know how he could have acquired them. He followed 
me all over the world..." Joshua said in almost a whisper, 
flipping pages one after the other. 

"I wonder when this ends..." Joshua said, skipping ahead 
through what was easily over a hundred pages. Toward the 
last fifth of the book Joshua slowed, turning the pages more 
carefully, his eyes tracking and registering the years as they 
flipped past: 1995, 1996... Soon he came to a set of clippings 
that were not as securely mounted as the rest of the book. 
The newsprint had begun to slip loose and some seemed as if 
they hadn't been well-glued at all. The handwriting that had 
been strong and bold before was now wavering, awkward, 
and brief. A page or three later, the handwriting stopped 
altogether. Even the clippings began to deteriorate in their 
placing. Some had been partially glued to others, some only 
folded into the binding. Others weren't cut properly, the 
scissors having chewed the edges of the paper. 

Joshua turned slowly, his expression tight and closed. He 
paused at each page, taking the clippings in his fingers, 
straightening them, unsticking them, laying them flat. Mulder 
started to turn to leave, but Joshua, without looking up from 
the book, grabbed his hand and held it, gripping him. Mulder 
stayed, letting Joshua's fingers thread into his, but he 
couldn't look at the scraps anymore. He couldn't bear to 
watch Joshua picking up after his ailing grandfather's final 
faltering steps. 

Mulder breathed slowly and held onto Joshua's hand in 
silence, his eyes rising to the trophy rack. In the curved base 
of a tarnished award he saw Scully's reflection as she stood 
behind him in the doorway, motionless, watching them. After 
a moment she lowered her head and slipped past the door 
and away.

Joshua made a pained sound.

"Are you okay?" Mulder whispered, turning to him.

Joshua held his mouth tightly, choking down the grief. "I 
need to leave now," he said with effort. He had turned to the 
last occupied page. Taped to it was a wrinkled and torn 
section from the Paris Gazette. Mulder mentally translated 
the French headline, "Tomorrow Night: Bring in the New Year 
with Vivaldi, Segulyev and the Four Seasons."

************************************

Chapter Twelve
END (24/44)

Chapter Twelve (25/44)

***********************

Joshua excused himself to the bathroom. Mulder closed the 
scrapbook, secured it and set it back into the closet where 
Joshua's grandfather had left it for his grandson to find one 
day along with his violins. 

Scully was waiting in the living room with the shoebox in her 
arms along with a stack of dusty folders. Her expression was 
unreadable.

Joshua emerged looking pale and strained. Mulder was 
following him down the long stairs to leave when a key 
turned in the lock and the front door opened. A woman in 
her late sixties came in, startled, until her eyes settled on 
Joshua, a palpable longing coming over her thin and aging 
face.

"Maelchik?" she said in a thin voice.

"Hello Mama," Joshua replied tentatively, stalling himself on 
the stairs.


************************

She looked even older to him, frail and small. Her long hair 
was shorter and grayer now, but still clipped behind her 
head. He must have known this was going to happen--his 
chest felt weighted as guilt piled on top of sorrow and began 
to settle in. He'd give anything if he hadn't had to come here 
today.

"Mama, these are FBI Agents Mulder and Scully. They asked 
me to bring them here today; we needed to look through 
some of Grandpapa's papers."

She looked frightened and her hands gripped the strap of her 
purse. "Why the FBI, Joshua?"

"It's nothing to worry about Ms..." Mulder began, stopping 
himself evidently when he remembered Joshua went by his 
grandfather's name.

Joshua glanced at him, moving aside on the step he'd 
immobilized himself on so Mulder could greet her. "Poltov," 
Joshua said, looking away, trying to gather himself.

"Ms. Poltov," Mulder said, descending to the landing to shake 
her hand, reassuringly. "We're just investigating..."

"Someone's been sending me threats in the mail," Joshua said 
over him. Mulder looked back at him, questioning. "It's 
nothing Mama, they just wanted to check out some old 
correspondence to eliminate the people Grandpapa and I 
used to know."

His mother took some steps forward around Mulder to come 
closer to him, reaching up to cover his hand with hers on the 
banister. "What threats, Joshua? Are you in trouble?"

"No Mama," he said, moving his hand casually away. "I'm not 
in any trouble."

"How long have you been here, Joshua? When did you come 
to San Francisco?"

He forced his eyes from the floor to look at her. She'd better 
not cry, he thought to himself. I won't be able to stand it if 
she cries. 

"Joshua, we'll be outside," Mulder said, opening the door for 
him and Scully to quickly exit. He watched the door close 
after them. Dammit, he didn't want to do this right now, 
especially not alone.

"Look at me, maelchik," she said in that sing-songy way of 
hers. "Let me see you. Why won't you look at your mama?" 
Her hand was on his, tugging him from his perch on the 
stairs. He descended and gave her a quick hug, trying not to 
cringe as he felt how thin she was, and how tightly her arms 
were squeezing his shoulders. He felt like she would break 
him. He stepped back from her, trying to find the strength to 
muster a smile, to make this visit as brief and polite as 
possible. 

"I'm sorry, Mama, I've been busy." She was pulling him by the 
hand into the living room. 

"Sit, sit. Let me look at you. I never get to look at you. You're 
getting so old, so grown-up."

Joshua suppressed a sigh. "Mama, I've been grown-up for a 
very long time."

She smiled a thin and wavering smile, tears beginning to 
gather in her tired dark-blue eyes. "I know, I know. All 
grown-up. I thought about you all day on Friday. My little 
boy, my maelchik, turning thirty. I was not much older than 
that when I had you. When are you going to be married, 
Joshua? You should be married--a man of thirty needs a wife 
and children."

"Mama," he squeezed her hands, to try and calm her. Her 
voice had been rising. "I have music, Mama; I don't need a 
family."

She reached out her hand to touch his cheek, stroking his 
face. He closed his eyes, hoping if he indulged her, she'd let 
him go faster. "You need more than music, maelchik--you 
need the love of a woman." 

God, all these years and she still didn't know the first thing 
about him--who he was, what he did. Sure, he played that 
silly violin, but what of it? To her he was still supposed to be 
some hard-working farm boy with a dull pregnant wife. He 
felt the pattern starting again, the pattern that marked all 
their brief infrequent visits together--she babbles, he 
becomes angry and frustrated, he makes a polite excuse to 
leave and sickens himself with the guilt for weeks until they 
are hopelessly destined to meet again.

He opened his eyes, taking her hand from where it had been 
starting to paw through his hair. "I'm never getting married, 
Mama. You might as well accept that."

She shook her head, tsking him. "Whatever happened to that 
young lady of yours, the girl from New Hampshire? She was 
so lovely, Joshua. I still have the photo you sent. I don't 
understand why you let her go."

"She's dead, Mama," Joshua said bluntly. 

"What?"

He took a long breath, trying to tamp down the darkness he 
felt threatening to rise in him. "She died last July," he said 
quietly. "She shot herself."

His mama brought her hand over her mouth. "No, Joshua. 
Why?"

He brought his hands up over his eyes, dragging his fingers 
through his hair. God, he didn't want to do this right now. "I 
don't know."

"No, no...this is not true--it can't be. You were going to be 
married. She would have been so happy..."

"Mama!" He sat up straight, pulling away, trying to keep his 
dread from turning into a panic. "It's not my fault."

"But you were so good together..."

This was what he couldn't stand, the endless pointlessness of 
trying to get his mother to understand he was nothing like 
what she believed him to be. He took her hands, leaning in, 
forcing her to stop going on about his false marriage. "It was 
a mistake, Mama. I made a mistake and now she's gone and I 
can't do a damn thing about it. I'm sorry I could not marry 
her--I regret it deeply. I tried to make it happen, but I just 
couldn't...I won't ever try to marry again. I have my violin 
and that's all I'll ever need."

His mama just sat there, looking so sad and upset with him--
disappointed, always disappointed. "No, Joshua. You do not 
want to be alone. You don't know what it's like to be alone 
and old. You do not want to live like this. You are young--you 
can still be happy..."

He sighed and got up, beginning to pace the living room, a 
room that brought back so many wonderful and painful 
memories for him. When his Grandpapa was alive, he felt like 
there was no one else in the world who mattered. But he was 
gone, his chair was turned away from the window, empty. 
Joshua knew all about what it felt like to be alone. He'd been 
alone now for over two years.

"Mama, I'm sorry that you're lonely. But I have my own life 
now. I'm happy. I am a concert violinist. I've played for the 
grandest music halls in the world. This is my life, and I am 
choosing how I want to live it. I will not be anybody but who I 
am."

"But you are a man, Joshua, you can choose anything. You do 
not have to chose to be alone."

He caught her teary glance, shocked and aghast. "What are 
you saying, Mama? That because you're a woman your life 
was not your responsibility? That you were forced to marry 
my father? That you were forced to give me up?" He choked 
on the words as they came out. He was shaking--he had no 
idea why these truths were forcing themselves out now. He 
and Mama never spoke about this. They always pretended 
everything had been normal between them, just like every 
mother and son. But now, after seeing Grandpapa's last days 
laid out page by page, he just didn't have the distance 
necessary for pretending.

She was quiet, and he turned away from her. The tears he 
was tired of fighting were making themselves known, and he 
wiped them away shamefully. He would not cry for her. 

"A woman has no choice in who she loves, Joshua. I loved 
your papa. I could not leave him."

Joshua crossed his arms, hugging himself, trying to breathe 
evenly. "Not even for me," he whispered, glancing at her 
through swimming eyes. She was staring at her hands.

"Your papa loved you, Joshua. It ruined him when Grandpapa 
took you away."

Joshua laughed bitterly, letting the wetness he felt on his face 
stay and mock him with the irony that he still cared enough 
about that bastard to be upset. "Let's get something straight, 
Mama. Fathers who love their children don't make them 
sleep outside in the dead of winter." He looked at her then, 
openly, letting her for once see the raw and painful anger 
there. "And don't try to tell me again that it was my fault--
like you used to--telling me I needed to behave, that I needed 
to mind him better."

"I tried to come see you..." She was weeping now, holding her 
hands tightly in her lap. "I had no choice," she said weakly.

Joshua wiped his eyes on his sleeve with a snort. He couldn't 
take it any more--he was not going to stand here while she 
cried. "You had a choice, Mama," he said, heading for the 
front door, feeling the sickening suffocation of guilt pressing 
in on him. He paused a moment as he turned the knob. "You 
had a key to the barn, too," he said with his back to her, and 
left the house.

************************************

Chapter Twelve
END (25/44)

Chapter Thirteen (26/44)

********************************

Chapter Thirteen: Lullaby

********************************

6:12 PM

Mulder glanced at his watch. Joshua had been inside for over 
fifteen minutes. He was beginning to feel it would be a good 
idea just to leave. Joshua could call for a car, after all. He 
didn't want himself and Scully to pressure the situation. 
Joshua had enough to deal with this afternoon.

No sooner had he begun to reach for the handle when Joshua 
came out the front door of the house, closing it behind him. 
Mulder hadn't seen his mother in the doorway. 

Joshua kept his eyes down as he made for the rear door, 
sliding into the backseat and shutting it firmly, bringing a 
hand over his eyes. 

Mulder looked over his shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked 
softly.

Joshua shook his head briefly. "Just get me away from here," 
he whispered. Mulder exchanged a look of concern with 
Scully and started the engine.

###

Marina Flat
6:32 PM

"Look, Scully. Take the car. I'm going to start my shift early. 
Don't bother calling Dillmont," Mulder told his partner, 
handing her the keys as he let Joshua go on ahead up into his 
flat. "I think he could use a friend right now."

Scully regarded him thoughtfully a moment. She seemed 
almost sad. "You're right, Mulder. I'll just..." she paused, 
stumbling over the words.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he asked, feeling his chest clenching 
for the confrontation he wasn't nearly ready to face yet.

She was looking up the street, avoiding his eyes. "I'll take 
care of the evidence. Just..." she dropped her eyes and 
sighed. "You're a good friend to him, Mulder. Take care of 
him, okay?" She managed a smile and Mulder felt his entire 
body relax. Impulsively, he reached out and brushed her 
cheek lightly with his thumb. She looked up at him and 
smiled warmly. "Goodnight, Mulder," she said with a tone of 
affection he hadn't heard from her in a long while, like a C-
minor chord, both sad and sweet.

"Goodnight, Scully," he replied with a gentle smile, and 
headed for the stairs to the flat.

*******************************

Joshua was in the shower, his clothes left thrown on the end 
of the bed. Mulder took off his coat and sat back in one of 
Joshua's big comfortable chairs, waiting for him to come out. 
Through the echoing spray of the water Mulder could hear an 
occasional muffled sound of frustration or grief delivered to 
the tiled walls. Over a quarter of an hour later, the water 
hushed, but it was several long minutes before Joshua 
emerged--dried, robed and downcast.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked him, as he watched Joshua 
slip out of his robe and into a fresh loose cotton shirt and 
pair of undershorts. The musician's back was to him, but he 
nodded as he sat heavily on the edge of the bed, his posture 
betraying his exhaustion.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that today."

Joshua turned his head so Mulder could see his face in 
profile. His eyes were slightly red-rimmed and he would not 
look at him directly. "Are you?" Joshua asked, bitterly.

Mulder stood and came over to sit at the edge of the bed, 
and put his arm around Joshua, pulling him into a hug. He 
felt Joshua's tension begin to ease as the musician gradually 
surrendered against his side, lowering his dark head and 
wrapping his arms around him in need. Mulder held him 
quietly, stroking his back. After a while he felt Joshua begin 
to breathe more steadily, calming against him.

"Family is never easy," Mulder said into the man's hair. 

Joshua gave a short, bitter laugh and sat up, laying his hand 
over Mulder's. "Especially mine," he said sadly, shifting to lay 
down on the bed. "I know in my heart that I'm supposed to 
love her and care about her because she's my mother--for no 
other reason than that. But tell me how I'm supposed to feel 
kindly toward someone who chose to stand beside the one 
person in my life who hurt me the most?"

Mulder regarded Joshua, conveying understanding. "I know 
how hard it can be to learn to trust someone who failed to 
protect you as a child. All I can say is that I know just how 
difficult it can be to forgive *yourself* for being the one who 
failed to provide that protection."

"You're speaking from experience," Joshua said in 
realization.

Mulder lowered his head. He sat still, summoning the 
courage to describe it. "You asked me once if I had ever 
killed a woman..." Joshua eased himself up on his elbow, 
drawing closer to Mulder, trying to catch his eyes. "I haven't, 
but I've come very close."

"What happened?" Joshua asked softly.

Mulder's face rippled with a wave of deep remorse and self-
reproach before he spoke--so quietly, he wondered if Joshua 
could hear him. "In all my training as an agent, all my drilled 
responses...there was a case with a man, a sick man who got 
inside my head and turned all those honed skills against me. 
He turned me into a weapon against myself, against my 
partner--the only person in this godforsaken world who 
would ever draw fire from me--and he made me turn my 
instinct on her. I stared her right in the face and held my 
weapon at her head, Joshua...she was wearing a goddamned 
vest and I knew it and aimed for her head..." He bit the inside 
of his lip, trying to gather the words and force them out. "He 
had tapped into every known weakness in me...my wounds, 
my childhood fears...he made me see her as an enemy and I 
believed him because those false truths were buried in me. 
My head was screaming for me to let go and act...to save 
myself, to save her..."

Joshua started to reach for his hand, but paused as Mulder 
glanced at him with a look that said 'wait.' "She stopped me, 
Joshua; I have no idea how she knew to do what she did 
because in my mind she was already dead. I saw her dead and 
bleeding on the floor. Afterwards, months later, I was still 
haunted by that vision and just how close it came to being a 
reality."

"You've never forgiven yourself."

Mulder shook his head. "Nor will I. It's something I'll always 
carry with me."

"I had no idea...I'm sorry; I've been callous with you."

Mulder managed a half-felt grin. "I'm not trying to one-up 
you, Joshua. We all have our own sins to bear. I doubt the 
weight of living is felt any lighter one person to another. All 
we can do is try to keep going, doing our best. Death comes 
when we're ready to give up that load."

"I'm not nearly ready, Mulder. I want you to know that."

Mulder took Joshua's hand briefly and let it go, nodding. 
"Neither am I."

"Will you lie down with me? Just for a while?" Joshua asked 
quietly. His lapis eyes were softened from grief, vulnerable. "I 
can't seem to summon the energy to finish dressing."

Mulder loosened his tie and smiled. "Move over, then."


###

8:55 PM

Joshua woke a few hours later to the smell of melted cheese 
and spicy meat. He opened a lazy eye, still burning a little 
from the emotions he'd shed earlier in the day. He felt better 
now, warm and sleepy, covered in a thick blanket. Mulder 
was seated at the kitchen bar on a stool, his dress shirt 
unbuttoned, revealing a white V-neck t-shirt. He was 
bouncing a knee and flipping through a magazine while 
taking a bite from a slice of what Joshua knew to be pizza--a 
delivered pizza. The big soggy box was sitting on his kitchen 
countertop next to a six-pack of cola. So this is what happens 
if I sleep through the dinner hour, he thought, amused. My 
guardian reverts to his feral state. Good Lord, that wasn't a 
paper plate Mulder was dining off of, was it?

Joshua sat up, the blanket sliding from his shoulder where it 
had been carefully tucked. "Please tell me you're not eating 
pepperoni in my house," he said, sliding his bare feet to the 
cold floor and stretching into a standing position.

Mulder looked over at him. "Nope, this is Luigi's finest--
sausage, mushrooms and olives. I saved you some," he 
grinned, flapping his slice at him from across the room.

"Ugh," Joshua commented, yawning, and pulled on his robe 
to come  join Mulder on a stool, facing him from the 
opposite side of the bar. 

"Cola?" Mulder offered, reaching for the six-pack behind 
him. He slipped a frosty can from its plastic ring and set it in 
front of Joshua on the counter, popping the tab with one 
hand. It fizzed over onto the smooth polished tile, leaving a 
tan ring. 

Joshua started to get up. "Let me get a cup..."

Mulder stilled him with a hand on his wrist and a smirk. "Sit. 
Just once I want to see you drink out of a can."

Joshua looked uncomfortably at the cola top fizzing with 
carbonated run-off. He wasn't expected to suck that off first, 
was he? Who knew where that can had been. "My fingers will 
get sticky," he said, pointedly. 

Mulder snorted. "Excuse me? You'll stick your fingers in my 
ass, but you won't touch the side of an aluminum can? What 
planet were you raised on?"

Joshua tried to look offended and valiantly gripped the cold 
can in his right hand. With an obstinate raise of his brows, he 
lifted the soda to his mouth, taking a quick series of gulps. 
He set it down, triumphantly smug, but was soon mortified 
by an unexpected belch that rose up from his belly. He 
clamped a hand over his mouth, catching the burp just shy of 
announcing itself with a loud rabble. He blinked against the 
carbonation sting in his throat before he spoke in a strangled 
voice. "God, I hate soda."

Mulder was beside himself with low chuckles over his 
companion's faux pas. "Don't tell me you've never let one go 
in public before, Joshua. I won't believe it," he said, wiping 
part of the ridiculous grin from his own face with a napkin. 
"Here, try the pizza. I can't wait to see what you do with 
this."

Mulder peeled off a delivered paper plate and flimsy napkin 
and set them in front of him. The top right corner of the 
napkin was soggy from God-only-knew-what and the Dali-
esque pizza slice Mulder plopped on the plate didn't begin to 
have a serviceable edge to lift from. "I suppose a request for 
a fork will go un-honored," Joshua said, trying to stay stoic, 
but the enjoyment he saw reflected in Mulder's hazel 
challenge made the request impossible to resist. Hell, he'd 
eat cold Spam out of the can if it made this man happy. 
Joshua peered at his slice and began to poke at an olive with 
his index finger. "I hate olives, too."

"There's no pleasing you, is there?" Mulder teased. 

"That's *not* true," Joshua said, lifting the flimsy plate and 
dipping his head toward the rubbery cheese to shove the 
slice over the edge and in the general direction of his mouth. 
He bit down and pulled back quickly, but not quick enough 
to stop a long string of cheese from clinging to his chin. He 
set the plate down and quickly retrieved the dairy garland 
with a grunt. He popped it in his mouth and chewed. "This 
isn't even real mozzarella--it's a Monterey Jack substitute," 
he mumbled, figuring talking with his mouth full would 
probably thrill the agent as well.

Mulder applauded him with a lively nod. "Not bad. Good 
form. Nice work with the cheese, although you could have 
done without the gourmet review."

Joshua smiled and shrugged, taking another big bite, licking 
the sauce off his upper lip. "I didn't say it wasn't tasty...to a 
certain palate."

"The oil and cheese palate?"

Joshua nodded, reaching for his napkin. At the last second he 
decided against the mystery stain and grabbed a paper towel 
off the roller to his left instead. "Thank you, Mulder. I'm 
feeling much better now."

Mulder smiled at him and took a swig from his own cola, 
downing it and crushing the can in his fist. "Remind me to 
take you to a Giants game sometime. I'll show you the finer 
points of devouring a ballpark frank with hot mustard and 
extra pickle relish."

"I'll hold you to that," Joshua replied, fondly recalling falling 
asleep against this man's side a few hours ago. "If there's 
ever a way to please me, I'm sure you'll find it."

###

They finished off the pizza together and Joshua managed to 
survive sucking down the rest of the can of soda. They 
laughed and chatted about nothing important throughout the 
remainder of their meal--not the case, not his mother or 
grandfather or Nanette, not a thing that had draped such a 
heavy shadow over Joshua's life earlier that day. It pleased 
Joshua that Mulder could be so easy to just be with. He'd 
never been with someone who took so naturally to the 
domestic side of life. It amazed him to watch Mulder wipe 
down the counter and pack out the pizza debris with the 
trash. Yes, it was nice to have a man around the house.

Joshua felt a genuine rush of happiness when they eventually 
fell onto the bed, half-naked and kissing. There had been a 
brief toothpaste battle in the bathroom that had left Joshua's 
sink a mess of blue smears. But he didn't care one bit as he 
relished the feel of Mulder's spearminted mouth on his, his 
long arms holding him down on the bed as he felt the man 
pressing against him, growing hard in his boxers. They rolled 
about and kissed unhurriedly, taking a languid pace, enjoying 
the night and the light and heavy feeling of being caressed 
and gripped and tasted and licked with curiosity and 
tenderness.

When they finally reached that heated state of deep arousal, 
Joshua wanted to be taken again and rolled over onto his 
back, inviting Mulder to face him between his legs. The 
invitation was taken honorably, after some teasing 
preparation, by the firm full thrust of the agent's cock and 
the warm lubricated grip of his matching fist stroking him 
over and over into a sheer humbling climax. Mulder took his 
time finishing, kissing and fucking him slowly until his ass 
ached in a most gratifying way and he could watch the man's 
orgasm rise and come over him lap for lap like a deep swell 
in the Bay, both shuddering and groaning with the depth of 
pleasure it brought them.

*********************************

11:45 PM

Mulder lay on his back watching the streetlights and passing 
cars reflecting white and red light against the windows. 
Mulder supposed he should have gotten up and dressed 
himself by now, but he wasn't quite ready to give up the 
warmth and comfort of Joshua's bed--especially while Joshua 
was still in it. The sleeping violinist was lying with his arm 
thrown over Mulder's chest, with his lips against his 
shoulder, leaving a warm moist spot growing with every deep 
even breath (not that the man would ever admit to drooling). 
Mulder knew he was getting sloppy with his duties, but 
tonight he didn't care as much. He was too assuaged by the 
calming effects of deeply satisfying sex and intimacy. They'd 
spent a long time after the sex, just lying together, kissing 
and touching, not wanting to move apart. It had felt 
wonderful--being with Joshua made him feel strong and 
important, valued, appreciated. It was nice to do something 
right for someone for a change. He hoped the nature of the 
case would ease up on Joshua from here on out--he never 
wanted to put him through the emotional strain that visiting 
his mother's house had brought him. Although all the pieces 
had yet to connect, Mulder sensed they were very close to 
finding a resolution. More than anything he wanted to bring 
Joshua peace again, beyond the bedroom. For now he could 
hold him and try to stay awake, while his weapon cast a 
shadow across the wide headboard where it lay overhead, 
ready.

###

Mulder woke to the sound of the violin. He opened his eyes, 
reluctant to kill the soothing dreams the music was bringing 
to his subconscious. Dreams...? Shit. He'd fallen asleep after 
all. He leaned up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes. Joshua sat 
at the foot of the bed, his back to him, playing the violin in 
silhouette. The raw honestly in the slow sad music sounding 
through the strings kept him from speaking, from 
interrupting him. He eased his head back against the pillow 
and just listened, enraptured, until Joshua finished, laying 
the Stradivarius on the bedcover.

"That's beautiful; what was it?" Mulder asked quietly.

"I don't know..." Joshua answered, in a distant voice. "It just 
came out of me. It wanted to be played. Although part of it I 
believe was from a Russian lullaby my grandfather used to 
play when I was very young. I thought I had forgotten it."

"Do you think you could remember it? I'd love to hear it 
again."

Joshua shook his head. "I don't think I can...It's breaking my 
heart." He sounded like he was on the verge of tears and got 
up to put the instrument away. He stood naked and pale 
against the dark sweep of the piano. 

"Joshua?"

The violinist turned, releasing a heavy sigh.

"Come back to bed."

***************************************

Chapter Thirteen
END (26/44)

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