From: Foxsong <foxsong@my-deja.com>
Date: Mon, 02 Aug 1999 00:29:03 GMT
Subject: New - 'Clair de Lune' (1/5) by Foxsong

Clair de Lune

by Foxsong

(7/30/99)

Rated PG

Keywords: Episode fic. M/S friendship. Plenty of angst for all!

Spoilers: None to speak of; just the smallest smidgen of an allusion to
FTF. It would help if you're familiar with 'Travelers.'

Archive: Hell yes!! I just want to know where so I can have visitation
rights...

Feedback to foxsong@earthlink.net will be saved to my hard drive and
cherished for years.

Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters thereof are the property of
Ten Thirteen and Fox. No copyright infringement is intended. CC, baby -
Like what you see? Have your people call my people. We'll do lunch.

Roll Credits: It wouldn't have happened without these people! My buddy
and official beta Char Chaffin. De facto beta MaybeAmanda. My "fan
club," Alison and Jen, who prodded, whined, nagged, and cajoled as
needed. The Two Jackies - J.G. and J.R. - whose initial push turned it
from a vague idea into a real story. 'His Angel' provided the *true*
story of White Rock Lake. And last, but certainly not least, my
MulderClone, #21,108, who provided... um... *inspiration.* <g>

Summary: The story of Mulder's ex-wife, and of how Scully finds out
about her... and what she does once she knows.

* * * * *

1 __________________________________________

It was one of the first nights that felt like summer, one of those
first long evenings when the air felt warm against the skin even after
the sun had melted, sweet and orange, behind the horizon. The waning
moon rose low in the east; above it hung the starry sky, spread
overhead like dark velvet scattered with gems. The moonlight trailed
across the still water of the lake, and only the frogs and crickets
were awake to attend it.

It was very late. No one saw the headlights splitting the darkness as
the car came slowly into the parking lot; no one heard the tires
crunching against the gravel as it pulled up to the low wooden railing
to park. No one saw the tall, dark-haired woman stepping from the car,
dressed only in a nightgown and a robe. Her bare feet made only a
little sound upon the gravel, and she walked across it steadily,
seeming not to notice its roughness. She moved slowly, purposefully
toward the lake.

She came down the little path toward the shore; her feet began to sink
into the moist soil. She was very near the water's edge. She paused,
tilting her head as if listening to something...

Yes, there it was - there it was again, stronger now, out upon the
water. She had heard it, ever so faintly, again tonight at home; she'd
awakened thinking she had dreamt it, but it was still there after she
awoke. She had risen from her bed and stolen into the living room,
following the music; she had opened the front door, come outside onto
the porch, and - finding her car keys in her hand, although she
couldn't remember picking them up - she had gotten into her car and
driven, finding that the music seemed clearer as she approached the
park. Now, here on the lake, she seemed to have found it.

It was Debussy. It was one of her favorites, one she had always played.
Her husband had told her it reminded him of her, and she had played it
for him often; she had played it herself at their wedding. Now he had
been gone almost ten years, and she didn't even know where he was; they
had not kept in touch after the divorce. But that had not spoiled the
music for her. It had been hers before he came, and was still hers now.

She sighed, and smiled secretively, and stepped forward again. She put
one foot, and then the other, into the shallow water. There was a
little splash with each step as she waded out farther. When the water
came to her thighs she reached up and unpinned her hair from the loose
bun at the nape of her neck, and it trailed like dark silk down to her
waist. Her nightgown swirled around her legs below the water; as she
went deeper, her hair floated along behind her, ink-dark on the moonlit
lake. She was humming the music by the time the water reached her chin.
With a few more steps she vanished below the surface.

The last trailing strands of her dark hair went down into the water,
and the moonlight spilled undisturbed once more across the surface of
the lake.



2 ____________________________________________________

On Monday morning Scully stepped out of the elevator at the last stop,
the basement, and walked down the hall toward the office. Although it
was only eight-thirty, her steps were rapid; Mulder had so much on the
menu today that they'd agreed to start early, and now she was already
half an hour late - that accident on the Beltway, and the traffic jam...

The saving grace, she thought, was that Mulder was running late too:
when she had called the office at five to eight, the machine had picked
up, and she had left a brief message saying she'd be in as soon as she
could. At least she wouldn't have to take too much of his teasing for
her tardiness if he was truant himself.

When she reached the office door she found to her surprise that it was
locked. Her brow knit in puzzlement as she opened her handbag for her
keys.

The door swung open; she scanned the room with a glance. The light on
the answering machine was flashing. There was -

"Oh, no," she said aloud. "Not again."

She picked up the piece of paper on her desk.

"Scully," it read, "Had to run out of town. Something personal came up.
Sorry to take off like this - Left the notes for the Robertson case out
for you. As soon as I know more about when I'll be back I'll call. See
you - Mulder."

Scully frowned. "Personal?" she muttered. "Who knew he *had* a personal
life?" Sighing, she sat down.

She was just itching to call his cell phone, but she restrained
herself. He had, after all, left a note - a very un-Mulder-like thing
in itself... Her eyes narrowed and she snatched up the piece of paper
again and inspected it carefully. Yes - that was his handwriting.

Scully shook her head. She was being as paranoid as him. She stood up
and, taking the coffee pot, headed out the door and down the hall to
get water.


* * * * *


Three hours later the telephone rang, and Scully lifted the receiver to
her ear.

"Scully," she said distractedly, still reading the papers in her hands.

"Hi, Scully. It's me."

"Mulder!" she said, forgetting her paperwork. "Are you alright? Where
are you?"

"I'm in Dallas. I'm fine," he answered. Hearing her chuckle in
response, he asked, "What's so funny?"

"You, Mulder. You're getting to be so responsible. I can't recall ever
getting a note *and* a phone call before when I've been ditched."

"Aw, Scully, it's not a ditch. I couldn't help it.Would you rather I
woke you up at three in the morning to tell you?"

"It wouldn't have been the first time," she said dryly.

He sighed. "Okay, okay- you're right."

Scully picked up the pile of papers again. "So what's going on? And
when will you be back?"

"It's just... I don't know when I'll be back. I hope it'll only take a
couple of days."

Noting the way he'd sidestepped her first question, Scully didn't pose
it again. "Do you want me to start looking into the Teraco case too, if
I get to it?"

"That would be great," Mulder answered, and she was sure she heard
relief in his voice. "Listen, as soon as I get a better idea of how
long I'll have to be here, I'll let you know."

"I've got plenty to keep me busy." On an impulse she added, "... and
Mulder... You know you can call me if you need anything."

There was a moment's pause before he spoke, and his tone was
subdued. "Thanks, Scully. I don't think there's anything you can do
with this. But thanks."

And he hung up the phone.



3____________________________________________________

"Sorority girls, God love 'em. Eeeasy pickins."

Fox snorted. "They're babies, Chuck.What are they - twenty-one? Twenty-
two, at the most?" He handed Chuck a beer and reached back into the tub
of ice to take another for himself. "I should have learned from the
last party I let you drag me to. You and I have very, very different
taste in women." Reaching for the bottle opener, he muttered, "I feel
ridiculous. I say 'FBI' and they look at me like I'm James Bond or
something."

Chuck grinned and shook his head. "You're going at it all wrong. That's
the *point.* When I say 'FBI' I *want* 'em to think I'm James Bond.
It's not very far from 'James Bond' to 'Let's go back to my place'."

Fox glanced around the crowded room as he opened his beer. "But don't
you want to *talk* to them, Chuck? At least make the pretense of having
a conversation?"

"Jesus, Mulder. I don't wanna profile 'em. I wanna get laid."

That was when Fox saw her, standing across the room with a group of
other girls, talking animatedly, laughing. She was tall, almost as tall
as him, and she carried herself proudly. She had high cheekbones, a
full, beautiful mouth; her hair was very dark, and she wore it loose,
cascading over her shoulders, falling almost to her waist.

She turned as if she had felt his gaze upon her. Their eyes met. He
smiled a little, and she regarded him steadily; a slow smile spread
across her features. Then she turned back to her friends.

"Who is *that*?" Fox asked, and Chuck followed his gaze.

"Huh!... Claire Turner." Chuck shook his head. "I'm surprised they
could drag her out. She's no party girl."

"You'll have to excuse me, Chuck," Fox said with a smile. "I feel the
need to make her acquaintance."

Chuck groaned. "I can't believe it. You've just picked the one girl at
this party who will definitely *not* go home with you."

"Don't worry, Chuck," Fox laughed, turning away, "remember? I don't
wanna get laid - I wanna profile 'em."

She didn't turn to watch him making his way through the crowd to her,
but Fox felt sure she was aware of his approach. Sure enough, she
turned to him just as he came up.

"I'm Fox," he said simply, holding out his hand.

She held his gaze for a moment, smiling that slow smile, before
extending her hand and laying it in his.

"You're aptly named," she said, her eyes sparkling as her smile reached
them. "I'm Claire."

Fox's smile broadened to a grin.



4_________________________________________________

On Wednesday afternoon at one o'clock, just as she was pulling into the
parking lot at the Hoover building, Scully's cell phone rang. She found
it without looking and her fingers sought the switch out of habit. She
lifted it to her ear. "Scully."

"Agent Scully," Skinner's curt voice came over the line, "where are
you?"

"Just coming back from lunch, sir. I'm in the parking lot right now."
She found a space and pulled the car into it.

"Good. I'd like to see you in my office as soon as possible."

"Right away, sir," she said, stepping out of the car. "I'll only be a
few minutes."

"Thank you," Skinner said shortly, and hung up.

Scully decided to go straight to Skinner's office, and punched the 'up'
button on the elevator panel. As the door opened and she stepped
inside, she remembered the tone of the few sentences of their
conversation; he had sounded irritated, and she wondered if it was due
to a new case he had for her, or if...

The elevator doors opened at Skinner's floor and she went out; she
walked down the hall and pushed the office door open. The secretary
glanced up at her and said without preamble, "Go on in."

Scully knocked at the door and opened it. Skinner was alone. He looked
up at her and said, "Come in," and returned his attention to the page
of handwritten notes he had been reading.

Scully was familiar with the drill. She closed the door behind her. She
went to one of the chairs in front of Skinner's desk and sat down and
waited. He did not look up at her for a moment; when he did, his
expression was severe.

"Agent Scully, are you aware of Agent Mulder's whereabouts?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied levelly, although a little concern had risen up
in her at the question.

Skinner looked back down at the paper on his desk. Frowning, he picked
it up; then he laid it back down and smoothed it flat against the
blotter with his hand. He met her eyes again.

"I received a call an hour ago from a Detective Lavery from the Dallas
police department." He paused, perhaps expectantly, but Scully was
silent.

"It seems that Agent Mulder has... *insinuated* himself into an
investigation there - one which Detective Lavery felt that he had
already resolved."

Scully met his hard stare coolly. "It was my understanding, sir, that
Agent Mulder felt he had an X-File in this case, and that he was
following the proper procedures to obtain authorization to investigate
it further."

"I object less to Agent Mulder's investigation than to his apparent
lack of diplomatic skills. As you can imagine, relations between the
city of Dallas and our field office there are still somewhat strained."
Skinner pressed the paper flat against the desk once again. "And, as
I'm sure you can *also* imagine, it's particularly awkward to have
Agent Mulder being the one making waves."

Scully nodded her assent, but did not speak.

"I want you to get to Dallas as soon as possible, Agent, and rein him
in," Skinner finished. Scully heard the unpleasant edge in his
voice. "The less toes stepped on in this case, the better."

"I'll try, sir," Scully said; Skinner looked up sharply at that, but
her expression was unreadable. "I can leave later this afternoon."

Skinner seemed to consider her for a long moment, and then said, "Thank
you. I'll expect to hear from you when you've arrived."

Scully, knowing she had been dismissed, stood up and walked toward the
door.

(Continued in Part 2)

Subject: New - 'Clair de Lune' (2/5) by Foxsong

Clair de Lune by Foxsong

See disclaimer, etc. at the top of Part 1.

5__________________________________________________

It was very late when Scully arrived at the Dallas - Fort Worth
airport. She didn't see Mulder at first, standing off to the side,
waiting for her; he walked up beside her and she stopped, setting down
her single carry-on bag.

"Hey," he said.

"Mulder." She didn't let her surprise show. "I didn't expect you to
come out to meet me."

"Why wouldn't I?" he asked. He leaned over and picked up her bag, and
turned to walk away.

"Wait," she called, "I have to pick up my car."

"I cancelled it," Mulder answered over his shoulder. "I've already got
one, and one's enough."

Scully stopped, open-mouthed, speechless. This was the final straw on
this very long day. She shook herself and scurried after Mulder's
retreating back.

"You cancelled it? What's wrong with you? Couldn't you even ask me
first?" she burst out. She was angrier than she'd realized.

"Nothing to ask," Mulder said flatly, not turning around. "Just another
messy expense account I'll get crucified for when I get back."

Scully swore under her breath. She was tired. She was hungry. She
didn't need Mulder making decisions for her.

"It's nice to see you, too, Mulder," she said as she followed him,
biting each word off sarcastically. "My flight was fine, thank you. No,
I haven't had dinner yet. That's a very good idea. Where are you
planning to take me in this one car of yours?"

Mulder stopped, and turned to face her. "Scully - "

She looked, really looked, at him for the first time, and was taken
aback at the slouch of his shoulders, at the weariness etched upon his
features.

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Scully," he said, and smiled wanly. "How *was*
your flight?"

She dropped her eyes. "It was okay." She shifted her weight uneasily
from one foot to the other. "Look, Mulder, I shouldn't have snapped at -
 "

"Forget it, Scully." He shrugged offhandedly, looking away, and waved a
hand in dismissal. "I haven't had any dinner either. Come on - let's
get something to eat."



6________________________________________

"You don't like her," Fox said tonelessly after Claire had left the
room.

"You're wrong, Fox. She's a lovely girl," his mother said, looking
fixedly into her teacup, avoiding his eyes. "But she's very, very
young." She sipped her tea. "So, for that matter, are you."

"I'm twenty-seven!"

"I am not referring to your age," she answered, now meeting his gaze
steadily until he looked away. "Besides," she continued, "after only
six months you can hardly make such a serious decision as marriage. I
would feel a great deal more comfortable with this if you would just
wait until Claire has finished medical school."

Fox set his jaw stubbornly. "You and Dad hadn't even gone out for a
year when you were married."

"And look what happened to us!" his mother exclaimed softly, fixing him
with a sharp stare. "I would at least think you'd have learned - "

"That wasn't your fault. If it hadn't been for - If they hadn't - "

She held one hand up in a warning gesture, and he fell silent; even
after fifteen years, Samantha was not discussed in her house. Fox
stared at the floor. His mother sipped her tea. The ticking of the
mantel clock seemed suddenly loud in the uncomfortable silence.

His mother put down her teacup; she reached out and placed her hand
upon his. "You know I can't give you my blessing wholeheartedly.
Nevertheless, I know you, Fox, and I know you're set on going through
with this. I hope you'll be able to work it out somehow."

Fox opened his mouth to answer but, as he did, Claire came to the
doorway, and he only sighed, and then smiled up at her.

"Mrs. Mulder, can I help you with these dishes?" Claire asked, and the
older woman smiled, and shook her head.

"I wouldn't dream of it, dear," she said, rising from her
seat. "There's not so much to do. You and Fox should be out taking a
stroll on a beautiful evening like this." Seeing Claire hesitate, she
added, "Really. Run along, you two."

Fox stood up and caught Claire's hand in his. "Come on. I'll show you
the old neighborhood," he said, and pulled her toward the front door.

Coming out onto the porch, he leaned his head back and took a great
sighing breath of the fresh evening air, and put his arm around
Claire's shoulder and drew her close against his side.

"What is it, Fox?" she asked.

"Nothing." He shook his head. "I just needed some air."



7_______________________________________________

"I ordered coffee for you," Scully said as Mulder slumped into the seat
across from her in the hotel restaurant.

"Thanks." He put a dog-eared manila envelope down on the table. Scully
slid the menu across the table to him and he looked it over listlessly.

Scully sipped her hot coffee and studied him over the edge of the cup.
The dark circles under his eyes hadn't faded with the night's sleep; he
looked, in fact, as if he had hardly slept at all.

Mulder seemed to feel her eyes on him, and he lifted his head to look
up at her.

"That the case report?" she asked, nodding toward the fat yellow
envelope.

"Yeah."

The waitress, a chipper blonde of perhaps nineteen, came up to the
table. "Are y'all ready to order?" she beamed.

"Yes..." Scully began. "I'll have the Spanish omelet... just toast,
though, instead of the home fries on the side. And some orange juice,
please."

"Yes, ma'am... And you, sir?"

Mulder sighed. "Omelet sounds fine for me, too."

"Would you like the home fries with that?"

"What did you get, Scully - toast? - No, I'll have toast too. Thank
you." He sat up a little straighter and handed the menu to the waitress.

"Thank you, sir. It'll just be a few minutes," she said brightly, and
walked away with a bounce to her step.

Mulder dumped a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and stirred it
halfheartedly. "It should be illegal to be so perky first thing in the
morning," he muttered.

"It must be something about Texas," Scully replied. "Haven't you
noticed all the waitresses are too cheerful in Texas?" She smiled. "And
they all have names like Belle."

"Belle?" Mulder's spoon came to an abrupt halt. "Her name is 'Belle'?"

"Sho 'nuff, y'all," Scully drawled, chuckling. "Didn't you read her
name tag?"

"Seems like anytime I'm in Texas, I have more to worry about than
waitresses." He glanced at the case file, and Scully reached for it.
She pulled out a sheaf of papers and began leafing through them.

"Claire Marie Turner," she read aloud. "Psychiatrist, single, thirty-
four years old. Missing as of Monday morning, May first. Body recovered
from White Rock Lake on Tuesday the second, apparent suicide by
drowning...probable date of death three or four days previous... No
note. No history of depression... Not under treatment for any medical
disorders..." She shuffled through the pages. "What makes you think
this is an X-File?"

"Well," Mulder began slowly, "there are two things. First, there's the
lake. White Rock Lake. It's on Garland Road in East Dallas, near the
arboretum..." He was still pushing the spoon idly around in his coffee
cup.

Scully sipped again at her own coffee and waited.

"Anyway, White Rock Lake has a number of... stories associated with it
regarding supernatural events. Lights seen over the water, unexplained
drownings..." He lifted the spoon from the coffee and looked at it as
if surprised to find it there. He set it down on the saucer. "Rain
showers that fall only in the immediate vicinity of the lake, causing
an inordinate number of vehicular accidents on Garland Road..."

"Mulder, similar meteorological phenomena have been documented on or
around any number of bodies of water..."

Belle reappeared with a tray and set down Scully's juice and the two
steaming omelets. "Now y'all be careful. These plates are hot!" she
admonished them cheerfully.

"Thank you," Scully said, and Mulder nodded.

"If y'all need anything else, you just call me," Belle finished, and
left them alone again. Mulder looked after her and shook his head
slowly.

Scully turned over the next page in the folder and glanced at it as she
spoke. "Those are urban legends, Mulder. In New York they have
alligators in the sewers. And on White Rock Lake they have mysterious
lights. I suppose there's also the ghost of a drowned child, standing
at the edge of the road, asking passing motorists to help her parents,
whose car just went into the lake?" She speared a chunk of her omelet
on her fork and put it into her mouth.

"No, not a drowned child," Mulder answered, poking his own fork
disinterestedly at his omelet. "There have been numerous sightings of a
woman, floundering in the lake, screaming for help - and, upon
investigation, no one is found. Actually, there's a factual basis for
this 'urban legend.' It's there in the file." He brightened a little,
warming to his subject. "In June of 1953, a certain Cara Kelly and her
boyfriend Brian Sanford went off Garland Road into the lake in his
father's new T-Bird on the way to their senior prom, and Cara was
drowned. Sanford said in his statement that he had swerved to avoid a
dog and lost control of the car. He also said it had been raining, and
a stretch of the road was wet, although there was no rain reported in
any surrounding area."

Scully followed along on the photocopy of the old police report. "Is
this their picture?" she asked, holding up a photo of two smiling
teenagers in formal wear, posing next to a shiny Thunderbird.

"Taken by Cara's parents just before they left."

Scully looked at the faded photograph and shrugged. "Well, I'm not
saying these things don't happen. Most legends are based in some kind
of fact." She spotted more photographs in the folder and pulled them
out; they were the autopsy photos of the drowned woman. Scully propped
one up against the coffee pot and fanned the rest out next to her
plate. She broke off another bite of omelet with her fork, studying the
pictures.

Across the table she heard Mulder make an odd, soft little sound, and
looked up to see him staring determinedly out the window, a pained
expression on his face; one loosely clenched fist was pressed to his
mouth.

Scully's hand paused in midair, her fork halfway to her mouth. "...
Mulder? I can look at the photos after we eat, if it's going to bother
you that much."

Sighing, he closed his eyes. He massaged his forehead with his
fingertips. "Yeah... could you? I just..."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "Sure," she said, and set down her fork. She
picked up the photos and slipped them back into the folder.

"Thanks," Mulder muttered, and reached for his coffee.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"So," Scully finally said, "you left on a personal errand. How did you
come across this case?"

The answer was so long in coming that she looked up at Mulder to see
what he was waiting for. He was staring down at his plate.

Without looking up he said, "I came out to... This was the errand." He
turned his face toward the window again. "I knew her." He sighed and
looked back at his plate; he prodded the food with his fork. "The women
in my life have this unfortunate habit of turning up in X-Files."

"You... oh, Mulder, I'm sorry." Scully answered, glancing guiltily at
the case file. "I wouldn't have taken those pictures out at the table."

He shook his head. "You didn't know." He took another bite of his
omelet. "She went to Georgetown University. I was...We were friends."
One corner of his mouth turned up in a rueful half-smile. "It was a
long time ago."

"It's okay, Mulder. You don't have to explain." Scully had already
added Claire to her mental list. After a moment's consideration, she
placed her after Phoebe Green and before Diana Fowley. "What was the
second thing?"

"Six of the unexplained drownings in that lake took place, under
similar circumstances, in the last five years. A woman named Karen
Gathis was implicated in each of them, but there's never been enough
evidence to charge her with anything. She's connected this time as
well."

"Have the police interviewed her? Have you?"

"I have. She's an inpatient at Green Oaks at Medical City - in the
psychiatric ward. And... and Claire was her doctor."



8________________________________________________

Fox rolled over in bed and wrapped his arms around Claire. "I love
Saturday morning," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "It's my favorite
time of the whole week."

"Why is that, honey?" she asked, stroking his hair.

"Because - " he whispered between kisses, "I see the whole weekend
stretched out ahead of me, and you - you - you. Forty-eight
uninterrupted hours of nothing and no one but you." He hugged her
tight. He was too enchanted with the notion to read the tone of her
sigh.

"What'll we do today, Claire?" he asked happily. "We could go to that
new museum you were telling me about. We could go to the park and feed
the ducks. Or - " he kissed her again - "we could just stay right
here..."

"Fox," she interrupted, laying her forefinger against his lips to quiet
him. "Don't you remember? I'm going to lunch today with Joann and
Regina. You're going to have to entertain yourself for a few hours."
She smiled at him. "Don't pout like that, Fox. Getting all cute on me
won't make me cancel my lunch date."

Fox sighed. "I have to go to Quantico from Tuesday till Wednesday.
Couldn't you girls have dinner that night?"

"Tuesday's rehearsal, Fox. You know that," she said patiently. She
stroked his hair as if he were a fretful child.

"Couldn't they live without one cello for a week?"

"Fox, honey, there only *are* two cellos." She kissed his
forehead. "Don't be silly. It's only a few hours, anyway."

He laid his head down against her. "I don't *want* to entertain
myself," he said petulantly.

"What happened to all your buddies you used to hang around with before
we got married?" Claire asked. She had stopped stroking his hair, and
there was a fine edge of frustration in her voice.

Fox blinked, surprised. "I chose you," he said simply.

"Oh, Fox," she sighed, and even he could hear the despair in her
voice, "it wasn't a choice you had to make. I'd never ask you to
choose." A long moment passed. "And I wish you wouldn't ask *me* to,
either."

"But Claire," he said, feeling the old anxiety rising up in him, "it's
only because I love you. That's why I want to be with you every minute
I can."

Claire was silent. He raised himself up on one elbow, needing to see
her face, to look into her eyes. "Claire," he said uneasily, "Claire? I
love you..." He heard the plea in his own voice.

Her eyes were sad. "Oh, Fox," she murmured, shaking her head. She put
her arms around his neck and drew him down; she cradled his head
against her breast. "I love you, Fox. You know I do." She rocked him
gently. "I love you..."

"Claire," he breathed, and closed his eyes.


(Continued in Part 3)

Subject: New - 'Clair de Lune' (3/5) by Foxsong

Clair de Lune by Foxsong

See disclaimer, etc. at top of Part 1

9________________________________________________

"I'm sorry, Mulder, but I still haven't seen anything here that leads
me to believe this was anything more than a suicide," Scully said,
patting the case file that sat on her lap. Mulder pulled the car into a
parking space in front of the police station.

"We'll find something at the house," he said darkly. "There has to be
something."

Scully decided against answering; Mulder obviously wasn't going to be
dissuaded. She unlatched her seat belt and got out of the car. He stood
waiting as she walked around the front of the car toward him.

"Scully, remember when I called you, and you said to ask you if I
needed anything?"

She stopped, and said, "Of course. What is it?"

"Maybe you could just *pretend* to be interested," he said, putting one
finger under her chin and lifting her face up toward his. "For me, huh?"

He turned and walked away. Scully swallowed her surprise and followed
him up the front steps.

As they went in, a stocky woman of about fifty, with close-cropped salt-
and-pepper hair, stood up behind her desk and came forward to meet
them. "Agent Mulder," she said, extending her hand, and Mulder shook it.

"Detective Federico. ....This is my partner, Dana Scully."

"Nice to meet you, Agent Scully," she said, taking Scully's hand. Her
handshake was firm and sure. Turning back to Mulder, she
said, "Lavery's in there. He's expecting you."

"Thanks. I'll be right back," Mulder said, and stepped through the door
into the back office.

Federico pointed to a chair. "Please, sit down," she said, as she went
back to her desk.

"Thank you," Scully said, sitting. She watched Federico open a file
folder, and then pause. She looked around and shook her head.

"It was such a shame about Claire," she said.

"Did you know her?" Scully asked.

"Yes. She played in the community chamber orchestra with my husband.
What a sweet person. No one saw it coming."

Scully nodded. "It can be like that."

"Your partner took it hard. And then Detective Lavery was no help."

Scully inclined her head inquiringly.

"I feel responsible for this tempest," Detective Federico said
apologetically. "It wasn't my case, so I probably shouldn't have handed
over the files. But your partner had flown all the way down here, and
Lavery was in San Antonio, and wasn't going to be back for another
day..." She spread her hands and shrugged. "It was a judgement call,
you know? But you feel bad for the family after something like this
anyway, and when they're estranged like that it makes it even sadder,
don't you think?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Scully assented, wondering what in the world the
woman could be talking about.

"I outrank Lavery, and there's no love lost between him and me,"
Federico continued. "If it had been anyone other than me, he probably
never would've called your A.D. - I hope I didn't get you into hot
water."

"No, no... not at all." Family? she was still thinking. Estranged...?

Mulder came out of the back office jingling a set of keys in his
hand. "Ready?" he asked Scully. She rose from her seat.

"I'll bring these back in a few hours," Mulder said to Detective
Federico. "I appreciate it."

"That's alright. I hope you find something. I still can't quite
reconcile the Claire I knew with..." Her voice trailed off.

Mulder took Scully's elbow in his hand and steered her toward the
door. "Thank you, Detective," he called over his shoulder, and nudged
Scully ahead of him.


* * * * *


It was a little house, set back from the tree-lined street, in a quiet,
pleasant neighborhood; a bungalow with a low, sweeping slope of roof
extending over a front porch that ran the breadth of the house. Scully
followed Mulder up the four steps of the porch, past the impatiens in
the big terra-cotta pots, past the two wicker chairs and the little
glass-topped table between them. The wind chimes hanging overhead rang
softly in the gentle breeze. Mulder pushed the key into the lock, and
she saw the way he hesitated before turning it.

The door swung open. Mulder stepped inside, and paused in the entryway;
Scully stepped past him. She looked around the sunny room. "What
exactly are we looking for here, Mulder? ...Mulder?"

When she turned around, he shook himself and pushed the front door
closed behind him. "I don't know, *exactly*..." he answered. "I'm
hoping I'll know it when I see it."

Scully lifted an eyebrow and sighed. She walked slowly across the
living room. It was all perfectly orderly, perfectly ordinary... She
noticed the cello leaning against a stand, the bow laid next to it
across the seat of a plain wooden chair. She picked up a framed photo
from a group on the grand piano, and all at once Mulder was hanging
over her, peering at it over her shoulder.

"Here," she said shortly, startled; she pushed it into his hand. She
turned away and picked up a photo album from the coffee table. She had
hardly opened the front cover when Mulder was there again, and plucked
the album out of her hands.

"What are you doing?" Scully snapped, exasperated.

"I - Since I knew her, I might - I'm more likely to recognize..."

"Sure, Mulder. Knock yourself out." She walked away only to have Mulder
trail after her, still carrying the album. She stopped, and faced him,
and folded her arms across her chest.

"Mulder, do you want to check out the house, or do you want to check
*me* out while *I* do it?"

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it without saying
anything. Scully walked away and he didn't follow.

Scully circled the room again; when she came back to the piano Mulder
was holding a piece of sheet music that had been propped up by the
keyboard.

"What's that?" she asked. Mulder handed it to her and walked slowly
toward a window; he leaned over, propping his hands on the sill,
staring out.

" 'Clair de Lune'," Scully read aloud from the sheet. She looked over
at Mulder.

"Funny," he said softly.

"Why?"

"She knew it by heart... once."

He sounded so tired. Scully put the music down, and went over to him,
and put her hand on his arm. "Are you alright, Mulder?" she asked.

He ducked his head and sighed. "I can't shake this headache..."

She took his arm and led him to the piano bench. "Here. Sit down." She
studied him carefully, and saw the same bone-deep weariness she'd seen
in him at the airport. "Have you been sleeping?"

He dropped his gaze. "I'll be fine, Scully," he said. "Maybe I've got a
touch of something. I'll be fine."

"What is it, Mulder?" She searched his face. "What is it about this
case?"

He lifted his head. His eyes were grave. He seemed to be considering
something... He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders and stood
up. "Come on," he said, "let's start in the kitchen."

Scully stared after him as he walked away.

...Family? she thought again. Estranged...?



10_______________________________________________

"I just have to drop these off." Mulder held up the house keys. "Do you
want to wait here?"

Scully nodded. "Sure." Mulder got out of the car and trotted up the
steps of the police station. Scully watched him disappear inside, and
wondered again what had transpired before she had arrived in Dallas.

They had driven back from the victim's house in near-silence. She was
so used to his thinking out loud, so used to sharing the inner workings
of his mind as he untangled the strands of each case, that the silence
brought home to her how deeply divided they found themselves on this
one. Scully had seen nothing at all to indicate even foul play, much
less an X-File, but Mulder clung doggedly to the idea as if he expected
it to explain something more than just this woman's death, as if there
was a great deal more at stake.

Mulder came out of the front doors and down the stairs and returned to
the car. Scully looked away out the window as he got in. He closed the
door; she heard the seatbelt buckle click shut. He started the car and
pulled out of the parking lot.

He was a foot and a half away from her across the car seat, but it
might as well have been miles.

"Mulder," she began, trying one more time, "I'm trying hard to see your
X-File here. I feel like I'm missing something. Maybe there's something
about this case that you've forgotten to tell me."

He drove on without answering. At length he said, "Maybe you just need
to look a little harder, Scully."

She sighed and kept watching the scenery outside her window. She turned
the facts over in her mind again, but saw nothing new amiss. After a
little while she looked over at Mulder.

"I guess I could call the forensics lab at the Bureau and ask them to
take a second look at the autopsy findings. I didn't see anything
unusual, but..."

"It couldn't hurt," he finished for her. They were pulling up in front
of the hotel. "Here," he said, "hop out."

She gathered up the case file under her arm; she got out of the car and
shut the door and leaned down to the open window. "Want me to wait for
you while you take the car around?" she asked.

Mulder smiled apologetically. "No," he said, "actually, I'm going over
to Green Oaks to talk to that Karen Gathis again." The car eased
forward as he took his foot off the brake.

"Mulder!" Scully said sharply. "Why are you leaving me here?"

"You've got your autopsy reports. You can fax them to Washington. I can
be interviewing Gathis. Efficiency, Scully. Division of labor." He was
still smiling, but his eyes were distant.

Scully thrust her head angrily into the open window. "Mulder, you're
impossible. You tell me to look interested and then you strand me here
when I do so I *can't* help you. I might as well have stayed home. What
the hell is going on?"

Mulder stared straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. "Look, Scully," he
said quietly, "I'm sorry they sent you out here and got you involved. I
didn't want any help on this. This doesn't concern you, and there's no
reason you had to come down." He rubbed his hand across his eyes. "I
really am sorry. I'll be back soon, and you can tell me if Forensics
had anything new to say."

Scully didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. She
straightened up slowly and watched him drive away.

She turned and made her way through the doors, across the lobby,
thinking hard. She punched the elevator button and nodded to herself.
Mulder could try to shut her out, but she wanted answers.

And if he wouldn't give them to her... she knew how to get them for
herself.


* * * * *


Three rings, then a click.

"You have reached the offices of the Lone Gunmen. Before leaving your
message after the tone, please consider the fact that this line cannot
be guaranteed secure."

She sighed and waited for the beep. "Frohike. Byers. Langley...? It's
Dana Scully. I'm sure you're there..."

"Agent Scully." Frohike's voice cut her off. "So nice to hear from you.
To what do we owe the great pleasure of your call?"

"Hi, Frohike. ...I need - I have to ask you a favor, and I don't want
it to get back to Mulder."

"Really." She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was
impressed. "What would this favor be?"

"I'm in Dallas investigating a death, but I think there's something
going on here that Mulder's not telling me. He's shadowing me as if I
were a suspect. I'd like to do a little fact-checking, but I'd rather
do it without him, and I was hoping you could get me in so I could do
it from my laptop."

"Well," Frohike said thoughtfully. Scully heard the ticking of computer
keys behind his voice. "That shouldn't be so hard. Dallas, you said...
What's the name of your victim?"

"Claire Turner," Scully said. Frohike fell silent, and so did the
tapping of the keys. "Frohike... after that Vegas stunt, I think you
guys owe me this one."

"It's not that... We remain heavily in your debt, Agent Scully. It's
just... Claire Marie Turner? Date of birth January 31, 1966?"

"That's right. You've got her."

"This is... Agent Scully, this is the woman Agent Mulder has been
keeping track of for quite some time."

"He's been *what*?"

"He's been keeping track of her. For... maybe seven years? Once or
twice a year, nothing much - no invasion-of-privacy issues. He just
asked for help finding out where she was, where she was working. Once
for some reason he wondered if she'd gotten married."

"For seven years." Scully's mind was working quickly, but there were
pieces of the puzzle she still lacked. "Has she been in Dallas all that
time? I'll need to know everywhere she's been. Can you get me into
those records, or not?"

The clicking of the keys had resumed. "You'll be able to go in by the
usual method," Frohike said. "Your accustomed password?"

"No. Make it one Mulder doesn't know. Use... oh..."

"I'll use 'Vegas'."

She smiled ruefully. "Yes. Fine. Thank you."

"That's quite alright, Agent Scully. The pleasure is mine."

Scully turned off the cell phone, frowning. Seven *years*...?



11_________________________________________________

"All right, Claire. Tell me."

"Tell you? Tell you what?"

Fox set the last dish down on the kitchen counter and stepped up behind
Claire and put his arms around her. She turned off the faucet and took
the towel from him, and he dropped his head onto her shoulder and
hugged her while she dried her hands.

"You're up to something," he murmured against her neck. "You've been
full of yourself since I got home tonight. You can't stop smiling. What
is it?"

Claire turned in his arms, and Fox grinned in spite of himself when he
saw that she was still smiling now. She reached up to twine her arms
around his neck.

"Okay, Fox. Let's go in the other room and sit down and I'll tell you
everything."

"I have to sit down for this? Oh, boy, honey. I don't know..." He
chuckled as she led him by the hand across the living room. She backed
him up by the sofa and gave his chest a little push with her fingers.

"Sit," she said. "I'll be right back." He perched on the front edge of
the sofa and watched her go into the bedroom.

"Hey, Claire, are you slipping into something more comfortable?"

"Later, Fox. Later." She came out of the bedroom carrying an important-
looking envelope emblazoned with a bright green certified-mail sticker.
She handed it to him as she sat down, and he could see from her
expression that now she was nervous as well as excited.

He lifted the flap of the envelope and drew out the papers within. He
could feel her eyes on him, intent, as he glanced over the writing. He
looked up from the letter and laughed a little.

"Is that all?" he asked, and Claire looked confused.

"What do you mean - 'is that all'?" She sat up straighter, drawing back
from him.

"Oh, honey. I didn't mean it that way. I just - " he reached out, still
chuckling, and took her hand in his - "I was beginning to be afraid you
were going to tell me you were pregnant!"

She stiffened and tried to pull her hand back, but he held on.

"Claire. Claire. I'm just teasing." He saw that she was hurt, and
became serious again. He picked up the letter and took a better
look. "The Washington Symphony..." he murmured, nodding
appreciatively. "Wow. ...Honey, you didn't even tell me you'd gone on
an audition."

She ducked her head, eyes shyly downcast. "I didn't want you to make
fun of me when I didn't make it."

"Claire..." The remark stung. "I'd never make fun of you." He reached
out and drew his fingertips softly along the line of her jaw.

"You'd have told me I was dreaming again." She glanced up at him; the
corner of her mouth turned up in the tentative beginning of a smile.

"Well, I might have," he admitted. He tried smiling back at her and she
leaned forward into his arms; he held her, stroking her hair with one
hand.

"You must be thrilled," he said, "but how are you going to work this
out with all the things you're already doing? With school...?"

She pressed close against him, and said softly, "I don't think I could,
Fox. I'd have to - It'd have to be one or the other."

There was a long pause; he was quiet, waiting. The silence began to
become uneasy.

"Fox, I'd have to..." she faltered, her voice muffled against his
shoulder. "I'd have to quit school. I couldn't keep up with it."

She tucked herself tighter against his chest. He knew she was waiting
for him to answer, but he wasn't sure what she expected him to say,
what he *should* say.

"Claire," he finally murmured, "are you sure?" He kissed her
hair. "You've worked so hard for this - top of your class at
Georgetown, accepted to one of the most prestigious medical schools in
the country... and doing so well there..."

She shifted in his arms and raised her head to look up at him, her grey
eyes cloudy. "I have worked hard. But, Fox, I always dreamed ... I've
hardly dared to dream this would happen."

"And it's a beautiful dream," he said softly, nodding; he laid his hand
gently upon her cheek. "But some dreams are better left dreams, don't
you think so, Claire? ... Passing that audition is something you can be
proud of all your life - all your life as a psychiatrist, a good one,
helping people, like you always say you want to..."

She didn't answer. He was dismayed at the depth of the sadness in her
eyes. He swallowed hard. He couldn't lie to her, wouldn't tell her he
thought she should chase this dream, but he hadn't meant to hurt her...

"Claire," he whispered, taking her hand in his. "It's your decision in
the end, Claire, because you have to live with it. I never want to step
on your dreams, but I don't want you to throw away all your work,
either. ... It's your decision."

Sighing, she shook her head; she dropped her gaze. "No, Fox. It has to
be your decision, too, because I have to live with *you.*" She squeezed
his hand, and slipped out from under his arm; she stood up and slowly
walked away.

Fox picked up the letter and turned it over and over again in his hands.



12_________________________________________________

Scully shifted uncomfortably on the little chair. She sighed and yawned
and lifted her glasses from her nose to rub at her tired eyes. She was
getting stiff, sitting cramped on this chair, staring at the screen of
her laptop; she crossed and uncrossed her ankles yet again. She'd dug
around in every possible place; every file, every record, she was sure.
And she still - *still* - hadn't found anything about this Claire
Turner that jumped out at her, that gave her pause, that made her think
that some unusual fate had befallen her - not a single thing to suggest
she'd gotten into that lake under any power save her own.

Scully shook her head and pursed her lips, thinking. She tapped her
fingers against the tabletop. Why... why... why... did Mulder keep
trying to call this an X-File? Why was he hanging on to it so
tenaciously? She had seen him walk away from the deaths of other people
they had known - people they had worked with, even been friends with.
You dealt with it; you *learned* to deal with it. It came with this
job. You dealt with it, even when it was hard, and you went on. But
this time Mulder...

Family, that detective had said.

But she knew Mulder's family, Scully reasoned impatiently with herself.
Of course she did. Besides, if this woman had been a relative, he'd
have said so. He wouldn't have said they were 'friends.' The detective
had been wrong; she...

Family, she'd said.

Estranged.

Scully felt a prickling sensation along the back of her neck as she
allowed herself to admit what her intuition was trying to tell her. She
reached toward the keyboard. Her hand paused in midair.

She swallowed; she licked her lips - they were so dry all of a sudden.
She took a deep breath and touched her fingertips to the keys. She
typed quickly, as if to do this immediately, before she'd had time to
change her mind. She was surprised at the way her heart was racing in
her chest.

She called up the records; she began skimming through the files,
looking for the names. She didn't even know what year to begin with, so
she'd just taken a guess and begun with 1987. Month by month, thousands
of names, in alphabetical order...

Nothing.

She only hesitated a moment before beginning 1988. January... March...
July... She ran all the way through to December and again came up empty-
handed.

She stopped, astonished to feel the tremor in her hand as it rested on
the edge of the keyboard. She could stop now. Surely she'd been on the
wrong track; she could stop now.

She could not. She needed to know. She moved into 1989, and there -
there, in March -

She took a sharp breath. She checked it a second time, although there
was no need; how many other Fox William Mulders could there be in the
world?

And how many of those others could have applied on March 14, 1989, in
Washington, D.C., for a marriage license with Claire Marie Turner?

Scully's breath caught in her throat and she felt suddenly, absurdly
grateful that she was already sitting down.


* * * * *


She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there when she heard the
knock at her door.

She was still staring dully at the screen, at the court record of the
divorce proceedings. Claire had filed on April 15, 1991; uncontested,
it had gone through quickly...

The knock startled Scully, and she started to fold the laptop closed,
then stopped and keyed in the command to shut it down properly. The
knock came a second time. "Scully?"

The screen went dark and she almost stumbled in her haste to get to her
feet. She rushed toward the door and then hesitated as she reached for
the lock.

"Scully? It's me..."

She took a deliberate breath and steadied herself. She stepped up to
the door and she opened it. "Mulder," she said, careful to keep her
voice calm.

His hair was windblown; his shoulders were bowed. "Sorry I took so
long," he said. He seemed to be considering trying to smile, but then
apparently changed his mind. His gaze was hollow. "Did you eat yet?"

She shook her head. "I... I don't even know what time it is..." She
couldn't look away from his face to check her watch. "I was on the
computer, and I just... I lost track of time."

He tilted his head and looked at her thoughtfully and she angrily
dismissed the sudden, irrational notion that he could read her mind.

"I'm very tired," she said quickly. "I think I'll just order something
up."

He nodded, relief written plainly on his face. "Me too." He reached out
and his hand grazed hers; the little shock rushed through her whole
body. "I'll meet you for breakfast," he said, and went to turn away.

"Where did you go?" she blurted out, and he stopped. He paused a moment
before answering.

"I drove over to the lake."

"Why would you want to go there?" Her voice sounded strangely strident
in her own ears.

Mulder sighed, and stared down at the floor; he ran the fingers of one
hand through his hair and jammed the other more firmly into his coat
pocket. "I just... wanted to see it again," he said, looking up at her
with those terrible, tired eyes. He shrugged and turned and walked the
few steps across the hall to his room.

"Mulder."

He looked over his shoulder at her.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

A half-smile; a nod. He put the key into the lock, and turned the knob,
and disappeared inside.

Scully stared at the door for a long minute before stepping back into
her room. She wasn't even hungry; she would take a shower first, and
maybe then she'd want to eat. She shed her clothing as she walked,
leaving a trail of garments behind as she headed toward the bathroom.
She pulled roughly at the faucets to turn on the shower, and stepped
inside, and pushed the glass door shut.

She leaned against the tiled wall and let the hot spray course over her
body. She folded her arms tightly across her chest. It didn't concern
her. He was right. There was no need for him to have told her about
this. He was her partner, after all, not her... He was right. It had
nothing to do with her...

It had *everything* to do with her. She hung her head and gave in to
the tears that had inexplicably risen in her eyes.


(Continued in Part 4)


--
Subject: New - 'Clair de Lune' (4/5) by Foxsong

Clair de Lune by Foxsong

See disclaimer, etc. at top of Part 1

13_________________________________________________

Fox headed for home, driving in that Zenlike, automatic way he drove
whenever his mind was busy with the details of a case. This time,
though, it wasn't a case that was on his mind. It was Claire.

He had thought things were improving, that they'd finally gotten past
that particular impasse; he'd thought they'd made the adjustments
they'd needed to make. It had been a long time now since she had begged
him to give her room to breathe, since she had restlessly pleaded
for 'space.'

He'd never seen the charm of that independence; when he'd found Claire
he'd felt whole, felt complete, for the first time he could remember.
She hadn't made the hard things from his past go away, but she had kept
them in the past, where he knew they belonged. They had gone off like
good, dutiful ghosts, and hadn't come back to haunt him anymore. He was
still so surprised and grateful that he would have kept Claire at his
side all day long, every single day, if he could.

But still... still... something nagged at him.

She had been quiet - she was never boisterous, but she had been
unusually quiet - all week. Her eyes had a soft, inward focus that
unsettled him. He realized, thinking about it, that she'd been like
this, becoming more like this, for some time. It disturbed him to find
that he couldn't pinpoint when it had begun. And two nights ago, when
he'd made love to her, she had cried afterward, and wouldn't -
couldn't? - tell him why. Long after she'd fallen asleep he'd lain
awake, holding her, fighting off the faint twinges of some unnameable
dread...

He pulled up in front of the apartment building, noticing with some
surprise Claire's car out in front, rather than around the corner where
she usually left it. Getting out of his own car, he glanced over at
hers as he walked around it; in the thin late-afternoon winter
sunlight, he saw cardboard boxes piled in the back seat, and smiled to
himself. She'd been out trolling the thrift shops for treasures again,
no doubt; when he went inside she would ask him to carry the boxes in,
smug as ever about how much she'd gotten and how little she'd paid.

By the time he got out of the elevator, Fox was feeling better. He was
relieved that it was finally the weekend; they'd have time now, two
whole days together, and he would be able to get to the bottom of
whatever it was Claire had on her mind.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. "Claire -
honey," he called, stepping inside, "Claire, I'm - "

She was sitting on the sofa; she was wearing her coat and her gloves,
her keys clasped in her hands. She made no move to get up. She did not
speak. She just sat there, looking up at him with great, mournful eyes.

Fox felt as if he'd been struck. Something was wrong, was terribly,
terribly wrong. He tossed his keys haphazardly at the table and hurried
toward her. "What is it? Claire? What happened?"

He reached out his arms as he came to her, but she held up one hand to
ward him off, and he stopped, shocked, and stood still a foot or two
away from her. She dropped her gaze, and he awkwardly lowered his
outstretched arms.

"Fox," she said, her voice small and piteous. His heart lurched. What
had happened to her, while he was away? If he had been here he would
have protected her.

"Fox," she tried again. She raised her eyes, and he saw that she had
been crying. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, but she shook her
head; he was mute, transfixed. He waited.

"Fox, I..." She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. "I'm going." She
hung her head. "I have to go, Fox..."

The floor shifted under his feet. He managed to turn his head, look
around the room; he saw that the cello was missing. The boxes - the
boxes in her car... He stared at Claire again, at the top of her head.
He saw everything in clear, lurid detail. She looked up again and met
his gaze.

She wrung her gloved hands together, twisting the keychain awkwardly
between them. She never took her eyes from his face; he watched tears
begin to slip down her cheeks. "Fox," she quavered, "this is the
hardest thing I've ever done. This is," and her voice broke on a sob, "
the worst thing I've ever done to anyone. This is the cruelest thing
I'll ever have to do."

He felt himself sway as he stood, and she must have seen it, for she
stood up quickly and reached for his arm.

"Fox - sit down. Here, sit down." His legs, his whole body, felt numb;
she turned him and pushed down on his shoulder, and he found himself
seated on the sofa, unsure of how he'd come to be there. He lifted his
head and stared up at her. Was this Claire - his Claire? Was this
really her, leaning over him, her eyes red-rimmed and her face
patterned with glistening tearstreaks? His Claire would love him
forever. His Claire would never go. How could this be?

His heart hammered dully within him. She was speaking, and he tried to
listen, knew it was important. It was so hard to hear her over the
ringing in his ears.

"Fox," she was saying, "you need something from me that I don't have -
I can't give you what I don't have, Fox. I'm so sorry. I've tried and
tried, but I can't."

The words registered slowly, sank like stones, like millstones tied
around his neck. He had hurt her. She was going. He had hurt her so
badly that he had driven her away. He pictured her somewhere else,
somewhere far away, without him; he pictured her happy, pictured her
laughing. When was the last time he had heard her laugh?

"Fox, I don't know any other way to make you hear me. I've tried
everything I can think of to make you understand. If I knew anything
else I could do, I would, Fox. You have to believe me..."

He believed her. He knew there was nothing she could do. He had learned
too early and too well the fallacy of the simple notion that the people
he loved would still be there the next morning when he opened his eyes.
He was marked; he was branded. He would never be the same. He knew of
no way to tell her this, so he was silent.

"Fox. Don't try to find me. Please. I know you could. It would be easy
for you, but please, don't. ...Let me - let me call you in a few days,
Fox. When you've had time to - When we've had time - " She pressed her
hand to her mouth, looked away, fighting the tears. She straightened
up, turned away, hugging her arms tightly around herself. He couldn't
look. He hung his head.

"My mom and dad know where to reach me, in case - in case anything...
Fox, you won't - you wouldn't... Fox, are you going to be alright?"

The question was so absurd that he raised his head quickly to meet her
gaze, but when he saw her eyes, wild, desperate, he understood what she
was afraid of.

He opened his mouth; his throat worked. He searched for his
voice. "No," he breathed, shaking his head slowly. "No, I wouldn't...
It's alright, Claire." He saw the tears welling up in her eyes again,
and he nodded toward the front door. "You - you can... I'll make it."

She seemed to want to say something more, but instead she covered her
mouth with her hand and fled toward the door; he felt more than heard
it close behind her.

He found himself getting up, going to the window. He drew the curtain
back and watched as she came to the car. He saw her fumbling with her
keys, unlocking the car door. She still had one hand pressed to her
mouth. She was crying. He wanted to hold her. He watched as she got
into the car and started the engine and drove away.

She was brave, his Claire. He had always known she was brave, and that
he could never have been so. If she had hurt him, he would have stayed.
He would have learned to accept the pain in place of the love, would
have come to cherish each twist of the knife; he would have walked
willingly into her fire to be consumed. He would never have had the
courage to go. He thought he loved her all the more for having the
strength to leave him.

Without his volition, his legs carried him away from the window and
back to the sofa, and set him down again. He twined the fingers of both
his hands together and leaned his elbows against his knees, and hung
his head, and stared down at the floor.

When at length he noticed that the room had grown dark, he understood
that he must have been there for a long while, although he'd had no
sense of the passing of time.

He could not move. His legs had offered up the last of their strength
in bringing him to the sofa. He shifted his weight, fell slowly onto
his side against the armrest; he curled his body up into a tight ball.
He heard himself moaning under his breath, and then the tears came, and
he lay alone in the dark, sobbing, until at last, exhausted, he slept.



14_________________________________________________

Every morning the clock went off, and every day he got up and he went
to work, and every night he came home. He supposed he was coping. Never
mind how; he preferred not to look too hard into that. It was enough
that it was happening.

The clock went off every morning long before sunrise. He would shut it
off and slip into a pair of sweats without turning on the light, and he
would find his sneakers and go outside and at the end of the block he
would break into a jog. A half-mile later he was running, really
running, and he would run until he couldn't anymore, until his legs
ached, until he was lightheaded from gasping for breath. He would walk
the last few blocks back to the apartment. He was too well-trained in
psychology himself to miss the metaphor of his running, and he would
smile grimly in the shower afterward as he thought about it.

Every morning the clock went off on the end table beside the sofa in
the living room. He hadn't been able to get into the bed - *their* bed -
 since she'd gone. He'd awakened in a tear-stained, headachy heap on
that sofa the morning after she'd left, and he kept coming back to it
night after night. He had found over the intervening weeks that more
and more of his clothing had migrated to the closet in the entryway,
and that he had to go into the bedroom less and less.

Word traveled among the people that he and Claire had been friendly
with, and some of them called him, invited him for meals, for coffee,
for drinks. He kept to himself. He poured himself into his work. He
lobbied persistently, tirelessly, for assignment to the X-Files,
believing more and more that somewhere in them was the answer to the
mystery of his sister. When Claire had been with him, Samantha had
stayed in the past, but now she haunted him, called to him. His desire
to find her had reawakened, and it was voracious; it consumed him.

He knew he was difficult to work with. He was going through partners at
an alarming rate. His superiors had told him to his face that the last
three agents he'd worked with had requested reassignment; Agent Bausch
had called him 'frightening.' But he also knew that he would not be
disciplined, because he had by far the highest percentage of cases
resolved of any agent in his division.

He had lately worked on quite a few cases with a woman named Diana
Fowley, and found that he got along tolerably well with her. He wasn't
sure whether he trusted her, couldn't even really say that he *liked*
her, but working with her brought him something approaching
satisfaction. She challenged him. She was willing to follow the
intellectual and intuitive leaps he made, and had surprised him by
making a few of her own; he respected that - respected *her.*

She was a few years older than him. She had a dry wit and an acerbic
sense of humor. There was a darkness to her, a cynical edge that his
present state of mind found very appealing. He began taking her up on
her occasional invitations to have a few drinks after work. She didn't
make him forget - nothing made him forget - but one day he realized
that she was the only person he really *talked* to anymore.


* * * * *


"... Fox? ... *Fox.*"

Diana's voice startled him from his miserable reverie; he turned in his
chair to face her.

"You haven't heard a thing I've said, have you?" she asked.

He shook his head dully. "Sorry. I was..." His voice trailed off.

Diana sat on the corner of his desk and studied him for a moment. "I
don't know who you've been meeting for lunch on Wednesdays, but I've
got to say they make you pretty useless for the rest of the day. It's
the same every week, Fox."

He leaned his head into his hands. "It's my wife."

Diana shifted uncomfortably. "I'm sorry," she said at length. "I didn't
mean to - "

"No, no," he interrupted. "It's... We're separated." He lifted his head
and ran his fingers through his hair. "She told me she needed... she
needed *space.*" He laughed mirthlessly. "God. It sounds so..."

"I know," Diana said. "My ex ran off with his bimbo secretary. You're
not the only one whose marriage ended in a cliche."

Fox looked up at her. "You too? When?"

"It'll be three years this coming February."

He rested his chin on his hands, elbows propped on the desk, and looked
up intently at Diana. "Can I ask you...? How the hell did you get
through it?"

Diana dropped her gaze and shrugged. "You've heard the saying - 'What
doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' ... It didn't kill me."

He hung his head. "It's killing *me,* Diana," he said softly.

She nodded. "You think it is." She leaned over and laid her hand on his
shoulder. "You have to take it day by day. Just get through this one.
Don't worry about the next one till it comes."

For a long moment he stared down at the ring he still wore on his left
hand. "Does it get easier?" he whispered.

"Easier?... I don't know." She shook her head slowly. "Maybe you just
get used to it." She patted his shoulder and stood up. "I'll see you
later, Fox."

He watched as she walked away.



15_________________________________________________

"Mulder, finish that."

"But I'm not - "

"Don't sit there and tell me you're not hungry," Scully said
mildly. "I've been watching you play with your food since I got here
the other day. You've hardly eaten a thing. You look terrible, and you
spend the whole day whining about your headache. Now finish that, or
don't complain later, okay?" She kept her eyes carefully on the toast
she was buttering, avoiding his gaze.

"Well, good morning, sunshine," Mulder grumbled, but he took another
bite of the scrambled eggs, and reached for his orange juice.

Scully reflected, not for the first time, on the irony of Mulder's
hanging his whole life on the search for the truth, when he himself was
a mystery so deep she thought he might never be fathomed. There were a
hundred questions she wanted to ask him, but she knew she wouldn't; she
already felt almost guilty just knowing the little that she did. She
shouldn't have been surprised, she thought; secrets seemed to cling to
Mulder, to be natural to him. And yet this was the same man who'd sat
by her bed in the dark and poured out the whole outlandish-sounding
story of his sister's abduction by aliens to her when he'd only known
her for days.

...Samantha. He had built an entire life around the pain of her loss,
but he had never, never once, mentioned Claire. Just looking at him
across the table made it plain to Scully how deeply Claire's death had
affected him. And as for his 'keeping track' of her, as Frohike had so
delicately put it... Had losing Claire been even harder than losing his
sister - so hard that he couldn't acknowledge it, even to her?

Even to her. Scully shook her head, reminding herself in the familiar
litany that she was his partner, and not... Years of practiced self-
discipline once again derailed that train of thought before she could
see where it might lead her. It was better that way; she needed it to
be that way.

"Would you like to tell me how this Karen Gathis was involved in all
these drownings?" Scully asked. "Some of the notes were a little
sketchy."

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he looked up at her. "What do you want me to
do - eat, or talk?"

"I seem to remember you doing both, by turns, on several occasions,"
she answered, refusing to be ruffled.

Mulder frowned, but drank down the rest of his orange juice before
speaking.

"Well," he began, "it varies. She had initiated contact with each of
the victims some time before they drowned - sometimes in person,
sometimes over the telephone. She seemed to be trying to warn them, but
either they didn't understand, or they dismissed it as ridiculous." He
paused to take another bite of eggs. "She was actually found at the
lake the following morning last November when George Taggart died, and
the police report describes her as 'incoherent.' She told them she was
trying to stop him, but she wasn't strong enough."

Belle, their waitress again that morning, chose that moment to reappear
at the table. "I see you're out of juice," she said solicitously,
leaning over Mulder. "Would you like s'more?" She proffered the tall
glass on her tray.

"Thank you - I would," Mulder replied. Belle set down the new glass and
whisked the empty one away, smiling brightly at Mulder the whole time.
Scully watched bemusedly; when they were alone again she shook her
head, grinning.

Mulder reached for the juice. "What?"

"She *really* thinks you're cute."

"*What?*" he asked, incredulous. He turned his head to stare after
her. "When did she tell you that?"

Scully chuckled. "She didn't. Mulder, you're more oblivious than I
thought. - Watch it, or you'll end up wearing that instead of drinking
it."

Mulder looked back at the glass of juice and seemed startled to find it
in such close proximity to his tie.

"So," Scully went on, "Gathis claims to have had some kind of
foreknowledge of all these people's suicides? The file says she wasn't
even acquainted with any of them."

"Oh, she says they weren't suicides at all. She says there's a spirit
in the lake that drew them there and led them into the water."

Scully, reaching for her coffee, paused. "A spirit."

"A lake spirit," Mulder affirmed. "... I think I'll let her tell you
about it when we get there."

"I think," Scully said slowly, raising an eyebrow, "that I'd like to
hear that."


* * * * *


"Do you mind if we go outside and sit down? They won't let us smoke in
here."

"That's fine," Mulder said as he and Scully followed Karen Gathis down
the long hallway toward a pair of wide, heavy glass doors that opened
onto a small patio. "Wherever you're more comfortable." Karen pushed
the doors open and stepped outside, looking doubtfully up at the leaden
sky.

She was a slight, almost gaunt woman in her late forties, her short ash-
brown hair streaked with blonde. Her face was drawn. She had a habit of
glancing nervously around herself as she spoke; she fidgeted restlessly
after she sat down, seeming unable to keep her feet still. She shook a
cigarette out of the pack and struck her lighter into flame; she took a
long drag and let the smoke trail from her mouth as she let out her
breath.

"I know we've discussed it at some length, Karen," Mulder said, taking
a seat beside her at the table, "but I was hoping you'd explain about
the spirit in White Rock Lake to Agent Scully."

"Yeah, sure," Karen said, smiling sardonically. "You guys might be the
only ones here who don't think I'm completely nuts. Or you cover it up
better than them, if you do."

Scully looked over at Mulder, but he was watching Karen attentively and
didn't meet her eyes. "It would be helpful if you could just start at
the beginning," he suggested.

"The beginning..." Karen lifted the cigarette to her mouth. "The
beginning... was back when I was just a kid. I heard it even then.

"I grew up right here in Dallas, a few miles away from White Rock Lake.
We used to play down there, my sister and me. It wasn't all built up
around there like it is now. We had lots of open space then. All summer
long... It was beautiful then. Still is, I guess, if you don't know
better, if you don't know what's there." She shook her head, and fell
silent.

"You said you could hear it even as a child," Mulder encouraged her.

"Yeah. Sometimes just the voice, sometimes singing. My sister never
heard it. I told my parents and they thought it was cute that I had an
imaginary friend that talked to me. ...I couldn't explain that it
wasn't talking to *me* - I just... *overheard* it. It was talking to
other people. It was calling them."

"Calling them," Scully repeated.

Karen nodded, cigarette at her lips. "That's why they all came there.
They were called."

Mulder leaned forward. "Was it always the same voice, Karen?"

"No." She shook her head emphatically. "It changes. It's a woman - then
a man. There were times when it wasn't in English. There'd be one voice
for a while, and all of a sudden it would change, and after a while
it'd change again. It took me years to understand why."

"And why was it?" Scully coaxed.

"Because the spirit speaks in the voice of the last person it called
into the lake. I think," she said softly, hesitating, "I think it traps
their souls, and they aren't freed until the next person surrenders and
comes to the lake and - and dies."

Scully exchanged a glance with Mulder, but his face was expressionless,
and she couldn't tell what he thought of this revelation. She turned
back to Karen. "Do you still hear the voice?"

Karen sighed. "Not so much. Not with all the Thorazine, you know?" She
shifted on the bench, and pushed the packet of cigarettes around in a
small circle on the table. "My sister and my brother-in-law talked me
into admitting myself here again after the last one. And I was so tired
of hearing, and knowing, and not being able to stop it..."

"Do you think that's why you hear it?" Scully asked gently. "So you can
save these people?"

Karen passed one hand across her eyes. "God, I don't know anymore. I
used to think so. But I never could." She looked up at Scully, tears in
her eyes. "I stood right there and watched that man walk into the water
last winter. I couldn't stop him. I stood in front of him, he pushed me
out of the way. I tried to hold onto him, he just kept walking. God - I
can't..."

Scully waited. A moment later Karen took a deep breath and shook her
head slowly.

"So I came here. For a couple of months I didn't hear it. I hoped it
was over. And then it started again... and it - It took Dr. Claire."
She bowed her head. "Dr. Claire was good to me. She made me think I
could get better. And it took her." Her voice dropped almost to a
whisper. "And now it's her voice. I hear the spirit calling, but it's
Dr. Claire's voice..."

From the corner of her eye Scully saw Mulder raise one hand to his
forehead; looking up, she saw how pale he'd suddenly become. She leaned
over to him and put her hand on his arm.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low. "What's wrong?"

He took an uneven breath. "It's - it's too warm out here," he
said. "Let me go inside and sit down in the air conditioning for a few
minutes." He rose and went toward the doors before Scully could say
anything else; he pulled one open and disappeared inside.

Scully stared after him for a long minute. Then she turned back to
Karen.

"I wish it'd just take me!" Karen said suddenly, vehemently. She
slapped her hand down against the table. "I hate being the one who
knows, and being helpless. It's ruined my life. I have nothing left -
no home, no job, no family of my own. I don't know why it won't just
take me!" She broke into tears and laid her head down in her arms on
the tabletop, and Scully leaned over and patted her shoulder.


* * * * *


Scully surreptitiously studied Mulder's ashen face as they walked out
of the front doors of Green Oaks. She could have stared openly, she
thought, for all the notice he was taking of her.

"Mulder," she began, "have you checked whether you can establish any
links between the victims? Karen doesn't think they're random, you
know; she thinks there's a pattern of some kind."

He shrugged. "You've pretty much seen what I've done. I haven't had
time yet to delve into all that. It's a huge task."

"If there is anything - and I'm not saying there is - with both of us
working on it, we might come across something."

Mulder, stopping suddenly, caught her by the arm and turned her to face
him. "What's going on here, Scully?" he asked. "Yesterday I thought you
were going to pack up and go home, and now you want to go running down
leads. What brought this on?"

Scully looked at his face, into his searching eyes, and for a fleeting
moment caught herself about to reach over and place her hand on his,
about to tell him that she knew, to tell him how sorry she was, to... .
Instead, she shook his hand from her arm and said briskly, "I can see
you're determined to stay on this until you reach some kind of
conclusion. If you'll let me help you, maybe we'll find an answer
sooner, and we can get back to Washington and do our real work."

Something in his eyes told her clearly that she had not assuaged his
suspicion, but she met his gaze steadily until he backed down.

"All right, then," he nodded, "I appreciate that." He turned and walked
toward the car, and she followed, and wished she could believe that he
would even accept her sympathy if she could find a way to offer it.


* * * * *


"You'll have to excuse me if I find it somewhat hard to believe that
you're really putting any credence in what Karen Gathis had to say."
Mulder flipped the right-turn signal on and eased the car up to the
edge of the street.

Scully considered her answer carefully. "Well, I do have to admit that
the symptomology Karen presents is only very slightly removed from the
classical model of schizophrenia, but..."

"But what, Scully?"

But what? But I can't bear to watch you making yourself sick because
you want so desperately to make sense of her death? But you obviously
still have so many unresolved feelings about her? But I want to help
you, and this is the only way I have?...

"But the coincidence of Karen's apparent foreknowledge of all those
deaths suggests something more. Finding a connection among the victims
is a logical place to start. We may be able to distinguish a pattern
that will give us more to work on."

Mulder was silent. Scully sighed and watched Dallas roll by outside the
car window.

They had only gone a few miles on the highway when Mulder nudged the
turn signal again and pulled onto the exit ramp. Scully glanced over at
him, puzzled, but he kept his eyes on the road, bearing first left and
then right at the two forks in the ramp. The car merged onto another
highway.

"Mulder, where are we going?" Scully asked, watching him.

"I want to show you something."

A few minutes later Mulder turned right and then left again; the
highway narrowed and became an ordinary street, and Scully decided
uneasily that she could guess where Mulder was taking her.

The tires crunched on gravel as Mulder pulled off the street into a
small parking area and drew to a stop before a low wooden railing.
Scully looked out through the windshield at the expanse of water
stretched out before her. Mulder was already getting out of the car,
and she fought down the urge to call him back; instead, she unbuckled
her seatbelt and opened the door and followed him.

The lake was ordinary enough, generous in size, with graceful trees
scattered intermittently along the banks; the earlier clouds were
beginning to break up and sunlight glittered here and there on the
surface of the water. She watched as Mulder's long stride opened up the
distance between them. When he came to the marshy footing near the edge
of the lake he looked around for her.

"Mulder," she said, "Why are we - " She waved a hand around her -
 "*here*?"

"I wanted you to see it for yourself," he said. She glanced up sharply
at the urgency in his voice, but he was staring out over the lake. The
clouds had parted now before the sinking sun, and the water turned to
gold where the rays fell upon it.

"See what, Mulder?" she asked. "There's nothing here to see." She knew
she was speaking too quickly and that her voice was too high. "There's
no evidence to find. I don't know why you brought me here." She thought
even from where she stood that she could feel his body thrumming with
some strange intensity; she took an instinctive step backward when he
turned toward her. His eyes were lambent in the dying light.

"I wanted you to feel it, Scully. I can *feel* something here."

She would have said that this was the first time in days that he seemed
like himself, instead of the shadow-Mulder she'd been dealing with, but
in the same moment decided that was wrong. He was *too* alert; he was
strung as tightly as the bow of the cello she'd seen in Claire's house.

"You know how little I like it when you start *feeling* things," she
said, still retreating. "Show me facts, Mulder, or let's just go back
to the hotel." She kept edging backward, willing him to follow.

He glanced from her to the lake and back. He seemed to be having a hard
time making up his mind. As she watched he raised one hand to run his
fingers anxiously through his hair, and suddenly winced and pressed the
hand to his forehead.

She stepped forward and took his arm. "Mulder?"

"Oh - Scully - " His eyes were squeezed shut. She led him up to the
wooden rail and he sat down on it, rubbing his forehead with his
fingers.

"Mulder," she said, leaning over him, "whatever this is, it's getting
worse." She smoothed his ruffled hair with her hand. "Let me take you
to a doctor."

"No, no," he said, waving her hand away. He sighed. "Scully, I'd be
fine if I could just sleep. That's all it is." His tone was final.
She'd had this discussion with him so many times over the years that
she knew there was no use in pressing him. She just stood watching him,
her hand on his shoulder, until he looked up at her again.

Mulder reached into his pocket and drew out the car keys; he held them
out to her. She took them from his hand. He rose to his feet and they
went wordlessly up to the car.

Scully got in and found the lever on the floor and pulled the driver's
seat forward. She backed the car out of the gravel and turned left onto
the street.

Mulder watched the road through half-closed eyes. "Make a right onto
this Thornton Freeway here... Take the I-30 west."

"I can do it from here."

Mulder leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. For a few
minutes, Scully drove in silence. She glanced over again to see if he
might have fallen asleep.

"Mulder...?" she ventured softly.

"Mmh."

She asked, before she could change her mind, "...What was she like?"

He said, at length, in a low voice, "She was... serious. She wanted you
to think she was serious. ...But then she'd come out with something so
wickedly funny..." She could hear the smile in his voice. "She was
incredibly smart. Compassionate. So independent. Her own person."

Scully drove on.

"She was a musician," he said slowly, after a while.

Scully nodded, although she knew he wasn't looking at her.

"She was good. Gifted. She even had an offer to join the Washington
Symphony... but she was still in med school..."

"...She turned it down?"

"Yeah..." Mulder sighed. He turned his face away from her. "Scully...
I'm so tired," he murmured.

"We're almost there, Mulder. ...We're almost there."



16_________________________________________________

Of course, Fox had found her.

It only took a few days before he succumbed to the temptation to look
for her, and with the resources of the Bureau behind him it was a
childishly simple matter; she'd made no effort at all to stay
underground. He assuaged the guilt he felt at so quickly violating her
trust by telling himself that simply knowing where she lived now was a
very different matter from actually going there himself.

Three days after she'd moved out, she had called him. Neither of them
seemed to know what to say; he'd felt incredibly awkward. They had
begun meeting for lunch every Wednesday, and his week had fallen into a
predictable routine, with Wednesday somehow both the highest point and
the lowest.

He had so much time on his hands. He hadn't realized until now how very
much he had depended on Claire to distract him from his own darkness.
He had forgotten how to be by himself. He brought work home to keep
himself busy; he was embarassed to admit even to himself how many
erotic - alright, pornographic - videos he had acquired. If he hadn't
had his father's bad example set up before him as a deterrent, he was
sure he would have begun to drink. One day Diana glanced at the ashtray
on his desk and and made a face and asked him if he realized how much
more he'd been smoking; he quit that day, cold turkey - another self-
denial, another punishment. He was abjectly grateful whenever Diana
asked him to go out, and had even called her himself a few times,
feeling guilty when he did, as if he were cheating on Claire, even
though that was the farthest thing from his mind.

He was consumed by the need to see her. He went to one of the
performances of the chamber orchestra she played with, wishing, with
the terrible clarity of hindsight, that he had made more time for
things like this when she'd really been his. He arrived a little late
and, doing his best special-agent act, slipped unnoticed into the back
of the concert hall. He was fine until they began to play that Debussy
piece, and then he had to turn away, had to leave before the tears
came. He wiped his eyes afterward as he sat in the safety of his car.

Wednesdays became both easier and more difficult as time went by. They
were easier, because both he and Claire were practiced, and more at
ease; they were harder, because it took more effort every week to
simply kiss her and watch her walk away. "I wish you were home," he'd
said last week, his heart in his throat. And she had lowered her gaze
and whispered, "So do I."

Perhaps that was what emboldened him on their anniversary. He had
bought her a gift, a necklace; instead of waiting until Wednesday he
found himself getting into his car that Monday evening and driving
toward the apartment she shared with Tracy and Jeanne. He drove past,
slowly, staring up at the lighted windows, just as he had done so many
nights before; tonight he found himself pulling over to the curb,
parking the car, cutting the headlights. He felt almost as if he were
dreaming as he got out of the car and approached the building. The
moment was inevitable. He was a moth; Claire was the flame.

He found the apartment. He stood before the door. He lifted his hand
and knocked.

She opened the door a crack and peeked out, and then she pushed it back
and he heard her unfastening the chain from the lock. She swung the
door open and stood staring at him.

"I thought you might be out," he said after a moment. She was silent,
her eyes wide; he couldn't read her expression. He swallowed hard. "But
I... I saw your car, and I..."

"You didn't just get lucky and see my car," she breathed. "You knew
where to look."

Why had he imagined that she would fling her arms around his neck, and
tell him how much she had missed him? Helplessly, he held up the little
package with the bright bow. "I brought you something."

"To make up for this?" Her voice was cool, but her grey eyes burned. He
eased forward and she retreated, backing away, and then they were both
in the apartment. He pushed the door shut behind him.

"No, for our - Claire, it's our..." He stumbled over the words. "Happy
anniversary, Claire."

"What was the one thing I asked of you, Fox?" she exclaimed softly,
ignoring the gift in his outstretched hands. "The *one* thing. And here
you are." Her cheeks were flushed, and as he watched, tears spilled
from her eyes and ran down them. "How many nights have you sat out
there in your car, watching?"

He hung his head in silent admission of his guilt. He turned the
brightly-wrapped package over in his hands, studying the colored
pattern of the paper.

"Oh., Fox." She turned away and sat down on the sofa, her face in her
hands. "Oh, Fox, I thought we were going to work this out. I really
did. Why did you have to do this to me, Fox?"

He edged toward the sofa and timidly sat down on the other
end. "Claire," he faltered. "I couldn't wait anymore. I miss you too
much." He reached out and put one tentative hand on her shoulder, and
bit his lip when she startled at his touch. He felt as dizzy as he had
that awful night at home, when he'd walked in and found her waiting
there.

"You do. It *is* too much," she wept. "I'm not strong enough to hold
you up, Fox. You have to stand on your own two feet. I can't do it for
you. That's what I've tried to tell you, and you just won't hear it."
She lifted her head and looked up at him with a stricken gaze. "And
what am I supposed to do now? I'm going to be looking around every time
I walk out that door, wondering if you're watching me, following me.
*Hunting* me. I can't stand it, Fox!"

He held his hand out to her, but she shrank from him. "Claire - "

"Go home, Fox."

"But Claire - " He hated the sickening, panicky knot that was forming
in his stomach. "What about Wednesday?"

"I don't know, Fox. I don't know." She stood up and began to walk
rapidly, unsteadily, toward the kitchen. "Please, just go home."

Dropping the little gift onto the coffee table, he rose and hurried
after her. "Claire, wait. You can't do this to me." His voice sounded
sharper than he had meant it to. Something like anger flared up in him,
and he reached for her and caught her hard by the wrist, pulled her
around to face him; he met her eyes and saw that she was afraid of
him. "Fox, let me go!" she cried, and he remembered -

- remembered his mother's voice, raised just that way, downstairs in
the kitchen with his father -

- downstairs, after they'd thought he was asleep -

He released her, pushed her away, staring at his own hands as if he
thought her flesh might have burned him. She spun around and grabbed at
the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He watched her knuckles whiten
as she gripped it harder and harder.

"Claire - "

He stared at her back and saw that her shoulders were
shaking. "Claire..."

"Fox, please go," she whispered, imploring.

"Claire," he said brokenly. She did not lift her head, did not speak.

He turned on his heel and strode out of the apartment, and he made it
almost all the way to his car before he started to cry.


(Continued in Part 5)


--
Subject: New - 'Clair de Lune' (5/5) by Foxsong

Clair de Lune by Foxsong

See disclaimer, etc. at top of Part 1

17___________________________________________

Fox took a deep breath and began for the third time to read the first
page of the thick sheaf of papers before him on his desk.

He glanced at his watch and saw that another twenty minutes had gone
by. He worried the end of his pen with his teeth. He had to read this
thing within forty minutes - he had to, or he'd be taking it home with
him over the weekend. On second thought...

On second thought, maybe he'd take it home anyway. Maybe he'd take the
file for the Salerno case, too. Maybe if he took both of them he'd be
able to distract himself for those two interminable days. He shook his
head as if to clear it and directed his gaze to the top of the page and
tried again.

Slowly he became aware that one of the people passing by his desk had
stopped, and he lifted his head to see Diana standing there, watching
him with that humorless half-smile of hers.

"It only used to be Wednesdays, Fox, but it looks like it's Fridays now
too. Are you okay?"

"This is part of what makes you a good agent, Diana," Fox remarked, his
voice tinged with sarcasm. "Your keen powers of observation." He rolled
the edges of the top few sheets in his hands. "To everyone else in this
room it appears that I'm sitting at my desk reading this case file.
You, however, have noticed that what I am really doing is plumbing the
well-charted depths of my own personal hell." He dropped the papers
onto the desk and slumped forward, his face in his hands. "Oh, God,
Diana. My divorce was final today."

"Oh, Fox. I'm sorry."

"Thanks," he murmured, his eyes still downcast.

Diana moved closer and leaned over the desk. "Are you going to be
alright tonight?"

He was about to answer that he'd be fine, when it struck him suddenly
that he wasn't sure. She seemed to read his hesitancy as clearly as if
he'd spoken.

"Come pick me up at home. Can you make it by six?"

He raised his head slowly and met her eyes. He nodded. "Yeah. ...Yeah,
I can."

"Good," she said simply, and straightened up. "I'll see you at six,
then."


* * * * *


He wavered at the top of the steps and then felt Diana's hand on his
arm, steadying him, as they descended.

" 'M not that drunk," Fox muttered. "I'm... I'm..." He searched for the
words, but they eluded him for a moment. "...pleasantly buzzed."

He looked up and met Diana's amused, skeptical gaze. "Semantics, Fox,"
she said. She held out her hand, palm upward. "Keys."

He fished around in the bottom of his pocket until he found them.
Aiming carefully, he dropped them into her hand. Diana linked her arm
through his and led him to the passenger side of the car; he leaned
against it while she unlocked the door.

"In you go," she said as she pulled the door open. He sat down heavily
and swung his legs inside. The door closed with a thump that made him
wince.

He was still fumbling with the buckle of the seatbelt when Diana slid
into the driver's seat. She leaned over and wordlessly fastened it for
him.

He leaned back in the seat and laid his head against the headrest as
Diana started the car. They drove in silence for a few minutes. He
closed his eyes.

"Diana...?"

"What, Fox?"

"When does it end?"

He heard her sigh. He waited.

"I think it only really ends when you decide to let it go, Fox," she
finally answered.

He said nothing more. The motion of the car was soothing, and he lay
back and let himself drift. Eventually he was aware that Diana was
pulling off the road and parking; he stirred and looked out the window
and saw that they were back at her apartment.

He struggled briefly again with the seatbelt, and once again she
reached over to help him.

"You know," she said, regarding him thoughtfully, "I don't think I can
let you go home like this." And, to his surprise, she laid her hand on
the inside of his thigh.

"Diana," he murmured, "is this really a good idea...?"

When she leaned closer and began to kiss him, it didn't seem like such
a bad idea after all.



18___________________________________________

She couldn't breathe - couldn't breathe. She was paralyzed. She tried
to look around, to find Mulder; she knew he would help her. But he was -
 he was - She strained desperately, but every muscle in her body was
frozen; panic mounted, but her throat was too tight, and she couldn't
even scream -

Scully jerked awake with a choked cry. She sat up in the bed and
reached out, fumbling frantically for the lamp; she switched the light
on and fell back against the pillows, gasping.

She had been... where had she been? Outside, somewhere; it had been
dark, and there had been moonlight on the water, and some kind of
music, and Mulder...

Mulder -

She shook herself and closed her eyes. Just a crazy dream, because he'd
been acting so strange, taking her to that damned lake...

Her eyes opened wide. The lake. The moonlight... She began shivering
again. Mulder... She rolled over, hugging a pillow, but it was no use;
some kind of foreboding was making her stomach churn, and it was
getting worse by the minute.She couldn't stay in that bed another
moment. She swung her legs over the side and got to her feet, and found
herself heading toward the door.

It was ridiculous. She wasn't going to run to him just because she'd
had a nightmare. - But it hadn't felt like a dream; it felt like being
there, like *seeing* it... She stopped, but when she did, the swell of
panic that rose in her made her tremble. She had to see Mulder.
Something was... She had to see him now.

She was through the door and in the hallway almost before she knew it,
and instantly saw that his door was ajar. She forgot caution, didn't
even think about going back for her weapon; she foolishly rushed to his
door and threw it open and stumbled into the room, swatting at the
light switch next to the door.

"Mulder?" she called hoarsely, knowing he wouldn't answer, knowing he'd
gone. "Mulder!"

He wasn't in the bedroom, wasn't in the bathroom. She rushed back to
her room, and hastily pulled a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt right
over her nightgown; she shoved her feet into her sneakers. She snatched
up her gun and thanked God she'd driven back here last night as she
grabbed the car keys. She bolted out of her room. She couldn't wait for
the elevator; she took the stairs two at a time, and ran outside into
the night.

The lake. That *damned* lake - Every instinct within her screamed
Mulder's name. She jumped into the car; she jammed the key into the
ignition and heard it roar to life. The tires spat gravel against the
underside of the car as she dropped it into reverse and floored the
accelerator; they squealed on the pavement as she turned and sped
away...

"Wait for me, Mulder," she said aloud, remembering the feverish light
in his eyes as he'd looked out across the water in the evening. "Wait
for me."

Afterward, she would never quite be able to remember how she found her
way so unerringly to the lake; whatever was guiding her, she had no
choice but to trust it. She covered the eleven miles in just a few
minutes, although it seemed endless, and finally made the last right-
hand turn onto Garland Road.

*Please, Mulder.* There - there was the entrance. *Please.* She shut
off the car's engine and the lights; the sky had cleared during the
evening, and the full moon overhead showed her what she'd wanted so
desperately to see. She flung herself from the car and sprinted toward
the solitary figure standing near the shoreline.

"Mulder - !"

He was standing there in the moonlight, wearing only a light jacket
over his pajamas. His eyes were fixed on something far away out on the
water. His jaw was clenched and his fingers were curled into tight
fists, and she saw that he was shaking, his whole body consumed with
the effort to resist, to remain where he stood, not to be drawn
forward. She reached out and pulled at his shoulders and tried to turn
him away from the lake; thrown off balance, he stumbled and fell
heavily to his knees. He craned his neck to keep staring over his
shoulder at the moonlit water.

"Scully!" he cried, his voice breaking, "Don't you hear it?" He reached
toward her blindly and she knelt down beside him, wrapped her arms
around him; he clutched frantically at her shirt. "The music - "

"I don't - " Scully started to say, but then, softly, at the very
farthest reaches of her hearing, she thought she *did* - She thought
she heard it; a faint melody, that piece by Debussy that she'd always
loved. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it was gone; it had
vanished in the rustle of the breeze through the leaves. In that same
instant Mulder groaned and collapsed against her; for a moment she
struggled to hold him up, and then he regained his balance and sat
quietly on the ground, hanging his head.

The park was silent save for the night sounds of the crickets and
frogs. Scully felt Mulder shivering, and she pulled him closer, rocked
him, stroked his shoulder soothingly. In a few minutes he was steadier,
and stirred against her.

"Scully..." he breathed, lifting his head and shaking it.

"I'm right here," she murmured. "Are you alright?"

He turned, looking at her as if she were something curious and foreign,
something he had never seen before. But he nodded his head, and moved
as if to get to his feet.

Scully stood, and helped him up. "Let's get out of here, Mulder," she
said softly. He put his arm across her shoulders and leaned on her as
they made their way slowly back to the car.

"Mulder," she asked, "how did you get here?"

He shuddered against her, and murmured, "I don't remember..."

Scully opened the passenger-side door; Mulder got in and put his face
down in his hands. She crouched down next to him and put her hand on
his arm. He lifted his head and gazed dully at her, his face half-
hidden in the shadow from the car's dome light.

"It's okay now," she murmured, stroking his arm; he sighed, sagging
against the car seat, and looked down at his feet. She followed his
gaze and saw for the first time that he had no shoes, and that his feet
were bruised and dirty. She put out her hand to wipe at the mud on one
of them and found instead that he was cut and bleeding. She lifted her
head and met his eyes; she reached up and smoothed the damp hair away
from his forehead.

"We're going home tomorrow, Mulder," she said, and he nodded
slowly. "It's over. I'm taking you home."



19______________________________________________

Scully's clock went off at six-thirty, but she hadn't slept much. She
reached over and picked up the travel alarm and pushed the switch to
turn the beeper off. For a few more minutes she laid still; she got up,
then, and slipped her feet into her sneakers and went quietly across
the hall to Mulder's room, and let herself in.

He was sprawled across the bed almost just the way she'd left him
nearly three hours earlier, stretched out on his stomach, his face half-
buried against the pillow, sound asleep. She leaned over him and laid
one hand on his shoulder; he shifted a little and let out a long sigh,
but did not wake.

Scully studied him for a few more minutes, and then reached out to pick
up his alarm clock. It was set for seven. She turned it over in her
hands; then, nodding to herself, she reset it to nine o'clock and put
it back down where she'd found it. She took a few soft steps toward the
door, and paused, and looked over her shoulder at Mulder as he slept.
She turned back. Leaning over him again, she gently stroked his tousled
hair with her hand. He didn't stir. She straightened up and crossed the
room and let herself out again, closing the door silently behind her.

The night clerk at the desk in the lobby had openly, wordlessly stared
at three-thirty in the morning when she'd led the barefoot, half-
sleeping Mulder across the lobby and into the elevator, but after all
the things she'd done and seen in the past six years Scully was immune
to the stares of strangers. She'd propped Mulder up in the corner of
the elevator and steadied him when its lurch made him sway
precariously. After she'd somehow half-carried him down the hall and
into his room, she just aimed him at the bed and watched him collapse
there. He hadn't even stirred at the sting of the iodine when she'd
carefully washed his battered feet. She covered him with a blanket; she
sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him for a little while,
concerned. When she was satisfied that all he was doing was peacefully
sleeping, she got up and went across the hall to her own room, hoping
to sleep, too.


* * * * *


At quarter after nine she opened Mulder's door and peered
inside. "Mulder?"

"Mmmm... Scully..." he answered, yawning. She came inside and closed
the door. She sat down again on the edge of the bed, and Mulder rolled
over and stretched. "I was asleep," he murmured; he sounded surprised.

"You sure were." She smiled thinly. "I almost had to carry you up here
last night to put you to bed."

Mulder blinked and looked up at her, plainly puzzled.

"Mulder... don't you remember? I found you at the lake, in the middle
of the night."

His eyes widened. "The lake..." he breathed, lifting his head. "Scully,
I heard music. I saw - " And she saw, for the briefest instant, the
expression of wonder that passed over his face. He turned his head
quickly, and when he looked up again and met her gaze, his eyes were
guarded, and it was gone.

She found his hand and gently closed her fingers around his. "What did
you see?" she whispered.

Mulder hesitated, and then said slowly, "I'm not sure, Scully. ...I'm
really not sure." He laid back against the pillow and closed his eyes
again, and Scully, suddenly self-conscious, let go of his hand.

She opened her mouth to speak, and then waited; she studied him,
wondering if he would understand later when she told him, wondering how
angry he would be. She really had been going to tell him about the
phone call. She had opened the door just those few minutes ago planning
to tell him, but now, looking at him lying here, and remembering last
night...

"Mulder," she said tentatively, "there's a flight out of here at one-
thirty. Should I...?"

He sighed. "Yeah..." He opened his eyes; he sat up, yawning
again. "You're right, Scully." He glanced over at the little alarm
clock. "We should just make it."


* * * * *


She settled into the car seat and fastened the belt, feeling the thump
as Mulder dropped the suitcase into the trunk behind her. He closed the
trunk lid and she waited for him to get into the car beside her; when a
long moment had passed, she craned her neck and looked around to see
where he was.

She saw him standing a few feet away from the back of the car, his back
toward her. He was gazing out in the direction of White Rock Lake, of
Claire's house, although they were far away.

Scully turned around to face forward again. She looked down at her
hands, folded in her lap, and waited.

Mulder came up alongside the car, limping a little; he opened the door
and slid into the driver's seat. He thumbed through the keychain until
he found the key he wanted.

She found that she wanted to comfort him, but that would mean admitting
to her own private investigation, admitting she had known for days who
Claire had been to Mulder. It might mean having the conversation she
wasn't sure she'd ever be ready to have. So she only reached across the
car and laid her hand over his as he put the key into the ignition.

"You've done everything you can for her, Mulder," she said gently. "Let
her go."

He turned and stared at her. She saw the question in his eyes, but
refused to acknowledge it with her own; at length he nodded slowly and
looked away.

Perhaps, she thought, I should at least give him the chance...

"Mulder," she asked softly, "Is there anything... Is there something I
don't know about this case?"

He looked over at her again; there was a long pause. Mulder sighed.

"No," he said at last. His expression was unreadable. "...No, I don't
think so." He dropped his gaze. "Let's go home, Scully."

He turned the key and started the car.



20____________________________________________

File #X - 597534-587

Agent of record: Dr.Dana K.Scully - ID #2317-616

Date: 5/23/00



I was informed of Karen Gathis' death at 8:00 AM on the morning of May
20th in a telephone call from the medical examiner, who extended an
offer to me to assist in the autopsy. In light, however, of the
physical and emotional toll the investigation of this case had already
exacted upon Agent Mulder, I deemed it prudent instead to accompany him
back to Washington and to have the autopsy results forwarded to me
immediately upon its completion.

Gathis was found dead in her bed at Green Oaks by nurse Julie Standley
during the routine 3:00 AM check. Standley, who had also performed the
1:00 AM check, observed nothing unusual at that time; evidence suggests
that death occurred quite late in the two-hour interval left
unaccounted for.

Unfortunately, in other respects, the autopsy results are inconclusive
and even conflicting. The toxicological screen found the expected
levels of the prescribed medications which had been administered to
Gathis; none of the drugs have known interactions. Death was apparently
caused by some type of asphyxiation. There was no trauma evident on the
body to suggest any kind of assault. Several indications - the presence
of a fine white foam at the nostrils and mouth, extensive haemorrhaging
in the middle ear, and the presence of diatoms throughout the body, as
well as the diluted quality of the blood - suggest death by drowning in
fresh water, although this is contraindicated by the absence of water
in the lung tissue and the obvious fact that the deceased was found in
bed in a hospital and not, in fact, anywhere near water of any kind -
even a bathtub. The body, as well as the bedding, was dry when Gathis
was found, and it is reasonable to think that, given the recent
proximity of death, there would have been ample evidence to that effect
had she been removed from her bed, drowned, and the body subsequently
returned.

It is tempting to draw parallels between Gathis' belief in a "lake
spirit," the local legends concerning the same, and the series of
drownings which have taken place in White Rock Lake, the most recent
being that of Dr. Claire Turner. Unfortunately, no such conclusion will
withstand the scrutiny of meaningful scientific investigation. However
much I may be inclined in this instance to concur with Agent Mulder
that Dr. Turner was acting under the influence of an outside force when
she took her life in White Rock Lake, the greatest part of the evidence
for this is anecdotal and cannot be substantiated.

At this time, Claire Turner's death remains on record as a suicide, and
that of Karen Gathis remains unexplained.


( --  End  --  )
Thanks for reading!!!

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