From: juliettt@aol.com (Juliettt) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: "Confusion" 1/2 by Juliettt Date: 20 Jul 1995 22:52:31 -0400 Wa-HOOO! I have been paralyzed and unable to post for going on two weeks now because of some silly problems I have been having with my brand-new modem. However, thanks to Karen Enriquez, aka XFC SciNut@aol.com (may her shadow never decrease) I am back on track. With loads of fanfic for all of you. Heh, heh, heh. Anyway. Here's the first one. I wrote this a few weeks ago. Hope you like it. . . . ==================================================== Okay. I got to thinking about the whole nature vs. nurture thing (hey, I'm a Renaissance specialist--it's bound to come out one way or another!) and started wondering: what would happen if our heroes got into a situation where nurture was wiped out and they had only nature to deal with? With that in mind I wrote this story. Although it's primarily a story of what takes place between them over a couple of confusing days, it *is* somewhat X-Filey. Not really any mush, although there is some bonding and a few potentially romantic moments. Well, split-seconds, really. Sit back, relax, and enjoy -- and remember, when these two get sent on a case anything can happen (and usually does). . . . DISCLAIMER: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner and "The X-Files" all belong to some amalgamation of The Revered Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and FOX. And, of course, to Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. They are used lovingly but without permission and no creative toe-treading is intended. This story is copyrighted to the author (i.e., ME). Enjoy. BTW, all in- jokes you think you spot are intentional (even if they aren't, we'll pretend they are) and are put there for the delectation of a.t.x.c.-ers. . . . ************************** "Confusion" 1/2 by Juliettt@aol.com ************************** As they approached the bungalow the porch light flickered, then went out. Mulder reached for the switch on his flashlight but Scully wrapped her hand around his forearm and squeezed warningly. Okay, no lights. They stood crouched in the shadow at the corner of the shack listening for a moment. Nothing. Mulder shifted away from her slightly so that she could see him in the faint light from the waning moon and pointed to her, then to the front door. Then to himself and around the back. Classic Mulder -- he always left her in an established position and took the risks upon himself. And he had been doing it more frequently since Duane Barry. Of course, lately he had been even more protective . . . and it was something they needed to talk about. She wondered . . . but this was most definitely *not* the time. Maybe on the way back to the hotel. She nodded and he shifted carefully around the corner of the small house. She mentally calculated the time it would take him, then paused for a three count. One . . . Tighten two-handed grip on gun with flashlight at the ready. Two . . . Rock back on heels, shoulder in position . . . Three . . . Go-go-go-go-go! She reached for the door handle even as her body slammed against the wood. It flew open and she burst through the doorway and caught herself, thumbing the switch on her flashlight as she swept the room with her gun. A sudden flash of light momentarily blinded her and she dropped to a defensive crouch. And then the crushing pain in her skull, the brief moment of terror and surprise, and blankness. . . . ******* He came to slowly, groggily, only partially aware that he was lying on a flat, very hard surface. A softer groan echoed his and he sprang quickly to his feet, reaching to his side for his -- gun? -- then sinking back down to his knees with another moan of pain. When he could finally open his eyes he saw her sitting in a crumpled heap, her smart loden green suit rumpled and dusty, her red hair tumbled about a pale face and deep blue eyes. She regarded him warily. ******* She had awakened on a floor which appeared to be wood but felt more like stone. Stiff, sore. She hadn't hurt this much since -- she realized she had absolutely no idea if she had ever hurt like this before. She pulled herself painfully into a sitting position, reaching for the gun she had dropped on the floor. She looked at it. It was big and ugly and heavy. And very deadly looking. Then she felt someone's eyes on her and stared up blearily at the man who knelt perhaps four yards from her. She knew that the pain and disorientation on his face mirrored her own. His dark brown hair stuck up wildly, his deep hazel eyes darted over her and around the room. Even kneeling he was much, much taller than she. One large hand slowly stretched out for the gun that lay beside his knees and he froze, his eyes on the gun that lay loosely in her hand. She thought she had never seen a more beautiful man in all her life. Well, okay, so maybe he didn't have the pretty-boy looks of a Tom Cruise or a Mel Gibson. But there was just *something* about him, about those eyes that searched hers, that full lower lip with the deep crease in it that made her want to taste it -- ******* They sat in silence for a few moments regarding each other. Finally the man broke the silence. "Who are you?" She smiled uncertainly at him. "I was about to ask *you* the same question." He took a deep breath. Maybe he was being foolish. In the brief moments they had sat there staring at each other -- and their guns -- he had wondered who she was and if he could trust her. Two people, alone in a bungalow with guns -- and he couldn't remember who she was -- or who HE was, for that matter! They could be deadly enemies, for all he knew. No. Whoever she was, whoever *he* was, he felt an instinctive trust in this woman. Maybe it was the gravity in her sea- blue eyes, or the calmness with which she regarded him. But he felt, somehow, that he could trust her with his life. Which was a good thing. Because that was exactly what he was about to do. "Okay," he said quietly. "I'm going to check my pockets for I.D. Why don't you do the same." He grinned. "And they we can introduce ourselves." She nodded and began patting her own pockets. Found a slim leather wallet and pulled it out. Flipped it open and froze in surprise. Looked up to see him holding out an identical folder, a huge grin of relief on his face. FBI. "Hey, look -- we're the good guys." He rose to his feet and straightened, unbending his tall body and stretching to work out the kinks. He seemed to straighten up forever. Wow. He was *tall*. . . . And then he crossed the room and held out a hand. She took it and allowed him to help her to her feet. He gazed down at her. Small woman. No, *lady*, he corrected himself. And she was lovely. . . . He stuck out his hand again. "Fox Mulder, FBI," he said formally. She smiled and put her hand in his, her eyes widening when her tiny hand was engulfed. "Dana Scully, FBI -- I *think*," she said in a soft, low voice. "Nice to meet you." They smiled and walked stiffly to the sofa that stood against the wall under the window. Outside a storm lashed the trees. "Guess we should stay here for a bit, huh." It was a statement rather than a question. "Yes, but where is 'here'?" she asked. "Dunno. But it's warm and it's dry," he pointed out. She couldn't argue with that. With a mutual sigh they sank to the couch. "So, Agent Scully . . ." her head snapped up. "Dana." His eyes narrowed. She tried to explain. "If I'm going to start *thinking* of myself as -- 'Dana' -- then it would help if you *called* me 'Dana.'" He nodded. "Okay. And call me 'Fox.'" she thought, and turned away before he could see the smile in her eyes. "So, *Dana*." He smiled. "What do you think we're doing here -- wherever 'here' is?" She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know if I'm even convinced we are who our I.D.'s say we are." He looked at her in disbelief. "Wha --?" "Oh, come on, Fox. Whoever or whatever gave us amnesia could just as easily have planted fake I.D.'s on us." "What do you mean, 'whoever or *what*ever'?" "I mean whoever or whatever." "Well, the 'whoever' I can accept. . . ." She sighed in exasperation. "Who says it has to be a 'who'?" He stared at her. "Look, Fox, I don't know what happened. All I know is that I can't remember anything until I woke up on the floor today, but I don't seem to have a bump on my head or any external injuries. And unless we were given some kind of psychotropic drug, there has to be some other explanation." "Granted, but --" "In fact, other than feeling like I slept on the floor all night, probably because evidently I *did* sleep on the floor all night, I don't seem to have anything wrong with me at all. You?" "No. Except for the amnesia." "Yes. Exactly." She sighed heavily. "I wish we could check the time. . . ." He glanced at his watch. "Mine says eleven twenty-one." "Yeah, mine too. But. . . ." "Well, then it must be eleven twenty-one. Unless, that is, you think *someone* or *something* snuck in here while we were sleeping and changed both our watches." She glared at him. "Well, come on, Dana, both our watches say eleven twenty- one . . . well, eleven twenty-four now. . . ." "A.M. or P.M.?" He turned and looked pointedly at the window. "Well, umm, Dana, last time I checked, the presence of the sun in the sky --what we can see of it anyway -- meant daytime." He swung back to her where she was shaking her head pityingly. "What?" "Have you ever heard of missing-time events?" "Oh, Lord," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "What?" she demanded. "You don't believe in that stuff, do you?" "'Stuff'?" "Yeah, UFOs, EBE's. Little green men. . . ." "Gray." "'Scuse me?" "They're gray, not green. That's a misrepresentation." "Ohh . . . gray. Right. I see." He stared at her, amusement on his face. "And just how, Agent Dana Scully, do you know that they are gray, not green?" "I -- don't know," she said, confused. "I just do." "Uh-huh. So you don't know your own name, but you know that aliens are gray, not green." "What about you?" "What do you mean, what about me? I don't believe in that stuff." "Forget that for a second. How do you know they're called 'EBE's?'" Now it was his turn to look confused. "I don't know. . . ." "Ha!" She waggled a forefinger at him. "Look, just because I happen to know some jargon. . . ." "Fox, can't you even consider the possibility that there may have been something else at work here? Something not explainable by normal standards?" "Stop it, Dana -- you're scaring me. Next thing you'll be telling me that Elvis isn't really dead." She simply smiled, and he shook his head in disgust. "As for how I know about EBE's, for all I know *you* told me about them before we -- before whatever happened to us happened." "Okay. Let's move to a safer subject then. Our relationship." Uh-oh. Maybe that wasn't that much safer, she thought, looking at him, then away. His parents sure had named him well. . . ." "Hmm . . . partners?" "In what sense?" She held her breath. "Well, gee, Dana, I don't know. You have a badge. I have a badge. You have a gun. I have a gun. We're both here -- wherever here is." "Maybe we were meeting for some sort of contact." Then her mind jumped to another possible way of interpreting that suggestion and she felt herself blushing. "Okay, maybe. But the way we were lying indicates to me that we came in opposite doors." 'Like a bust or something?" "Yeah." She considered for a moment. "You have a wallet?" He dug in his pockets and fished out an old leather wallet. "Yeah. You?" She checked, then shook her head. "Nope. Must be in my purse -- wherever that is." "Well, at least we can figure out who *I* am." She nodded, trying not to betray her intense curiosity. He flipped open the wallet. Credit cards, some cash -- not much. The return half of a plane ticket from Maine to D.C. -- coach, they noted wryly. A few pictures, including one of a little girl about eight or nine years old. Another picture of the same girl and a boy a few years older. He looked just like Fox. Her heart sank a little. "My kids?" She looked more closely at the pictures and smiled. "I don't think so -- these pictures look kind of old." He squinted. "Yeah -- you're right. Must be me -- and a sister, maybe?" She shrugged. He continued through the wallet. There was one of her -- a candid shot. She was wearing glasses and a white lab coat. He blushed slightly, not knowing why. "A lab coat? Does this mean I'm a doctor?" She had taken in the fact that the picture was candid rather than posed but she had no idea what it meant. Still, it pleased her somehow. . . . "Guess so. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr. Scully." He grinned and returned to the wallet. An emergency medical card with "Contact in Case of Emergency: Dana K. Scully" and a phone number. He glanced up at her, eyes dark. A living will card, witnessed by Dana Scully. He cleared his throat. "Well, either I have no life outside of work, or we're pretty close." She swallowed. "Uh. Yeah -- partners, I guess." Her heart pounded. She was *so* attracted to this man. . . . He was still fishing through his wallet. "Couple business cards with phone numbers, couple of *my* business cards -- one of yours, Dana. Hey! You're a pathologist!" He grinned at her tented eyebrows. "And no other pictures, so I gather there's no Mrs. Mulder. . . ." He paused for a second, looking into his wallet. She couldn't see what else he'd found, but from the look on his face she could guess. He sighed and closed the wallet, shoving it into his coat pocket. "Well, Dana, we know a little bit more about me -- not enough to figure out why we're here, or even if we're in Maine as the ticket suggests, but if we can't figure this all out by the time the storm's over we can try to find a phone that works and call some of these numbers." He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. "And I guess we've learned a little about you, too. . . ." "Oh?" ". . . That you're a doctor -- from the picture as well as the business card. A pathologist -- surprise! Dana, somehow you didn't strike me as the type who would be very interested in dead bodies." She shrugged. "Surprised me, too." "Also that we seem to be partners -- and friends. . . ." "And?" She tried to keep all expectancy out of her voice. he thought but did not say. "So, Dana. Think you've got a hubby and kiddies at home waiting?" She blushed slightly. Asked and answered. "No. Somehow I think I'm the type to wear a ring. . . ." He smiled at her obvious relief and tried to squelch his own. "Well, I guess the FBI takes up a lot of time. . . ." "Yeah, guess so. . . ." They sat in silence for a little while. Fox could remember -- he didn't know why or how -- that someone had once told him that if you could sit in silence with somebody for long minutes without feeling the need to speak or do anything you could be true friends; if you couldn't, you never would be. This silence was very comfortable -- despite the fact that they had so much to figure out. Dana sat next to Fox on the couch, just feeling safe. Odd, she thought. I have no clue who I am or where I am or why, or just what this guy means to me. And yet I feel so *safe* with him. Happy. She settled her head back against the sofa and drowsed. Next to her, Fox was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. Sleepy. He yawned hugely and looked over at her. Dana was already asleep. Should one of them stay awake? He yawned again and as his eyes slid shut he realized that this was a moot point. ********** When Dana woke again the sun was setting, casting weird shadows across the room in which they sat. First she noticed the distinct chill that was in the air. Next she realized that she was hungry. She started to rise but stopped when something else registered on her senses. Her pillow was moving. Carefully she turned her head and he sighed. She was leaning heavily on him, her forehead in the hollow spot under his chin, one arm across his chest and around his neck. They must have shifted in their sleep. She did not want to move. It felt so comfortable to be in a man's arms -- in *this* man's arms. She closed her eyes again and felt her skin absorbing the warmth of his body. And slept again. When Fox awakened again he realized three things. One, it was night. Two, it was still storming. Three, Dana Scully felt very good in his arms. She was still asleep, one arm curled around his neck. Her lashes were dark against her cheeks and her mouth was slightly open. And then a loud noise startled him and woke her. She jumped and stared at him, still clinging to him for a moment in the half-conscious world between waking and sleeping. He gently disentangled himself from their embrace and stood up. "What was that?" He grinned apologetically. "My stomach. I'm hungry." She smiled and stretched like a cat. "Me too -- and no wonder! It's been . . ." she started to check her watch but stopped. He stared at her in amusement. "Let's see what's in the cupboards." It proved to be fairly well stocked with canned goods, although there was no can opener to be had. Mulder reached into his pocket, grinned, and pulled out a Swiss Army Knife. "Boy Scouts?" she questioned with an elevated eyebrow, smiling to herself. He shrugged. "The usual refrain, I'm afraid -- 'I don't remember.'" He carefully opened the can opener blade. "Seems new, though --maybe I got it for Christmas. . . ." His eyes caught and held hers for a moment. "Maybe." She began rummaging through the drawers for silverware. "Well, Dana, I'm sorry we have no way of heating this stuff, or I could offer you a better meal. But here's some fruit cocktail. Beanie Weenies." She reached up and took down another can. "Here's my dinner." "Ravioli? Cold?" He made a face. "Ewwww. . . ." "Hey, it's good that way!" "How do you know?" She fell silent. "Again, I don't know -- something about a little kid -- a niece or a nephew, I think." "You're sure you don't have any little Scullys of your own?" "None that I *know* of." And then they both laughed. The cold ravioli was surprisingly good, Fox had to admit. They ate their way through two cans of the ravioli, a can of fruit cocktail in juice, and a can of applesauce. They had considered the green beans but then Fox found a can of asparagus spears instead. "Ummm -- now these *are* good cold," he said. "Yeah -- gourmet," she said, munching. "You really know how to show a girl a good time, Fox Mulder." He grinned and helped himself to the last spear. After dinner -- such as it was -- Dana sat staring at her hands for a long, silent moment. "Dana? What is it?" She sighed. "I was just wishing for a nice, hot shower." He grinned. "Well, I can always collect some of that rainwater in some pots and pans and dump it in the tub. Of course, it would be cold, but. . . ." He broke off as a look of sheer terror swept over her. Her eyes were wide and she shrank back against the sofa, her arms wrapped around her body. "Dana? What is it? What did I do?" She closed her eyes and he was shocked to see the tears dripping down her cheeks. She made a little moaning sound. "No . . . please no. . . ." He sank to the sofa next to her and took her in his arms. "Hey -- it's okay. It's okay, I promise." But it wasn't. What had happened? Somebody had frightened her -- maybe even hurt her. Had he -- he swallowed painfully -- hurt her in any way? he prayed silently. He had only known this young woman for a day but already he felt quite protective of her. "Can you tell me what's wrong?" She shook her head and they both had the same thought. Maybe it was better not to remember some things. . . . Eventually she fell into a troubled sleep, and he stayed awake watching her and the storm outside. Finally, he slept too. =========================================================================== From: juliettt@aol.com (Juliettt) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: "Confusion" 2/2 by Juliettt Date: 20 Jul 1995 23:02:43 -0400 ***************************** "Confusion," Part Two by Juliettt@aol.com ***************************** This time they awoke at about the same time. The sun was shining again but it was still storming. "A hurricane?" they wondered aloud. In Maine? Breakfast. They had found two gallons of water the night before and were rationing it, planning on using the first empty gallon to gather rainwater for the bathroom -- but not for a bath, they both silently vowed. Fox had a vague mental disturbance about the bathtub himself, though it was not as strong as Dana's, but he didn't want to push it. Breakfast was more applesauce and some crackers, only slightly stale due to the airtight container in which they were sealed. They set out some cans of Dinty Moore beef stew for lunch. They were both wondering again by this time why they were there in the first place. There did not seem to have been anyone else in the tiny bungalow for some time, but it was also too rustic for a vacation spot -- the water and electricity had been turned off and there was hardly any food except for the cans. Why were they there? An informant? No-one had shown up. Of course, there was the storm. . . . An investigation? Of what? A liaison? Each of them had thought of this at some point and discarded the idea. Dana thought, he thought. Or was there? The couch might have a hideabed. Not that comfortable, of course, but. . . . But neither of them wanted to look. After breakfast they sat back on the couch -- really the only piece of furniture in the place -- and tried to hash out again where they were and why. Dana pointed out that her watch now said five-eighteen. So did Fox's. "So what does that prove?" "Look outside, Fox. It's too light for five A.M. *or* five P.M." "Well, maybe we're in another time zone or something. . . ." "According to your plane ticket we're in Maine." "Well. . . ." "Can't you just keep an open mind about this?" "Open mind? My mind *is* open, Dana. You just seem determined to jump to every irrational conclusion that occurs to you." "Yeah, well, sometimes when you've exhausted all the possibilities . . ." "The impossible is the solution. I know. I've read Conan Doyle too, you know." "Well, then, Sherlock?" "I'm just not convinced that we've covered all the possibilities." "You just don't *want* to believe, do you?" Fox stared at her for a moment. "No. I guess maybe I don't." She shook her head. "How do you explain all the inexplicable events in the world, Mulder?" "Such as?" "UFO sightings." Fox ticked them off on his fingers. "Swamp gas. Aurora borealis. Satellites. Airplanes. Hallucinations." She snorted. "Don't forget weather balloons." His eyes were wide with innocence. "Why, no, Scully, 'weather balloons' is the military's *code* for UFOs,." She glared at him, trying not to laugh. "What else?" "Crop circles." He laughed. "Kids who got tired of tipping cows." One auburn eyebrow skidded upward. "UFO abductees?" He sighed heavily. "Abused children. Suppressed psychoses. . . ." "Geez -- now you're beginning to sound like a psychologist." He didn't answer, his brows furrowed in thought. "What?" "Nothing. It's gone now." She eyed him speculatively. "I just can't believe that a guy who wears ties like that is so uptight when it comes to extreme possibilities." "What's wrong with my -- wait a second. We're getting off track here." She regarded him coolly. "Oh?" "Yes. I was trying to pin you down on one -- just *one* phenomenon that is unexplainable. So far you haven't given me any." He sat back smugly. "Mulder, I can't believe this. Your scientific theories are farther out there than the paranormal solutions." "Hah. Everything is explainable within the realm of science, Scully. The answers are there. You just have to know where to look." "Isn't that why they put the 'I' in 'FBI,' Mulder?" Silence. "And since when do we call each other by our last names?" They stared at each other blankly. "Look," she said, "let's take a break from this. We still don't really know who we are, after all. . . ." Mulder muttered under his breath. "Well, I know I'm the sane one. . . ." "I heard that. And just for that, you have to go first, Mr. Smart Mouth." He was confused. "Go first?" "Yeah. Take a look at all the evidence and draw some conclusions. Tell me something about us that we haven't figured out yet." "Okay, fine." Deep breath. "Deep down, you're sentimental." She hadn't expected that. "Huh? How do you figure?" "Your cross." He nodded to the gold pendant around her neck. "It's not big enough to be ornamental, and I somehow don't get the idea that you're very religious -- are you?" "I -- don't know. . . ." She became uncomfortably aware of his gaze on her throat and swallowed convulsively. "What?" "That cross -- something. . . ." He shook his head. "Never mind. It's gone now. Your turn." He grinned expectantly. "Okay. You like everybody to think you're a rebel, but deep inside you're conservative and careful." "Huh?" She grinned back at him. "Well, look at your tie. But the band on your watch isn't the original one, and your shoes have been half-soled." He looked at her admiringly. "Very good. But then from what I gather FBI agents don't make all that much money. My turn?" "Yep." "Hmmm . . . You have nice taste in clothes." She blushed slightly. "Is that a deduction, Sherlock?" "A compliment, my dear Watson. I'd guess you're a traditionalist, too -- classical styling and all. But," he grinned, "you have a thing for shoes." "A *shoe* fetish?!?!" "Did I say that? No. I said 'a shoe thing.' You like expensive, attractive shoes. And you're willing to sacrifice comfort and sensibility for . . ." "Don't you *dare* say it!" she hissed. "What?" "What you were about to say." "Geez, Scully, I'm sorry. I guess that's something else I must have forgotten about you." "What?" "How sensitive you are about -- about . . ." he swallowed and swept his hand up and down in front of her. "About WHAT, Mulder?" "About -- you know -- the height thing." "My . . . my *height*?" she stammered. "Well, yeah, and I'm sorry. . . ." She shrugged. "It's okay." He gazed at her for a moment. This is not what he had expected. "What did you think I meant?" "Never mind." He grinned. "Well, Scully, I just learned something else about you." She eyed him warily. "What?" "You're really good at not holding a grudge." "Thanks. I think." "Your turn. That was two -- no, three, for me." "Hah. No way, Mulder. One of those was an insult and the other a propitiation, and neither of those count." "I thought you didn't hold grudges?" Her eyes flashed. "Well, I just learned something about myself. I can hold a grudge with the best of them when it suits my purpose." "You're mercenary! And it's your turn again." She laughed. "You're smart -- your turn." Softly, "you like me. . . ." She stopped. Carefully, "Well, of course I do, Mulder. We're partners." He shook his head gently, smiling. "No. I don't mean like that --" She stood with her hands on her hips. It looked, somehow, completely natural. "Okay, you wanna spell it out, Fox?" He didn't speak. He couldn't. He had just learned something new about himself. He was fantasizing about Dana Scully in a pair of high-heeled red shoes. . . . She looked at him. Looked at his eyes looking at her. Looked at his lips. Leaned toward him and closed her eyes. . . . And then she felt her upper arms grasped roughly in his hands as he held her away from him. "No. Dana, we can't do this." She was too flustered to cover her confusion and pretend not to know what he meant. "Why not?" "Because we're *partners*, that's why not." He stood and ran his hand through his hair so that it all stood up on end. "I don't know what our position in the FBI is or what our relationship is, but I don't think this is a good idea." "You're thinking again. . . ." "Well, one of us has to! One of us has to be rational. Evidently right now that's me." She turned from him. "You're a fuddy-duddy, Mulder." "You're a nutcase." "You're a stick-in-the-mud." "You're repeating yourself -- and besides . . . you love it!" Dana stared out the window. "Hey," she said aloud. "What?" "It's stopped raining." "Where are you going?" he asked as she slid off the couch and walked to the door. "Well, we must have a car around here, Mulder --" "Maybe not, Scully," he said sarcastically. "Maybe a spaceship just dropped us here or something." "You know, Mulder, I've had just about enough of you!" "Oh, really." He drawled it and elevated one eyebrow. She was furious. He knew she was attracted to him and he was using it against her. "Yes, really. Maybe when we get back to civilization from -- wherever this is -- we'll find out we're not really partners after all." "Hah. Maybe we'll find out we're *more* than partners." "Well, if we're partners I want a reassignment -- and if we're more I want a-a divorce!" Suddenly an image was flung up on the wall of Mulder's dark and angry brain . This woman -- lying in a hospital bed, her red hair shocking aginst the pale face that seemed gray against the sheets. And an overwhelming grief that crushed his heart and lungs until he could barely breathe. . . . His fault. . . . She was dying and it was all his fault. . . . He slumped to the couch, choking back tears he could not explain. "Mulder?" Her voice was soft and anxious and before she could stop herself she laid her hand on his arm. He turned away from her but she reached out her free hand to cup his chin so she could look into his eyes. They were wide and dark and filled with fear and pain. As far as she could remember she had never seen such pain. . . . And then the memories flooded her. This man -- lying on the pavement, those beautiful eyes swollen shut, his lips gray and unmoving. Another time, sick and scared and leaning heavily on her as he stumbled into -- her apartment? -- asking for help. And then slumped motionless in the passenger seat of a car, a crimson stain spreading across his s houlder and chest. Blood -- his blood. He had been shot. And she had shot him. Then the emotions -- the guilt, the fear, anger at somebody or something, and love and fierce protectiveness. And then the smell of smoke that made her entire body turn inside out, and the loss and anguish and terror of being alone again. . . . He saw her gagged and bound to a radiator. She saw him shivering in a cold, white place. And the native's axe was coming up, up to its apex and pausing just before the downstroke. . . . And she saw him standing on a bridge watching a dark- haired woman fall off into the water, but *she* was safe -- safe. . . . *Mulder! I need your help -- Mulder!!!* *Oh, my God, Scully -- what have they done?* *I'm on your side, Mulder -- you know that --* *If you were to leave I would consider it more than a professional loss. . . .* *I trust you, Scully* *Would you lie to protect him?* And then they were hugging on the old sofa as the fierce light of day broke through the clouds, but their embrace was more fierce. . . . Safe. Safe again. They didn't know what the images meant, but they all had one thing in common. Friendship. Respect. Trust. Love. They drew apart. She offered him her hand. "Partners?" "Partners." They shook. This time the silence was slightly awkward, as if the echoes of memory lingered between them. Mulder rose from his seat and brushed off his pants. "Think I'll go outside and see if I can find that car anywhere," he said. "I'm coming with you." "Scully, I'll be fine. You don't have to protect me, you know." "I'm coming," she said firmly. "Besides, who knows? You might run into that UFO that dropped us here and need the backup." He grinned at her, knowing all was forgiven. "Scully, are you *always* this stubborn?" "Probably." They walked out into the sunlight, the rain-soaked earth squelching beneath their shoes. Scully looked down. Darn. He was right about these shoes . . . they *were* impractical. She sighed, wondering what she could have been thinking of, wearing them out here. She caught him giving her one of those sideway glances she was beginning to recognize and tried unsuccessfully to glare at him. He could be fun to work with, she bet. Good thing they hadn't -- she thought of the near-kiss and blushed. But maybe that wasn't so good after all. Either they would remember everything or they would forget, and now she had the embarrassment without the experience. . . . But then, they were friends. She knew that she loved him -- as a friend. Better not complicate things. . . . "Hey look, Scully!" His shout snapped her out of her reverie. "Hmmm?" She hoped he hadn't noticed her blushing. "A car -- must be our car." A blue Saturn. "What about keys?" "I'd bet you have the keys." "Hah. Like you'd ever let me drive." "Ahhh -- but you *did* drive, Scully --" "How do you --" she looked in the car. The driver's seat was pulled up close to the steering wheel. The passenger's seat was pushed back as far as it would go. "Okay, you're right." She began patting her pockets again. Pulled out a set of keys on a rental fob and opened the door. "Look -- a cellular. Let me have it and I'll start calling some of those numbers. . . ." She shook her head and thumbed the first speed-dial button. Somewhere in the car another phone began to ring -- the other cel phone, they both surmised. She hit the second button. Her voice answered. "This is Dana Scully. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." She grinned. "This one must be yours." She handed it to him. "Try the third button." He raised an eyebrow. "Second one's my home number, Mulder." That made her feel really good, although she didn't know precisely why. He held up a hand. "It's ringing." The receptionist picked up the phone. "Bureau. Assistant Director Skinner's office." There was a pause. "Uh -- hello. This -- this is Agent Mulder. . . ." She rose and crossed swiftly to the A.D.'s office and banged on the door, which flew open. A tall, balding man stuck his head out. "What?" "It's Mulder," she hissed. "Line three." He did not even re-enter his office, instead yanking the phone from her grasp. "Mulder! Where the hell --" "Uh. Hello, Sir? Uh --" He sighed in exasperation. "Where *are* you, Mulder? What have you gotten yourself into this time? And where's Agent Scully?" "She's here too, Sir." he mouthed at Scully. "And just where is 'here'?" "Umm -- we were hoping you could tell us, Sir. . . ." His eyes bulged and he felt a vein in his forehead begin to throb. "Tell you WHAT?" "Uh -- sir, we. . . ." "No explanations, Agent Mulder. Did you at least find the cabin?" Relief surged through the younger man. Evidently they were where they were supposed to be, even if they didn't know why they were supposed to be there. "Yes, Sir." He and Scully began walking back toward the bungalow. He offered the phone to her but she ignored it. "Well?" "Well -- well what, Sir?" Hoo boy. From the way this guy talked he was their boss. Nice and easy. Just ease into it. . . . "Did you get it?" Don't blow this. . . . "Get what, Sir?" A burst of invective crackled through the phone loudly enough for Scully to hear it. She raised her eyebrows questioningly. Calm. He must be calm. "Agent Mulder. Over the past three years that you and Scully have worked in this department you have managed to get yourselves blown up, kidnapped, infected, and hospitalized on nearly every case. Please tell me that you have not added *forgetting* *your* *assignment* to this -- impressive list." he mouthed at Scully. Funny. She had known the guy for less than forty-eight hours and she knew exactly what he meant. she thought, They had reached the door of the cabin. "Uh, Sir -- funny you should mention that, because . . ." She opened the door. The light was blinding. "Mulder!" she shouted, flinging them both to the ground in an attempt to shield him with her body. On the other end of the phone A.D. Skinner heard her scream, then a thud and a crackling noise, and then silence. He sighed and rubbed his eyes and wondered how much more trouble Mulder would get into if he *didn't* have Scully by his side. Blankness. Silence -- no, a roaring in the ears. Then a voice, and hands shaking her. "Scully -- Scully!" The hands were gently slapping her cheeks, refusing to allow her to slip back into that cozy, silent dark place. She sighed and sat up. "Ow." "Scully -- you okay?" His voice and eyes were filled with concern. "I'll be fine if you just quit smacking me around, Mulder." He grinned in relief and reached to smooth her cheek. Her skin tingled under his fingers. she tried to convince herself. "MMMM!" The both heard the muffled, crackling sound and looked around. Mulder's cellular phone was lying on the ground next to them. He shared a glance with Scully and picked it up. "Mulder." She watched him narrowly as he winced and held the phone slightly away from his ear just as she identified the voice on the other end of the phone. Mulder must have caught Skinner in the middle of a tirade. "I'm sorry, sir. No, I don't know what happened." He swung to look at Scully. "Last I remember Scully and I were going into the cabin in a buttonhook, sir, and then I woke up on the ground. . . . No, sir. I do not remember calling you, sir." He lifted his eyebrows at Scully in mute inquiry and she shook her head. Mulder shrugged and turned around to survey their surroundings. They were standing in the middle of the woods. It looked to be sometime in the early afternoon. And there was a huge burnt patch in the grass roughly thirty feet by thirty feet. "Uh, sir? As far as I can tell we are standing right where the cabin was. . . ." "Was, Agent Mulder?" "Sir. . . ." He took a deep breath and glanced at Scully again. She was surveying the blackened earth with her mouth open, but she snapped it shut when she noticed him watching her. "It's not here anymore." ******* They drove to the airport in silence. Skinner had been furious but could see no reason for them to remain where they were, especially in light of the missing bungalow. Another team was coming in that evening to check out the site. He had arranged for the partners seats on the first flight back to D.C. and had insisted that they come to his office for an immediate debriefing upon their arrival, despite the fact that that would be that evening. And Mulder and Scully both got the impression that he wished he could bring them back separately so they would not have time to coordinate their "stories" as he was certain they had several times in the past. The problem was that they had absolutely no stories to corroborate. So far as they could remember they had arrived at the site of their assignment, had parked the car and approached the cabin using proper Agency procedure, had entered the building, and then and awakened on the ground next to a burned area roughly the size of the structure. From what Skinner had said they had been missing for two days, and their watches, though synchronized with each other, were several hours off. When they arrived in D.C. Skinner was going to want explanations. They had none to give. "Scully, don't you think that. . . ." "No way, Mulder," she interrupted him. "I'm willing to admit that something incredibly strange has happened to us. But that does not mean that we were abducted by aliens or entered a parallel universe or anything like that." "But what about our watches?" "I don't know, Mulder . . . maybe somebody changed them, okay? Or maybe *we* changed them for some reason." He snorted. "Look, just because the explanation isn't obvious doesn't mean it doesn't exist." "I know, I know. 'The answers are there, you just have to know where to look.'" Her head snapped to the side. There was something odd about what he had just said. Oh, she knew she had said it when they had first met three years before, but . . . somehow . . . she thought she could remember his saying it before, only in a different tone. . . ." He was staring at her, too. "Something happened to us, Scully," he said quietly. "I know." She rubbed her eyes and sighed. "Mulder, I just wish we could figure this out." Her voice grew very quiet and he could swear there was a tremor in it. "I -- I don't want this to end up another X-File," she said. "I don't want to *be* an X-File. . . ." He remembered that other time, the time she *had* been an X-File and he had been forced to file the details of her disappearance with the other "unsolved" cases. He had been so terrified that time, knowing she would never come back. . . . She also remembered his disappearance in the desert in New Mexico and how *he* had very nearly become an X-File himself. Alone. He had been so alone. Her heart ached with the loneliness she had felt. And then they looked at each other. "Well, Scully. There's nobody else I'd rather experience a missing-time event with than you." She chuckled and then groaned. "What, Scully?" "Mulder, I just remembered something," she whispered in a panicked voice. "What?" He reached out and grabbed her hands. "We left those damned $4000 flashlights in the cabin. . . ." -30- Juliettt@mail.aol.com