From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 15 Apr 2001 03:34:11 -0000
Subject: Court & Spark (1/?) by Foxie Meg

Reply To: megan86@thexfiles.com


Title: Court and Spark

Author: Foxie Meg

Rating: PG so far [NC-17 in total]

Spoilers: Just a tiny, tiny one from the mytharc 
that developed in S8.  Otherwise, this is purely 
fictional, although I suppose you could say it takes 
place after DeadAlive... possibly after Season 8 
entirely.

Keywords: Angst! MSR

Disclaimer:  Well, since I've officially sworn off 
fanfic, this isn't fanfic (don't argue with me, I'm 
the author, and I say it isn't, so there).  Therefore 
I don't have to give any credit to anyone, because 
I'm not using anyone's characters.  They just happen 
to have the same names/personalities/physical 
descriptions/histories as Fox Mulder and Dana Scully 
of The X-Files, which belong to 1013 and Chris Carter.

Feedback: You betcha.  megan86@thexfiles.com

Archive: Anywhere, just tell me where and keep my 
name on it.

Author's Notes: As a friend told me when I swore I'd 
quit writing fanfic in order to pursue more lucrative
writing, it only takes an inspiring song and I'm back 
at my computer, typing out another adventure for Moose
and Squirrel.

This began its life as a vignette inspired by Joni 
Mitchell's "Help Me" - the story of two lovers who
decide they love freedom more than each other - and
was going to be very unhappy - Mulder and Scully admit
they love each other and decide to part ways before
they lose their freedom as a result.

However, I couldn't find a line in that song that
I felt worked as a title.  So I used the title of
the album it came from - and the story changed, and
became inspired by lines from the title song.

And it's still going.  (Gee thanks, Scullymuse.)  And
it's still unhappy.  Read at your own risk.


***

His eyes were the colour
Of the sand and the sea
And the more he talked to me,
The more he reached me

--But I couldn't let go of L.A.,
City of the Fallen Angels.

--"Court & Spark" - Joni Mitchell

***


Crash... flow... tug... slide... retreat.

Breathe deep, blue-green chest swelling with 
checked velocity, cresting white as it approached 
the edge of its restraint...

And...

Crash.  Flow.  Tug.  Slide.  Retreat.

Again.

And again.

Like breathing.

Standing silently, bare feet feeling the grains 
of sand being tugged from between her toes by the 
pied piper of the Pacific, she was content to let the 
ocean breathe for her.  She wasn't sure she was capable.

Ebb.

She felt her life ebbing, withdrawing from the 
surface of her consciousness where it could be more 
easily hurt.  Hiding in its own little shell, 
hard -- yet brittle.

Gather.

She struggled desperately for control of her 
feelings, finally clutching them all together in 
neat little boxes.  The only problem was that -- while 
the outsides of the boxes were perfectly contained -- 
inside there was chaos.

Build.

There were rumblings inside her soul that reminded her 
that all was not perfect.  That, even here, beside the 
ocean that had been her companion all through her 
childhood, the angels were silent.

Crest.

She could feel the whitecap beginning inside her 
chest.  She struggled to tamp it down, but then came 
the memories, and she understood that -- finally -- her 
emotions had decided they had had enough.  Even the 
Red Sea wasn't parted and held back forever.

< "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving.  I have to get out now, before they 
kill you.  They'll kill you next, you know."

"No, I don't know!  What makes you so sure?"

"They've killed everyone I love.  Everyone, Scully, 
except you, and you'll be next.  My father, my 
sister, my mother..." his voice choked and she knew 
it broke his heart to say it, "My daughters..." >

Crash!

Oh, God... she felt it break deep in her spirit 
and could not stop the tears falling down her face 
in heated torrents.  Her arms wrapped tightly around 
her, despite the pleasant warmth of the summer evening, 
in an attempt to keep out a chill of the soul.  Either 
that, or an attempt to keep the fragile sand castle of 
her sanity from falling apart under the wave.

He'd called them his daughters, even though only one of 
them was.  No, not true... Emily had been his, too.  
Maybe not biologically... but she had been his.  He had 
loved her, too.  He would've been her father.

He had loved being Hannah's father in the five 
years he had the opportunity.

Hannah, the child with hair that was almost blonde, 
but not quite.  A gift from Melissa, with soft curls 
that wisped around her sweet oval face.

Hannah, the miracle she had prayed for, much as Hannah, 
the barren woman in the Bible, had prayed for her own 
child and had cried out in joy with the birth of Samuel.  
"For this child I prayed, and the Lord has heard my 
petition!"

The sobs rose again from where they had subsided with 
the memory of Hannah's childlike face, her eyes of 
ever-changing hues brightening to a clear green as she 
cried, "Daddy!" and flung herself into Mulder's arms 
three years ago.

The last day they'd ever seen her.

He had laughed, kissing her all over her face with rapt 
adoration.  She had never in her life seen Mulder so happy, 
ever.  That thought made her almost sad, that she alone 
hadn't been able to make him this happy.

But she wasn't too jealous.  When he'd fallen in love 
with Hannah, he'd fallen in love with her all over 
again -- and deeper the second time.

And when Hannah had... disappeared... Mulder had died.  
She knew he had.  Over all the years, everything They'd 
taken from him -- his family, her, six months of his life 
-- They still had not been able to break his spirit.

But when their little girl had disappeared one spring day 
in a park in Maine, and then they found a tiny body barely 
recognizable as human floating in the Penobscot River four 
weeks later, They had finally killed him.

She had watched the light in his eyes go out when he 
saw the corpse being hauled out of the river.  He hadn't 
even been able to cry.

Neither had she, for the first three days.  Shock, she 
supposed.  And then it had hit her with the force of a 
tidal wave.

Hannah, her beautiful child, was dead.

Mulder had disappeared, too, after the memorial service.  
Closed casket.  No autopsy -- they hadn't needed one to 
identify the body.  Melissa's gold cross -- the one that 
matched Scully's -- had been still dangling around her neck.  
And neither of them could be forced to have their child 
desecrated in such a manner.

"I don't want to know how badly she was hurt," Mulder had 
rasped, and she had only nodded mutely in agreement.  She 
didn't think she could bear the discovery either.

She hadn't seen him for two days.  Then she'd gotten a 
call from a park ranger telling her to come to Acadia 
National Park immediately -- they'd found him, 
unconscious and barely alive.

She had responded immediately, needing him with her.  
Needing him to steady her, to anchor her.  

But he had been adrift himself, feverish and near-death 
from dehydration and exhaustion.

He had whimpered and cried out in his fevered sleep, 
clutching at the tiny gold cross around his neck... 
Hannah's cross, that he'd managed to recover from the 
body without her knowledge... and she had sat by him on 
the bed in the hotel room, bathing him with cool cloths 
and her tears as she cried for her lost daughters and her 
husband -- for though he was not her husband in the eyes 
of the state, she was certain he was in the eyes of God.

She clutched her own cross as she remembered the night 
his fever broke after thirty-six hours of her constant 
vigil, and she had fallen asleep beside him, exhaustion 
taking over now that he was no longer in danger from the 
high temperature.

She had awakened to find him pulling on his shoes, his 
suitcase already packed and sitting by the chair.

That was when she had asked him where he was going, and he 
had informed her that he was leaving.

She had not talked to him -- or much of anyone, for that 
matter -- since then, but the Gunmen kept close tabs on him 
and reported to her from time to time, just to let her know 
he was still alive.

He was traveling all over the continent, sometimes to 
different continents... but she didn't know what he was 
looking for.
 
They had both been out of the Bureau before the Tragedy, 
and he had nothing to keep him tied down to any one place.  
She sometimes vaguely wondered where he got the money for 
his vagrancy, but decided she really didn't want to know.

Thinking about Mulder was too painful, so she didn't do 
that too often.  After all, Rachel Cartwright had never met 
a beautiful, tortured man named Fox Mulder, so why should 
she think about him?

But on days like today -- with the ocean tugging at her 
soul as twilight descended over the restless waves -- Dana 
Scully trembled with the memories of the fire that burned 
in his hazel eyes; the brilliance that practically blazed 
from his ever-active mind.

And then she would remember why those fires had gone out, 
and would remember why she had changed her name to Rachel 
and moved to California.  "A sound is heard in Ramah -- 
wailing and mourning unrestrained.  It is Rachel, weeping 
for her children, and she will not be comforted, for they are 
no more."

Court And Spark (2/?)

Everybody still with me?  Hopefully?  *Smiles*
All the legal stuff's in part One if you want to
read that.

***


She sighed, finally focusing her eyes from 
where they had been wandering the horizon, 
unseeing.

She wondered when the sun had set, and when 
twilight had grasped the beach fully.  Picking 
up her wide-brimmed sun hat from where it rested 
on the sand, anchored by her cell phone and car 
keys, she brushed the sand from the top of it and 
settled it on her head, over her hair, which she 
had allowed to grow unchecked.

Dana Scully had short, practical haircuts with 
immaculately groomed auburn hair.

Rachel Cartwright had long, untamed waves of California-
blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in naturally 
tangled curls.

She turned, staring at the shifting sugar-sands 
underneath her feet as she shuffled further up the 
beach to where her sandals waited, resting safely 
on the dry grass.

She sensed rather than saw or heard him, and looked 
up, immediately on her guard.  Instincts groomed 
over eleven years in the FBI don't disappear just 
because you quit your job and change your name.

His silhouette was outlined against a sky that was 
already dark-purple with stars and pink-streaked 
clouds, but she recognized the tense set of his jaw, 
the strained hunch in his shoulders, the despairing slump 
in his spine.

He looked like a man beaten and broken by the breakers of 
life.  And maybe he was, she mused.  Not necessarily breakers 
as in ocean waves, as she'd first meant by the analogy, but 
by Those who broke life.

She stood up straight -- as straight as she could with the pain 
that suddenly seemed to arrest every square inch of her being --
and stared at him in the starlight and fading sunset.

"Hello," she said softly.

He said nothing, but she saw his eyes flash with recognition, 
then doubt.  "Scully?" he asked, his voice deeper, huskier -- 
sadder -- than she remembered.

She sighed.  "It depends on who's asking."  When had she become 
guarded around him?

He looked like he was drinking her in, but his eyes were guarded 
too.  "An old friend."

She thought, absently, that she should be hurt by that 
identification.  He was her husband, even if not in the 
conventional sense of the word; the father of her children.  And 
yet he called himself a friend.

Maybe that was more appropriate.  They'd always been friends, 
even when they were more, hadn't they?

But friends didn't leave friends when their only daughter had 
died.  Friends didn't leave friends when everything in their 
lives had fallen apart.  Friends stayed together.

Her eyes sparked rebelliously at that thought.  "You must be 
thinking of the wrong person," she spoke, almost politely, but 
with a glacial undertone.  "Dana Scully has no friends."

He flinched visibly at that, but she only finished slipping 
into her sandals and moved as if to pass him and leave him on 
the beach.

He stopped her, his manner taking on the feeling of a friendly 
stranger.  "Then may I ask your name?"  When she was silent for a 
moment, he added, "I'm David.  David Samson."

She sucked in her breath.  After she had explained to Mulder her 
reasons for naming Hannah what she had, he had become obsessed with 
learning the histories of biblical characters.  She had no doubt 
that he had chosen that name for a reason.

King David, who had become the chosen king of Israel against all 
odds and had lost his best friend and two of his sons.

Samson, a hero of Herculean strength, who had lost his power with 
one swift slice of a razor and been reduced to grinding grain for 
his enemies in blindness.

She also recalled that neither man had died without a final 
victory.  Was he holding on to that hope?

"Hi, David," she said in a small voice.  "I'm Rachel.  Rachel 
Cartwright."

This time, it was his sharp intake of breath that sliced the 
ocean's sounds.  His eyes changed color mercurially, shifting 
from a deep golden brown to an odd, troubled shade of aqua.

She heard him whisper under his breath, "A sound is heard in 
Ramah..."

She almost smiled.  Almost.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile.  She knew it was forced, 
fake; because she knew him.

"It's very nice to meet you, Rachel," he said cordially.  "Do you 
come here often?"  

She was finding it increasingly harder to keep up this facade, 
but played along for his benefit and smiled softly, sadly.  "Not 
really," she murmured.  "Only when... when things get too hard."

He nodded, once, curtly, and she saw pain flash in his eyes.  She 
didn't know if it was pain for her, or for his own memories.

Once, a long time ago, she would have known that it was for both of 
them.  But she didn't know if "both of them" existed as a unit 
anymore -- he had thrown that into jeopardy three years ago in a 
hotel in Bar Harbor, Maine when he'd left her without a backward 
glance.

That wasn't just a figure of speech, either.  She'd watched him out 
the window as he left and hailed a taxi.  He hadn't looked back, not 
once.

She felt a stabbing pain in her heart at that memory and glared at 
him.  "And now," she said coldly, "I am on my way home.  Excuse me."

She walked around him and headed toward her car.  

The land had cooled off since sunset, while the water remained warm, 
causing the ocean breeze of the daytime to reverse itself into 
something much less romantic-sounding, a land breeze.  

So Mulder was working against the laws of physics when he struggled 
to make his words reach her before they were swept out to sea by the 
contrary wind.  It seemed the winds always blew against them.

"Scully, wait!"

She didn't look back.

But she wasn't surprised to feel his hand on her arm, gripping 
lightly yet authoritatively.  No matter what his name, he was, 
after all, Mulder.

"Scully, please."

She stood still, not turning to face him, not pulling away.  
Simply standing still.

"I... I can't tell you how sorry I am... that I left... but, 
Scully..."  

She knew by the tone in his voice that he was begging her to 
look at him.  But she wouldn't.  She closed her eyes so that 
she couldn't be forced to, but was assaulted by her memories 
of his pleading eyes, and that was worse.  

She opened her eyes quickly, finding a bright spot just above 
the horizon and focusing on it.  She vaguely recognized it as 
Venus, the brightest spot in the sky.  The Morning and Evening 
Star.

He sensed her reticence, and stayed behind her, allowing her the 
safety and freedom of not having to face him.

"I have no right to ask you for anything, not after what 
happened -- what I did.  I understand that.  But please... I'm...
I'm leaving in a week... and..." he stopped, and she heard him 
taking deep gulps of air.  She wasn't sure he had ever displayed 
this much pain in the time she'd known him.

She felt feelings of compassion, the familiar urge to throw aside 
her own pain and comfort him... but she would not allow herself.  
She slammed the door of her soul against his pleas, not caring if 
his reaching hand got caught and severed in the process.

She hurt.

She needed to hurt him.

She needed her daughter back, and he couldn't give her that.

She needed her husband back, and he was gone.  As far as she was 
concerned, he had died in Bar Harbor, Maine, and she had scattered 
his ashes to the Atlantic before she left the East Coast.

When he spoke again, she jumped.  She'd almost forgotten he was 
there.

"And I want you to come with me."

She didn't hesitate, and she sensed his wince as she answered in a 
flat tone, "I'm not leaving Los Angeles."

"Please... will you think about it for a few days at least?"

His voice wasn't really pleading anymore, not to anyone who 
didn't recognize it.  To anyone else, he would have sounded 
perturbed, exasperated, and demanding.

To her, to Dana Scully who was trying to hide inside a stranger's 
name and listen with a stranger's ears, he sounded like he was 
dying and begging for her to save him.

Or maybe that was just her imagination.  Maybe that was her whole 
problem.  Maybe she'd just imagined -- through their entire 
partnership -- that he wanted her to save him.

Maybe he didn't want to be saved.

Well, she sure as hell wouldn't try to come to his rescue this 
time, she told herself firmly.  

But herself must not have been listening, because she heard her 
own voice saying petulantly, "I'll think about it."

His relief was palpable, and he let go of her arm with a slight 
caress that made her shudder -- but with anger, she recognized, not 
desire.  "Good..."

Then he turned and walked away.  She bit the inside of her lower 
lip, wanting to scream, to hit him, to claw him to pieces.

To make him bleed.

Why did he always have to be the one to walk away? 
 
Why couldn't she, for once, leave him?  

Why didn't she know by now to leave him before he had the chance 
to walk out on her?  "Quit before they fire you."  When had she 
forgotten that?

She felt the sudden childish urge to yell, "But that doesn't 
guarantee anything!" at his retreating form, but wouldn't allow 
herself the immaturity.
 
That was Mulder's game, and she was a big girl.  She wouldn't play 
that game.

(End 2/?)


Court And Spark (3/?)

***


The drive to her apartment didn't take that long, but she couldn't 
remember any of it.  Even after two and a half years, she had not 
gotten tired of the scenery in Newport Beach, but tonight she saw 
nothing.

Nothing but anger at herself, and anger at Mulder.

She was just starting to get her life back together, and what did 
he have to do?  He had to show up with no warning, for no good 
reason, and ask her to take him back.

No, no he didn't even do that.

He asked her to follow him.  Again.  To God knows where... if even 
He did.

She unlocked the door to her lush apartment, not forgetting to be 
grateful that she could even afford to live her.  When she'd shown 
up in Newport Beach thirty months ago (God, it sounded like such a 
short amount of time when she put it that way), she had been 
distraught, depressed, and destitute.

Mulder had neglected to leave her anything in his haste to escape, 
and when she went to withdraw money from their mutual banking 
account, there had only been a couple of hundred dollars left.  
When had they let it get down so low?  She thought she'd been 
paying better attention than that.

Confused, she had asked the bank for the most recent statement, 
which they had given her.  It was then that she saw it.  Three 
days earlier, a twenty-five-hundred dollar withdrawal had been 
made by Mr. Fox Mulder.

Her fury had flared, quick and hot.  What had he been thinking?  
He'd left her with almost nothing!  She had gone to her mother, 
reluctant to tell her of the situation, but needing her advice.

Her mother had given her money -- she told Dana to think of it 
as a loan -- and told her to use it to start a new life somewhere.  
Dana had promised to pay her back -- with interest -- as soon as 
possible, and her mother agreed unhesitatingly.  While Margaret 
Scully would have loved to have simply been able to give her 
daughter a gift of money, she knew Dana was too proud to accept it.

She also knew that, with Fox's recent abandonment and -- it pained 
her to think of it -- Hannah's recent death, Dana needed every 
strength she had in her repertoire, and there was no way she was 
going to take one of them away from her.

She let her keep her pride.

It was more than Fox had done.

Scully sighed again -- she seemed to be doing that a lot tonight, 
she thought ruefully -- and closed the door behind her, leaning 
against its wooden surface gratefully, glancing around the apartment 
that she really shouldn't be able to afford.

She let her memories slide back to the day she'd found it... or 
rather, it had found her.  She had just spent the night, shivering 
on the beach, watching the sunset and then dozing only lightly at 
intervals throughout the night, watching the progress of the moon 
in the deep velvet sky, then hugging herself against the chilling 
breeze while she watched the sunrise.

She knew it was probably illegal to do such a thing, but she'd 
really had no choice.  She had nowhere to live -- her money was 
quickly dwindling after traveling cross-country, and she refused to 
ask for any more from her mother.

She had been searching for jobs, but none were forthcoming.  Up 
until this point, she had kept going on sheer determination and 
willpower, but she felt despair slowly beginning to creep in.

She wondered if she could just die here, in California, and let the 
waves carry her out to sea, eventually, somewhere that the waters 
met, mixing her ashes with her father's.  She missed her father 
keenly at that moment -- missed him and envied him.

"Oh Ahab," she had whispered, not checking the tears that trickled 
down her cheeks.  "What I wouldn't give to have you here, telling me 
what to do.  What do you do when your first mate is the one who 
mutinies?"  She had rocked on her heels slowly for a minute, hugging 
herself tightly, before adding, "Or when you are?"

Her lack of sleep and malnutrition had caught up with her sometime 
before the sun managed to rise very far in the charmed California 
sky, and she had slipped into an exhausted coma, completely 
unresponsive to the surrounding world.

Fortunately for her, she'd been rescued by a kindly old gentleman, 
whose name, she later discovered, was John Musgrove.  Mr. Musgrove 
was a man of sixty-eight, spry and wiry.  He explained to her that 
his excellent physical condition was a result of several years in 
the Navy, and a regular regimen of exercise after his retirement.

She had gotten misty-eyed then, and murmured that her father had 
been in the Navy.  He had perked up at that, and asked the name.  
When she told him, his eyes grew wet with unshed tears.

"You're Bill Scully's baby girl?  Dana, right?"

She looked surprised.  "You... you knew my father?"  

The Admiral -- for that's what she discovered he was -- looked as 
if he wanted to salute the very memory of Captain Scully.

"He was a wonderful man, your father.  If it weren't for him, I 
wouldn't have even lived to become an admiral.  We were young men 
when he saved my life, but we kept in touch over the years.  He 
sent me pictures from his wedding, and pictures of you kids... And 
your mother has sent me a Christmas card every year since he died, 
God rest his soul."

Scully couldn't believe it.  While she still could not reconcile 
Emily and Hannah's deaths with what she knew of a loving God, at 
that moment, she truly believed that God cared about her enough to 
drop her on the doorstep -- almost literally -- of a man he knew 
her father and actually cared about her.

She breathed a silent prayer of thanks, tears of gratitude sparking 
in her eyes.

"How did you end up in California, Dana?"  He hesitated before 
asking, "May I call you Dana?"

She smiled, nodding, too full of awe and humble joy to answer with 
words at that moment.

"Then you must call me John," he told her, grinning at her with real 
delight, his white teeth in stark contrast to his tanned, weathered 
skin.  This man was not just a Navy Admiral -- he was a true sailor.

"Thank you, John," she had said softly, with one of her hundred-watt 
smiles, and the old man was smitten on the spot.  He had asked again 
how she had come to California, and she took a deep breath and told 
him the barest facts.

"My... my husband... left me after... after our daughter died two 
months ago... and took most of the money in our bank account..." she 
tried valiantly not to cry as she found herself pouring out her 
sorrow to this fatherly man.  "My Mom loaned me some money, but... I 
haven't been able to find a job... and it won't last forever..."

She wiped her eyes, sniffling and laughing slightly at herself.  
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound so pathetic.  I'm sure 
everything will be fine."

He had been watching her with compassion, and as she pulled herself 
together, he smiled with satisfaction.  Oh, but she was definitely 
Bill Scully's daughter, no doubt about it.  She had inherited his 
pride and independence in spades.

"Well, I have a friend who is looking for someone to clean the 
clubhouse in his apartment building... would you be willing to take 
a job like that?  I'm not sure how much he can pay you, but I think 
he mentioned something about free room and board for whoever he 
hired."

Scully had swallowed.  She needed the money -- but cleaning?  And 
what did the apartment complex look like?  Deciding it couldn't be 
much worse than some of the places she'd stayed while on cases, she 
nodded once, decisively, and -- John noticed -- proudly.

She would have never imagined what a beautiful place the 
clubhouse -- or the apartment itself for that matter -- turned out 
to be.  She had remained professional through the entire ordeal, but 
when Boyd Montgomery hired her on the spot, she couldn't contain her 
girlish impulse to give both her new boss and the Admiral 
affectionate kisses on their cheeks.

And right then, she had known beyond a shadow of a doubt that God 
loved her, and that Ahab was laughing with delight from somewhere in 
Heaven.  As she had walked away from her two new friends to gaze out 
the window at the fantasy-like landscape outside the clubhouse, she 
had whispered through her tears, "I love you too, Daddy..."

One day, a long time ago, she would have taken a book and a glass of 
wine and gone to bed after one of her cleansing sessions on the 
beach.  She laughed derisively at herself as she moved through her 
apartment, depositing her keys, phone, and hat on the coffee table 
in the dining room on her way to the kitchen.

She stopped at the counter, her hand on the door of the 
refrigerator, wondering if she wanted to admit he has this much 
power over her.  If she wanted to give herself proof undeniable 
that she has not recovered from her life with him.

If she really truly wanted that bottle of vodka in the door of her 
fridge.

Her eyes fell on a note on her kitchen counter.  She vaguely 
remembered putting it there this morning, not having taken time to 
read it before she left for work.  It had been stuck to her 
apartment door. 

Her fingers reached out for it, fingering the thin sheet gingerly.  
The handwriting was curling, elegant, and much too neat for a man's 
handwriting.  And yet she recognized the flawless lines as belonging 
to Admiral Musgrove.

"Dana, 

Please call me as soon as you get this, no matter how late it is.  I 
won't be sleeping until I hear from you anyway.

John."

She was officially worried.  The admiral and Boyd Montgomery had 
both agreed that adopting a new persona might be wise, if only to 
protect her from a former husband they didn't entirely trust.

They addressed her as Rachel or Ms. Cartwright at all times... 
except when something was wrong.  She smiled ruefully, thinking 
that she could never hear or see her first name without a flutter 
of panic.

It was her signal from both John and Boyd that something was not 
right, much as it had once been a signal from... well, from him.

She picked up the cordless phone that lay on the counter, slender 
fingers dancing nimbly over the familiar numbers.  The first ring 
hadn't even finished when she heard his voice on the other end.

"Hello?  Dana?"

She would have laughed at his abruptness if it hadn't been for 
the panic in his voice.  "Yes, it's me John.  What is it?"

She heard a muffled noise on the other end of the line and then the 
admiral's voice, calm and professional, though still warm with 
friendliness.  "I was in town yesterday, and overheard a young man 
in the grocery store looking for you, Rachel.  Just wondering if 
he'd found you."

His use of her alias tipped her off to the fact that someone was in 
the apartment with him.  "Was he looking for me, or for Rachel?" she 
asked.

"Yes," he simply replied, and she shook her head at her own 
denseness.  Of course he wouldn't be able to answer specifically if 
someone else was there.

"For Dana?  He was looking for Dana Scully?" 

"Yes, that's right," he answered, sounding relieved despite his 
attempt at feigning impatience.  She smiled.

"What did he look like?  Can you describe him?"

"Um, he was tall, with dark hair..."

She rolled her eyes.  Men.  Surely he knew that description was too 
general?

"I didn't get to see him up close for long, but I remember him 
having dark eyes."

Something sounded wrong about that.  Mulder's eyes were sometimes 
brown, but they were very rarely dark, unless he was emotional 
enough for the pupils to be dilated so drastically they made his 
eyes look black.  She took a deep breath, and questioned, "How did 
he look?  Did he look tired, or..." she didn't know how to ask it.

What was even more frustrating, she realized, is that most people 
wouldn't be able to read Mulder's body language as well as she 
could.  Most people wouldn't be able to tell if he was tired.

"Not that I could tell.  He looked rather energetic, actually.  He 
was wearing a black leather jacket, if that helps."

She blew out a frustrated breath.  "Not really," she answered 
honestly.  "So you didn't talk to him, then?"

"No, I didn't.  I thought it might have been... you know."

Yes, she did know.  He thought it might have been Mulder.  There 
really wasn't much she could tell him.  "I don't know, it might have 
been," she said honestly.  "But I can tell you that someone did find 
me, earlier tonight, on the beach, and it is probably the person 
you're talking about."

"Are you all right?" he asked immediately, defensive concern 
underlying his tone.

"Yes... I'm f--" she stopped.  She wouldn't say it to him.  "I'm a 
little shaken up, but I'll be okay."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it.  You'll call me immediately if anything 
happens, won't you?"

"Of course, John.  Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Rachel."

She hung up the phone and walked into her bedroom, the vodka 
forgotten.  Something about John's description of the man didn't 
settle well with her, and she replayed every bit of it in her mind.  
There were little niggles over the description of his eye color, and 
the deduction that he looked "energetic," as Mulder very rarely 
looked "energetic," even on his best days before... well, before 
Hannah.  But most certainly not after.  Driven, yes.  Energetic... 
probably not.

Those could be explained away, however, as his habitually high 
emotion being misinterpreted by someone unfamiliar with him.

She bit her lip.  While she accepted her rationalization on those 
points, there was something else... something she couldn't quite put 
her finger on.

Shrugging into her pajamas, she decided to forget about it and get 
some sleep.  Morning comes quickly, she reminded herself ruefully, 
and she had to finish setting up the continental breakfast in the 
clubhouse before six o'clock.

 
End Part 3/?


Court And Spark, 4/?

***

"Seemed like he read my mind
He saw me mistrusting him
And still acting kind
He saw how I worried sometimes -- 
I worry sometimes."
{-"Court & Spark" - Joni Mitchell}

***

There was very little more satisfying to Scully than the 
time between getting the breakfast set out in the clubhouse 
and setting out the finger sandwiches for lunch.  During 
that time, she was free to wander.  She didn't wander far, 
because she knew she had to be back by ten thirty to begin 
preparing the lunch that would be set out promptly at 
eleven forty-five.

Her favorite occupation was to stand in the cool stone foyer 
that connected the outdoor courtyard with the main complex.  
Just across the courtyard was the clubhouse, so she knew it 
wouldn't take long to get back.

The thing about the foyer that fascinated her was the mural 
painted on the walls of either side of the open ended 
passageway.  

On one side was a stone walkway overtaken by wildflowers 
leading up to a dwelling place, the edges of which barely 
teased her vision around the stately spruce trees standing at 
attention like slender sentinels.  It was a leap, but she was 
sure it was a castle.  Surrounding the castle were rolling 
green mountains, protective and warm, with a hint of golden 
blush giving away the promise of a rising dawn.  

On the other wall were red hills sloping down to the ocean in 
a slippery race to the briny waves that bore the ethereal, 
other-worldly light of the time between sunset and twilight.  
Bluish white clouds were streaked across the pink-lavender-
periwinkle sky, and she could almost smell the salt air.

No matter which side of the foyer she faced, she felt her heart 
swell with a familiar longing -- a wistfulness that had its 
roots in her childhood.  Her father had read her Moby Dick, but 
her mother had read her the Chronicles of Narnia, and she had 
secretly always fantasized about living in that magical world 
where animals talked.

She let her mind wander to tales of four English school children 
who became kings and queens... the sort of thing every child 
wishes for.  To grow up and become a king or a queen -- even in 
a country that had no such crown.

She was just really getting into those memories when she had an 
unexpected and uninvited flash of memory -- finding the Narnia books 
on Mulder's bookshelf like Merlin's book of spells among pamphlets 
of magic tricks.  She should have known that the magical world C.S. 
Lewis had created would tug at his heart.  She often envisioned him 
as Prince Caspian, impulsive and honorable, whose identity as the 
true King of Narnia was concealed from him by a false father who 
was jealous of it.

Her mind snapped closed on that thought, and suddenly the murals 
before her seemed like what they were -- brushstrokes of oil -- 
rather than a window into another world.

Huffing a sigh of frustration, she turned to go out into the 
courtyard for a few more minutes before returning to the clubhouse.

And that's when she saw him.

She sucked in her breath sharply, hoping the recognition didn't 
flare in her eyes.  Maybe he wouldn't recognize her; even Mulder 
had doubted.

No such luck.

"My, what a pleasant surprise," he said in a low, cordial tone that 
would have been pleasant were it not for the mockery lacing through 
it.  "I came out here looking for a Ms. Cartwright and am fortunate 
enough to stumble across the ever-lovely Dr. Scully.  How are you, 
Dana?"  His smile didn't reach his eyes.

She wanted nothing more than to slam him against the wall and 
scratch his eyes out with her fingernails, demanding his blood as 
the price for her daughter's life.  She pinned him with a glacial 
glare and felt a wicked satisfaction when he flinched at the blue 
flame of anger in her eyes as if she'd struck him physically.

"As well as can be expected, Alex, under such circumstances as I 
presently find myself, no small thanks to you."  Her voice was 
cheerful -- warm, even -- in marked contrast to the sharp icicle 
blades of her eyes.

"Well, Dana, I'm flattered, but I'm afraid you give me credit where 
none is due," he responded with a false humility that made Scully 
grind her teeth in an attempt to reign in the violence she felt 
trembling in her limbs.

"I'm certain I would never accuse you falsely, Alex," she returned 
with saccharine sweetness that was again betrayed by her eyes, the 
glare from which he seemed powerless to escape.  

"Oh, but I can't take credit for Mulder's fickleness nor the ease 
with which he broke his vows to you."  At her look of slight 
surprise and a slight narrowing of the eyes that demanded 
explanation, he smiled with a patronizing sympathy.  "Oh, I know, 
the two of you were never legal... but that private ceremony you had 
in the hospital room when Hannah was born was simply... 
breathtaking."

Sharp revulsion sprang up in her stomach at both the memory his 
words evoked and the thought that he had seen two of the most 
beautiful moments of her life -- the birth of her daughter and 
Mulder whispering to her that -- for better or for worse -- she 
was stuck with him for the rest of her life.

<Can't get much worse than this, can it?> she thought bitterly, 
but chose to direct the anger toward a more accessible target -- 
Alex Krycek.

She smiled, tight-lipped and cold.  "In an indirect way, I'm 
certain you could," she simpered.  "After all, you put in motion 
the catalyst for his actions."  Her eyes snapped on the last words, 
and her stance left no doubt as to what she meant.

"I'm afraid you are operating on false information," he said, again 
with such a tone of artificial modesty that she subconsciously 
understood every time Mulder had slammed the man up against a wall 
and tried to beat him senseless.

His next words stilled her heart, though.

"I didn't kill Hannah."

The next moment, her body was in motion without conscious thought.  
The element of surprise was on her side, and she pinned him against 
one of the stone columns.  "Liar!" she hissed in his face.  "Don't 
you dare add insult to injury and deny taking everything precious in 
my life!"   Her voice had risen steadily from her original ferocious 
whisper until it reached a bellowing shout on the last word.

Her forearm pressed threateningly against his throat, and his words 
were choked as he refused to fight back against her.  That was 
something she never would have thought -- Krycek as a gentleman, 
refusing to do physical harm to a woman.
 
<No, he won't hit me; he'll just rip my heart out and destroy my 
soul.>

"Scully, please, I'm not lying... I didn't... kill her."

She let go of him with one more spiteful push against his clavicle.  
She walked away from him, hands on her hips, but just as he was 
beginning to move away from the column, she whirled and trapped 
him back against it with her eyes and he stuck there, as helpless 
as if he'd been a butterfly under an entomologist's shiny pins.

"Don't lie to me, Krycek.  Your life isn't worth the effort I 
would have to expend to take it, but don't think that would stop 
me from trying."

He drew in deep, ragged breaths past his bruised trachea, and when 
he spoke again, his voice was raw and hoarse.

"That would have defeated the entire purpose.  We took her to save 
her.  We didn't kill her."

He could tell by the look in her eyes that she wasn't convinced, 
yet her stance and expression all gave him tacit permission to 
speak.  He laughed wryly to himself; they practically demanded that 
he explain himself further.

He saw the doubt... could anticipate her next words.  <What about 
the body?>

"She was dead when we found her."  Her face fell, and he could 
practically hear her heart shatter.  "No records could be found on 
her - no birth certificates or anything.  It was as if she was 
shaped out of the dust of the ground... perhaps born simply to 
take Hannah's place."

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, unspoken questions warring in 
their depths.

"It was easy enough to slip the cross around her neck... she was 
already so decayed that she was virtually unrecognizable... a 
week or two more helped that along."

Again, her expression challenged him in unbelief.  "You never 
had any medical testing done to identify the body, did you?  No 
dental records, no autopsy.  Very slack of you, Agent Scully."

At that moment, she regretted their choice deeply.  Why hadn't 
she had an autopsy done?  Why hadn't they tried to match the 
dental records?  There was no way she could know now... except... 

"Damn you, Krycek.  You're a liar, and a thief, and I don't 
believe you for a second."

She stalked past him, on to the clubhouse where she would begin 
preparing lunch for the apartment dwellers.

She only faltered slightly as his voice called after her, "Think 
about it, Dana.  I'd hate for you to lose your daughter twice."


(End Part 4/?)


Court And Spark (5/?)

***

"Looked into my door
With a sleeping roll and a madman's soul
He thought for sure I'd seen him
Dancing up the river in the dark
Looking for a woman to court and spark."
{"Court & Spark" - Joni Mitchell}

***

The thought had been rumbling in her head ever since Alex 
Krycek's visit:  <I'm gonna break something.>  Her quick, 
efficient movements and the dazzling smile she put on for the 
apartment dwellers masked her underlying tension well, 
though.

In fact, only one man would have known what she was going through.  
One man, she thought ruefully, who had been the cause of most of 
her emotional turmoil for the past three years.  Or more.

After she finished cleaning up the silver trays and crystal 
pitchers from the light luncheon in the clubhouse, she decided to 
ask Mr. Montgomery if he needed anything before she left for the 
rest of the day.

He answered in the negative, and she went back to her room to 
change into shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes.  If there was 
one thing Mulder had taught her that she was not willing to give 
up simply because she associated it with him, it was that 
physical exertion was a good way to relieve emotional tension.

She ran the five miles to the beach, each footfall to the 
pavement pounding out one more ounce of frustration, anger, and 
confusion.

Her mind was so focused on the pleasing pain of drawing in 
labored breaths and the jarring force of her relentless pace 
that she stumbled as the ground unexpectedly yielded below her 
feet and sand crept into her shoes.

She often marveled at how sand managed to get into the oddest 
places -- even places that should be impossible -- or at least 
difficult -- to access.  She skidded to a momentary stop, 
discarding her shoes and socks carelessly on the sand, before 
she resumed jogging at a much more leisurely pace, turning as 
she reached the gentle surf.

Her feet reveled in the feel of the cool, firm sand and the 
occasional splashes of the warm aqua waves as she gradually 
began to slow her pace until she finally turned to head back 
toward her shoes with a strolling walk.

She had once been forced to stop completely after a run without 
a cool-down, and she had sworn that no matter the circumstance, 
she would never do that again.  If she had to handcuff a criminal 
to her and make him go through her cool-down routine with her, 
then she would, but she was not going to experience the muscular 
torture again.

<It hurts when you stop without warning, without a little 
preparation,> she thought absently, knowing at some visceral 
level that she wasn't just talking about exercise.  She shuffled 
back to her shoes and socks, dragging her feet through the sand, 
feeling the shifting temperature between the sun-warmed grains 
on the surface and the cooler ones beneath.

She picked up her shoes and smiled ruefully, a wry twist of the 
lips.  So much sand in them, from only a few steps onto the beach.  
<How does so much sand get into such a tiny space so quickly?>  
She sighed, dumping it out of the shoes, then dropping them 
carelessly to the ground again, falling rather ungracefully into 
a sitting position beside them, staring at the grains that had 
stuck to her hands.

She brushed her palms together lightly, just enough to feel the 
friction of the sand but not quite enough to displace the grains.  
<Poor things,> she thought whimsically.  <Every one of them 
has the potential to be a pearl... they just got stuck in my 
shoes instead of inside an oyster.>

Irritant.  That's what sand was.  Between the wall of a shoe and 
the skin of a foot, it could rub blisters.  In the soft flesh of a 
generous oyster, though, it was given a coating of material that 
turned it into a precious treasure.  <Admittedly, the oyster does 
it in self-defense, and not out some altruistic motivation to 
better the fate of a worthless grain of sand...>

She knew she had often been considered shelled.  Many people knew 
her to have firm walls in place.

One man, one infuriating, beautiful, irritating man had slipped 
inside a crack in her shell... and where others had dumped him 
out of their "shoes" because he had rubbed them raw with his 
irregularities, she had begun to wrap him in her essence.  <In 
self-defense.>  In so doing, she knew, she had not altered the 
core of who he was. 

She had simply made him slightly more palatable to the general 
public.

And infinitely valuable to herself.

She pulled her legs up, her feet flat on the sand, crossed her 
arms over her knees and laid her head against them, drawing in 
cleansing breaths.

<You left too soon, Mulder.  We weren't finished.  No warning.  
No preparation.  No time to cool down.  Hurts.  Hurts a lot.  
I wasn't finished with you yet.>

She finally admitted it to herself.  There was a very simple 
reason that she was so furious at Fox Mulder that she wanted to 
break something.  <Preferably over his head.>

The words of a book long ago read rushed back to her, although 
she didn't remember its source.  "Love wounded bleeds anger."

She knew that the intensity with which she hated him now was 
directly proportional to the intensity with which she had loved 
him then.

<But do I hate him?  Or am I just truly hurt and lashing out?>

Well, one thing was for certain.  Whether or not she really hated 
him, there was a possibility their daughter was alive, and she 
would not hide that from him.

She tugged her socks and shoes on, then stood up, brushing her 
hands ineffectually against the damp grains now clinging to her 
legs and shorts.  As she stretched her legs once more to prepare 
for the jog back to the apartments, she startled to hear his 
voice, hoarse and penitent, behind her.

"I never meant to run away from you, Scully." 

She didn't want to hear it.  She was beginning to accept what 
had happened, what was happening, but she didn't want to talk 
about it, not yet.

"It's fine, Mulder," she waved him off with a dismissive shake 
of her head.  For once, he let it slide, although she didn't 
miss the flash of pain -- insecurity -- in his eyes.

"He found you didn't he."

It wasn't a question.  It should have been.  The sentence 
structure demanded a question mark at the end, a rising 
intonation of the voice.

But there was none.

She nodded anyway, answering a question that wasn't there.  
Confirming the declarative sentence when it should have been 
inquisitive.

"He said... he said Hannah is still alive," she whispered, not 
looking at him now.  Looking at the expanse of sand that 
quivered between their feet.

"He's a liar."

She knew this.  She had said as much to the "he" in question.  
But when Mulder said it, so snidely, so derisively -- dismissing 
the possibility of hope out of hand -- her head snapped up and 
her eyes locked onto his angrily.

"Aren't you even willing to explore the possibility?" she bit 
off.  "All the times you chased false leads on UFO's and 
shadowy conspiracies, you can't give the benefit of the doubt 
to an idea that our daughter might still be alive?"

The anger flashed in his eyes, but she saw it replaced 
momentarily by a fluttering, trembling, fragile hope.  
She'd called Hannah theirs.  She hadn't said "my daughter".  
She hadn't even said "Hannah."  She'd said "our daughter."

His voice was still raw, still hoarse, and she began to wonder if 
it really was his emotions, or if he had simply done something in 
the three years they'd been apart that had permanently damaged his 
vocal cords.

"Being disappointed in those things would not have devastated me 
like this would.  They were important to me, but no matter, I knew 
I'd always have..."

He looked away from her uncomfortably.

She pressed him.  "You'd always have what, Mulder?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes, and his lips settled into lines of 
displeasure, as if he'd just swallowed something bitter.  His 
voice held none of the tenderness his words implied, and she 
thought crazily that something was wrong with him.  First he had 
made a question sound like a statement, and now he was making a 
love-speech sound like an insult.

"You.  I'd always have you."

"I never left, Mulder."

His eyes turned back to her then, and she barely controlled her 
impulse to flinch away from the fire she saw burning there.  The 
anger, the desperation, the self-loathing and desire to lash out 
at someone -- her.

"I =know= that, Scully!" he told her with the same heat, the same 
passion he'd utilized many, many times over the years.  Usually 
when he was acting the part of a madman, turning his gun on her.

<"For God's sake, Scully, it's me!">

<"You've been making reports on me since the beginning!  Taking 
your little notes!">

<"You have my files and you have my gun.  Don't ask me for my 
trust!">

<"Scully... run!  Scully!">

She did flinch at those memories.  So many times, so many moments 
that bound them together... how had they ever come to the point 
they had?  But the problem was... they had.

And here they were.

"I need to know, Mulder.  I need to know... I'd never forgive 
myself if I walked away from this just to save face, and my 
daughter--" he flinched when she used the singular possessive -- 
"was still alive, waiting for me."

He shook his head, biting down on the inside of his cheek.  
"It won't be the same, Scully.  It would never be the same 
again."

This time it was her anger that exploded.

"Damn it, Mulder, =I don't care!="  

He felt the intensity radiating from her in waves and stumbled 
back slightly as though she had struck him a physical blow, 
although she hadn't moved an inch.

"It's my =daughter,= Mulder.  It's =Hannah.=  And you can't tell 
me I wouldn't love her just because I've missed three years of 
her life!"

She knew she shouldn't say it.  She felt it building inside her, 
felt the accompanying warning begging her not to say it.

But she said it.

"It's not like she left me on purpose."

His jaw clenched, his eyes shut down.  She felt her chest clench 
tightly, as if to give a comforting squeeze to her heart -- the 
one that wasn't there.  The one that had been wrenched out when 
she'd lost everything at once.

He had no answer for her, so he turned and walked away, quickly, 
sharply, his long angry strides turning into a loping gait as he 
jogged carelessly away from her.

She bit her lip and let out a soft curse.  He had no apology, she 
knew.  There was nothing he could say in his own defense.

But she didn't have to remind him of that.

She shook her head, not entirely displacing the feelings of guilt 
that had overcome her, although she managed to retain a ripple of 
anger at the thought, <He ran away again.  He didn't stay and 
fight me -- for me -- for us.  He just... left.  Again.>

(End Part 5/?)

Court And Spark 6/?

***

"He was playing on the sidewalk
For passing change
Then something strange
Happened - glory train passed through him
So he buried the coins he made
In People's Park
And went lookin' for a woman to court and spark."

{"Court & Spark" - Joni Mitchell}

***

"Do you realize that you spend a lot of unnecessary time running 
from your problems, Agent Mulder?"

The voice startled him enough to break his jogging rhythm and he 
skidded to a stop on the sidewalk, whirling around to face the 
man he'd passed seconds earlier without even noticing him.

The voice grew patronizing, teasing.  "Oh, I'm sorry -- that's 
right.  You're not an agent anymore, are you?"

"You rat bastard," he growled, immediately moving forward to 
attack Krycek.

"Hey wait a second," Krycek teased, reaching into his leather 
jacket and pulling out a gun, just enough so that Mulder could 
see he had it.

And of course, Mulder didn't have one to match it.  He dropped 
his hands, which had come up as if to strangle Krycek right 
there on the sidewalk, but didn't take a step back.

"That's better," he smiled, still not taking his hand from the 
gun.  "At least your pretty little former partner exchanged a 
few friendly sentences with me before she tried to break my 
neck."

"What did you do to her?" Mulder growled, taking a menacing step 
forward, pausing only when Krycek tugged the gun out of his 
jacket a little further.

"Your concerns are misplaced, Mulder.  I was the only one on 
the receiving end of physical damage during our little... 
encounter."

Mulder felt a small swelling of pride at his words.  He only wished 
he'd been there to see it.  Watching Scully kick butt had once been 
one of his favorite pastimes -- even when it was his butt she was 
kicking.  <Sometimes especially when it was mine.>

"What do you want, Krycek?"

The other man had a teasing smile on his face, obviously enjoying 
having the upper hand.  "Oh, just a little friendly conversation, 
Mulder.  I was your partner once upon a time, you know... care to
chat?  For old times' sake?"

Mulder did his best to settle down, as he knew Krycek was only 
trying to provoke him.  He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.  
But he couldn't force himself to make polite chitchat with him, 
so he stayed silent.

"I heard you got married.  Had a little baby girl."  Mulder's 
eyes flickered, but his jaw was set and he gave no other 
indication of having heard him.  "Not in that order, of course."

"Cut the crap, Krycek.  What's your point?"

"Patience is a virtue, my friend."  Krycek grew thoughtful, the look 
on his face dramatically exaggerated.  "Explain something to me.  
Since you and Scully were never legally married, did that make it 
easier for you to leave her when you lost your daughter?"

"I don't owe you anything, Krycek, and I refuse to play your games."

For the first time, the facade fell from Krycek's countenance, and 
his eyes flashed dangerously.  "You may not owe me anything, but you 
damn well owe Scully an explanation," he snapped, his hand 
tightening almost imperceptibly on the gun.

"What do you care?" Mulder shouted hoarsely.

"I care because it's time you got your daughter back.  We can't keep 
her anymore."

His head reeled.  "What are you saying?"

Krycek breathed out an uneasy sigh.  "What I'm saying is -- and see 
if you can keep up here, Mulder, 'cause I'm only going to say it 
once -- I can't give you your daughter back.  It's too dangerous 
for me -- if the others found out, I'd be a dead man.  But you can 
come get her, and I'd actually prefer that you did.  It's getting 
too dangerous to keep her."

"Damn it, would you tell me what's going on?  I think you owe me an 
explanation!"

Krycek put his gun away and gave Mulder a smile.  "Oh no.  No, I 
don't owe you anything, Mulder.  But I'll give you a piece of 
advice anyway.  If you don't come get her now, they'll kill her."

With that, he turned and walked away, despite his fear that Mulder 
would tackle him from behind at any moment.  Mulder, however, was 
frozen in place, having suddenly become aware of a sharp protest in 
his leg muscles.

He'd stopped running without cooling down, and it was hurting like 
hell.  <You don't stop without a little preparation, Mr. Oxford 
Scholar,> he chided himself harshly.  <And you don't just walk 
out on your wife because things get a little rough,> a very 
familiar voice inside him chimed in.

"Shut up," he muttered aloud.  "I didn't ask you."

Several passersby regarded him strangely, but he merely bit back 
the pain, re-stretched his muscles, and started off toward his 
hotel at a slow jog.

He had some serious plans to make.

***

Wine.

She loved wine.  The warmth and texture of it in her mouth -- the
way it smoothed out the tension in her neck and shoulders -- the 
almost-unpleasant tartness of it on her tongue.

So warm, a silky, satiny feeling passing through her mouth, 
accenting the diamond stars of the summer night, all the 
lost angels flickering through the sky.  She smiled at her
own whimsy.  Ever since she had mistyped Los Angeles as
"Lost Angeles," she had thought of the city in those terms.

Full of lost angels.

She wondered where her own lost angel was.  If she was truly
alive, or if she was buried in a much-too-early grave as she
had believed for the past three years.

<You've lost another.>

She took a too-large swallow of wine, hoping the bite of the
Merlot would be enough to begin drowning out that voice in her
head.  The one that was still in love with Mulder.

Unbidden, a quote from Matthew Arnold sprang to her mind,
pricking tears in her eyes.

<"A beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his
luminous wings in vain.">

She frowned and swallowed her wine as though the taste had gone
bitter unexpectedly.  He was angelic.  A dark, lost, fallen 
angel.  She had a mental picture of him as she'd often seen him,
in black jeans and a white shirt, shrugging into his black leather
jacket, his dark hair falling rebelliously over his forehead.

Beautiful.

She saw him falling to his knees on the bank of the Penobscot 
River, dry-sobs wracking his body with agonizing intensity,
shrugging her away from him as she tried to embrace him...
slipping out of his leather jacket and wrapping it around 
the decayed body he'd thought to be his daughter in a too-
late attempt to keep her safe from the freezing cold of the 
water.

Ineffectual.

He had done all he could, fought as hard as he could, to bring
meaning and happiness to their mutual existence.  Ultimately,
however, it appeared he had failed, and they were still held
in the infinite gravity of a black hole of despair; so dense
that not even light could pass through the event horizon.

Beating his wings in vain.

She startled as her upturned lips were met with dryness.  She 
hadn't noticed when she'd emptied the glass.  Sighing, she 
turned to go back inside.

As she set her wine glass in the sink and ran a little water in 
it, recorking the bottle and sliding it into the wine rack, it
hit her with startling intensity.

That was what had been wrong about John's description!  The
leather jacket!  Mulder's was underground, wrapped around the
body of a little girl they believed to be their daughter.

The memory played out in her head despite the piercing pain
in her gut.

When he'd shrugged off her attempt at consolation, she had 
backed away from him, unable to watch as the local law 
enforcement tried unsuccessfully to keep him away from the 
body.  She had looked up just in time to see him falling 
ungracefully to his knees in the mud, desperately wrenching 
his arms out of the leather jacket he wore.

He had wrapped it around the tiny body before clutching the
child to his chest, his heart-wrenching sounds of keening
unaccompanied by the tears she knew he wished he could cry.

She had bit her lip, unable to process what was going on.  It 
wasn't real, she knew.  It couldn't be real.  She had done
nothing worthy of this punishment.  Her baby wasn't dead. 
It was all just a bad dream, and she'd wake up in a minute
to see Mulder lying peacefully beside her with Hannah tucked
safely between them instead of the surreal tableau that 
greeted her -- Mulder stumbling up the riverbank, clutching
a bundle of black leather and something that bore only
passing resemblance to the sunshine of their lives.

They had agreed not to autopsy her.  "I don't think I could
stand knowing what happened to her," Mulder had told her
over and over, his eyes unfocused and his voice dead.

She had nodded her agreement time and time again.  It would
make no difference now.  There was nothing they could do
to change what had happened to her.

And both of them had lost their will to fight back against
whoever had caused it.  They had finally been broken, 
defeated.

And they'd fallen apart.

The jacket was never far from the body, and Mulder had
stubbornly insisted on her being wrapped in it when she 
was buried.  Hannah had loved that leather jacket, often
traipsing around the house stumbling under its weight,
the hem and sleeves dragging the floor and tripping her.

She would always giggle and stand back up again, running 
toward Mulder who knelt just a little ways away from her,
his arms outstretched and a wide grin on his face,
encouraging her with words and non-words and the love in
his eyes.  "Come on baby!  Come on!"

"Daddy!" she would respond, her feet moving faster than
the leather that dragged the floor and toppling forward
over and over until when she fell for the last time, it
was into Mulder's arms.  He would bury his face in her
baby-fine hair for a moment as he held her tightly,
whispering, "I love you, baby," and blinking back tears
when she responded, "Love you too, Daddy," in her sweet
baby voice.

She startled painfully and gasped when there was a soft
knock that sounded much louder on her door.

"Come in," she called in an unsteady voice, using the 
palms of her hands to wipe away the tears she didn't
remember crying.

"It's locked," came a familiar voice that made time stop,
then jump start again when she realized he was waiting
quietly in her hall.

She padded to the door in her bare feet, unlocking it and
standing behind it as she swung it open far enough for him
to enter, closing and relocking it behind him.

"Mulder."

An acknowledgment.

He didn't answer, and she chanced a look at his face.
His eyes were bloodshot, and the lines around his mouth
gave him a tortured, haggard appearance.

"Scully, I..." he trailed off, his eyes darting around 
the room as if searching for hidden cue cards that would
tell him what he wanted to say.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, not knowing really why she
said it.  Why she was apologizing to him when he had left
her.

His gaze found hers frantically and held it with an urgent
desperation.  "No, no!" he protested hoarsely.  "No, you...
Scully you didn't do anything.  =I'm= sorry..." He swallowed,
his gaze flickering away from hers again as he blinked back
tears.

When he had composed himself, he looked back at her again,
the torment of his soul visible.  He stretched one hand
toward her, then stopped and let it drop to his side again
when she flinched involuntarily.

She regretted the reflex, but didn't know how to convey that.

He raised his hands in a display of anguish and bowed his 
head, running his fingers through his hair.

"I... You deserve better," he finally managed.  "You 
deserve someone so much better than me, but Scully...
I'm an idiot... a goddamn idiot and I..."

His voice cracked and he fell apart.  She watched him
crumble, literally wilting to the floor, falling hard
onto his knees, burying his face in his hands as he 
fought for control of his emotions.

She wanted to kneel beside him and gather him into
her arms, but she was frozen in place.  It was as
if she were standing outside herself, watching a 
tragic drama on a stage far removed.

She heard his harsh breathing gradually slow and
quiet, and his hands dropped to his knees as he
rested back on his heels.  Without looking up,
he said in a low voice, "I don't know if you can
ever forgive me, much less love me again, but..."
He swallowed, gathering himself together again,
fighting against tears that still threatened
to choke him.

She waited quietly, not interrupting him although
she sensed she had already begun forgiving him,
and she had never stopped loving him.

"But I want to look for Hannah."  He lifted his 
head to look at her, searching her eyes with
a piercing gaze.  "And I'd like for you to look
with me."


(End Part 6/?)

Author's Notes: the Matthew Arnold quote - "A beautiful 
and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his 
luminous wings in vain" - was stolen from another 
fanfic author, whose name I unfortunately do not 
remember.  All I remember is the quote and a passing
comment that it was reminiscent of Mulder.  I 
couldn't agree more, and couldn't resist using it
here.  Hope you don't mind, and thanks to whoever
it was...


Court And Spark (7/?)

***

"Help me; I think I'm falling
In love too fast...
It's got me hoping for the future,
And worrying about the past,
Cos I've seen some hot, hot blazes
Come down to smoke and ash -
And we love our lovin',
But not like we love our freedom."

{-"Help Me" - Joni Mitchell}

She had not been sailing frequently with her 
father, but on one occasion, a terrible storm
had blown up in the middle of the night, and 
the instruments had gone out, visibility at what 
she considered less than zero.

She remembered the feeling of helplessness, 
being tossed at the mercy of the sea and knowing
there was no such thing as solid ground for miles
in any direction, including down.

Now, while she remained composed and calm 
outwardly, she felt her soul begin to scramble for 
a steadying rail or a part of the deck that wasn't 
rolling with the storm that Mulder's unexpected 
appearance and unanticipated declaration had 
unleashed over her ocean.

They remained in a silent, eerie tableau for long 
moments, him gazing up at her from his kneeling
position, her standing with her arms crossed 
protectively over her chest, unable to speak or
move.  She had no purpose for either action.

His sigh broke the silence, and she found
the presence of mind to inquire as to the reason
for his wistful release of breath.

He shook his head, looking down at the floor.
"You don't want to hear it from me right now,"
he said softly.  "I know you don't."

For the first time in a long time, Fox Mulder had
made a wise decision.  His sigh had not been 
intended to escape his mind, where he was pondering
the whimsical idea that this was where he belonged,
all his life, kneeling in penance before her.

She was definitely not in the frame of mind for 
any such declarations from him at the moment.
She regarded him for a moment, and decided to 
take him at his word.  She probably didn't want to
hear it, knowing Mulder.

"Well, why don't we move this over to the couch?"
she finally said with barely concealed tartness,
moving ahead of him to curl herself up at one end,
burrowed into the arm of the couch.

Sensitive to her wariness of him, he sat at the 
opposite end, leaving plenty of space between them.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she was tired of
following his lead, and beat him to the punch, her 
voice harsh and clipped. "Why did you come here, 
Mulder?  I don't understand."

"I came to ask you to help me look for our daughter," 
he responded defensively, and would have gone on,
but she interrupted, relentless.

"No, that's not what I meant.  Why did you come
to California?"

He was silent. 
 
"Were you looking for me?"  Her voice was sharp,
accusing, angry.

He looked down at his hands and didn't answer.

"Answer me!" she demanded.  "Were you?"

"YES!" he finally barked, louder than he 
had intended.  "Yes, I was looking for you."
This was said in a quieter voice, tempered
with humility.

"You had no right," she breathed in a dangerously
quiet voice.

"For God's sake, Scully, I'm your =husband!=" he
shouted before he could think better of it.

Her eyes widened, and he felt the blood drain 
from his face as he realized with horror that, 
although he had secretly thought of them in the 
terms of "husband" and "wife," it was not an 
indulgence he had shared with her.

He sat, silently, unable and unwilling to look
her in the eye.  He waited for the rebuke; the
sharp chastisement for his presumptuous 
declaration.

She recovered first, saying in a tone that was
too carefully controlled, "You left me."

He glanced up quickly.  She had not even 
mentioned his possessive terminology.  He 
allowed himself no relief, however.  She 
obviously just had bigger fish to fry.

"Yes, I did," he agreed quietly, looking
her steadily in the eye, inwardly preparing
himself for his flogging, his penance.  He
wanted to sit there and take it.  To let her
beat him - physically if necessary - in
retaliation for the pain he had caused her.

He wanted for her to draw his blood.  He 
needed it - craved the pain.  He knew he
deserved it, and needed to pay somehow for
what he had done.

But she simply regarded him with an 
enigmatic expression, refusing to show even
a tiny crack in her armor.  "Why?"

He shook his head.  He had no answer.  He
wished he knew.

"I loved you, you know."  Her voice was
barely above a whisper, sharp with intensity.
As she continued, it gradually rose in
volume, although it never rose above a 
gentle hum, deceitful in its calm.

"I loved you, and I needed you.  I lost my
daughter, and I needed you there with me.
I needed you as my support, as my strength...
as maybe just someone else who knew the pain
I was going through and would go through it 
with me.  But you left me."

She stood up and walked away from him, crossing
the room to stand in front of the bay
windows.  "After all we'd been through, Mulder.
After everything we've come through together,
you abandoned me when I needed you most.  Left
without a thought of me."

Although his first instinct was to protest -
when had he ever thought of anything =but=
her? - he held his peace, knowing she was right.

"Twenty-five hundred dollars, Mulder.  You 
practically emptied our bank account.  Left
me with absolutely nothing."
 
She whirled to face him, her eyes bright with
angry tears.  "No money, no daughter, no husband,
no life!  Nothing!"

She turned away from him again. He watched her, 
feeling a sort of masochistic satisfaction that 
she was being so thorough, so unmerciful.  <Don't 
let me off easy, Scully. I deserve this and so much 
worse.  I deserve for you to put a gun to my head 
and pull the trigger, although that might be much 
too kind.>

She was silent for long moments, standing motionless
with her back to him.  When she spoke again, it was
in a tone so quiet, so tremorous, that he barely 
heard her.

"I still do love you, Mulder.  I love you, and I hate
you for it."  She turned toward him again, tears
dripping from her eyes.  "I hate you for making me 
hope.  For not letting me forget you.  For being
such a part of me that three years of being angry
at you - angry enough to kill you! - weren't enough
to exorcise you!"

He wanted to say something - anything - to make it
better, but could think of nothing.  

"I was almost convinced.  Almost, Mulder.  I was so
close to making myself believe that I could get over
you.  That I =was= getting over you.  And then you
showed up, and I'm right back where I was three years 
ago.  I could kill you, Mulder, I hate you so much."

He nodded in acknowledgment, his heart breaking when
he heard her next words, murmured quietly, almost
to herself.

"But then I would kill myself, because I love you so
much."

She looked at him, watching the emotions play in his
eyes.  Fear, love, shame, longing, remorse and hope.

"I don't know if I could ever trust you again," she
told him honestly.  "I believed in us.  Didn't think 
anything would ever ruin us."

"I know," he whispered, and she startled.  He realized
they were the first words he had spoken for several
minutes.  He felt compelled to add to it.  "I believed 
in us too."

She looked at him sharply, and he forgot to breathe
when she quoted, "'You loved me -- then what =right=
had you to leave me?  Because misery, and degradation,
and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict
would have parted us.  You, of your own will, did it.'"

He wanted desperately to quote the next part of the 
passage, slightly modified, but didn't dare, contenting 
himself with repeating it in his mind.  <"And in 
breaking your heart, I have broken mine.">

They were silent for long, eternal minutes; she 
challenging him to answer her, he searching for
words to use.

Finally, he took the chance.  "I have nothing to tell
you to excuse my behavior, Scully.  I don't have any
convincing argument to give you, so I'm not even going
to try to plead innocent.  You were right, I =did= love
you, and I had no right to leave you.  I still do love 
you."  He trailed off helplessly before adding, "I always
will."

She gave the words no time to rest in the air before
she challenged them.  "Will that be enough?"

"You have to answer that," he told her.  "You have to
decide if it's worth it to you."  He paused, gathering
his thoughts, before continuing.  "I did mean what I
said the other day.  It will never be the same again.
You and I, even if we got Hannah back, would never be
like we were.  We've been through too much."

She looked at him sharply.  "Was Hannah the only thing
that held us together?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"When she died, you left.  And you only came back to me
now, when there is a possibility that she is alive.  Is
she the only thing that makes us love each other?"

"What do you think?"

She paused.  "I think that would be completely unfair
to her if it were true."  At his questioning look,
she continued.  "When I was younger, I knew a girl
in Mobile, where Ahab was stationed for awhile.  Her 
parents had wanted a divorce, but stayed together for
her."

Mulder nodded. 

"She told me once that she wished they had gone
ahead and split up - that it would have been easier
for her to deal with them separately than to watch
them be miserable and feel like it was her fault.  She
felt like the wellbeing of their marriage was her
responsibility."

She looked away from him, then back again.  "I wouldn't
want Hannah to feel like that."

"So, what you're saying is..."

"What I'm saying," she cut him off, "is that if we
decide we want to try to stay together, that we
shouldn't do it out of some misguided intention
to provide Hannah with a normal home."

He smirked lightly.  "I don't think she ever has to
worry about having a normal home, whether or not her
parents live together."

She half-smiled, indulging him.  "Mulder, I'm serious."

"I know you are," he nodded, placating her.  "And I'm
serious about this, so listen to me, and believe me.  
Okay?"

She nodded.

"Okay.  You."  He looked at her pointedly, tilting his
head forward slightly in emphasis.  "Are the only thing
I have ever been sure of.  Hannah was something precious
to me - she was my heart.  But you are my soul, Scully,
and no matter what happens - even if it turns out that
we've been lied to again, I have decided one thing."

When he didn't elaborate, she gave in.  "What one thing 
is that, Mulder?"

"That I can't live without you."


END Part 7/?

Author's Notes:  The passage Scully quotes to Mulder is
from a speech Heathcliff gives to Cathy on her deathbed
in Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights".  The original
version of the quote Mulder 'responds' with is:
"I have not broken your heart; =you= have broken it; and
it breaking it, you have broken mine."

Thank you, Miss Bronte!


Court And Spark, 8/?

***

"Oh, didn't it feel good -
We were sittin' there talking,
Or lying there not talking, 
Didn't it feel good?"

{-"Help Me" - Joni Mitchell}

***

She looked at him sharply, trying her best to keep
her emotions at bay.  <Hope is dangerous.  Hope
kills,> she told herself again and again.

"I mean it, Scully.  I've tried.  For three years
I've tried, and I can't do it.  How could I?"

<Oh, by the way, that reminds me...>

"Just what WERE you doing in those three years, 
Mulder?"

He regarded her with an expression so full of love
and hopeless longing that it managed to reach past
her walls and tug at her heart, stealing her breath.
"Watching you," he said simply.  "Following you
at a distance."

"Some distance," she retorted, trying - successfully -
to hide the effect he was beginning to have on her.
"All the way across the world, I mean."

He looked at her strangely, and she realized she had
given herself away.  Determined to admit it before
he could call her on it, she shrugged casually.  "I
wanted to make sure you didn't die without my 
knowledge.  After all, I am named in your will."
She paused.  "Or at least, I used to be."

He smiled slightly and shook his head.  "Scully,"
he chuckled, and she knew that he saw right 
through her.  "I've been here in California for
two and a half years."

Her face went white and she swayed slightly on her
feet.  Mulder jumped up and was at her side before
she even had time to realize how unsteady she felt.

"Sorry," she murmured, stepping away from him and 
holding her hand out to keep him at bay.  "I just
felt a little... off-balance for a minute there."

He nodded, and sat again, this time in an armchair
by the sofa.  She wandered over to the couch and 
sank into the cushions, wishing desperately for 
another glass of wine.

From her dazed appearance, he guessed that she wasn't
going to try to speak anytime soon, so he progressed
with an explanation.

"For the first six months after... Maine... I pretty
much wandered around aimlessly.  By the time I came 
to my senses and went looking for you, you had moved
out here."

"How did you know?" she interrupted softly, gazing
absently at the wall, unfocused.

He cleared his throat.  "Your brother, Bill... I ran
into him by accident, and barely escaped with my life."
He looked down at his lap, suddenly bitter.  "Although
I certainly didn't deserve to."  Shaking himself out
of his melancholy, he looked back up at her.

"Nobody else knew.  He said that as far as the Scully's
were concerned, Fox Mulder was dead, and good riddance,
and he wouldn't have anything to do with spreading
ghost stories.  I realized he was right, but I had to
be near you, to be sure you were safe."

"But... but... You were in Australia, and South Africa, and
Canada..."

He shook his head.  "Credit card records are easy enough to
fabricate."

"But, why?  Why not tell me you were here?"

"Scully..." He paused, trying to collect himself.  "Bill was
right.  To you, I was dead.  And I thought you'd be better 
off that way, without me.  Especially after what I'd done."

"So you just decided to haunt me, is that it?"

He smiled ruefully.  "You made me promise I would."

Their gazes met, and locked, and suddenly they were no longer
in Southern California, but curled up in their bed in D.C.,
steaming cups of coffee in their hands, four-month-old Hannah
sleeping peacefully in her crib across the room.

Between them lay a gilded copy of "Wuthering Heights," well-
worn and dog-eared, opened to about the middle of the book.

"I can't believe you've never read this, Scully," Mulder
said as he raised the hot coffee to his mouth, taking
a careful sip.  "It's one of the greatest classics of
literature!"

She snorted, sipping her own coffee.  "This from the man
who once considered 'Playpen' high literature."

He smiled at her.  "I never said I considered it high
literature.  I just happened to keep it on my coffee table."

She shook her head, laughing softly.  "All right, keep
reading."

He swallowed, poking her calf with his foot under the
covers.  "No way.  I've been reading for the last half-hour.
It's your turn now."

"All right, fine."  She cleared her throat, reaching for
her reading glasses and perching them on her nose.  "Where
were we?"

"There," he murmured, pointing to a spot about halfway down
the page.

Glancing at him momentarily, she picked up reading where he'd
left off, halfway through Heathcliff's speech to Nelly, the
maid.

"'And I pray one prayer -- I repeat it till my tongue stiffens
-- Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am 
living!  You said I killed you -- haunt me, then!  The 
murdered =do= haunt their murderers.  I believe -- I know that 
ghosts =have= wandered on the earth.  Be with me always --
take any form -- drive me mad! only do not leave me in this
abyss, where I cannot find you!  Oh, God! it is unutterable!
I =cannot= live without my life!  I =cannot live without my
soul!'"

She stopped suddenly, studying his profile intently as his 
eyes remained on the page.  He looked at her curiously,
unspoken questions in his eyes.  Setting her coffee on the
bedside table, she got to her knees, turned to him, and --
after waiting for him to place his coffee on the other table --
took his face in her hands and whispered, "Be with me always --
take any form -- drive me mad!  Only do not leave me where
I cannot find you."

He was silent, searching her eyes.  "Promise me," she 
demanded, still holding his face.  "Promise."

"I promise," he whispered hoarsely before leaning up
to capture her lips in a passionate kiss that quickly
escalated until Hannah's soft cry broke through their
haze.

"Mulder..." she whispered, pushing ineffectually at his
chest as he covered her face with kisses.  Rather than
answer, he nipped lightly at the skin where her shoulder
curved into her neck, then sucked on the spot.

She whimpered, and considered giving into his demands until 
Hannah made hers known again, louder this time.

"Mulder," she moaned, trying once again to dislodge him.
"The baby... I have to get up and get the baby..."

He would not be easily dissuaded, however, murmuring in
her ear, "Mmm, Scully.  I love when you call me 'baby'."

Laughing, she had thrown all of her strength into rolling him 
off of her and clambering out of bed, shrugging her robe back  
around her as she went over to pick up Hannah.  The child
had been hungry, and had immediately latched onto a breast
that Scully's gaping robe had revealed.

Scully had sighed, adjusting Hannah to a more comfortable
position, and looked meaningfully over at Mulder.

"Not fair," he groaned, splayed flat on his back, his 
arousal insistent and obvious against his cotton pajama
bottoms.  "You need to teach your daughter how to share.
I was there first."

She laughed, coming over to settle on the bed, cradling
Hannah in her arms.  "Mind if I take the other side?"
Mulder leered, leaning over and nuzzling the breast that
wasn't being claimed by their daughter.

"Mulder, really!" she had laughed in a rebuke that quickly
turned to a breathy gasp as he latched onto a nipple 
and began suckling.

"Mulder!"  She burst into giggles as she felt his strong,
yet gentle, suction.  He carefully kept his teeth mostly
removed from the tender skin, and she lifted a hand to run
through his hair.  Unable to resist the temptation, she 
tugged sharply on a few strands, and he nipped her in
retaliation.

She squealed, trying to wriggle away from him, and inadvertently
broke Hannah's suction.  Scully quickly turned her full 
attention to helping her daughter continue her meal, while 
Mulder whimpered his protest more pitifully than Hannah.

"Would you stop?" she teased him, cutting her eyes over to
him playfully.  "Share.  You're a big boy; you should know
better by now."

"But I don't wanna share," he answered in an attempted whine,
but the effect was ruined by the huge grin spreading across
his face.  "Besides, I'm hungry too."

"Then go to the kitchen!" she laughed.  "I'm not your personal
milkmaid."

"Oooh, but I =like= that idea, Scully!"

"I'll bet you do," she grinned, pushing him away with her feet.

He dodged her attempt, clambering to his knees and leaning over 
her and Hannah to capture her mouth, drinking her in with lips 
and tongue and teeth. Scully tilted her head back to allow him 
better access, and his hand had just gone up to cradle her neck 
when she felt her breast slide wetly out of Hannah's slack mouth.
 
Reluctantly, she broke the kiss, whispering breathlessly,
"Hannah... I need... to..." 

He smiled at her, and it lit up his entire face.  "God I love 
you," he murmured before reaching out for Hannah.  "Here,
let me."

Gently, she handed over the child's soft form, and he cradled
her gently against his smooth, muscular shoulder, gently
patting and rubbing circles on her tiny back as he sat back
on his heels.

Scully relaxed against the pillow, her eyes practically 
devouring the sight that greeted her; Mulder's muscles moving
like liquid underneath his tanned, smooth skin as he held
and caressed the tiny body of the miracle to whom she'd given
birth.

It gave her such a feeling of completeness, and she giggled
when Mulder's efforts were rewarded with a rather loud burp
from the baby in his arms.

"Definitely your daughter," she laughed as his face lit up
proudly.

"Yep, definitely mine," he whispered, kissing the top of the baby's
downy head as his eyes locked with hers.

Suddenly, they both blinked and were back in the present, sitting
across the room from each other in Newport Beach, California,
their eyes filled with tears as the same memory stretched like
a gossamer thread between them.  Sucking in a shaky breath,
Scully got up from the couch and retreated to the kitchen, her
eyes wide and her hands shaking.

She didn't know he'd followed her until she felt his breath on
her neck and heard his voice in her ear murmuring, "Scully..."

"No!" she gasped, jumping away from him and turning to face him,
both hands up in defense.  "No, please... not yet..."

He backed away slowly, and she saw him reigning in the emotions
that she could read so clearly in his green eyes as they began
to cloud back to hazel.  Not daring to look at him any longer,
she lowered her gaze and darted out of the room, closing her
bedroom door gently behind her and throwing the lock.

He followed, and heard her slowly slide down the surface on the 
other side as he stood with his hand barely touching the door,
his forehead leaned against it wearily.

He would not leave, even if it drove her mad.  He had promised,
after all.

***

END Part 8/?

Court And Spark, Part 9/?

WARNING: This segment contains material of a mature nature.
By standards of the MPAA, it would be rated no less than
NC-17.  If you are underage or prefer not to read such
material (commonly known as "smut") then I suggest you stop
reading by around line 400.

***

He jerked awake to the sounds of movement on the other side of 
the door.  He'd fallen asleep leaning against it, and his neck 
and back screamed in protest as he attempted to get to his feet.  
He didn't want her to know he'd been sleeping with his ear to 
the door, listening for any sound of distress. 
 
<Getting too old for this,> he grimaced to himself as he used the 
door as leverage to push himself up -- and then he was lying flat 
on his back, gazing up at a fully-dressed, nonplussed Dana Scully.  
She'd obviously been awake much longer than he had. 
 
"You look good upside-down," he told her, then blushed furiously as 
her icily raised eyebrow prompted the belated realization of his 
unintentional innuendo.   
 
Ignoring his comment, she stepped over his prone form, casually 
noting, "You're a little old to be sleeping on the floor, aren't 
you, Mulder?" 
 
Groaning, he pushed himself up on his elbows and watched her pour 
herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen.  "Yep, I am," he agreed 
morosely.  "Nearly fifty years old, Scully." 
 
She set her mug down so quickly that a little coffee sloshed over 
the edge.  Grabbing a paper towel, she mopped it up, looking at 
him with wide, surprised eyes.  "Jesus, Mulder.  Are you that old?" 
 
He nodded, his lips pursing goomily.  "Forty-eight this October.  
I'm over the hill." 
 
"Dear God, you really =are= getting old," she commented sadly,
and he wondered at her melancholy until she lamented, "That means
I'm forty-five this year."

"Still a spring chicken," he grinned, finally getting up and brushing
himself off as he walked into the kitchen.  "Practically a baby."
 
He reached for the extra mug she'd set on the counter, 
unintentionally brushing up closely to her in the process.  He 
paused uncertainly, holding his breath.  He jumped, his heart 
thudding against his ribcage in a painful tattoo, as he felt her 
fingertips slide through the hair at his temple, right above his 
ear. 
 
"Grey hairs," she murmured in disbelief, ruffling them slightly.  
Her breath fluttered warmly over the shell of his ear, and he let 
out a shaky breath as the tips of her fingernails barely scraped 
his scalp.  "I can't believe it." 
 
He turned to her, the coffee forgotten, his pupils dilated so widely 
that his eyes looked black with a thin ring of jade green edging 
them.  "Scully..." he breathed, and her fingers stilled in his hair. 
 
Her eyes were wide, her lips parted, but he felt no breath passing 
from them.  He began to lean in, his movements painfully slow, and 
she didn't move.  Her eyelids began to flutter shut, and he let his 
own close with anticipation.  He felt the barest contact, the very 
surface of her lips against his, and then suddenly her hand was no 
longer in her hair, her lips no longer under his. 
 
He opened his eyes to see her nervously tucking her hair behind her 
ears 
and smoothing her jacket over her skirt.  "You'll have to excuse me, 
Mulder," she said in a professional tone, only a hint of a tremor 
betraying
her, not looking at him.  "I'm going to be late to work."  With that 
she straightened her shoulders and walked around him, pausing at the 
door to 
look back and say, "You can let yourself out, just lock door behind 
you when you leave." 
 
In other words, you'd better be gone when I get back. 

He was motionless, not even daring to breath until the door snicked 
softly behind her.  He stood staring at the impartial, unyielding
wooden surface for several long moments before he slammed his fist
into the counter, making Scully's forgotten cup of coffee spill 
again.

"Damn it," he muttered, eyeing the spill as he grabbed a paper towel
and began to clean up the mess before it stained the white formica
surface.  "You know, Mulder, you do the damnedest things..."

He tossed the wadded up, coffee-soaked paper towel into the trash,
not allowing the realization that he'd just been talking to himself, 
and left the apartment, locking and pulling the door closed, then 
resting his open palm against the surface as he stood in the hall,
just breathing slowly, trying to think of what to do next.

He startled at the sound of approaching footsteps and looked up to
see a weathered old man in a navy shirt and battered jeans striding
down the hall.  "David!" he called out cheerfully.  "Didn't expect
to see you here."

"Hello, Admiral," he smiled back, reaching out to shake his hand in 
greeting.  "How are you?"

"John, David.  It's John.  How many times do I have to tell you?" he
rebuked him good-naturedly.

Mulder smiled indulgently and nodded.  "Of course, I'm sorry, John."

"No problem at all," he grinned, slapping the younger man cheerfully
on the back.  "What brings you here, to Rachel's apartment?  I wasn't
aware that you knew her."

"Oh, you know her?" Mulder asked innocently.  "I was just, um... no,
I've only met her once, briefly.  She was just ahead of me in line 
in the grocery store last week and left her ATM card.  I told Tonya 
I'd bring it to her."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own ATM card, flashing 
it briefly before returning it to his jeans.  

"Well I could take it to her," John commented.  "She's at work right
now."

"Um, actually... I kind of wanted to... take it to her myself, you
know?"

John grinned, clapping Mulder on the shoulder.  "Of course!  If I
were a younger man, I might fight you over it, but since I'm not,
I'll take you down and introduce you properly.  How's that?"

Mulder grinned.  What a perfect opportunity.  "Sure, I'd love that,
John.  I mean, if you don't think she'd mind, since she's at work
and all.  Um, where =does= she work?" he questioned as they began
walking toward the elevators.

"Oh she works here, at The Colony.  I think you'd really like each
other."

Mulder nodded.  "She seemed very nice when I met her."

As the elevator dinged and the door slid open, John gave him a 
curious, sidelong glance.  "Where did you meet her?  Was it in
the grocery store?"

Mulder shook his head, deciding he had better tell the truth --
at least a version of it -- in case Scully decided to say 
something.  "No, we didn't speak then.  She was in a hurry and 
didn't see me.  We happened to be at the beach around the same 
time one evening."

John nodded.  "I won't tell you too much; I think it would be
invading her privacy.  But as much as I like you, I'm going to
warn you to be careful with her.  She's been through some rough
seas, and I'd consider it a personal offense if anyone was to
hurt her again."

Mulder swallowed heavily.  Scully hadn't punished him enough.  
He felt like the lowest scum on earth, and wanted to crawl into 
a dark hole somewhere and die a slow, painful death.

He nodded in acknowledgment of the Admiral's statement, and 
quickly began trying to formulate a polite way to avoid this
meeting, this charade he'd agreed to.  He suddenly couldn't bear
to do that to Scully.

He cleared his throat nervously as they stepped off the elevator
on the ground floor, and Boyd Montgomery greeted him from behind
the registration desk.  "Hello, Mr. Samson!" he called cheerfully.

"Hello, Mr. Montgomery," he answered, smiling despite the sick
feeling in his stomach.  He stalled for time, strolling over
to the counter.  "How are you?  I haven't seen you in awhile."

Boyd shook his head, still smiling.  "I don't have as much time
to galavant around as some cads I know."  He gave Mulder a 
meaningful glance and raised eyebrow, and Mulder laughed.

"What makes you think I've been doing anything besides working
hard?" he teased, leaning against the counter and settling in
for a long conversation.  Maybe if he could get John caught
up talking with Boyd, he'd forget about introducing him to
"Rachel."

"Oh, maybe the fact that I've seen your truck down at Jake's 
at least three times in the last week?"

"Research, my friend, research," Mulder grinned.  "No way the
CDC is going to believe my reports of unsanitary conditions if
I can't back it up with a little evidence."

Boyd gave a short laugh.  "You probably washed all that unpleasant
evidence down with a shot or two of gin."

"Never!" Mulder protested indignantly.  "I'm extremely faithful
to my long-standing drinking buddy, Mr. Cuervo."

"Except for the occasional fling with Mr. Daniels," John pointed
out helpfully.

"Sounds like a regular old run-around to me," a sweet female voice
broke in, and all three men unconsciously straightened up on 
were on best behavior.

"Ms. Rachel," Boyd greeted her respectfully, and the Admiral 
echoed him.

"Hello, Boyd; John.  And..." she turned expectantly to Mulder,
her eyes open with curiosity.  Play-acting.

"I'm, um, David Samson.  We, uh... we met, the other night, on
the beach."

She nodded.  "It's nice to see you again, Miss Cartwright," he
mumbled almost shyly.

"Rachel," she corrected with an amused smile at his discomfort.

"Rachel," he parroted, looking down briefly at the floor to 
collect his thoughts.  "Oh!" he blurted, reaching into his 
pocket.  "Almost forgot.  I, uh... you left your ATM card at
the grocery store Thursday night.  Um, here."

He handed the card to her, face down so the name wasn't 
visible.

"Thank you, Mr. Samson," she smiled, taking it from him and 
tucking it into the small pocket on the front of her jacket
without looking at it.

"David, please," he smiled at her, just beginning to find his
footing and slide into his normal easy charm.

"Of course."  She smiled a full smile at him, and he felt all
his charm go out the window along with rational thought.  "Well,
boys, I'm afraid I have to go.  See you later, Boyd, John.  It
was nice seeing you again, David."

"Yeah, it was.  Maybe I'll see you around later?" he asked 
hopefully, and she regarded him with searching eyes.  There
were so many levels to his question.

"Maybe so," she smiled as she turned to go.

"Oh, Rachel, wait!" John called as she moved down the hall.

"Yes, John?"

"I nearly forgot.  I came here to tell you... that man,
the one I saw in the grocery store the other night?"

"Yeah?"

"He's asking about you again."

Scully's eyes locked with Mulder's for a split second before
he smoothed his features out to polite concern.  She'd seen 
it, though; the look of worry, anger, jealousy.

John caught the glance, but misinterpreted it by some 
stroke of luck.  "Oh, don't worry about David, Rachel.  He
already knows a little.  He was there the night you called 
me, and... I was worried about you, and..."

He trailed off, embarrassed, as Scully's eyebrow arched
skyward.  

Mulder jumped in to save the Admiral, if not himself.  "I
asked, Ms. Cartwright.  I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry...
and the Admiral had a few drinks that night; I'm sure he
didn't mean to..."

Despite all his prior experience with it, Mulder wasn't 
immune to that eyebrow either.  An eerie silence settled
over them, punctuated by Boyd's typing at the computer,
entering data and pretending as if he hadn't heard anything.

"Um, maybe I'd better be going," Mulder mumbled, beginning to 
back away, a sheepish smile on his face.  "It was very nice
to see you again, Ms. Cartwright, and I hope to see you 
again soon."

She was tempted to say, "Don't bet on it," but instead gave
him a polite smile and a small wave.  He nodded politely
and left the building, running a hand through his hair in
that way he had that let her know his emotions were in
turmoil.

Good.  At least she wasn't the only one.

She glanced over at John and saw the penitent, mournful
look on his face, and realized she was probably glaring.
"It's okay, John.  I'm not upset with you.  I'm just
a little tired and unsettled; I had a rough night last 
night."

"Ghosts?" John asked sympathetically.

"Excuse me?" she questioned sharply, her eyes narrowing
at his choice of words.

"Um, ghosts... you know, like, memories you'd rather
forget but they won't leave you alone?  I didn't mean
actual spirits..."

She shook her head, feeling foolish.  "Of course not.
And you have =no= idea."

Boyd glanced up at her from the computer, acknowledging
the conversation for the first time.  "Still having
trouble sleeping, Dana?"

She nodded, touching a hand to her forehead.  "Actually,
yeah.  If you don't mind, I think I'd like to go lie
down.  I've already made the sandwiches for lunch; they're
in the cooler in the clubhouse..."

He waved off her concern.  "Go.  Take a nap.  In fact, take
the rest of the day off, on me.  I'll set out the sandwiches 
today.  You deserve a break."

She smiled, grateful, and had to blink back tears.

"Thanks, Boyd."

"Don't mention it," he grinned at her.  His smile faded to
a frown of concern, and John bore a matching expression as
they watched her tired stride toward the elevators.

"I don't like it," John muttered.  "Something's wrong."

"Something's definitely wrong," Boyd agreed.  He shook his 
head and made a notation in his log book.  "But I think
she and David would get along, don't you?"  He looked
meaningfully at his old friend.

John's smile bore a hint of mischief and plotting.  "I
definitely think I got that vibe from them."

Boyd nodded.  "I think they used to call it 'chemistry'
back when anyone had any sense."  The strangely dignified
little man shook his head, peeking over the rims of his
round spectacles at the Admiral.  "Feel like a drink?"

John breathed out a sigh of relief.  "Dear God, man, I 
thought you'd never ask."

Boyd called in Kimmie, one of the other girls who worked
there, and asked her to set out the lunch sandwiches and
not to bother Ms. Cartwright under any circumstance,
and then he and John were off to Jake's for a much-needed
rendezvous with a certain Mr. Daniels.

***

"And I would be the one
To hold you down --
Kiss you so hard --
I'll take your breath away."

{-"Possession" - Sarah McLachlan}


Scully stumbled into her apartment, sucking in a deep
breath and exhaling it as a half-sob.  She could still
smell Mulder.  Dear God, why could she still smell him?

She carefully avoided the kitchen as she headed straight
for her bedroom, dropping pieces of clothing as she went, 
finally stepping out of her shoes and peeling off her
pantyhose before sliding between the sheets, loving
the feel of the cool soft cotton against her bare skin.

She sighed as she settled into her pillow, closing her
eyes against the ache in her head.  She hadn't slept
at all the night before, sitting silently against the
door, listening to Mulder's breathing on the other side.

She knew the moment he'd fallen asleep, and had gotten 
up to get into her bed, but had only tossed and turned
until it was too late to bother trying to catch any
shut-eye at all.

Exhausted, she felt her consciousness slide out of her
like an essence, and gratefully fell into the embrace
of Hypnos, sweet and easy.

***

He stood outside her apartment, his hand hovering over
the door knob.  He'd watched her go in; she'd never 
seen him. He knew she hadn't locked the door -- he'd 
listened.

He hesitated, unsure, listening to her move around inside
before he reached out for the door knob again, only to 
jerk his hand back and duck into the shadows as he heard
footsteps approaching.

***

The door swung open to reveal a dark living room, no 
lights on, and she breathed a sigh of exhaustion.  She'd
been gone all day, running errands, and it was closing
in on eleven o'clock.

She gasped as two strong hands grasped her waist, but 
she relaxed as she felt his lips descend on hers and
recognized their warmth and texture.  His hands started
roaming, leaving no doubt as to where he intended the
kiss to go.

"Mulder, no, we'll wake up Hannah," she murmured against
his mouth, but he insisted without words, pressing his
hips against hers so that she could feel how serious he
was about this.

She felt her insides turning to liquid and pooling 
between her legs as he covered her lips with his open
mouth, roughly plunging his tongue between her teeth.
His lips moved as if he were trying to devour her alive,
and she trembled, catching hold of his shoulders to
hold herself up.  That was when she noticed that he didn't
have a shirt on, when his golden warm skin burned like
firebrands under her palms.

He pulled away momentarily, looking into her eyes as 
much as he could in the chiaroscuro room, growling in
a husky, unrecognizable voice, "I've been waiting for you
all day."  He turned her around, pulling her tightly
against his body so that his arms crossed over her
stomach and the curve of her back melded perfectly with
his torso, his erection pushing into her ass.

He nipped at her ear, breathing hotly into it as he
continued, "When Hannah was down for her nap, I lay
on the couch and imagined what I'd do to you when you
got home."

She groaned, and one of his hands darted under her shirt,
tickling her stomach in a movement that under any other
circumstances would have had her squirming away -- but
he already had her so completely turned on all she did
was thrust her ass back into his hips in wordless 
supplication.

He sucked in his breath in reaction, his fingers digging
into her soft flesh.  Exhaling slowly, he licked the 
lobe of her ear, sucking on it before he breathed again,
his movements matching his words.

"I imagined that I would seduce you slowly, teasing your
perfect breasts and pinching and rolling your nipples 
until they were so hard under my fingers, as hard as my
cock that I was pressing against you..."

She moaned deep in her throat and he pulled her head 
around, kissing her forcefully and deeply.  "And then,"
he gasped, lowering them to the floor until she was
lying flat on her stomach, his body draped heavily 
over hers.  "I would take you hard and fast and deep
right here on the floor, fucking you from behind..."

She made a strangled sound in her throat.  She was so
turned on by now that if he didn't make good on those
threats soon she was just going to...

Oh, oh my... he sat up, straddling her ass, and she
pushed herself up slightly, turning to look at him.
A slash of light from the window fell directly across
his face, and the expression there made her shiver.

His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a feral,
hungry smile and his eyes glittered dangerously as he
reached for the fly of his jeans, throwing them open
and sliding the denim down over his hips, being much
more careful with the material of his boxers.  Kneeling
as he was, he couldn't remove the clothing any further,
but he wasn't willing to move, and she couldn't think
about it in a second anyway.

He reached down between them, pushing her flimsy skirt
up and yanking her panties down her thighs, again not
taking the time to remove them completely.  There was
really no need.  She felt his fingers brush lightly 
against the soft sensitive skin he uncovered, finding
it swollen and wet.  "Fuck..." he breathed.

"That's the idea," she rasped, and he laughed shortly
before all thought of talk left them.

He reached under her, clutching her waist, and pulled 
her upward and backward at the same time, and she
threw her head back and gasped deep in her throat as
she felt his thick shaft shove forcefully into her.

"Ooohhhh God," she moaned, the sound so gutteral she
didn't recognize it as her own voice at first.

He clawed at the front of her blouse, the buttons 
scattering, and pushed her bra up so that her breasts
spilled out underneath the cups, roughly clutching
at them with one hand while the other groped between
her legs, finding sensitive flesh there and grinding
his fingertips against it.

He leaned forward until she was face down on the floor
again, then sat back up quickly, taking her with him,
her weight forcing him deeper inside.  He thrust upward
vehemently, and she fell forward on her forearms.

He leaned over her, turning her face to his and devouring
her mouth, his teeth clashing with hers, his tongue
delving back almost into her throat.  She clutched his 
hair with her hand, returning the kiss with equal force.

His hand and hips were still busy, and they both pressed
upward at exactly the same moment, making her break the
kiss with a sharp gasp that escaped as a hiss between 
clenched teeth.

He released her breast, and she fell forward again when
the support was unexpectedly removed.  She felt his hand
fist in her hair, arching her back in a concave shape as
he thrust low and deep, riding her hard.

A sound got choked in the base of her throat as it tried
to escape her chest, and he released her hair, grabbing
instead at the bra that was still fastened around her
ribcage, using that as a cowboy uses the rope while
riding a bucking horse.

The image flashed momentarily in her mind, but was
immediately replaced by a tumultuous feeling as 
Mulder clutched her skirt and yanked her hips down
and backwards at the same time he thrust up and
forwards.  She felt her body begin to tremble in 
warning.

"Shit," she breathed, completely overcome with the
sensations flooding her.  And then it happened, and
she felt the scream beginning from deep within her
abdomen.  Something reminded her that she had to be
quiet, and she bit down on the closest thing, which
happened to be Mulder's hand.  Understanding, he
obligingly held his palm over her mouth as her climax
hit her with unprecedented violence, arching her
back and making her cry out from her deepest part.

Her muscles clenching around him crushed his control,
and suddenly he was pressed heavily against her back,
and she was on her side as he thrust erratically up
into her.  She felt him roll her onto her stomach,
his hand coming around to clutch her breast again and
his other hand holding onto her upper arm as she clawed
at the floor, scrambling for purchase against the 
hardwood, trying to gain enough of a handhold to brace
herself as he thrust faster, harder, aching for his
own release.

Finally, he came, biting down on her shoulder to muffle
his own hoarse yell of climax.  She turned her head to
see him, his face contorted in the agony of this peculiar
ecstasy.

After he breathed for a moment, regaining his equilibrium,
his eyes fluttered open and he saw her watching him.  
Catching her chin in his hand, he kissed her fervently,
passionately, though not as violently as before.

When they broke apart, he whispered, "Can you move?  Cos
I don't think I can..."

She hummed in sleepy contentment, her violent orgasm having
exhausted her.  "Are you kidding?  I can't even feel my
legs."

He laughed softly.  "Legs?  What legs?"  His hair was
dripping sweat, plastered to his forehead.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" she whispered, working
one hand out from under them to push the strands away
from his eyes.

"I don't even know my own name," he grinned, then moaned
as he rolled off of her, lying flat on his back, one hand
laying palm-flat against his chest.  

She sighed, and snuggled against him, wiggling under his
arm so that he held her tenderly, her ruined blouse sticking
to her back with the sweat there.  "I know exactly what 
you mean," she murmured, smiling at his jaw-cracking yawn
as they drifted to sleep on the hardwood floor of their 
living room.

Scully awoke with a start, drenched in sweat, sitting up 
in bed, barely registering that she was in her underwear.
Groaning, she flopped back down on the bed, throwing an
arm across her eyes.  

She hadn't been having those dreams for years, but now,
with Mulder's reappearance... she sighed, licking her
lips and tasting the salt of sweat.  What was worse was 
that she knew that dream had actually happened.  
Remembered it with vivid clarity, in fact.

Geez... she moaned again and rolled over onto her stomach,
squeezing her legs together tightly in an attempt to ease
the ache between them.  <Go away!> she told her memories
and dreams sharply.  <Just leave me alone.>

***





Author's Notes:  Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep, is 
the twin brother of Thanatos, the god of death.  
Hypnos enters the sleep of mortals and, at the bidding 
of the Olympians, gives them dreams of foolishness or 
inspiration, depending on the individual and their 
divine protectors or enemies.

Also, anyone who has watched The Red Shoe Diaries: 
Jake's Story, will most likely see more than a few
similarities between the Alley Scene and Scully's 
dream.  What can I say?  I loved that scene!


'Court And Spark' by Foxie Meg, Part Ten
*** 

It'd been awhile since anyone had called him "Spooky," but
not so long that his Spooky-sense had gone out of working
order.  He paused in front of Scully's apartment door, his
hand raised to knock, when he felt the hairs on the back of
his neck prickle with the certainty that something was amiss.

He sensed the movement behind him and whirled to see a gleam 
of light in a thin line that meant only one thing: the barrel
of a revolver was pointed straight at his head.

Ducking in order to miss a shot he knew must be coming, he 
kicked his leg up, connecting with the shadow's stomach and
sending it slamming back into the wall.

He heard the 'zing' of the bullet muffled by a silencer just
nanoseconds before he felt the heat rip through his side, 
and he collapsed to the ground in a senseless heap.

***

She jumped, throwing the covers back as she heard the dull
thud-and-slide at her door.  Having the presence of mind to
tug on the white button-up dress shirt she'd discarded, she
fastened three of the important buttons on her way to the 
door.

Pulling it open, she gasped in surprise and dismay when Mulder
fell gracelessly against her feet.  "Mulder?  Mulder, are you
okay?"

She knelt, two fingers immediately going to his neck to feel
for a pulse.  It was there, though thready and erratic.  Then
she saw the dark stain seeping through the material of his shirt,
just under his ribcage.

"Oh, dear God..."

***

His first impression was of soft warmth surrounding him in a
golden-red glow.  His next was of the gentle cadence of a
concerned voice, chanting his name in a calming mantra.

"Scuh-lee?" he rasped, realizing how dry his throat was.

"Ssh, Mulder," she responded, and he felt a cool wet cloth
descend on his forehead to soothe the feverish burn there.

His eyes fluttered open and erratic splotches of red on
white registered against his retinas.  "Scuh-lee..." he 
tried again, this time his forehead wrinkling in concern.

"You're going to be okay, Mulder, just lie still," she told
him, this time a little more forcefully.  

His instinct was to protest, to tell her he was worried about
her, but it occurred to him that the blood on her shirt was
his, not hers, and he relaxed.

Only to tense up again a half-second later, sucking in a harsh 
breath at the sharp, merciless sting of the antiseptic against 
his tender side.

"Sorry," she murmured, although she didn't stop her cleansing 
ministrations.

His eyes slipped shut, and he felt himself sliding back into
unconsciousness.  His last coherent thought was of the woman
tending to him, and the knowledge that he was <Safe.>

***

"Mulder, please, please be okay," she pleaded with him in a
soft murmur as she pressed the antiseptic-soaked cloth against
the wound in his side.

"C'mon, c'mon," she muttered, leaning into him, throwing all
her body weight into pressing against the flow of blood.  "Stop
bleeding, please stop bleeding..."

"Oh, Mulder; Mulder, please don't die... please, Mulder..."

"Scuh-lee?"  His head turned toward her slightly, and she 
sucked in a breath of relief.  He was conscious! 

"Ssh, Mulder," she murmured, dipping a washcloth into the 
bowl of water by the bed and gently mopping his forehead to
soothe the fever she knew was raging.

He repeated her name, and she saw his forehead crease in
distress.  "You're going to be okay," she told him, as much
to hear it herself as to let him hear it.

<I promise.  You're going to be okay.>

He breathed out a sigh, and she saw when he lost awareness
again.  She felt warm liquid against her fingers, and looked
down to see that the cloth was soaked in his blood.

She tossed it aside and grabbed a clean one, again throwing
all her body weight into applying pressure.

"You just have to stop bleeding," she whispered, bowing her head
until it touched his bare shoulder.  "Please, please stop
bleeding."

She felt her breath reflecting onto her face from his skin,
and couldn't stop her impulse to purse her lips, pressing a 
pleading kiss to the gentle swell of his bicep.

"Don't die.  Please don't die."

***

"You shot whom?"  

The voice was low and quiet, barely a rumble in the room 
precariously lit by the flickering fluorescent bulb overhead.

"A man - came to her door - he, he saw me - I don't know
how - and he kicked me in the stomach... and, and I just
pulled the trigger -"

A pale hand was raised to signal his silence, and he
swallowed hard.  "Was he killed?"

"I, I don't know - I heard the woman come to the door and
I left before she could see me."

An eyebrow arched dangerously.

"Why didn't you shoot her too?"

His eyes widened, and he squeaked out, "I panicked!  You
didn't tell me there would be anyone else there!"

A look was shared between the inquisitor and the dark haired
man leaning against the wall in the heavily-shadowed room.

During their silent conference, the young man shifted 
uneasily from one foot to the other.  At least he wasn't 
being screamed at -- when the voice reached that high 
screeching, it was painful -- but he had a feeling that this 
deliberate calmness was even more dangerous.

Finally they seemed to have reached an agreement, and the
voice spoke again.  "That will be all."

He resisted the urge to bow and back out of the room, instead
turning sharply on his heel and trying not to look to eager
to reach the exit.

The man's voice stopped him.  "Morgan!"

He turned, swallowing hard.  "Yes, sir?"

"You have one more chance before you are relieved of your
duties with us and the privilege of life.  Is that clear?"

Somehow, he found his voice.  "Crystal."

"You may leave now."

***

Krycek watched with narrowed eyes as Dennis Morgan left the 
room.

"Incompetence," he muttered, still staring at the closed door
as if he could bypass it to kill the young man who had just
exited through it.

"You're sure he's in town?" the woman asked.

Krycek nodded.  "I spoke with him."

"Do you think he's the one Dennis shot?"

Krycek made a noncommittal noise.  "It's always a possibility."

She made a distressed little sound in the back of her throat,
and Krycek regarded her with mocking eyes.

"Does that thought upset you, Diana?" he purred.  "Does the
thought of Mulder, bleeding and injured, possibly dying,
make you angry?  Sad?"  He laughed, a short burst of derisive
cadence.

She glared at him, and he returned the expression.

"Somehow I think Mulder would prefer an honest gunshot wound
to having his daughter killed."

"We didn't kill her!" she protested vehemently.

"No thanks to you," he reminded her.  "You would have.  You 
and Spender were all ready to kill her, just to save your
own asses."

He let his eyes rake over her body, and she shivered, feeling
exposed.

"Not that yours is worth saving," he added, and her face
flushed bright red, although she kept admirable control
over the anger that bloomed in her eyes.

"I wouldn't say you have much room to talk, Alex," she 
commented coolly, her lips tightening.

A wicked grin spread across his face and his eyes glittered
with malice.  "That's not what you said two weeks ago," he
grinned.  He strode over to the exit, pausing in the open
doorway to turn back to her and comment, "Oh, by the way.  I
suggest you find our littlest guinea pig -- Heseltine lost
her again."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing,
trying to get over the memory he had thrown at her.  Two
weeks ago, she had slipped into Krycek's quarters, wearing
a black teddy under a long black silk robe, intent on 
seducing him. 

He had laughed at her, saying that even he had limits, but
she might try one of their test subjects because, after all,
"Everybody has their level."

She couldn't remember ever feeling so foolish in her life.

She couldn't afford to think about that right now, thought.
She had more important things to worry about, like how to
fix Dennis Morgan's mistake, and finding Hannah.

That child had nearly escaped more times than she cared to
think about.  She had hoped that, being Fox's daughter, the
girl might have some potential to be attached to her.  Her
lips twisted downward as she reflected that the child had
more of Dana Scully in her than she wanted to know about,
and Diana had the scars to prove it.

Sighing, she exited the room as well, flicking off the 
fluorescent light as she left, not turning to see the two
spots of phosphorescent green that glowed dimly in the far
corner of the room.

***

It was deja-vu all over again, she told herself grimly, 
listening to his feverish whimpers as she wrapped the 
white cloth bandage tightly around his abdomen.

One more time of nursing Mulder through a delirious 
fever.  Just what she needed.  She finished tugging off
his jeans and turned back the covers, just leaving the
sheets covering his feet to ward off the worst of chills.

She sat cross-legged on the bed beside him, letting her
fingertips brush across his face, memorizing every new
line that had been etched across the planes and curves
since she'd seen him last.

She reflected with some awe at the strangeness of life.
This man lying beside her was merely constructed of
muscles, skin, tendons, and ligaments stretched over
and around grayish white bone and rich red-brown marrow, 
protecting soft organ tissue and housing a passionate, 
mysterious, beautiful soul.

Would he be as beautiful if any of it were changed?
Would she love him as much if the planes of his jaw
weren't quite so angular?  If his lower lip didn't
curve just so?

Would she love him as much if he weren't so infuriating?
If he didn't make her want to strangle him so often,
would he still be an inseparable part of her that she
couldn't sentence to her past no matter how hard she
tried?

She dipped her fingertips into the glass of ice water
by the bed, trailing the cold drops across his parched
lips.  The tip of his tongue came out to flick at them,
and his head thrashed on the pillow.

She knew she should call a doctor; take him to the 
hospital.  But for some reason, she couldn't make herself
give him up to anyone else's care.  This was her job, 
her responsibility, her purpose to fulfill, her life
to save.

Sitting silently beside him, not disturbing him except
to occasionally bathe him down with a cool rag, she had
nothing to occupy her mind except the dream she'd had
just before she discovered him, wounded and helpless,
outside her door.

The two images of him weren't quite meshing, and she 
wanted to cry from the frustration of not being able
to reconcile all the Mulders in her mind.

There was the beautiful paradox of an intense, angry,
vulnerable young man that she'd met in the basement
of the FBI building.

There was the friend and protector she'd gradually
come to know as her partner - especially after her
abduction and return.

There was the other half of her life, laughing and
joking with her, teasing and peaceful, who had found
answers to questions he'd been asking all his life 
and had hoped and believed with her for a miracle of
their own making.

There was the confused, hurt, withdrawn figure that
had been thrown unceremoniously back into a world
that had gone on without him and left him behind, 
unsure of his role and place in anything and everything -
especially the two most important things to him: 
her life and the X-files.

There was the quiet, confident, easy companion who
had gradually come to terms with a deeper maturity
than she had thought him capable of.

There was the happy, loving father, living for the
sight of his daughter's smile, the sound of her laughter;
the devoted husband who loved her with a passion that
surpassed anything she'd ever known could exist for
an extended amount of time between two people.

And then there was the madman, the one who had run 
off to lick his own wounds and left her behind, 
crippled with her own, only to return now as a 
would-be suitor, asking to be let back into her life.

She sighed, brushing a hand lightly over his chest
to test the temperature.  She frowned.  Surely he
hadn't been that hot before... it wasn't that bad of
a fever, after all.

Grabbing the thermometer from the table, she carefully
inserted it under his tongue, listening to the electronic
beeps as it registered his temperature.  It gave one long
beep to signify its completion, and she tugged it out, her
eyes widening at the number.

104.5

Dear God!  Sustaining a fever that high could kill him.
She leaped from the bed and sprinted into the bathroom, 
snatching a few of her bath towels from the shelf beside 
the tub.  She ran a few inches of cool water into the tub, 
soaking the towels and then wringing out the excess liquid.

She carried them into the bedroom and stretched them over
his parched skin, smoothing the terrycloth over the planes
of his body.

"Don't do this to me," she commanded him.  "You are going
to break this fever, you understand me?  You're gonna be 
just fine.  Promise."

Sighing, she settled onto the bed beside him again, curling
up beside him, her hands tucked neatly under her chin, not
touching him at all - just watching and willing him to be
okay.

***

The silence of the hall was merely rippled, not broken, by
the almost non-sound of softly padded feet sliding over
the surface of the tiles.

The light disappeared into the black body like an abyss, 
reflected by the round green eyes.

A small ivory hand broke the endless black motif, resting gently
on the animal's spine, just behind its shoulders.

The child and panther reached a fork in the hall and paused,
looking down both hallways before turning to each other,
understanding in their eyes.

The panther made a soft snuffling sound before trotting down
the hall to his right, the child turning and gliding down
the corridor to her left - twin shadows sliding along the walls,
undetected by the troubled souls that dwelt behind the doors
that punctuated the foyer.

***

"The child is a liability!"

"I agree!  She has been allowed to survive far too long now.  
She has served her purpose!"

"She has outlived her usefulness!"

Krycek held up his hands in an attempt to silence the insistent
voices around the table.  "Listen!" he commanded, and they
fell silent with a few residual murmurs.  "You -" he pointed to
the young African woman sitting with her hands folded demurely
on the table top, composed and dignified.  

"- and you -" he nodded toward a blind man with an ugly scar 
visible on his neck and running down under his collar.

"Both of you, Ms. Ngebe and Dr. Barnes, believe that most of 
our religious literature was sent to us by extraterrestrials,
is that correct?"

The African woman nodded, agreeing in a softly-accented voice,

"Yes, Alex.  From what I found in Cote d'Ivoire, that would seem 
to be implied."

"And I know some of you idiots had to have gone to Sunday school
as children.  Does anyone happen to recognize the phrase, 'And a 
little child shall lead them'?"

A rather severe-looking, heavyset man spoke up from the other end
of the table.  "What are you saying, Alex?  That this brat is some
sort of 'chosen one' to fulfill a prophecy?  That's a little Star
Wars-ish, isn't it?"

Krycek sneered at the speaker.  "Some of us have better things to
do with our time than watch science fiction films, Mr. Hudson, but
for lack of better phrasing, yes, that is what I am saying."

Amina Ngebe spoke up, the pleasant lilt of her voice emphasizing
the intensity of her tone.  "She has already proven herself to be
resistant to all forms of the virus we have tested on her."

"She's also much too clever for her own good," Mick Heseltine added,
glowering.  "She knows too much."

"And she has her parents' sensibilities and morals," Diana Fowley
put in disapprovingly.  "She could bring the entire project down
before we even knew what hit us."

"I still stand by what I said before," Jeffrey Spender insisted.
"She is a liability and must be disposed of."

"You still don't get it, do you?" Krycek addressed the group.  "She
may be our only hope."

***

"We're running out of time, Amina," Krycek mused in a low voice as
he strolled leisurely toward his quarters, the young African woman
gliding regally beside him.  "I don't know how much longer I can
convince them that Hannah will serve us better alive."

Amina turned liquid brown eyes to him, sympathy playing over her
expression.  "I have no desire to see Dana's daughter harmed in 
the name of this crusade.  You know that."

He nodded, stopping in front of a door and unlocking it with a 
keycard.  He opened the door slightly, looking back at her.  "Are
you coming in?"

She shook her head.  "Not tonight, no."  She was silent for a moment,
considering.  "Alex, may I ask you something?"

He nodded.  "Of course."

Her eyes bore into his, riveting him.  "Do you really think that
Hannah is the one who will save us?"

He regarded her silently for a moment before stepping inside his
room and closing the door silently behind him.  Amina stood in the
hall for a moment longer, a look of concentration and concern
etched across her lovely features.  

Shaking her head, she headed for her own quarters, not noticing
the pair of bright green eyes that followed her from the shadows.

***

Scully looked at the clock, blinking several times in a valiant 
attempt to clear her blurring vision.  <Six o'clock 
antemeridian,> the voice in her head noted.  Twenty-three hours 
since Mulder had been wounded.

Yet another night without sleep, thanks to the man beside her.

His fever had broken seven hours ago, but she didn't feel comfortable
going to sleep; not with a would-be assassin roaming about.  She sat
up in bed, doing crossword puzzles and casting regular glances at
the small handgun that rested on her bedside table, within easy 
reach.

Thank God for concealed weapons permits.  Her background as an FBI
agent didn't hurt any in securing the gun, either.

At 5:30, she had called Boyd, explaining that she was ill and would
not be able to work that morning.  It wasn't a lie, either.  She was
beginning to feel very ill, indeed.

She yawned, nearly falling over when the dizziness in her head 
reminded her that she was getting too old to pull two all-nighters 
in a row.

Sighing with resignation, she got up and checked the locks on all her
doors, then crawled back into bed with Mulder, tucking the gun under
her pillow and falling asleep almost immediately.

***

He chuckled quietly as he watched the videotape play out on the 
monitor before him, unable to erase the grin on his face.  He knew 
he'd be in trouble if *she* decided to walk in anytime soon, but he 
was willing to risk it this time.

"Alex?" came a soft, female voice, and he turned to see Amina 
standing in the doorway.

"Come in, Amina," he gestured.  "Close the door behind you."

She did as she was told, despite the fact that it cut off any source
of light besides the cold bluish light of the monitor screen.

"What are you watching?" she asked, standing beside his chair, her 
hands clasped gracefully in front of her.

"This is the tape of Hannah's preliminary interviews," he grinned, 
reaching over to take one of her slender hands in his.  She let 
him, easily twining their fingers as she sat in the chair beside him.

"This is the session with Diana," he explained, and they turned up 
the volume ever-so-slightly, just so the voices were easily audible 
to them, but not very loud, despite the fact that they were in a 
soundproof room.

<"Hello, Hannah, my name is Diana.  May I sit here with you?">

They watched as the child regarded her with narrowed green eyes 
before she nodded once, regally.  <"I suppose so.">

Amina chuckled at Hannah's manner.  It was typical of the girl, 
even now.

<"I'm one of your daddy's friends from a long time ago, and --">

<"Are you Diana Flowery?"> Hannah interrupted, one of her 
eyebrows arching in a manner that was eerily similar to her 
mother.

Diana appeared astonished and pleased.  <"My name is Diana 
Fowley, yes..."> she answered hesitantly.  <"Has your father told 
you bout me?">

Hannah shook her head, her green eyes going wide.  <"No, Mommy 
and Daddy have fights about you sometimes, when they think I'm 
asleep.">

<"Fights?">  Amina thought disgustedly that the woman actually 
seemed pleased, as if she wanted to be a source of contention 
between the child's parents.

Hannah nodded emphatically.  <"Yes, sometimes they get really 
loud. Mommy calls you a 'bitch' and Daddy says that she shouldn't 
say that about you, even if it is true, because it isn't nice to 
talk about dead people like that and --"> she paused, regarding 
Diana - who had gone speechless - with appraising eyes.  <"Daddy 
says you're dead, but you're not, are you?">

The young girl shook off the anomaly with the elastic ease that only
comes with childhood.  <"But I guess he's just imagining, again.  
Mommy says Daddy sometimes imagines things that aren't there - but
he usually imagines that dead people are alive, not that alive 
people are dead.">

Amina and Krycek shared a glance and a soft laugh.  "She certainly 
is a precocious young thing, isn't she?" Amina questioned.

Krycek nodded agreement.  "Very self-assured.  I'd say she got that 
in spades, from both of her parents."

They focused on the screen again as Hannah's mood swung drastically,
her full lower lip trembling as her green eyes grew moist.  <"I 
miss my Daddy and my Mommy,"> she told Diana candidly.  <"Will I 
see them again soon?">

Amina looked at Krycek, her eyes wide and sincere.  "Alex, we must
get her out of here."

He nodded, his eyes still focused on the monitor, where Diana was
lying, telling Hannah she'd see them again very soon and not to
worry, as she stood up and left the interview room in a huff.

"I know, love.  I know.  I'm trying."

*** 
 
END PART 10/?