From: DFaonxa Date: 28 Apr 1998 17:52:58 GMT Subject: NEW! Faith In Truth -- Julie John MSR (1/9) FAITH IN TRUTH by Julie John DFaonxa@aol.com Rating: PG-13 Category: R, S, A Keywords: Mulder/Scully Romance Spoilers: Fifth Season Summary: Mulder must help Scully come to terms with the events following the remission of her cancer. Disclaimer: The X-Files are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX Broadcasting. Fox Mulder belongs to David Duchovny, and Dana Scully belongs to Gillian Anderson. I'm just paying them a compliment by further exploring their characters -- I'm not making any money. Thanks to: Lydia Bower for inspiring this story, Paula Graves for demonstrating how to articulate Mulder and Scully's feelings, and to Paula T, Jen, MacSpooky, and Gerry for editing and giving me some much-desired encouragement. This started out as your general post-Kitsunegari fic, but grew as I found more and more issues I wanted to address. It eventually wound up covering the whole of the fifth season up to and including Chinga. I didn't get to cover all the issues I originally came up with, but that just leaves me with extra material for future fics, and a sequel for this one if enough of you ask. Feedback will be treasured and is guaranteed a reply at DFaonxa@aol.com. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx "We all have our faith. And mine is in the truth." - Fox Mulder, Redux II xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx FAITH IN TRUTH by Julie John DFaonxa@aol.com I stare at the now motionless body of Linda Bowman, her words echoing in my mind. Watching as Scully gives her a quick once over, unable to do anything else. Bowman's usually impeccable blond hair is fanned messily across the dirty cement, and there is a smudge on her cheek from where she fell. Her blouse is torn and bloody by the wound on her right shoulder. Abruptly, the image of Scully's body, blood pouring from her head, appears in place of Bowman's. My stomach heaves, and I turn away before it gets worse. Anything to erase that image -- though I know nothing will. I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself. Through the pounding of my heart, I hear Scully dial the paramedics. Damn procedure that makes us do all we can to save the life of a murderer. For all I care she can bleed to death right there, except the wound's probably not serious enough. Scully took her down cleanly with a bullet to the shoulder, just like a good little FBI agent. And the best partner I could ever have, whom I almost lost tonight. Scully's quiet footsteps approach me. "Mulder, you're trembling," she says, voice soft with concern. She reaches out and places a hand on my arm, and at her touch my body begins to shake violently. It was too close. Way too damn close. I seek her gaze with my eyes. "Scully, I almost shot you again," I hear myself say, as from afar. My voice is dull, my body in shock. Suddenly I realize that Scully's gun is still in my hand; feeling nauseous, I thrust it at her, wanting to rid myself of the tool that I nearly used to end her life. But she does not take it. Instead she grasps hold of my hand in both of hers, steadying its trembling. Letting me hold the gun. Letting me hold the power. Because she trusts that I will use it properly, even though I nearly betrayed that trust tonight. "Mulder, you did what you thought was right," she begins, and if I hadn't been so miserable I might have laughed. "You thought you were shooting the person who made me put a gun to my head. There's nothing wrong with that." I shake my head. That doesn't matter. What matters is that I almost ended the life of my partner, my best friend, the most valuable person in my life. "But what if I had shot you without stopping to listen?" "You didn't," Scully returns, a strong emphasis on the 'didn't'. "I don't know what stopped me," I reply, turning back to the body on the floor. I honestly don't. My entire body had been screaming to blow that woman away. Bullet to the face, the neck... annihilate her for what she did to Scully. But she *was* Scully, the Scully I had thought was laying behind me with half her brains splattered on the concrete floor... "Scully, I thought I'd lost you," I hear my voice cracking, and I bite my lip, trying to hold back the tears. A small hand touches my face, turning my head away from Linda Bowman. "But you didn't," Scully reiterates. She turns me to look directly in her eyes. "I'm still here." Her hand is warm in mine as her other palm caresses my cheek. The trust in her eyes, the compassion; it's more than I can handle. It's more than I deserve. Almost of its own volition my body begins to lean towards Scully, crying for the comfort her shoulder and her soul offer. The comfort I often deny myself because I don't know how she will respond. She's never turned me away before, but there's always a first time. And I almost killed her tonight. Scully knows me too well. Well enough to read my body language and guide me down to her shoulder. Her hand slides from my face to my neck as she pulls me close. She knows me well enough to finish my sentences and read my eyes. Well enough to know my deepest terrors and some of my greatest dreams. Well enough to burrow into my heart and set up permanent residence there. She knows me too well. It's dangerous for her. That danger was at its greatest tonight, and I had seen her die. My arms go around her and hold her tightly, pressing her to me as I attempt to convince myself that she is indeed the real Scully. Not the image that I saw blow her brains out. Not the body laying on the floor with blood pouring out of her skull, irrevocably dead. Scully doesn't attempt to pull away or loosen my grip; she seems to lean into it, and I realize that we haven't shared a hug ever since Penny Northern died. That was so long ago... almost a year. So much has happened, and we haven't taken the time to hold one another as a show of affection or support. I give her an extra squeeze, realizing what I had come so close to losing tonight. I press my face into her neck, breathing deeply of her clean scent, trying to reconcile the fact that this woman almost died tonight by my hand. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I know it won't be long before the emotional dam bursts. Then, I hear the distant sirens of approaching paramedics and police. I pull away from Scully, straightening and scrubbing my face with my hands, trying to regain my composure. I can't cry now; not while it is necessary for me to remain the cool and calm FBI agent, giving all the relevant details of what has happened here tonight. I can cry later, tonight in my dark and lonely apartment, after I wake from a nightmare that recreates the images of this night. That is, if I get to sleep at all. Perhaps the insomnia will be preferable. The sirens are louder, in the parking area just outside the warehouse now. Scully reaches down to grasp my hand in one more gesture of reassurance before going outside to direct the paramedics. *** Amidst the swarming medical and law enforcement personnel I stand, watching them dumbly as they prepare the unconscious Bowman for her trip to the hospital. I try to understand how she had deceived me; how it could appear she shot herself in the head and yet not be harmed herself. My mind eagerly seizes this puzzle and tries to put it together; puzzles are abstract, not personal. If I focus on how she did it, then I can forget the emotions surrounding the experience. She could have not been the image I saw at all; that could have merely been a hallucination she projected onto my unconscious. But I *heard* the gun, felt its kick in the air and its shock in my soul. And when I faced the real Scully, I distinctly heard Bowman pick herself up off the floor behind me. Thus, how did she avoid shooting herself in the head? My other option is that she *was* standing there, she did fire the gun; only she did not shoot herself in the head. She simply brought the gun into an approximate position and pulled the trigger, purposefully missing her head. Then she fell to the ground, playing out the charade. "Excuse me, Agent Mulder, can I get your statement?" I startle, having been lost in my thoughts. A young police officer stands before me somewhat nervously, a notebook in hand. I don't want to think about these past moments ever again, and my stomach churns at the idea. Yet it is my responsibility to give an account, and I'm not going to shirk it. I meet the officer's eyes and begin. *** When I conclude my statement, I quickly leave the building. The air is oppressive, even though Linda Bowman has been taken away. I lean against my car and instead of turning my gaze upward, as is my habit, I look down at the black cement beneath my feet. I had seen Scully and Skinner talking; no question who the topic of their conversation is. I wonder if Scully'll transfer. I wouldn't blame her. Our communication broke down over this case, and then their was my humiliation over being suspended while ASAC of a major investigation. Nearly killing her is just icing on the cake. I sigh. I don't really believe she'll transfer; that's not the way Scully's made. She doesn't run from her problems. She won't ever transfer from the X-Files because it's the easy way out; I know that by now. Skinner'll probably give us tomorrow off or some other tidbit and ask for a complete briefing the next morning. I don't want to go through this yet again. I don't want to do anything right now except retreat into a world where none of this exists. I hear Scully's familiar footsteps against the pavement as she approaches me. "Come on, Mulder, let's go home." I nod silently in acknowledgment. She's trying to make me feel better, I know, but she can't. I'm miserable. I turn and remove my keys from my pocket, but as I am unlocking the door her small hand comes to cover mine. "No. I'm driving, partner." Okay. I hand her the keys and walk over to the passenger side. The drive is silent. I can't look at Scully; I know that just seeing her will trigger the too-recent memories. I stare out the window instead. It doesn't help. All I can see is my cursed photographic memory replaying over and over that terrible moment. I shut my eyes -- like that does any good to block out a mental projection. I open them again, trying to focus on the darkness around us. Something, anything to make my mind stop thinking. What could I have done to avoid this? The age-old question, being repeated once again. If only Bowman hadn't been released. But I didn't know about her release until after the fact; there was nothing I could do to change it. If only I had been able to warn Scully about Bowman. But I tried -- and I was unsuccessful. If only I hadn't gone to 214 Channel Avenue -- but then Bowman would have sought me out some other way. The facts are there. I couldn't have avoided this. And that hurts worse than any amount of self-blame. It proves that I have been manipulated. Above almost anything else in life, I detest being manipulated. Now the disgrace of it is especially painful, seeing that such a short time ago I learned that I had been unconsciously manipulated all my life. To see that I am so pliable in the hands of another is humiliating and infuriating. It's my life, and I should be entitled to live it the way I see fit -- not the way someone else deems fit, using it to further someone else's agenda that I do not believe in. Linda Bowman was not part of that larger agenda -- her agenda was smaller and far more personal. But the hurt is the same. And so is the havoc it wreaks on the lives close to it. I almost killed Scully because of Linda Bowman's personal agenda. Cancerman and the entire consortium has yet to bend me that far. The car slows, and I glance around me, surprised to see Scully's apartment building. "Scully, this isn't my apartment," I protest. "You're right, it's not," she responds. She parks the car and calmly undoes her seatbelt, the deliberation of her movements forestalling any argument of mine. She reaches for the door handle, then turns and meets my eyes. "Mulder, there's no way I'm leaving you by yourself tonight. You're staying with me." My mouth opens to protest automatically, then closes when I can't find one. Finally I respond with a "'Kay", the sound almost inaudible. We walk to her apartment, me dragging behind a bit. Suddenly I'm dead tired, my feet dragging and shoulders drooping as she opens the door. I immediately drop down onto the sofa while she hangs up her coat. I hear her move into the kitchen; the clanging of cutlery as she prepares tea. This is one of her habits; coffee in the morning, tea at night. It's a consistency about her that I find comforting. In a moment Scully enters the room with two steaming mugs. She offers one to me, and I accept it wordlessly. She eases down beside me, close but not too close. I understand her body language; she's not pressuring me, but she's not establishing distance between us, either. She takes a cautious sip at her tea while I stare down at my mug, gripping it with both hands. I wish she would do something else -- either get close enough for me to wrap my arms around her and never let go, or else sit across the room so I wouldn't have to deal with the temptation. I nearly lost her tonight; the thought scares me shitless. I hold my mug even tighter, until the veins on my hands stand out, hoping to still their trembling. I would put the mug down and fold my hands in my lap, except I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to keep them there. They would reach out to Scully of their own accord, unable to deal with not touching her. So I hold the ceramic cup, hoping that the waves on the surface of the tea don't become big enough to splash over the rim. Scully drains the last of her tea, and I realize I haven't taken so much as a sip. She then stands and speaks. "Mulder, I'm getting ready for bed. You might want to do the same." I nod, knowing that I'll never sleep tonight. Even with Scully in the very next room, I won't be able to assure myself that she is actually there and alive. It's funny, I'm a believer in so many things, but where Scully's concerned I need hard proof. She must see something in my eyes, because she reaches down to squeeze my hand before she steps away. My gaze follows her as she walks to the kitchen to put her mug away, and then through the doorway to her bedroom. The door then closes with a soft click, and I am alone. I sit still for a moment, then place the untouched mug of now cold tea on the coffee table. I get up and retrieve the extra t- shirt and boxers I keep here, which are stored in a small drawer in the hall closet. An interesting place to keep extra clothing, to be sure, but it eliminated the awkwardness of them being stored in her bedroom and are in an obscure enough place to avoid the curious eyes of her mother. I change quickly, and hang up my suit the best I can. My dry cleaning bill is bad enough. Then I hunt down the television remote, hoping that the white noise of late-night programming might help ward off the night demons. I sit down on the couch and begin to pull down the afghan draped across the back of it when I hear Scully's door open. I turn to her, mildly surprised. "I thought you were going to bed, Scully." She nods as she approaches. "I am. And so are you." I glance down at the sofa. "Well, yeah, that was the plan," I respond, puzzled. A negative shake of her head. "Not out here, You're coming with me." I continue to stare down at the sofa, unable to meet her eyes. The tiniest smile quirks my lips. "You coming on to me, Scully?" is my weak response to her open invitation for a comeback. She sits down next to me, dressed in her flannel beauty, and takes my hand. "Mulder," she beings, in a deadly serious tone. I don't look at her. Don't do this to me, Scully. I don't need to be tortured any more than I have been. "Mulder," she insists, and I am obliged to meet her blue gaze, unable to hide the fear and pain in my own dark one. "I'm not coddling you, I'm not coming on to you, not now." 'Not now'. Had the circumstances been different, I might have been jumping for joy. "I just think this is something we both need tonight. Please?" It's the 'please' that gets me. I know what a great sacrifice it is for Scully to admit to a need, and I am bound by character to try and meet that need, even if I think she might be lying about it. But as I look into her eyes, I see her own fear and pain, and I realize she might very well be telling the truth on this. I give in graciously. "Whatever you say, Dr. Scully." I cannot bring myself to smile. Her eyes shine their thanks, and she stands, drawing me with her. I follow her to the bedroom, and we immediately crawl into her soft bed together, no further discussion necessary. Scully leans over and turns out the light, then settles beneath the covers and lies still. As I lay there my weariness nearly overwhelms me, but my eyes remain open wide. I am almost painfully aware of Scully's proximity, but afraid to reach out. She's already done so much for me; I don't want to push my luck. But she's so close... just laying there on her back, not curled up with her back facing me or some other position designed to rebuff. So close... and when will I next have an opportunity like this? Possibly never. Especially the way things are going now. Scully is silent, her breathing even, but I know she is not asleep. Tentatively I reach out, brushing my hand against hers. She clasps my hand, moving slightly closer. Immediately my arms are wrapped around her, my face buried in her neck. She reaches up, stroking my hair, and something like a sob escapes me as I hold her, trying to reassure myself that she is actually here. *** "Mulder?" Scully's voice echoes in the empty building. I turn the corner swiftly. "Scully, what are you doing here?" I ask, surprised. Scully stands ramrod straight in the middle of the warehouse, arms by her side. "You were right about her, Mulder." What? Her right arm begins to move, and I see her gun in her hand. She's lifting it, aiming it at me. Scully, what are you doing? "She's making me do this." My breath catches in my chest as I realize what is happening. "Where is she?" I demand. "She's here... Mulder, make her stop," Scully's voice quavers. "I can't help myself." Her left hand reaches up to support her right, clicking off the safety. "LINDA BOWMAN!" I shout, hoping to release Scully from her hold. "Mulder, make her stop," Scully's voice is pleading, wrenching my heart. "SHOW YOURSELF!" "Mulder!" Her voice is desperate now, and I see her move the gun away from me... only to point it at herself. Fear courses through my veins like fire. "NO!" I scream, bolting towards her. I'm too late. She pulls the trigger, the blast echoing around the building as the bullet punctures her skull. Her body jerks and falls, landing limply on the concrete. I fall to my knees beside her, first gasping in shock and then nearly doubled over in anguish. I automatically reach for her, feeling for the wound, trying to do something to staunch the flow of blood. Anything to undo the undoable. Blood, so much blood. Blood on my hands. Pouring out of her head onto the concrete. A little voice in my head tells me that the wound will be larger on the other side, where the bullet exited. She is already dead. Dead. No! I scream silently as I hold her head in my hands. Not after being abducted, after beating cancer, after all we've been though, she can't be dead! A surge of anger courses through me, and abruptly I straighten, taking Scully's gun from her limp fingers. I run, searching for Linda Bowman, determining to find her and kill her for what she has done. I search every corner, behind every crate, in every shadow I can find. The warehouse goes on forever. I can hear her, hear her footsteps just in front of me. Around every corner I am sure I have her, but she always manages to escape me. I can't find her, no matter how fast I run, how hard I try. Elusive. Like the truth I am always seeking. Finally I cannot run any longer, and with a breathless keening cry I stop, gun falling to my side. I look around me once more, then turn, defeated, heading back to the main room where Scully is. When I get there, I see no Scully. No brilliant hair fanned out over the ground, no dark trenchcoat covering a petite body. I rush to the exact spot where she had fallen, and I see the blood, so much of it, on the ground. So much blood, but no Scully. No trail to indicate where someone might have taken her. She is just gone. All I can hear is my own labored breathing and Linda Bowman's voice echoing hollowly in my mind. "I won. Scully's dead. I won." End chapter one. FAITH IN TRUTH Chapter Two Julie John Bowman's words resound in my head, crushing me with as lethal a force as attacked my partner. I collapse on the warehouse floor, sobbing helplessly. Doubling over in anguish. Scully's dead; I can feel it in my soul. The excruciating pain of a life ripped into shreds. Of a life I no longer have a will to live. Of a life that I don't believe I am physically capable of living without Scully. My gaze shifts downward, and through my tears I focus on the gun still in my hand. The same weapon that was used to end Scully's life, which I can now use to end mine. I have been in this position multiple times in my life, and twice I was ready to complete the job. Both times a phone call stopped me. This time, however, there will be no phone call. As I slowly lift the metal weapon, I hear something. I pause; it sounds familiar. A voice. A woman's, a soft alto. "...der?" Faint. "Mulder?" Scully. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the voice. I cannot listen, cannot put faith in this voice my mind has created; I cannot allow myself some absurd hope that she might still live, for if I do then I will continue my life in misery, unwilling to end it for fear she might still be out there. "Mulder!" Stronger. More urgent. No, Scully, please don't make me stay... *** "Mulder, can you hear me?" My eyes open slightly, and above me I see an image floating, the silhouette of a person, their hand on my face, cradling it gently. Then I focus, and through the darkness I can make out the gleam of red hair. All the events of the evening come back to me in a rush, and the most exquisite relief I have ever felt washes over me. Scully. I reach for her, the terror and soul-wrenching anguish of the dream still foremost in my mind. She comes willingly, allowing me to crush her to my chest, to feel her body, warm and alive. The vestiges of the dream, coupled with the relief of reality, crashes down on me, and I begin to cry. Great, gut-wrenching sobs wrack my body as I cling to my partner, my face buried in her neck. She holds me, simply holds me, as I cry out the fear, the pain, the desperation and the humiliation. The guilt and the relief. For a short forever, nothing exists except her and me, her small body and her comforting hands. I have never cried like this in front of Scully. Never. In fact, the only time I have ever wept in her presence was when my mother was lying in a hospital bed, dying of a stroke. Now, instead of grief, it is an odd sort of joy that causes my tears. Finally the stream of wetness slows, and for several long moments we lay silently, unmoving, the only sound being that of our own respiration. Something occurs to me then, and I open my mouth to ask. "Scully," I breath, then pause as I feel her shiver beneath me. Let's *not* go there tonight. I try again. "Scully, do you know what it was like? Did you see what I saw?" My voice is still rough from the tears, incapable of smooth speech. Scully's answer is gentle and without hesitation. "No, Mulder, I didn't. I heard the gunshot but I didn't see it. When I stepped out I only saw her lying on the ground -- Linda Bowman -- but it was obvious what she had made you think." "I was so scared, Scully," I confess, somehow desiring to say it, to get it out. "It was you I saw -- there was nothing to indicate that it wasn't you. You were so scared... I thought she was willing you to shoot me. I didn't dream she would make you shoot yourself until it was too late -- " my voice cracks, the horror returning as I remember the moment. Nevertheless, I continue. "I think my heart stopped in that moment. There was so much blood, Scully. So much, just pouring out of your head. There was nothing I could do; I was absolutely helpless. I knew you were dead, and part of me died, too, Scully. The only reason I could think of to live was to find Linda Bowman and kill her, so I could kill myself. There was nothing, Scully. Where there used to be me there was nothing." I stop abruptly, afraid that I've said too much, but too tired to do anything about it. I feel Scully's body tremble against mine, and I know I have. However, that doesn't stop her from offering me her comfort. She holds me close, running her fingers through my hair and whispering reassurances in my ear as exhaustion overtakes me. *** I awaken slowly, aware only of the warmth of my surroundings and the peace I feel here. I drift in its comfort, then realize the warmth is coming from a small body I hold close to mine. Memory returns quickly, and I open my eyes, blinking a bit at the bright morning sun. I look down at Scully, if only to confirm her presence, and when my gaze is met by her clear blue eyes, it is as if the morning light has cast its beam in my soul as well. I smile, incredibly grateful for her nearness and for her life. "Morning," I murmur, my voice rough from sleep. She returns my smile. "Good morning." But then she sits up, causing my arm to fall away from her. Immediately I feel the loss. "If you'll get coffee I'll take first shower," she says, climbing out of bed and walking over to her dresser. I prop myself on my elbow and watch her, my sleep-bleared mind trying to sort out her actions. She glances back briefly before entering the bathroom, and a chill settles over my body. Even this early, dressed in flannel pajamas and hair mussed from sleep, her back is straight and ungiving, her porcelain mask in place. Scully, what's wrong? *** By the time the coffee is ready I have become slightly more coherent and a bit more hurt. Scully's shutting me out for some reason, adopting a 'touch me not' attitude. I am at a loss to explain it and equally unable to prevent myself from reacting to it. I hear the water turn off; Scully's movements in the bathroom. As I begin to pour the coffee and add the cream in hers, sugar in mine, I am aware of her presence in the doorway. "Shower's free," she says once I set down the coffee pot. Scully, I appreciate your trying not to startle me, but it wasn't necessary. I walk over and hand her the coffee with cream, avoiding her eyes. "Thanks, Scully," I murmur before brushing past her for my own shower. Why is she behaving like this? I don't understand how she can be so caring and understanding one moment and the legendary Ice Queen the next. Of course, Scully has always been a master at controlling her emotions. But it still hurts. I turn on the water and step in, turning the water as hot as I can bear, trying to erase the chill in my soul. It's not all Scully's fault; in fact, it's not her fault at all. It's my fault for opening up to her so much, for forcing her hand. I left her with two options: return to normal or take our relationship farther than it has ever been. Of course she would choose the least impulsive path; I shouldn't have asked her to choose. Linda Bowman shouldn't have forced me to ask. I sigh as I rinse the last of the shampoo from my hair. The way things are going we're going to have to make some definite decisions and soon. It's impossible to continue at the rate we're going, especially without knowing for certain where the other stands. We've both been stretched to the breaking point multiple times over the past year, and we can't keep it up forever. There is a choice we have to make: will it be our relationship or our professionalism? Professionalism. The word bothers me. Maybe because my own professionalism was called into question yesterday, and not by Scully but rather by my boss. What really hurts is that Scully backed him up. I didn't and still don't think I deserved that. I understand their reasons to a certain degree, I just don't know what made them decide to suspend me. I turn off the water and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel and drying off quickly. No matter. Scully and I have a lot to hash out; maybe today we'll get a chance. I reach for yesterday's rumpled suit, donning it more for the emotional coverage it gives than the physical one. I have jeans and a shirt over here. But Scully's chosen professionalism for now; I will follow her lead. As I step out of the bathroom, I notice for the first time what Scully is wearing - slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. Not a business suit, but not exactly casual wear, either. I set my jaw. It looks as though she had the same idea I did. She turns and hands me a plate with scrambled eggs and toast on it. I wordlessly accept it, and we sit down to eat. The silence is unusually thick for us, and it makes me uncomfortable. Still, the things we need to discuss are more than something to be casually mentioned over breakfast. As we eat I mull over the best way to approach this, and ultimately decide on the Scully method: bluntness. I wait until we are just finishing breakfast when I pose the question that's been eating at me: "Scully, why did you and Skinner pull me of the Bowman case?" I can see the surprise in her eyes, and I know my question has caught her off-guard. Good, I think. Maybe I'll get a straight answer. She takes her time in answering, the struggle over what she should and should not tell me evident in her face. Then she looked me straight in the eye, and I knew that whatever she said, it would be the truth. "Mulder," she says, "I wanted you off that case. Not because I didn't trust your judgment. Not because you were too close to the suspect. But because I was worried about you, Fox Mulder. I didn't want you getting within ten miles of that bastard. I knew he would screw you over royally if given the chance and I just didn't want it to happen again, not if I could help it." Her voice is steady, clinical, as if she were delivering a report on an autopsy rather than revealing her strictly emotional reasons for removing me from the case. It should make me angry, but I can't bring myself to be. I'm not going to let it go so quickly, however. "Okay, Scully, I can understand that," I say quietly. She looks surprised; I know she was expecting a reaction. But my words are true. I continue. "My only question is, why didn't you listen to me? If you trusted my judgment, why didn't you look into the possibility that maybe Linda Bowman was the killer?" She lowers her head, breaking my gaze, and I'm surprised at the genuine regret that I sense. "I don't know, Mulder," she begins, then pauses. "No, I do know. At the deepest level I do trust your instinct, but every bit of evidence seemed to point towards Modell and away from Linda Bowman." She sighs and pushes at her hair with her hand, struggling with her words. "What you were suggesting seemed so unreal, it was more logical for me to believe that Modell had planted the idea in your head. Wait - " she forestalls my protest with a raised hand. "I know. I should have believed you when you said it wasn't Modell that suggested it. After all, you're the only one of us that has had him in your head before." I shiver a bit inwardly. A dubious distinction, indeed. "You know what it feels like. You knew he didn't do it. But we didn't know, Mulder. We were throwing punches in the dark. This was something that we weren't used to dealing with, and suddenly we didn't know if our best agent was capable of working or not. "He could have killed you in a heartbeat, Mulder. The only question is why he didn't. That scared me so bad I couldn't think straight, much less consider the possibility that a person we thought was a monster, who *was* a monster, could actually be trying to help." She gives a shuddering sigh. "I was scared, Mulder. That's the only excuse I've got." I am more than touched by her honesty. I'm glad I wasn't angry with her; she doesn't need it and it would only serve to make me feel guilty. Remarkably, after last night, that's one emotion I haven't been experiencing too much of. As I look at Scully, however, I see where that guilt has gone. Straight to her small, strong shoulders. Her body is tense, and she stares at her firmly clasped hands. I can almost feel the effort she is exerting in trying to suppress the uncomfortable emotions. I know what she is thinking: if Linda Bowman hadn't been released by her, perhaps none of this would have happened. I have to acknowledge that she may be right in that. However, what happened was nobody's fault. Bowman would have her revenge, one way or another. I slide my hand across the table, covering both of hers in an attempt at reassurance. At my touch her body seems to give way, her shoulders and back relaxing and head falling forward to rest on the table. To my astonishment, she unclasps her hands and wraps them around mine, drawing it to her face. I can feel the warm tears start to seep from her eyes. I am concerned now; Scully's emotions have been closer to the surface ever since her cancer, but not like this. In the five years that we have worked together, Scully has cried in my presence only once. I get out of my seat and crouch beside her, keeping my hand on her face. With my other I reach up to brush a strand of hair from her face. "Scully, are you all right?" I ask gently. She sniffles and gives me a watery smile. "Yeah, I'm all right, Mulder," she says. "It's just all catching up to me. You know?" Yeah, I know. First the cancer, then her sudden recovery, and finally San Diego -- it's an incredible emotional roller coaster and impossible to emerge from unscathed. But I just give her a soft smile. "Yeah, I know." I smooth her hair once again, then allow my hand to slip behind her head and pull her down to me. She comes willingly, resting her face on my shoulder as she cries out her remaining tears. We remain in this position for some minutes, until my ankles remind me that I need to move. Seemingly reading my mind, Scully raises her head slightly. "Let's sit somewhere comfortable, why don't we?" I grin at her, and we both stand, me a bit stiffly. Then I lead her over to the couch, her hand still clasped in mine. She sits down beside me and surprises me once again by resting her head against my shoulder. I release her hand and take advantage of this opportunity by sliding my arm behind her, holding her more fully. It is doing me a world of good to finally be allowed to do something for her. As we sit in silence, I do not question why she is now allowing me, content to just love her. My mind is a curse, however. Always restless, it clamors for the answers to more of my questions. Finally I break the peaceful quiet. "You asked an interesting question back there, one I had wondered about myself. Why *didn't* Modell kill me? For that matter, he didn't harm anyone at all. Why not?" I see a puzzled frown cross Scully's lips, and I know she doesn't have much more of an idea than I do. But maybe together we can arrive at one. "I really don't know, Mulder. It seems hard to believe that someone as ruthless as Modell would have had a change of heart, but I suppose it's barely possible. The only other explanation I can come up with is that he respected you. You were the one person who could stand up to him; you were his 'worthy adversary'. That's all I can think of." "'A conquered warrior'," I murmur. "What?" I pull back slightly in order to meet her eyes. "When I was interviewing Modell's physical therapist, I asked her if she remembered anything unusual at all about Modell's visitors. She said that the Sister who visited him, whom I believe was Linda Bowman, had referred to Modell as 'a conquered warrior'." "That has to be it," Scully says. "though it still seems a little over the top. And there's still the question of why he didn't harm anyone else." I see her brows furrow in concentration. "Scully," I interrupt her gently. "Do yourself and me a favor and don't ever try and understand the mind of a psychopath." My tone is light, but I know my eyes belie my concern. "I won't if you won't," she responds. I chuckle, but the sound is flat. "Scully, that's my job." "Not anymore, it's not," she informs me. "You know that." I shake my head. "The profiling is something I use every day. Maybe not as much as I did in BSU, but it's a big part of how I solve cases. If it weren't for that then cases like Modell's would be much more difficult to solve. *You* know that." I chide her gently. She sighs and leans into me a bit more. Her body language tells me that she does know, but that doesn't mean she likes it. I smile at the top of her head. She's such a treasure to me. Her question comes out of the blue. "Mulder, what would you do if I died?" I freeze, unable to move. The mere suggestion after what I saw last night... "Scully," I breathe, "Don't ask me that." I feel her head tip up to meet my gaze, but I stare ahead at the wall. She shivers slightly, increasing the churning in my gut. "Why not?" she persists. "Mulder, I want to know. I need to know." "I don't want to put the responsibility on you, Scully." Damn straight I don't. Because I know exactly what will happen to me. I'll take one look at her body and pull my service revolver, putting it to my temple and ending it all. Unless I know that her killer is still in the vicinity; then I'll find him and pump a clip into his face, saving one bullet for myself. Scully's voice is sharp. "The responsibility's already mine so I might at well know what it is, Mulder." I finally look at her, hoping my eyes can convey my fear more effectively than words. "Scully, no. Don't ask me that, please." I am pleading with her, and I bring her close to me, hiding my face in her hair. "Just know that as long as you're here, I'll be alright." A whispered confession, a weakness I fear. A long moment passes, and Scully's body is stiff with anger. Then I feel her reach up, a gentle hand caressing my face. "Promise me you'll never leave, Scully," an impossible promise to keep, but one I have to believe in. Scully's arms go around me and she hugs me tightly, whispering, "I'll try, Mulder. I'll try my best." End chapter two. FAITH IN TRUTH Chapter Three Julie John The past seven days have been considerably better than the past seven months of my life. Scully and I have put the Bowman case behind us for the most part, and for once the mundane paperwork around the office has been a relief, for while we are busy with it we don't have to risk everything while on the field. But Scully has been puzzling me these days. It hasn't been very overt, and the casual observer might not notice much of a change. She's become very physical, even moreso than I usually am. She's always finding excuses for me to come over, and then always finding ways to touch me. Not that I mind -- I love it. It's been so long since I've felt that I could touch someone with so little reservation, and it's been torture because that's how I thrive. I'm reputed to be a lone wolf but in reality I was forced to be that way. It's easier to separate yourself from people than be rejected by them. Because of us being so free with each other, Scully's been a big comfort to me over the last several days. I'll be eternally grateful to her for allowing me to sleep beside her that night a week ago; there's nothing like watching your heart and soul blow her brains out before your eyes, and then waking up to find her telling you it was all a dream. It was horrible enough as it was; I don't want to think of what it would have been like had she not been there. After that day we've spent more downtime together than we ever have in the past. Scully and I spend our evenings quietly talking or watching movies or playing the occasional board game. Even though these things are unremarkable, I've never felt closer to her. Yet, I am perplexed. This is not the reaction I would have expected from Scully. After the death of Emily, I expected all her walls to be hastily thrown up again; for her to refuse to allow anyone past them. Instead she has done almost the opposite, inviting me closer. We indulge in the small conversation that we never before had time for, yield to the slightly-over-the-line touches that we never before dared. Hand-holding and hugs are frequent, and I have even dared to kiss her a few times. Never on the lips, but on her forehead, cheek, and once, even the tip of her nose. While it is puzzling and vaguely unsettling, I have accepted what Scully has offered without complaint. How can I not? Is this not what I have wanted for years? Even if it were not Scully, I have been so starved for someone's affection and approval that I'm quite possibly going to welcome whatever is offered. But Scully has always been a mystery; I have found, especially recently, that I can not predict her reaction or motivation to anything. I am better off if I don't try. Tonight is Sunday; we have returned to Scully's apartment after having gone out to see an afternoon movie. The dimming sun shines through Scully's living room windows, casting a soft light on the furniture there. I am in Scully's bright, cheerful kitchen helping her prepare a dinner of chili. She has entrusted the knife to me, and I dice the onions as she manages the stove. Wiping the onion tears from my eyes, I look over at her as she studies the meat cooking in the pot. Her bright hair was tucked behind her ears, but one wing has fallen free to frame her face. A small frown of concentration creases her forehead and her pert mouth, and she pokes at the meat with a spoon. She sees me out of the corner of her eye, and straightens, facing me. "Done?" I nod, swiping at my eyes again, knife still in hand. "Mulder, you're going to slit your own throat if you're not careful," she scolds, stepping closer to grab my wrist and take the sharp blade from my hand. I raise an eyebrow, more at the physical contact than her correction of me. Unable to think of a quick joke, I remain silent and move aside to let her take the by now mutilated onions. While she mixes the concoction of meat, vegetables, and beans, I pull out two sets of silverware and set the table. This kind of seamless partnership has become typical of us, both at and outside work, all week. The miscommunications and antagonism we had felt on the Bowman case has been put behind us, and the camaraderie we had a few months ago restored. I'm still trying to recover from everything; I've been thrown off-balance by so many things in the past couple of months. This last year was without a doubt the most stressful of our partnership, and we're both trying to get back to normal. So much has happened... "Dinner's ready," Scully interrupts my thoughts, flashing me a smile as she brings two steaming bowls over to the table. Scully has been a particular enigma lately. I keep expecting her to withdraw into the realm of the familiar, pushing me away in an attempt to return to our working-level partnership. She has instead reached out, unveiling her rare smile and a side of her that I always suspected existed but she never let me see. "Well, now, aren't we nice and domestic?" Scully shoots me a saucy smile. "Anytime." She's become a flirt. Plain and simple. My serious, steadfast, professional partner has been flirting with me. I was so surprised by this that initially that I honestly wasn't sure what to do with it. In Florida -- she returned every innuendo I threw at her and came up with a few of her own, the most notable of which was that not-so-subtle hint that we were defying Bureau protocol and she didn't give a damn. Not that she wasn't professional. If we were with other people, she was always the model FBI agent. I've found that, while she's made me a bit more distracted than usual, I can focus in on the work at hand as well. Though I'll never look at a sleeping bag in the same way again. This is something that gives me hope that perhaps we can actually pull off a romantic relationship successfully. I take the bowls from her hand and lay them at our respective places, then hold her chair for her. She smiles in acceptance of my gesture, and I circle to my own seat across from her. A year ago I would not have dared to offer such a courtesy, knowing I would be met by a scathing glare. Feminism is so frustrating; they've made the line between chivalry and chauvinism so thin I can barely see it anymore. I was brought up to treat women with deference and respect, something that was further refined in England, and old habits die hard. Scully, with her petite form, I find especially hard to resist treating in this manner. It is because of this same reason that she is especially resistant to me. She believes that what used to be common courtesies such as holding a chair or door are ways of asserting male dominance. I intend it as a gesture of respect, and I think she's always known this, but her feminist streak has made it a point of pride to not accept it. When I am seated, she crosses herself and bows her head in a short blessing while I wait quietly. She finishes quickly and we begin to eat. One other major change I have recognized in Scully since her release from the hospital is her faith. She now attends Mass regularly unless we are out of town, and has established a practice of saying a blessing before each meal. Ever since she began these things, she has seemed very secure in them, never hesitating about them in front of me. This, also, surprised me, given how I have treated her each time my beloved skeptic made a move to believe. I am ashamed of those times -- my goal, the joy in my work is to convince Scully to believe, but when she begins to of her own volition, I do all I can to cut her down. I recognize why; it is because I am afraid that I will lose the skeptic that I have come to depend on. However, that does not excuse my behavior. Later I discovered that I have always admired her faith -- first in science and now in God. I have lost track of how many times I have wished for her security. In many ways, however, I do have security -- in *her*. She is my faith. Without her I would be dead, I have no doubt. It is frightening how much I have come to depend on her, and while I have known this for several years, it doesn't make the knowledge any less awing or terrifying. I can understand and appreciate the security she finds in her faith in an everlasting God; I have a similar faith, but am missing the security. Because as much as I wish for it to be so, it has been forcibly impressed on me that Scully is not immortal. A person's whole life is wrapped up in their faith; if their faith crumbles, so do they. It's humbling to recognize this and frightening to think about. If you're lucky you can find another faith if your original one is shattered; I recognize that I have no such hope. My faith used to rest in the X-files, in my quest. I believed that my salvation would come with the achievement of my goal, finding Samantha. This faith kept me going through all the hard times; and there were many of them. Eventually, my search became less of a personal one and more of a cosmic quest for meaning. A crusade for the ever-elusive Truth. This crusade became embodied in the X-files, and they came to have power over me. It wasn't until Scully came that I realized that faith in the X-files was the wrong thing. Certainly good things resulted from it -- namely Scully. But the X-files were too easy to lose -- I had become dependent upon the files themselves, not what the files stood for. Scully helped me discover that the files only held as much power as I gave them. It was like the ancient stone gods -- the images held only the power that the people imagined they had. By imagining that the X-files were my only hope of achieving my salvation, I was setting myself up for the shattering of my faith. Because it only took the whim of a shadow man to take it away from me. Indeed, the loss of the X-files took a tremendous toll on me; yet, it did not break me as They had hoped -- and as it once would have. That is because my faith was now in Scully -- in that she, even more than the X-files, could help me achieve my goal of finding my sister. And They couldn't take Scully from me simply by their whim. Scully fought back, and together we managed to remain united in mind and spirit. It is because of this that my life is completely in Scully's hands, my heart resting in the belief that she will never leave me or forsake me. I recognize the fault in my faith just as I recognize that I am incapable of changing it. Now my only hope of salvation is that I die before Scully. A grim doctrine, but one I will accept. Our meal has been virtually silent, and together we clean up. While she puts away leftovers I run hot water. I wash and she dries. All without speaking; it has been a day where we have found the perfect level of unison. One that requires few actions and even fewer words. Any excess of these two things would be done simply for the pleasure of watching each other move, hearing each other speak. Now it is my turn to initiate much of our touching, and I will make the most of my opportunity. I brush up against her as we stand by the sink, and when I take the towel she offers to dry my hands I make it a point to 'accidentally' grab some of her hand along with it. With this action she looks up at me, a twinkle in her blue eyes that I take as a challenge. Tonight, I decide, I'm going to test my barriers. We've been complacent with one another for far too long. Five years, our sixth 'anniversary' coming up. Most people would be married by now, probably with two or three children, though that option is not there for us. It's about time we quit beating around the bush and firmly establish where we each stand. I'm not going to do anything permanent that could be construed as rash, but I think it's about time for Scully to know exactly what she's in for. Our chore completed, Scully moves to the living room and starts her CD player. Some soft, pleasant music drifts from the speakers as we sit down on the couch. Scully has a nice, eclectic taste that leans more towards classical than anything else. Mozart, Bach, Debussy. I sit in the middle of her sofa, and Scully takes her seat close by my side. Her body is against mine and her head rests on my shoulder. My left arm goes around her shoulder in a position that has become familiar over the last several days. I rest my cheek on the crown of her head, and turn myself over to the contentment of the moment. My serenity does not last for long, however. My naturally restless mind soon is clamoring at me to at least *think* something, to utilize this opportunity to concentrate with little distraction, instead of existing in the pleasant little world of lethargy where nothing exists except for Scully and myself. The world that presents itself to me so seldom that I am loathe to abandon it so quickly. I resign myself to the demands of my mind; this has become what I consider Scully's and my 'thinking time'. We are both highly intelligent and reflective people who are used to having time alone. I tend to go a bit nuts if I don't have an opportunity at least once a day to sit and sort out all the information flying around in my brain. Scully is much the same way, needing a time to stop and regain her focus. Because for the past week we have been spending most every waking moment together, this time for ourselves has dropped in our list of priorities. To make up for it, by mutual unspoken agreement, we have a time every evening where we sit and think. Scully will put on a quiet CD and we sit loosely entwined on her sofa. Tonight my thoughts return, as always, to the Bowman case. Tomorrow we give our final report to Skinner; while I will be relieved to officially put this case behind me, personally I never will. The cases of Modell and Bowman will haunt me the rest of my life. Bowman had referred to her brother as 'a conquered warrior', but I don't feel like the victor. Modell may not have accomplished precisely what he wanted when we first confronted each other, but he certainly gave me enough hellish nightmares that he can't feel that he fell too short. Bowman did much the same thing. I played her game, and while I recognize that I didn't lose, I certainly didn't win. Seeing someone whom I thought was Scully shoot herself in the head will give me nightmares for the rest of my life. Was that not her purpose? To send me straight to hell, even if it was just for a moment? I had felt my soul rend in two as I heard the bullet pierce Scully's brilliant mind. The mind that had brought the only stability I had known in my life; the soul that had been the only one to love me. Whose love I returned with more passion than I had ever known. The fear of the knowledge that I could not live without her was a fatal wound in itself. The terror of that moment is something I will take to my grave. Scully has since told me that now I know how she felt during the original Modell case, as well as the Cassandra case. Indeed I do, and I wish I didn't. I am filled with regret that I ever put her through that same fear, and I resolve never to tell her about the time just a short month ago, when Scully was dying and my whole world was crashing around me. I shudder, remembering the hopelessness that time. Scully feels my movement, and turns to look up at me with huge, sympathetic eyes. I know that even if my body had not given me away, she would see the sorrow in my gaze. I make no attempt to hide it; she has stripped me down to my deepest levels. What she sees in my eyes must disturb her, because her own deepen in color and she reaches up to stroke my face with her fingertips, a gesture meant to be soothing. It is anything but. Her touch is electric, and I find myself leaning towards her, irrevocably drawn to her. My lips fall on her forehead, lightly brushing the smooth skin there before moving across to her temple. I feel her shiver beside me, and the sensation of it is incredibly arousing. My hand lifts to trace the line of her face, much as hers had done before her hand dropped to my shoulder. As seconds go by and she makes no move to retreat, I begin to kiss her, lightly, on her face. Her cheek, her temple, her nose, her forehead. The corner of her full mouth, a point past which I have never ventured. Then her hand snakes behind my neck and holds me still as she brings her lips to mine. I go still for a brief second, then begin to move, making sure to savor every sensation of kissing Scully. I pull softly at her upper lip, and she nibbles gently on my bottom one. I draw in my breath at the unexpected sensation, then reciprocate her caress by running my tongue across her mouth, requesting entrance. She grants it immediately, and I plunge my tongue in, swallowing her soft gasp. The taste of her is intoxicating, and I know I will never have enough of it. She tastes of the sweet things I always dreamed of when I saw her red lips, and her mouth is a thing of wonders to be explored. Neither is she inhibited, evidenced by her small tongue searching my mouth with equal abandon. Sweeping across my teeth and then running along my own questing tongue. I find my arms circling around her, pulling her close to me. My hands caress the fabric of her shirt, becoming restless for the tactile feel of her skin, for the smoothness of her back which I have not seen or felt for five years. Then our bodies' immediate physical needs kick in, and we are forced to break apart, gasping for air. Scully's eyes are dark and wild, her face flushed. She is beautiful, and I want nothing more than to forget my earlier promise to do nothing rash. To brand her as my own and to remain with her forever. However, for once good sense prevails. "Scully," I breathe, my voice rough. "You're a wonderful hostess and dinner was delicious, but I really need to be going now." I plead with my eyes for her to understand. As much as I am for spontaneity, this is something that shouldn't be decided in the heat of the moment. For we are on the verge of an action that is irrevocable and life-changing, and the two of us are in such a position that something so absolute must be thoroughly discussed beforehand. A small frown settles on Scully's swollen mouth, but her eyes are bright and honest. "Okay, Mulder," she responds, her own voice none too steady. "I enjoyed having you. I'll see you at work tomorrow." I stand and look around, trying to focus enough to remember where had I put my jacket. I spot it draped over a nearby chair, and I grab it as Scully walks with me to her front door. "Goodnight," she murmurs as I step out into the hall. I turn to have one last look, unable to do anything but nod. She closes the door behind me, and I manage to take a few steps down the hall before I am forced stop and lean up against the wall, breathing deeply. End Chapter Three. FAITH IN TRUTH Chapter Four Julie John Scully is late for work this morning. I've noticed that she's been that way recently; either on-the-dot prompt or five minutes late. She hasn't joined me for early coffee once since her return from San Diego. Today, however, she is over fifteen minutes late and I'm beginning to get concerned. I am reaching for the phone to call her when the door opens. There is nothing unusual about her appearance. Professional, conservative suit, flawless makeup, every red hair in place. She doesn't even appear to be the slightest bit concerned over her tardiness. Her eyes are clear and they regard me with warmth. "Good morning," I greet her. It sounds lame, but is the best I can come up with. "Good morning, Mulder," she returns, setting down her briefcase and reaching for the coffee. "Sorry I'm late." No explanation. "S'alright," I say, and it is. As long as I know she's okay. I watch her as she takes her coffee and sits down. Her burgundy suit sets off her hair well, and the garnet lips are beckoning... but there is something here, something I can't quite put my finger on. An attitude about Scully that's been sneaking in over the past few days. Nothing major or even negative; it's just different and I've learned to distrust 'different'. Scully looks up and catches my gaze, lifting her eyebrow in inquiry. I look away out of habit, down at the file on my desk. "We've got a new case," I say, opening the folder. I look up and catch what I think is the tail end of a frown crossing her full mouth. Surprised, I meet her eyes, to find that in that split second she has donned her favorite expressionless mask. Maybe I just imagined the frown. "So what is it?" she asks. I brief her on the case. In Coats Grove, Michigan, it seems that a sixteen-year-old boy managed to bury his father alive -- in an upright position. "So what's our jurisdiction in this case?" "What?" I look at Scully, surprised. She shrugs. "What makes this a federal crime? Why are we involved?" I must admit that I am rather dumbfounded. Scully has never before questioned our jurisdiction -- maybe the reason why I wanted to get involved with a particular case, but never how we got it in the first place. "I... the case caught my attention so I called up the local PD. They were glad to hand it over." The local sheriff had been more than grateful. It's a small town and small towns don't like to deal with that kind of stuff. "And Skinner approved it?" she persists. By now I am slightly perturbed. "Of course Skinner approved it. Or else we wouldn't be leaving tomorrow morning, would we?" I speak with an edge in my voice. "You know he allows me a good deal of freedom in choosing cases, so long as he doesn't have one that requires immediate attention." To be honest, I think Skinner was glad to give this one to me, because he wants me out of the office. Apparently I'm not the only one who was shaken up by the Bowman case. Scully seems to wilt, suddenly. She looks away and speaks in a soft tone. "I'm sorry, Mulder. You're right." I'm thrown completely off balance with that one. Dana Scully is always a gracious loser, but she is never this... this *meek*. It's one more puzzle and it makes me feel horrible. I hate arguing with Scully. Debating is one thing, arguing is another. And usually the outcome of said arguments is much different. This isn't my Scully -- my Scully doesn't apologize like that. Hell, my Scully isn't that argumentative to start with. But I feel guilty for arguing back, and so I apologize. "No, Scully, I'm sorry." I say, getting up from my chair and approaching her. "I didn't mean to snap. I just didn't think you'd mind, is all." She gives a small smile of acceptance. "It's alright, Mulder. I must be tired. I don't have a problem with it, it's my job." Her voice *does* sound weary, once I listen to it. She reaches for the folder in my hand. "Let me look over that and then we're due in Skinner's office." *** Scully's really been worrying me lately. And it's so frustrating because I don't even know what I'm worried about. As before, there's nothing specific at all; just this vague feeling I'm getting from her. Ever since we got to Coats Grove -- hell, even before that, but I can't pinpoint it -- she's not been her usual self. Always the consummate professional, smart and conscientious; in other words, normal Scully. But she lacks the fire that normally surrounds her on a case -- it seems to me that she doesn't even want to be here. Okay, there are places I'd rather be, too. But we have a job to do and these are not normal Scully vibes. What's really bugging me is that it's so subtle -- she doesn't have an unwilling attitude or anything else overt. She's just been answering to my questions in a flat tone of voice, and responding to my hypothesis with an argument made simply for the sake of debate. There was no feeling in it; no passion, something that I have come to love about Scully. Something I have come to depend on, as well. It's frustrating and discouraging, and I know better than to say anything about it to Scully because I know she'll deny it. It isn't even true of her all the time. On what little downtime we've been able to snag -- an uninterrupted lunch here, a waiting period with nothing to do there -- she seems to come to life again. I theorize that maybe the case is getting to her in some manner. I discard that idea quickly because if this case is affecting anyone's psyche, it's mine. Is it possible that recent events have just made me hypersensitive? Maybe Scully's just tired, emotionally and physically, from all the crap we've been through lately. That would explain it, I decide. She just needs a little time. *** We both return from Coats Grove a little worse for the wear -- particularly me, sporting several nice scratches plus a bump on the head -- but both alive and together. One thing I have learned over the years -- if you can say that, you're doing alright. The case took its toll, though. Scully's apathy had been starting to get to me, so I proceeded to make an ass out of myself by climbing a tree and trying to get a reaction from her. Imagine my horror at looking down to see that big, burly man stepping out of the shadows, armed with a very dangerous-looking axe. My juvenile stunt left me unable to defend my partner, and it was definitely fortunate that for whatever reason, he didn't intend to harm us. I don't even remember what must have been a hasty decent from the tree, but as I placed my hand on Scully's shoulder to assure her of my presence, I could feel her small frame trembling underneath my hand. The next day, as I was mired in the mud with Bobby Rich, Scully came to my much more literal rescue. She tried to help me out, but the mud was slippery and she is so much smaller than I. Her hands all over me, after several tried we finally succeeded in breaking the hold of the sucking, slimy substance and it was my turn to tremble, exhaustion and the sudden drop in adrenaline taking their toll. It's extremely late by the time we get home and the exhaustion is definitely kicking in. I drop Scully off at her apartment. She invites me up for coffee, but I don't need the caffeine -- unbelievably, all I want and need is my couch. Well, that's not *all* I want, but I know better than to give in to those demands. I decline Scully's invitation with a yawn, knowing that for right now that is the wisest course of action. Scully seems disappointed but accepts my response, and I bid her goodbye before trying to sleepily navigate the way to my own apartment. *** We're both tired, but we drag ourselves into the office regardless. The endless stream of red tape flows on... This day could have been the same as any of our last week in the office -- me, plunging myself into the work but not hesitating to sneak a peek at my beautiful partner; and her, always there, always professional, but distanced. Paperwork is incredibly mind-numbing, I have learned over the course of the years, and I handle it better if I have something else to consider at the same time. Today it is my partner; nothing unusual, she has been the main topic of my thoughts ever since she joined me five years ago. On this day, however, I do not consider her petite form, or relive in exquisite detail our first and only kiss. Today I dive into her brilliant mind, a feature that I have always felt shone brighter than any of her physical beauties. Her change in behavior has been gradual; because of all that has happened to us in the last few months, it is difficult for me to establish a point where this all started. If I had to, though, it would be after San Diego. I backtrack for a moment, making sure that my guess is a logical one. In the short time between her release from the hospital and her trip to California, she had seemed fine. More than fine. We were both riding the emotional high of her remission. She spent little time at the office, most of it at home resting as per doctor's orders. Our only trip was the eventful journey to Florida -- what was supposed to be an exceptionally mundane seminar. Well, I supposed working on partnership skills with Scully could have been fun, except it was so *unnecessary*. Might want to change that idea, Mulder, I tell myself. Because look at who's trying to figure out what the hell is going on in his partner's mind. I run her 'symptoms' through my psychology dictionary, seeking an answer. Constantly just a bit late. No passion in her work. A tired attitude, though she didn't seem tired physically. Distracted. I mull over the problem for several minutes while my hand, functioning on auto pilot, moves absently across the papers in front of me. When it hits me, it does so with the gentleness of a two-ton truck. What if Scully just doesn't care anymore? End Chapter Four FAITH IN TRUTH Chapter Five Julie John I'm not going to get much sleep tonight. It all makes sense. After all, why *should* she care? What's left to care about? They took her time, her health, her immortality, and her daughter. Her sister. Her life. That's enough to get you angry, and desire vengeance as I still do. But you can only fight for so long. There's a point you reach where you realize that you aren't going to be able to accomplish much. And for the moment, the status quo is fairly good. She's healthy. Cancerman's supposedly dead -- a fact I still can't bring myself to believe. Hell, we even found Samantha. Why stick with it? What's left? Didn't I ask myself these same questions a short month ago? My world had been turned inside out, upside down, and gutted for good measure. My reason for living was wasting away before my eyes, and my faith was dying a slow and agonizing death with her. I didn't know who to trust anymore, what to believe; even the most fundamental and cherished of my beliefs -- the abduction of my sister and the existence of EBEs -- had been effectively debunked. I didn't know which way was up. In contrast to this drawn-out battle, the resolution came with shocking speed. And it was exactly the way I wanted it. Scully was healed. I was told that EBEs *were* real, *did* exist, and that there were lies within lies to cover up that fact. My sister was alive, healthy, and fairly content with her life. Everything was great, and I couldn't find a damned reason to return to the X-files that had brought all this on me and Scully. I was too tired to change my position at the FBI immediately, however. Plus there was the fear that they would separate Scully and me. That was the last thing I wanted. There were many decisions to be made before I came to such a drastic one as leaving the X-files. So in this time Scully recuperated from her second brush with death and began light office work. Then, two weeks later, she came across the memo about that stupid Teamworks seminar. I didn't want to go. I really didn't want to go. Scully's and my relationship is too complex and too spiritual to be positively influenced by those silly games. Reluctant as I was, however, I understood Scully's desire to attend. I hadn't been the best at communicating in the past months; hell, I couldn't figure out what was going on in my own head, much less explain it to Scully in a suitable way. Even after her cancer was healed, I was much more stable but I wasn't consistent. I crashed emotionally during that first week after her release from the hospital; I cried more during that week than I had in the last year, and that was a *lot*. I had an overwhelming need to be near Scully in the time that followed, needing to know that she was truly alive and getting better. However, the constant presence of Mrs. Scully and Bill Scully, Jr. discouraged that practice. Mrs. Scully wasn't a problem; she welcomed me as one of her own, as she always has. Her eldest son, however -- well, let's just say that if looks could kill then I'd have been long dead. So I hovered on the sidelines, occasionally dropping by after work. Once I awoke at 2:08am with the chilling certainty that Scully was dead. I automatically dialed her number, only to be greeted by the sleepy and more than slightly peeved voice of Bill Jr. I hung up and didn't venture by her apartment again until after he left. I knew my withdrawal had been confusing to her, especially in light of how attentive I had been while she was in the hospital. So I suppose it was logical of Scully to hope that the communications seminar would help her figure me out. Ultimately I agreed to go, albeit reluctantly. I really didn't feel like explaining to her that I was in the middle of an identity crisis and just needed some time to reorganize my priorities. And I figured the worst thing that could happen to us would be spending a few productionless days in Florida, and after all, how bad could *that* be? I didn't count on my luck. How the hell did two idiotic people like that come to work for the federal government? ...Forget I said that. Anyway. Even though I was about to go stir crazy in the car, I could see that Scully was enjoying herself. And to my surprise, I too was having a good time shortly thereafter. I think our 'nice little trip into the forest' of Florida did me more good than I ever could have foreseen. Almost before I knew what I was doing I had an interest in these mysterious disappearances. Scully was surprised when she saw I was serious about pursuing the investigation; to be frank, so was I. But in the backwoods of Florida I had rediscovered my purpose. It hadn't changed. It was still with the X-files, searching for the truth -- be it the truth about mysterious disappearances in the woods or mysterious disappearances of FBI agents. I love the work, and there's far more out there for us to discover. That night in the woods (which can get remarkably cold in Florida), Scully made me do some thinking. I remembered that there were other things in our lives we had to face; truths that we had uncovered and were buried again before our very eyes. Krycek. Paperclip. My own memories. Scully's. So many issues left incomplete; how could I think to leave? Whatever remaining doubts I had were erased by San Diego. That experience with Emily sparked the anger that was a vital part of my motivation; it awakened me from my thankfulness over Scully's health and made me realize that it should never have been at risk. Now I see that that same experience had the opposite effect on Scully. As I mull over this revelation, I avoid falling into the trap that my own insecurity has built - that my desire to keep her with the X-files is a selfish and unreasonable one. It could be, I recognize, and had this occurred at some time in the past then it would have been. However, by now Scully has had too much happen to her to just give up. I'm no longer a part of the equation. Should she give up, she'll regret it for the rest of her life. She'll spend all her time trying to indirectly avenge herself, and while it will make her an exceptional agent, she'll be miserable. I know firsthand that the only way to confront past experiences is head-on. Now I just have to convince her. *** When Scully arrives at work this morning, I'm ready to begin my campaign. "Hey, Scully," I greet her. She gives me a tired smile and sets her briefcase down behind the table that passes as her desk. "Morning, Mulder." I get up and hand her a mug of coffee I had fixed in anticipation of her arrival. She casts me a grateful look as she accepts it and takes a long sip. As she sits down in her chair, I slide a file across the top of her desk. "Scully, tell me what you think about this case." I return to my desk and watch her as she quickly scans the report. Then she puts it down and meets my eyes. "I don't think this constitutes an X-file, to be honest with you." "Come on, Scully -- missing for two months, found in a comatose state?" I want to be careful here. "To me that sounds rather familiar, except this girl died after a week." Scully looked down at the folder again. "This girl also did not have an implant, and while her bloodwork is unusual, she didn't have any branched DNA. She was also a teenager. I don't see that many connections, really." I meet her calm gaze. "Alright, then, Scully, what happened?" "Perhaps something mundane like revenge or a kidnapping. Has anyone investigated the girl's family? Has the family been threatened in any way?" I shook my head. "She lived in a large city, and was reported missing after she left school early, claiming to be feeling badly, and then never made it home. It could have been anything." Scully leans forward. "So, no bright lights, no missing time? How on earth did you even come across this case, Mulder?" I sighed. "I don't know. It was just here. VCU sent it down. Apparently the girl's father is a community leader, a university scientist -- a botanist, I think. So he called in the big guns when his daughter went missing." Scully sighs, then glances halfheartedly back at the report. Something must catch her eye, because I see her forehead crease in concentration. "What?" "You said he was a botanist?" she responds, shuffling through the case folder once again. "Might want to check him out, Mulder. The anomalies in her bloodstream do look organic; maybe he kidnapped her and kept her drugged with something derived from plants. Something went wrong and she died." I raise my eyebrows. Sounds logical enough. "Well, I'll see what I can find." I do a search on the criminal database, and after an hour of extensive searching, I find something. "Would you look at this, Scully. One Peter F. Nyman is an upstanding citizen, with nary a traffic ticket to his record. With the exception of one count of child abuse twenty five years ago." Scully looks up and drawls sarcastically, "Well, partner, looks like we've just solved our X-file." I take her teasing with good humor. "It's things like this that make me keep you around, Scully. Well, that and the view." Whoops. Backfire -- I receive a lethal glare from Scully. "Call up the police department and tell them what we've found, Mulder. Then let's move on to the next thing." *** "Mulder, would you like to go out to dinner tonight?" Her question surprises me. "Sure, Scully. I'd like that. When?" She glances at the wall clock. "Well, we get off in a few minutes -- how about then?" I look down at the file I'm reviewing. The case itself isn't worth us investigating, but I want to do a few things with it, call in the Lone Gunmen, before I turn it over to someone else tomorrow. "I had planned on going over this file a little more, get Frohike to do a couple of things for me. It'll keep me at least another hour; can we do this at seven?" She doesn't look happy, but nods in agreement. "Okay, I'll meet you at Bela's at seven, then." "Alright, I'll be there." I watch as she places a couple of files in her briefcase, then picks up her purse and leaves. I bite my lip as I glance at the clock. Still five minutes until we're officially off. She's not making any secret of the fact that she doesn't want to stick around. There was a time when the first reason up for consideration would be something I had done. If I had inadvertently offended her, or done some other typical stunt to alienate her. However, she didn't seem to have an aversion to *me*. Though tonight would be the first downtime spent together since the Michigan case, she had voluntarily initiated the whole thing. No, she wasn't angry at me. In fact, it appeared that she wanted to spend more time than normal with me. I chuckle humorlessly. Catch a clue, Mulder. Our kiss a week ago... though I had been the one to initiate it, she hadn't exactly been subtle. That kiss... it had been wonderful, perfect. I can't kid myself -- I want to do it again. I want to be able to kiss her for the rest of our lives; to taste her flesh, to own her completely. But there are serious issues that we need to clear up before we let our relationship progress any further. Damn common sense. I pick up the phone and call Frohike. *** Scully has come alive tonight. Gone is the quiet, impassive woman that I've seen at work and out on the field. She has blossomed with the night, and is now a different person from the woman who left the office. She is full of good humor, relaxed and smiling. We avoid talk of work, instead focusing on current events and other topics that could be discussed on any date. She is beautiful and smart, challenging me intellectually even on subjects that would normally not hold my interest. If she was a woman I had just met, and this was a first date, I would be extremely hopeful of a good relationship with her. But this is Scully. And this doesn't feel right. It's not one specific thing I can put my mind on; overall, I love this side to Scully that has been revealed to me over the past couple of weeks. I had always felt that, despite our differences, we could have a successful relationship outside of work, and these times have proven it. Yet there has been a niggling uncertainty in my mind, whispering from the edge of my subconscious that there's something not quite right here. Something I believe I figured out last night. This is the real Scully; she's not playing a head game with me. She's nothing less than completely honest -- even if the truth hurts sometimes. It's not the off-duty Scully that's perplexing me, it's the on-duty one. Or perhaps it's the combination of the two. This doesn't feel right because she's slipping away from me. An outsider might say we are closer than ever; and certainly, we have been spending more time together physically then ever before. Yet, I can feel the distance between our minds, our souls. What I have not yet determined is whether or not Scully senses this distance. Is her slow drifting from the X-files a conscious decision, or not? Is she purposely trying to separate herself? If she is, do I have the right to stop her? Yes, I do. The question is, how? *** The clock is ticking towards the end of another day, signifying another hour, another minute, another second, that I've wasted sorting through bureaucratic red tape. The office is silent, with the exception of the clicking of Scully's keyboard and the scratch of my pencil against the page. And the tick of the clock. That tick is no longer so loud as it once was; Scully is better, and now we have more time. Yet I know better than to waste the time, because one day I will want it back. I look down at my paper, damning the time the Bureau requires that I waste. The tick, tick, tick of the second hand seems increasingly louder in my ear until its spell is broken by a serious voice. "Mulder, I've been thinking." I gaze up at her, feeling no small trepidation. Her four words, simple though they are, trigger alarm bells in my head. Please, please, please don't tell me you're leaving. I know you want to, or at least you think you want to, but don't do it just yet. Let me make my case. "We've been through a lot in the last couple of months, and I think that a little time off for us both would be good." This wasn't sounding good. "How much time off?" Scully shrugs. "Oh, I was just thinking maybe a long weekend. I've been wanting to go see Maine for some time; I think that maybe I should just take a few days off and do it. Get out of my own head for awhile. But," she leans forward and looks me in the eye. Do I see a hint of a smile? "I want us to do this together." I restrain an incredulous look; that's just too good to be true. "I'm not going to take time off if you don't. It doesn't matter to me what you do, just take off tomorrow, Saturday, and Sunday. Don't get in too much trouble on your own. Do you think you can do that?" Her voice contains a hint of amused condescension; she knows she made me squirm. I hem and haw for a moment, trying to process her request. A weekend is not as much time as what had originally sprung to mind; but then, I had been waiting for an indefinite leave of absence. She could quite possibly use this time to begin a slow breakaway from the job. However, I sense no ulterior motive to her request, and she definitely has a point -- we've been to hell and back in the past couple of months. I can also use the time to decide exactly what I am going to do about this whole Scully thing. "Okay, Scully, that sounds like a good idea." I can't resist a mild leer. "How 'together' do you want to make this?" She fixes me with a glare, though her eyes are bright with humor. I nearly smile at the expression; I haven't seen a look like that in months. "About as 'together' as the last time one of us took a weekend to travel in New England." Ouch. I deserved that. "I don't have to worry about losing you to some tall, dark and handsome guy, do I?" Yeah, just dig the pit deeper, Mulder. Her retort is quick as she stands and gathers her things. "No more than I have to worry about losing you to some tall, leggy brunette." I'd better shut my mouth before I choke on my foot. I watch her leave with the tiniest smile on her lips; she's always pleased to beat me at my own game. As the door shuts behind her, I can't restrain a small smile of my own. I just hope we don't wind up playing phone tag this time. *** Of course, we do. I place the phone back in its cradle; that's actually the first time I can remember Scully ever hanging up on me. I sigh as I look around the office; I promised to stay away from work, not from the basement. True to my word, I haven't looked at a single X-file since she left. Except for the new one I saw on my desk. It's killing me. I never thought it would be this difficult to spend a weekend without work; but I simply can't figure out what else to do. Well, you could run or swim, hang with the Lone Gunmen, or find a pick-up basketball game, for starters, I am reminded by a portion of my brain. Yes, I could, but I just don't want to. I want to talk to Scully -- if she'll talk to *me* at all. And the last thing I want to do is run off when she's in the middle of what looks like a pretty cool X-file. I've spent plenty of time thinking about how I'm going to bring her back; hopefully the good town of Ammas Beach, Maine won't be appealing enough to make her want to stay. So far I think things are going pretty much in my favor. After dredging up conversations a year past in an effort to search for some clue to what Scully wants, I've decided what my next step is going to be. Now I just need to execute it. I pick up the main phone and dial, leaving the cell open for Scully should she decide to call me back. *** Scully never ceases to amaze me. That's a quality about her that I particularly love -- her unpredictability. For all her stoicism, for all her dependability and professionalism, Scully has always been a mystery to me. Oh, I've figured out the main points -- but I'll never decipher everything about her. And never will I be able to anticipate her response to a case. She leaves me for a weekend, to 'get out of her own head'. Unfortunately for her, she seems to have gotten into mine. That listing of witchcraft evidences; does she know what that *does* to me?! Smart is sexy. I just wish she'd consider the proposal I made, because if she ever says 'yes' when I make a crack like that, no way am I backing out of it. As dull as the weekend has been, I am grateful that Scully insisted on it. I don't think I could have accomplished as much by myself as that trip to Maine has. If anything is going to show her that she is still bound, heart and mind, to the X-files, it'll be this past experience. Because as much as she fights against it, she can't separate herself from it. End Chapter Five