THE FIFTH COLUMN By Kemystre Fifth Column - (noun) - a secret or subversive group that seeks to undermine the efforts of others and promote its own end. ---Encarta World Dictionary AUTHOR: Kemystre RATING: NC-17 for language, violence and sexual content KEYWORDS: post-Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati CLASSIFICATION: MSR, X, MA, SA, SkA (Angst all around), ST, MT ARCHIVE: Yes, as long as all headings and my name remain on it. But please ask first, I'll want to visit it! :) DISCLAIMER: So, okay, they aren't really mine. They belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox, David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson. No money will be made. No infringement is intended. FEEDBACK: Please at kemystre@aol.com SPOILERS: Biogenesis, Sixth Extinction, Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati, Unusual Suspects, Three of a Kind, Squeeze, Tooms, Detour, Pusher, Pilot, Duane Berry, Ascension, One Breath, Triangle, The Unnatural, Fight the Future, Paper Hearts. SUMMARY: After the events of Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati, Mulder and Scully come to a crossroad in their relationship. The decision that Mulder makes will forever change their path together and quite possibly cost Scully her life. AUTHOR'S NOTES AND THANKS: At the end. ~ Introduction ~ Evolution has brought the human being to where it stands today. It has molded and shaped the mind, body and spirit. In doing so, evolution has separated the human from other beasts that walk the Earth. Evolution has given the human being both a mind and a soul, or heart. It has given the human the capacity to be ruled by both, although each is a distinct entity unto itself. The mind is capable of intellectual reasoning. It can solve puzzles, recollect events and then categorize and cross-reference them. It is a warehouse for information and thoughts. It is calm and rational. The heart, however, is the ruler of emotions. It is the center of one's innermost character, feelings and inclinations. The heart is only rational when in agreement with the mind. It is the center of moral judgment, thus creating both the most wonderful aspect and the most vital flaw of the human condition. This duality is an intrinsic aspect of human nature. It shapes the human into the person that they become. It affects every life decision that they make. Often times the heart and mind agree, are as one. But just as often the two are at odds creating the eternal struggle that is forever within man. The heart and mind lead each man down different and distinct paths. These paths are determined by the strength of the man's heart and mind. At each crossroad in his life man must face down the internal struggle that is within him, letting either his heart or mind determine the direction that he will take. Day Three 5:14 a.m. Office of Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady United States Air Force Undisclosed location. "Sir, we have the aircraft." Lieutenant Colonel Norman Brady leaned forward in his worn leather chair, his forearms firmly resting on the polished, walnut desktop. He nodded his head several times before speaking. "Good. Very good." Those were the exact words he wanted to hear. There had been no room for error on this mission. The plane was the key. Their future depended upon it. Soon they would acquire its contents, too. He felt himself relax, if only slightly. We can continue now, he thought. All of his years of trained military stoicism couldn't discourage the small smile he felt forming on his lips. He knew that this wasn't the end of the ordeal. It was only the beginning. There would be much to do after the contents of the aircraft had been secured. He would, of course, have to ensure that their security was not breeched further, that they would be able to go on, move forward. The airman, having not yet been dismissed, stood stiffly in the doorway to his office. A wistful grin grew out of the lieutenant colonel's stoic smile. He remembered fondly what it felt like to be so young and idealistic. Yes, the young airman was a good solider. His heart was in the right place. He reminded Brady so much of himself when he was that age. He nodded in the direction of the airman, letting his smile turn to one of appreciation. "That will be all," he said. Even after the airman had departed he couldn't shrug the smile that was still upon his lips. For a moment he could feel the years melt away. He had spent the better part of his six decades serving his country. He had flown combat missions in the Vietnam Conflict. He had commanded during the Gulf War. But this post, this assignment, had given him the most pride and fulfillment. With it had come the opportunity that he had waited for his entire life. This was the assignment that he had sacrificed so long for, so hard for. He had watched his friends and his own men die in combat. He had lost his wife and family because of his single-mindedness. Through it all, his beliefs had never wavered. He had been scared, especially over the last few hours. He had physically felt everything slipping away, but it hadn't. Everything was going to be all right. They were not going to be compromised. The project could continue. Day Three 6:06 a.m. Fox Mulder's Hotel Room Fenton, New Mexico Mulder had fallen asleep with his cell phone next to him. He had been sleeping peacefully, for the first time in weeks. He was dreaming, his eyes in constant motion beneath tightly closed lids. When he awoke he would remember an incredible vision, a dream focusing on the conspiracy surrounding "Spam" and the power that it held over those who consumed it. Although still asleep, Mulder lurched forward when his cell phone trilled beside him. The second ring caused him to sit up in bed, awake and alert, with the bed sheets still tangled around his long legs. His hands automatically began groping for the phone in the darkness. He found it, one hand flipping on the bedside lamp, the other hitting the send button. He hesitated for a moment, holding the phone away from his ear, staring at it out of the corner of his eye. For a split second he considered disconnecting the call. He closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for his own weak heart. Even after all that had happened he wasn't strong enough to take the next step. He cleared his throat and brought the phone to his ear. "Mulder," he said. "Uh, Agent Mulder...um, I think I..." "Sheriff Phillips?" he interrupted, unsure of whether he was relieved or disappointed by the caller's identity. "Yeah, um...Deputy Johnson just called and woke me up...well, maybe you should turn on your T.V....You see he gave your partner a ride earlier tonight, to the airport, you know, and well..." Mulder searched through the rumpled and twisted blankets once again, this time for the remote. He flipped on the set and waited for the picture to come into focus. The local morning news was on. He turned up the volume slightly and twisted in bed to get a better view of the set. The sheriff seemed to have been waiting to hear the television come on. He cleared his throat loudly before speaking again, "Anyway, Andy remembers asking Agent Scully what flight she was going to take, you know just making small talk and all, and well...um, the news..." The sheriff's voice faded into the background as Mulder's full attention became focused on the news program. The pretty, blonde news anchor spoke solemnly, "Once again our top story for this morning, American Airlines Flight 247, en route from Santa Fe to Washington, D.C., has apparently been hijacked. As of yet, no one has come forward to claim responsibility for the..." Mulder felt his stomach fall to the floor. "What flight?" he said in a strangled voice. "247." ~ Chapter One - There Is No Turning Back ~ Day Three 6:11 a.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico He couldn't move. In the space of a second, Mulder felt his body go numb. The cell phone slipped from his hand and fell silently to the floor. A low gurgle of sound escaped from his lips. He was certain that it was the sound of his last breath. The numbness ebbed for a moment, if only to make way for the pain. His chest hurt, a horrible ache, burning and searing through his body, radiating outward from his heart. His mind took control and wrapped itself around that one thought. The muffled sound of the sheriff's voice made its way to the edge of Mulder's perception, pulling him harshly back from the ledge, away from his gut reaction. He concentrated on the muffled sound of the sheriff's voice. He bent slowly at the waist and blindly grasped his phone, at the same time reaching for the pants he had quickly shed and haphazardly discarded only hours before. "Agent Mulder! Agent Mulder! Are you still there? Look, I..." "I'm still here," was his terse reply as he cradled the phone between his face and shoulder, hurriedly slipping one leg into his trousers as he listened to the sheriff. "O...Okay. Like I was saying, um, I put a call into the state police in hopes of getting some more information. I'm still waiting for them to return my call." The sheriff paused, as if waiting for a response. When he did not get one, he prompted, "Agent Mulder?" "Yeah," Mulder replied a moment later, only half listening to the sheriff as he searched for the rest of his clothing. "Is there anything else that I can do?" "Call me when you hear back from the state police," he answered, ignoring the wayward emotions flowing freely through his heart. He pushed the cancel button before the sheriff could respond. Amber Evans' stark voice filled the room and Mulder abruptly stopped his search for clothing, turning to watch the newscast. He dialed the number for Information, never taking his eyes away from the program. He asked for American Airlines and roughly pulled his fingers through his already spiked hair. "...The FAA reported, some forty minutes ago, that air traffic control lost radio communication with Flight 247 just moments after take off. The tower assumed there was a malfunction with the aircraft's radio and was working to diagnose the problem. At 5:37 a.m. the pilot radioed air traffic control and simply said, 'I have been instructed to tell you that we have been hijacked.'" Mulder vaguely recognized the click signaling his transfer from Information to the airline. His patience was rewarded with the dull bleating of the busy signal. He hit the cancel button as he dropped the phone on the bed and returned his full attention back to Amber Evans and the newscast. "Flight 247 carries 147 passengers and crew members. American Airlines has informed us that they will not release the identities of the passengers until all family members have been notified. The flight is scheduled for a layover in Dallas, although there is no word yet as to whether it will adhere to its flight plan." When Miss Evans' announced, a few moments later, that she must break for a long overdue commercial, Mulder was left feeling alone, isolated, and frustrated with his helplessness. The small motel room seemed to close in around him as a thousand doubts and questions filled his mind. He tried in vain to remain rational and calm. He tried to resist the urgent pull that he felt from within, imploring him to act, to rush forth and do something, anything. His heart beseeched him, begged for him to listen to its impassioned pleas, insisted that Scully was in trouble, that she needed him. He couldn't listen. He refused to let those feelings overwhelm him. Things were different now. He stood there, in the middle of a motel room in New Mexico, a dangerous and silent battle ragging within him. He didn't know what to do, what to think, how to feel. Everything had changed, Mulder had seen to that himself, and now he was faced with the repercussions, as damning as they were, in all of their glory. Beyond everything that had taken place, all of the hurtful words that had been exchanged over the past two days, he couldn't let go. He had to help her. It wasn't just his heart or mind talking, but his entire being. He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, interwoven with her, needing her beyond carnal desires, and that was something he could not deny. For a moment he tried to console himself, reasoning that Scully may, in fact, not be on the ill-fated flight, that the sheriff and his deputy were mistaken. In his heart, however, he knew the truth. Without even thinking he picked up his cell phone and dialed. "Skinner." "Sir, Agent Mulder here. I need some information," he said, desperately trying to remain calm, but failing miserably. The Assistant Director paused for a moment. Mulder could hear voices in the background on his boss' end of the line. "Look, Mulder. I've kind of got my hands full right now. I'm helping out Domestic Terrorism. An airplane was hijacked this morning." "Have you received the passenger manifest yet?" he interjected quickly, sensing that Skinner was about to terminate the call. "Yeah," Skinner replied impatiently, "it was just handed to me. Agent Mulder, I really have to go now. I'm expecting a call from..." "Agent Scully may have been on that flight." Day Three 6:24 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Dana Scully sat silently in her seat. The young woman in the seat next to her was starting to make her sea sick, correction--air sick, she was shaking so violently. Scully felt almost certain that their captors would beat the woman senseless at any moment. They were watching her neighbor with great interest. Scully was seriously regretting trading seats with her before the flight began. She felt claustrophobic, trapped between the aircraft and the trembling woman. Scully took a deep breath and slowly surveyed the situation once again, recommitting every detail to memory. She would need the information later to pass along to the proper authorities, and, no doubt, need it to fill out a twenty- page report. Probably in triplicate, she thought wryly. She pushed down against the resurgence of fear, willing it to stay within the confines of her heart, not allowing it to flow freely through her veins, poisoning her. There was no room for doubts, she reminded herself sternly. She had to believe that this ordeal would end and that it would end well. If she couldn't do that, she would never survive the next few tumultuous hours with her sanity intact. She let go of the breath she hadn't realized she was holding and continued her survey. Since she had booked the flight at the last minute, she had been forced to take one of the few remaining seats in the business class section. As of yet only two hijackers kept watch in her section of the plane. Their presence was daunting at best. They loomed near the front of the cabin, guns held at the ready. One was short and lean, his hair slightly graying under the cap that was perched atop his head. He wore a wily look of menace, one that dared the passengers to resist and face the consequences. He seemed eager and impatient to thwart any such attempts as he bounced on the balls of his feet and fidgeted endlessly with his weapon. The other was taller and more relaxed, clearly in charge of the area. He had been the one that had spoken earlier, when they had made their evil intentions known. His voice had been deep and raspy, managing to send a shiver up Scully's spine. In total she had seen five different men now. All were relatively young and clean cut. The other three were dressed the same as the two in her section, and could easily be mistaken for soldiers in camouflage combat gear. All five men carried an assault rifle, an M-16 Scully thought. The captors had been quiet for a while now, ever since their initial insertion. She had yet to see anyone that could clearly be construed as the leader of the group, although Scully thought that he might be in the cockpit. If any of the crewmembers knew why they had been taken hostage in the sky, they had yet to relay that, or any other information to the passengers. She wasn't as apprehensive as she had been initially, although she was still nervous, and understandably so. The quiet, yet ominous, demeanor of the hijackers had calmed her nerves and partially assuaged her fears. Scully was fairly certain that they did not intend to harm anyone, at least for the time being and not without provocation. Although, after this ordeal, Scully felt certain that Mulder would never be able to convince her to get on a plane again. A ragged sigh escaped from her throat as her helpless heart clung to his image, refusing to relinquish its hold. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest as she tried to push the image of him away, out of her thoughts, out of her soul. She refused to go down that path, to think of him, to remember. Yet deep within her she knew it was inevitable. Mulder was a part of her and had been for so very long. Scully closed her eyes in frustration, stamping down tightly against the memories that began to flood her. She cringed inwardly at the lack of control she had over her own will, her own heart. She forced herself to relax then, giving in to the inevitable, allowing him to come to her in the only way he could now. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 7:53 a.m. J. Edgar Hoover Building, Basement Basement Office of Fox Mulder Washington, D.C. Scully arrived at work early. It had been a week since she had last spoken to Mulder, since she had stood in his hallway and he had proclaimed her to be his touchstone. She had needed the time away from him, a chance to reflect, an opportunity to discover what was left in her heart. Everything that Scully held sacred had been challenged. Her faith in God, her belief in a science that had not been able to save him. She had almost lost him. She would have if Diana Fowley had not intervened. Scully could not reconcile herself with that, with everything she had been through, had seen. She had needed this time. She had needed to recover, to rethink, to resolve. Scully moved across the office, a small smile gracing the corners of her lips as she lowered herself into Mulder's chair. She had been unable to resolve her inner struggle with her faith. She had been unable to dismiss the feeling of trepidation that surrounded the events of the last month. So much had happened; so much had changed and only now was she able to realize the implications of it all. Two sleepless nights ago she had stood at her bedroom window, bathed in light from the streetlamp below. She had longed for internal peace, for the raw aching of her heart to subside. As she had stared blindly into the night, scenes flooded her mind, so fresh and vivid that they seemed to have taken place only moments before. The emotions they evoked were as strong as the first time she had experienced them. Scully had watched, passively, as her life was played out before her eyes. Her father's strong hands. Her mother's warm smile. Her sister's impassioned beliefs. Her daughter's lost soul. Her heart ached. His smile. The pain softened. Scully had almost been able to feel his soft touch on the small of her back that night, gently urging her forward. It had just come to her then, almost as an epiphany, a serendipitous discovery. She was ready. The restless feeling that she hadn't been able to shake lately, it had been trying to tell her something. She needed more. Hell, she had thought wryly, even Mulder knew that. Scully had hated to admit that he was right, that he had more insight than she into her own heart than she did, but he had been right. She wanted a life, not an ordinary life, one with him. She didn't have grand notions of being swept off of her feet. He had done that slowly over the past six years. She wasn't envisioning a white picket fence and a dog named Sparky, she didn't need those things. She needed him, a Mulder who was more than a partner, more than a friend. She was ready to take the next step. She wondered if he was ready as well. She had been plagued by that simple question for two days now. She couldn't understand why the answer continued to elude her. She knew, in her heart, that Mulder loved her. She had clung to that truth tightly in the ensuing days and nights. It had insulated her against the doubts that continued to plague her, the lack of instinct she felt concerning her partner's aspirations for their relationship. Scully silently vowed that his intentions would not remain a mystery much longer. Soon, she thought, very soon. Maybe today. She looked down at the file on the center of his desk, reluctantly turning her mind away from her partner. Skinner had sent a file down yesterday afternoon and she hadn't had a chance to read it thoroughly yet. He walked through the door then and she looked up. Scully felt herself tighten as she took him in, memories from their last meeting buzzing through her mind, crackling like electricity. He was wearing her favorite black Armani suit, the one that had caused her more than a few torrid and delicious dreams. Scully smiled as she watched him stride purposefully across the room, expecting to meet his hazel eyes, a sight she had denied herself for far too long. Mulder finished his walk across the office, a stale grimace on his pouty lips, and stopped directly in front of his desk, his eyes never meeting hers. He stood there for a few moments while she regarded him. Her brow furrowed in contemplation as he stood before her, his hands on narrow hips, his haunted eyes focused on his desktop. He looked annoyed, agitated, she noted. Scully rose slowly from his chair, placing her palms flat on the surface of the desk and leaning in. She cleared her throat quietly before speaking, "Good morning Mulder. It's nice to--" "Morning," he said interrupting her. He moved stiffly around to the other side of the desk as Scully took a large step to the side. He still hadn't met her eyes. She stood next to the side of the desk as he sat down heavily and flipped on his computer. Scully studied Mulder for a moment, trying to discern the source of his foul mood. Coming up with no obvious explanation, she opted to ignore his demeanor and get back to work. "Skinner sent this file down yesterday afternoon," she offered, reaching for the file in the center of his desk. No response. She frowned slightly, "I haven't had a chance to go through the details, but it appears to be something we might want to look into. I glanced through it yesterday. Some families in Wilmington, Delaware are claiming that their teenagers have become possessed after visiting an abandoned church. Apparently the local authorities have used Mesa equipment to detect the presence of...spirits," she said, arching an eyebrow in his general direction. "No. I've already got a case," he said tersely. Scully's posture automatically became guarded at the severe tone of his voice. She straightened herself and began to open her mouth to respond to his clipped declaration. At the last moment she opted to bite her tongue instead. Adept at dealing with Mulder's many moods, she decided to try and play along. "So Agent Mulder, care to share with the rest of the class?" she asked in a controlled tone. "No," was his simple reply. A silent and uncomfortable moment passed. He stopped playing with his e-mail and let out a long sigh, scrubbing his face with his hands. Turning in his chair and looking in Scully's direction, he spoke. "I'm trying to confirm a couple of things and then we can talk about it, okay?" he asked her right shoulder. Scully slowly nodded her head, a look of pure confoundment on her face. "Sure Mulder, whatever," she answered in a monotonous voice. With that she walked slowly over to her table and picked up her black leather briefcase. She paused, dropping her head fractionally, as she slipped the thick strap over her shoulder. Without looking at him she said, "I've got a meeting." She walked out of the office and down the hall without looking back. Mulder's ability to erect instantaneous fortresses around himself was nothing new--rare, but certainly not new. What she didn't like was the moat. Sure, he had closed himself off to her before; she couldn't fault him too much for that. She had done it many times herself, pots, kettles and all. She shook her head. What was bothering her, the heart of the matter, was that she thought they should be past all of this, after everything they had been through, especially over the past year, the past few months. Maybe that was all just wishful thinking, she chided herself. Maybe they hadn't come that far after all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Still two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 10:25 a.m. J. Edgar Hoover Building Basement Office of Fox Mulder Washington, D.C. Scully had returned from her meeting about an hour after their exchange. She had slipped in quietly, seemingly without him noticing her return. Wordlessly, she lowered herself into her chair, pulled out her laptop and begrudgingly began work on their monthly expense report. She dug in, refusing to spend any more time trying to traverse Mulder's self-built moat. If he wanted her to know what was wrong then he'd just have to lower the drawbridge. After an hour of thick silence, only interrupted by the sound of the two agents pecking at their respective keyboards, he finally spoke, "I need to go see the guys." At the sound of his voice, Scully stopped typing and looked in his direction. He was still staring at his computer monitor, glasses in place. After an endless moment, and what seemed to Scully like an after thought, he asked, "Do you want to come along?" "That depends, Mulder. Do you plan on telling me what's going on?" she asked, her patience with Mulder's distant behavior wearing thin. She was trying very hard to cut him some slack, after all, he had been through a lot lately, but she certainly didn't appreciate being treated as if she didn't exist, as if she was nothing more than a loyal sidekick, especially not today, not after her revelation. Although his eyes never wavered from the computer screen, he seemed to be considering his words. He took in a long breath and let it out before pulling himself up from the chair. "In the car," he said, almost reluctantly, "I'll tell you in the car." He looked in her direction and almost met her eyes. Day One 11:01 a.m. En route to the Lone Gunmen's Lair Washington, D.C. "Well?" she asked after he gave her a very rough overview of the case. His demeanor had softened somewhat since they had left the office, but Scully couldn't manage to keep the edge out of her voice. Something about Mulder's mood didn't set right with her. He was holding something back, she was certain of it. "What, Scully?" he asked, interrupting her silent speculations into his character. "Your theory, Mulder, I assume that you have one," she prompted, not missing a beat, as Mulder pulled into a parking spot near the Lone Gunmen's hideout and cut the engine. "Yeah, I do," he replied as he got out of the car, slamming the door. Scully exited the car slowly, unsure of what had just happened, hell, what had been happening all morning. By the time she stepped up on the curb Mulder was already rounding the corner and heading down the alley. Frohike was standing in the doorway when Scully turned the corner of the alley. He must have heard her thick heels clicking on the uneven pavement because he looked her way. He held the door open for Mulder, who entered without so much as a backwards glance. Frohike stood by the door holding it open for Scully when she approached. "Agent Scully. Nice to see you as always," said the older man, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Scully acknowledged his greeting with a stern look of warning and stepped inside. Ever since she had been tricked into helping them in Las Vegas, he had been looking at her like she was a hot fudge sundae topped with a cherry. She found Mulder standing in the middle of the main room. He and Byers were engaged in a hushed but serious conversation. Byers looked up as Scully entered the room, smiling slightly at her. She managed to nod in acknowledgment. When she took a couple of steps in their direction, Byers' eyes flew to Mulder, who stopped in mid-sentence. Scully let out a silent sigh, wondering once again why Mulder was acting so strangely. After a deep breath, she stepped forward, determined not to let Mulder shut her out, at least not where the case was concerned. Byers looked uncomfortable, something was definitely afoot, she thought. Mentally pushing down her trepidation she moved to stand next to Byers and glanced up at Mulder expectantly. He was still unable to meet her gaze. Well, at least he's consistent, she thought. Byers' cleared his throat uncomfortably before speaking. "So you're going to leave in the morning then?" Scully arched an eyebrow, first at Byers, and then directed another one at Mulder. She stared at him for a moment, cocking her head slightly, fully expecting one of the men to explain Byers' statement. In keeping with his mood, Mulder ignored her, again, and addressed the man in front of him. "I think it's only a matter of time before the town is either quarantined or the whole thing is covered up. I need to move fast on this one." Byers nodded his head sagely and hazarded a cautious glance at Scully. "I? Mulder?" she asked, the smoothness of her voice belying the turmoil that raged beneath. Again she did not receive a response. She held back the flippant remark that she felt come to her lips. Scully didn't want to feel angry over Mulder's unwillingness to share the case's details or the distant demeanor that he had adopted since he returned to work that morning. If she were completely honest with herself, she would be forced to admit that Mulder's mood was not the sole source of her disquiet. The morning hadn't went as planned. Mulder hadn't acted as she had anticipated. Had she expected him to pick up where they had left off in his hallway? Was everything suddenly supposed to be different because of the moment they had shared, the feelings she had finally confronted within herself? No, of course not. "Scully," he said, interrupting her thoughts, but never meeting her eyes, "Do you mind? I need to talk to Byers privately." Her mouth opened a fraction, a warm hiss of breath escaping and a cold sense of deprivation wrapping itself tightly around her heart. Mulder just stood there, refusing to meet her eyes, his hands resting sternly on his hips. She mentally threw her hands up in exasperation, turning and walking across the room. She lowered herself onto a nearby ratty couch and closed her eyes, just for a moment, trying desperately to understand what was taking place, why Mulder was pushing her away from this case, from him. She watched absentmindedly as Langly and Frohike exchanged a look and rose from their seats. They crossed the room hastily, stopping next to Mulder. Frohike rested his hand on Mulder's forearm and began to speak. Even though she was only fifteen feet away, Scully could not hear their hushed conversation, but from the look on Mulder's face he was not pleased. "What?!?" yelled Frohike several minutes later, causing Scully to jump in her lumpy seat. She started to stand, quickly thinking better of it. She watched intently as Byers raised his hand, signaling for the older Gunman to back off. His other gripped Mulder's forearm, gently pulling him away from the two Gunmen and out of the room. Langly and Frohike turned and Scully's eyes caught those of the two men, pinning them with her steely blue stare, silently demanding answers. Langly glanced warily at Frohike, who opened his mouth to speak and then seemed to think twice about it. The small man pursed his lips in thought and finally spoke, "Agent Scully, I...well--" He was interrupted by Langly elbowing him sharply in the arm. The Gunman yelped in pain and rubbed his arm gingerly. He shook his head and glared at this friend, "Okay, man." "If you guys have any information concerning--" she started to say, her voice firm and level. "Dana, I can't, I wish I could, but I just can't. I'm sorry," Frohike interrupted softly. He dropped his head and moved across the room to sit in front of a computer terminal. Scully looked up at Langly, feeling the worry playing heavily across her features. He returned her gaze, but only for a moment. He looked to his left as Mulder and Byers reentered the room. "Come on Scully, we've got a plane to catch," Mulder said, not even glancing in her direction as he stalked toward the door. Scully made no move to get up from the ugly couch. Mulder stopped when he reached the door, finally aware that she had not followed. "Scully?" he said impatiently without turning around, "Come on, let's go." Scully directed her gaze toward Mulder before responding, "Excuse me Mulder, did you say something?" She still made no move to leave, not caring if she sounded like a disgruntled wife, she certainly felt like one, at the very least a forgotten sidekick. The Gunmen just stood, together, in the middle of room looking as if they wished to disappear. Mulder finally turned to face her, meeting her eyes for the first time that day. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft, barely audible, "I asked if you were ready to go." Scully held his eyes as she rose from the couch. They just stood there for a moment, eyes locked, each searching the other. Scully could easily read the torment in his eyes. He was hurting. She flinched slightly at the stab of pain in the vicinity of her heart. Her expression softened. She took a step forward, disappointment flooding her as he broke their connection and opened the door. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Later that same day... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 1:03 p.m. Dana Scully's Apartment Georgetown Scully waited. In less than thirty minutes, she had packed for their trip to New Mexico. Their flight, however, was not scheduled to leave Dulles until four o'clock that afternoon. Mulder had made the travel arrangements via his cell phone during the long and uncomfortable car ride from the Lone Gunmen's to the Bureau's parking garage. He had told Scully to go home and pack, that he had already filled out the necessary paper work. Although she hadn't appreciated the sentiment behind his quasi-order, she had complied. She understood this Mulder, the one with tunnel vision where a case was concerned. That was what she had told herself then, on their trip to retrieve her car. That he was just focused on the mystery that he intended to solve. That she shouldn't take his behavior personally, that it had not been meant as a slight, that before long all would be well. Yet, her heart had not been able to be so dismissive. It couldn't ignore the pained expression that he had worn, the haunted presence in his eyes. Mulder was in pain, in her heart she knew that, felt it to be true and the truth could not be discounted so easily. Fox Mulder was a complicated man. Scully had known that even before she had met him. She had heard the talk that surrounded him while she was at the Academy. He had once been hailed as the Bureau's fastest rising star, but he had fallen from grace when he had discovered the X-Files. Scully had wondered then, before she knew him, why he had thrown away such a promising career to search the sky for little green men. He had shared the history of his quest with her on their first case together, six years ago. She had felt for him then, sympathized with the pain that he did not bother to hide. She hadn't believed his tale, couldn't believe that his sister had been taken by beings that could not, did not, exist. Scully had begun to follow him on his quest then, until all too quickly it became hers as well. She had been taken, had been lost for three months and had no recollection of where she had been or what had happened to her. Mulder had professed to know. He had been convinced that she had been taken by aliens. At the time she had refused to believe him, although she was quickly coming to believe in him. He had become an integral part of her life, by some unconscious decision that she couldn't remember making. In her mind, she denied this...then. She saw herself as strong and independent and pretended that she could live without him if she was forced to, all the while making sure that she never had to. Before she knew it, he had become her best friend, her only friend. They had endured much in their days and years together. They had watched friends and loved ones perish, survived her cancer, losing the X-Files, almost losing each other. Through it all they remained strong, together. They had been moving forward, toward each other, slowly. They had been so close to something then, although she could only now admit it to herself. Things, however, had changed when Diana Fowley had walked into their lives. She had leveled the playing field, changed the rules. Scully was no longer the only one Mulder could trust, the only one he turned to. Scully would have been a fool if she hadn't recognized how Diana had changed her relationship with Mulder. It wasn't as easy as it once had been, there was something between them, a barrier that neither one seemed capable of surmounting. They had lost the X-Files then and the thin thread that still connected them threatened to snap. She had tried to walk away, in a vain attempt to save herself, her heart. He hadn't let her, had pulled her back in with his words, his almost kiss. She was lost for good then. The next year, this past year, had been hard on both of them, even after they had been returned to the X-Files. Fowley had survived and still seemed to insert her presence between them, pushing them apart. There were moments though, moments when they moved as one again, moved closer together. A navy hospital. A baseball diamond. Mulder had gotten sick then and Scully had went in search of a cure, of a way to save him, of a way to save them both. She had left him behind in doing so and had gone down her own path of discovery. This path had changed her, had left its marks on her soul. She was filled with doubt, was unable to thrust aside the questions that her trip to Africa had raised. When she had returned, Scully had not been able to save him. She had not been the one that he needed. She had told herself that he was still alive, that he was whole again, and that was all that mattered. Her mind's steady and rational assurances hadn't helped to quell her pain, but he had. Mulder had held her face so gently between his strong hands, and she had felt whole again. The light caress of his lips against her thumbs had re-ignited her soul and his words had given her hope. As she stood next to her bedroom window, Scully was unable to dismiss the unsteady feeling radiating outward from her chest. The same feeling that warned her that all was not right, all was not well. ~ Chapter Two - I've Made Up My Mind ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 7:37 a.m. Santa Fe Airport New Mexico Fox Mulder paced impatiently in front of the gate, anxiously waiting for his flight's departure to be announced. He checked his watch once again and scowled in the direction of the employee seated by the gate's doorway. Although only minutes away from boarding, Mulder still wasn't certain that he had made the right decision. Skinner had urged him to return to D.C. after confirming that Scully's name was indeed listed on the passenger manifest. Not having many other options, Mulder had agreed. He wanted to return, wanted to help Scully, but the thought of being even partially incommunicado throughout the five- hour flight was not appealing. He especially wasn't fond of the fact that Scully's plane would land more than two hours before his own. He clamped down hard against those thoughts, they wouldn't help Scully and they sure as hell wouldn't make the five- hour plane ride any more tolerable. Scully's flight had originally been scheduled for a layover in Dallas/Ft. Worth, but Skinner, who had been in constant contact with the F.A.A., had learned that the plane would not land in Dallas as originally intended. Its flight path, as tracked by radar, indicated that it was moving straight for the nation's capitol. Considering past events in Dallas, Mulder was relieved that the flight was bypassing the city. There were no assurances that the plane would land in D.C., but there was also no indication that the hijackers' intended to land it elsewhere. Skinner had questioned him, of course, asked if Mulder had any insight into the act of terror. Mulder hadn't responded at first. He wasn't sure how much he should divulge to his boss. His own theories were loose, haphazardly thrown together at best. When he finally responded, Mulder had said as much. Skinner had seemed to accept this, allowing him a small amount of leeway on the matter, but eager to be informed the moment Mulder was able to make a concrete connection. Mulder had agreed. Skinner had assured him, personally vowed, that once grounded the plane would not be allowed to take off again. The plane and Scully would be waiting for Mulder when he arrived. Mulder didn't allow himself even a moment of reflection after he ended the conversation with Skinner. He had called the airport, booked himself on a non-stop flight home, and hurriedly thrown his possessions into his suitcase. As Mulder had driven to the airport at breakneck speed, he had called the Lone Gunmen and asked them to look into the theories he relayed to them concerning the hijacking. His friends had obviously been shocked when Mulder told them over the speakerphone that Scully was a passenger on the flight in question. All had been quiet for a solemn moment afterwards. It had been Byers who finally broke the silence. "It's not your fault, Mulder," he had said, as if reading Mulder's mind. Mulder hadn't been able to answer. He had known the truth. He had quietly disconnected the call and concentrated on navigating safely through the airport traffic. Just as he thought he could take the wait no longer his flight's departure was announced over the P.A. system. He grabbed his bag from the floor by his feet and practically ran the rest of the short distance to the gate. Day Three 7:42 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Another hour had passed. The plane hadn't made its scheduled layover in Dallas. Scully couldn't say she was surprised by this turn of events and tried to take the deviation in stride. Hijacking a plane for a short hour-and-a-half jaunt seemed like it would be a little anti-dramatic after all. Over the last hour, the two men stationed in the business class section of the plane had begun to take turns patrolling the area, watching warily for any signs of dissension among the ranks of passengers and crew. They still continued to eye Scully's seatmate with unease. Scully didn't blame them; the woman's incessant whimpering was making her nervous as well. The rustling of the curtain separating the business and first class sections of the plane caught Scully's eye immediately. Every muscle in her body tensed as she sat up straighter in her seat, poised. The curtain parted and a third man cautiously, but confidently stepped through. His dark eyes surveyed the group of passengers quickly before he leaned in and spoke quietly to the taller of his comrades at the front of the section. Scully watched him guardedly, taking careful note of his appearance. He was a good three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than the man he was talking to. Under his helmet, his head appeared to be shaved. He certainly looked the part of a rebel commando and his stiff posture and calm air of defiance certainly spoke of a military background. He was most certainly new. His presence brought the total to six, seven if her assumption that the leader was in the cockpit was indeed correct. The man straightened to his full height and walked purposely toward the coach section of the plane. Scully turned her head slightly, watching, as he stepped through the curtain and disappeared behind the dark blue tapestry. When she turned to face forward again, the tall hijacker with the raspy voice had moved to kneel directly in front of the flight attendant, Nancy, seated at the front of the section. Scully watched their exchange with interest out of the corner of her eye. After a few tense moments, the flight attendant nodded slowly, unbuckled her safety belt, and rose unsteadily from her seat. The raspy voiced hijacker reached out and helped steady her. She paused and the large man nodded in the direction of the curtain in front of them. Nancy responded immediately and disappeared behind the curtain. Scully tensed at the change of routine, readying herself for the unknown. To Scully's relief, the flight attendant emerged from behind the curtain a few minutes later, a beverage cart in tow. She served the two assailants first, coffee Scully noted, and then moved warily to take care of the passengers. Scully relaxed slightly, the imminent danger that she feared now avoided. She glanced down at her watch, attempting to calculate when they might land, where they might land. Scully bit back against the feeling of trepidation that threatened to sliver up her spine. She had to stay in control, had to remain calm and rational. She would be of no use when they landed if she didn't. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, inadvertently allowing her mind to wander. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 4:25 p.m. American Airlines Flight 321 Scully chanced a glance at her partner. He sat next to her, in the aisle seat, his eyes half closed and trained on the back of the seat directly in front of him. She shook her head in frustration and looked away. Any hopes that Scully had regarding an abrupt change in Mulder's insidious mood had fallen to the wayside. He had arrived at the airport just moments before their flight was announced, meeting her at the gate. He had only managed a terse hello before ignoring and avoiding her throughout the entire boarding procedure. Once they had boarded the plane and safely stowed their carry-on luggage Mulder had wordlessly handed Scully the results from the first three victims' autopsies. He had then mumbled something about taking a nap. His posture and demeanor left no room for interpretation. Mulder wanted to be left alone. Scully considered pressuring him for a moment, asking him what was the matter. He would be a captive audience after all. She quickly decided against it. Now was not the time, not when he had been able to reinforce his walls since their exchange at the Gunmen's. There would be opportunities later to try and break down his walls, storm the fortress. She resigned herself to the task at hand and opened the reports in front of her. The three victims that had been autopsied by the local medical examiner were all adult males, ages 21, 25 and 43. The official cause of death in each case differed, heart failure, pneumonia, and liver failure respectively. The deaths, however, did have a common factor. When the autopsies had been performed, it was discovered that all three men were riddled with cancer, massive tumors invading all parts of their bodies. All but one of the men had died suddenly, at home, in their sleep. The young man that had developed pneumonia had been hospitalized, but died within hours. According to the medical examiner, interviews with the men's families had revealed that all three men had only recently begun to feel ill. In fact the 43-year-old victim had received a thorough physical examination only two weeks prior to his death. No signs or symptoms of cancer had been reported. The medical examiner had concluded that the onset of the cancer had been rapid, its destruction to their bodies unstoppable even if detected. Scully closed the reports in front of her and turned to look out the window. On their way to visit the Lone Gunmen, Mulder had told her that there were five victims in all. The two latest autopsies were being saved for her to perform in the morning. Mulder had not hinted at any connection between the men, other than the fact that they all lived in the same small town. He had yet to share with her the case files he had compiled. That was just another thing she needed to add to her rapidly growing, yet ironic, list entitled "Strange Mulder Behavior." Obviously Mulder had been working on this case over the past week, she reasoned. The autopsy reports had been e- mailed to Mulder, last Wednesday Scully noted as she flipped back through the reports. One look at the autopsy photographs had told her that they had been printed on their quirky office printer. When had he been in the office, Scully asked herself. She had been there herself last week, every day, at least until six p.m... Scully barely suppressed an expletive when the plane began to shake violently as they hit turbulence. The quick jerky movement of the plane startled her. Reflexively, she grasped Mulder's forearm and squeezed, anchoring herself. The moment her fingers met his arm she turned to look at him, suddenly realizing what she was doing. She almost gasped in surprise when he turned in her direction, meeting her eyes. She held them, losing herself in the pain and anguish that she found housed within his hazel depths. The moment was lost as soon as it was found. He swallowed hard and a look of pure torment grew across his face. A heartbeat later he pulled his arm roughly from her grasp, quickly looking away. The turbulence was forgotten as she continued to stare at her partner, stunned beyond words. Mulder crossed his arms over his chest and then met her eyes again, but only for a second before he turned and focused on the aisle carpeting, as if it held all the secrets of the world. She just stared at him, too dazed to move and too hurt to respond. She felt the anger and betrayal battling to take control within her. After everything that she had lost, the reality of losing Mulder was becoming all too real. She could sense it somehow, feel it deep within her. Their connection had been broken, damaged. This wasn't Mulder, wasn't the man that she knew, that she trusted beyond hope and reason, that she loved. A week seemed to have changed everything. The turbulence ended as quickly as it had begun and Scully rose quickly from her seat, intending to pull her heart back under control from the private confines of the restroom. Before she had a chance to figure out the logistics of getting past Mulder's long legs, he rose and stepped aside, making way for her. For a moment she was tempted to look up as she moved past him, to try and capture his gaze. She didn't though, she was too scared of what she might find there, of what his truth might be. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 7:51 a.m. Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. "What do you have for me?" Skinner barked into his cell phone. "Assistant Director Skinner? This is John Byers...Mulder asked me to call you with any information that we uncovered." Skinner turned to face the bank of windows behind him, lowering his voice before replying. "What have you got?" "We're not sure, maybe nothing. Would it be possible for us to meet with you? In twenty minutes?" Byers asked. Skinner turned and glanced at the group of agents huddled around his conference table. "Yeah, that'll be fine." Day Three 7:55 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 Fox Mulder sat staring out his window, slowly crunching on a salty sunflower seed. His right knee bounced erratically, thoroughly annoying the woman sitting next to him. He would have noticed had his attention not been so focused elsewhere. He'd called Skinner as soon as the seat belt sign had been turned off. The situation aboard Flight 247 had not changed, and his boss had virtually no new information. Skinner had managed to establish a direct link to the F.A.A.'s radar system, allowing his team to track the aircraft on site. They, along with the F.A.A., were watching closely for any further deviation from the flight plan. So far none had been observed. Skinner had also informed him that the regional FBI office in Santa Fe had sent 20 agents to question airport employees, in hopes of determining the manner in which the hijackers had boarded the plane. So far their inquires had not born fruit. Back in Washington, Skinner and his team were reviewing the passenger manifest with a fine tooth comb, trying to determine if the hijackers were listed there. That route also seemed to be a dead-end. Mulder let out an exasperated sigh as he rested his head against the seat back, his eyes falling shut, his jaw clenching. He felt so removed, so helpless. True, he was not a stranger to those feelings, but that didn't make them any easier to accept. He had almost lost her so many times already, more times in fact than he cared to remember. Mulder took a deep breath and let it out slowly, desperate to allay the inevitable. He kept telling himself that Scully needed him whole right now. That she couldn't afford for him to be blinded by his guilt and pain. That he needed to focus, focus on delivering her safely from harm's way. He tried, but he couldn't. He was helpless to stop the flood of guilt that he was drowning in. He knew this would happen, that if he stopped, gave himself a chance to reflect, that he would do just that. Regardless of Byers' words, he had laid the blame directly on his own two broad shoulders, and frankly, he was scared to death that Scully's demise would rest there as well. He knew, in his heart, that he could not live with that, could not live without her. Even though that was what he had been prepared to do. He had been determined to go on without her, to set her free. He had been ready to do that. He had actually started to do that. He had thought he could survive, alone, without her. A breath hitched in his chest. Mulder steeled himself against the angry tears that were threatening to fall. Steeled himself against his heart. He chastised himself inwardly, trying to rebuild his resolve. He straightened himself in the seat. The decision had already been made. It had been made before any of this had happened, he reminded himself, five nights ago as he had sat alone in his apartment, unable to take the pain any longer. Byers had been the one to find him that night, blind drunk and laughing hysterically because he didn't want to cry. He had asked his friend to leave, but Byers hadn't. He had asked his friend to understand, but Byers couldn't. He stayed with Mulder that night listening to his drunken ramblings, watching as Mulder's heart crashed to the floor, shattering beyond repair. As he sat staring out the window at the stark white clouds below, Mulder resigned himself. In his mind he knew that he was doing the right thing, the right thing for Scully. He stomped down on his guilt, on the dull aching of his heart. He hadn't known that his decision was going to put her in peril, he reasoned to himself. He had no way of knowing that. He was doing what he thought he had to do. He nodded his head softly. That is what he had intended to do, what he had set out to do. His breath quivered in his chest. A soft moan escaped from his lips as his head shook fervently. Day Three 8:15 a.m. Office of Assistant Director Walter Skinner J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. "Okay, let's make this quick. I've got a dozen agents waiting on me." John Byers stepped up to the conference table and threw down a stack of manila file folders. Langly and Frohike moved to stand next to him, their expressions guarded. Byers only hesitated a moment before speaking. "As I told you on the phone, we may have something." "Let's hear it then," Skinner said, placing his hands on his hips. "We may have hit on something when we were going over the passenger manifest," Byers started to explain. Skinner held up both of his hands, effectively quieting Byers. "Okay, first of all, I don't want to know how you guys managed to...obtain...that list. But I'm going to tell you right now that I had half a dozen agents go over that same list. Everything checked out. There is no way the hijackers are listed there." Frohike cleared his throat. "We thought the same thing, initially. On the surface, it looks good. Every name on the list checks out. They all have addresses, phone numbers, next of kin. And according to American Airlines and the FAA, all of the crewmembers' families have been notified along with 127 out of the 135 passengers. They feel confident that they will be able to contact the others. It's just a matter of time." Byers jumped in, "Statistically speaking, 98.3 percent of terrorists are male. Based on that assumption, we felt that in all probability--" Frohike rolled his eyes at his long-winded friend and interrupted, "It's obvious that the hijackers did not board the plane under assumed names, we aren't arguing that. Out of the 135 passengers, 87 are male. We divided up those 87 names and put them into a databank program we developed. Twelve of those names brought up red flags." Byers picked up the folders from the table and fanned them out. "These twelve men," he said, tapping the folders with his fingers for emphasis, "all have records that are sealed. Sealed so tight that, well, we can't even get at them, not without putting a substantial amount of time into it." "What kinds of records?" Skinner asked warily. "We found nothing of the sort." "Nothing like DMV information or social security records. Nothing obvious. Things like birth certificates and tax returns," he paused. "And military records." Day Three 8:25 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 She had seen another one. He was the eighth. He had come to speak to the two already there, only a few minutes ago. Scully's seat was near the front of the section and the men had been less than ten feet from her. She had strained her ears in hopes of catching part of their conversation, but they'd spoken too softly. The first two men moved to stand at the beginning of each of the two aisles as the eighth left. It was the second who spoke, the tall one with the raspy voice, "Ladies and Gentlemen, we ask those of you sitting next to a window to please pull down your shades." Both men watched closely as the passengers complied quietly. Once all the shades had been pulled, he spoke again, calmly and with authority. "We also ask that everyone buckle their safety belts, and leave them buckled until we land. We will allow anyone who wishes to use the restroom or get a beverage to do so in the next few minutes," he paused, allowing his words to sink in, "After that everyone must remain in their seats." With that, they resumed their patrol, insuring compliance. Scully let out a sigh as she buckled her seat belt with slightly trembling fingers. Were they going to land? What would happen then? Would people die? Her breathing became ragged in her chest, fear closing in around her heart as questions rushed through her mind, pushing everything else out for a few panicked moments. She felt those ejected emotions flowing freely through her arteries and back into her veins. She surged when they returned to her heart, altering its rhythm. Panic replaced by serenity. Fear replaced by love. Despair replaced by? Replaced by what? Hope? No. Hope was dead, lying bare and broken on a cold motel room floor. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two days earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day One 9:02 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully looked around as she dropped her luggage onto the carpet. The motel was just another rat-trap found along the highway of their lives, the same kind Mulder always seemed to find. She had stayed in hundreds of roadside motels just like this one, yet this one felt so different. The energy in the room was almost palpable, surging around her, filling the room. She sighed, trying to shrug away the feeling of unease. She had been a bundle of nerves for hours now. Her heart was racing, but she felt so drained, so lifeless. But this room...there was something about it, something she couldn't label or categorize. She let her gaze wander over it, taking in every detail, looking for any obvious source of disquiet. Pale green carpeting covered the floor, clashing with the lime green and blue bedspread. The room contained the usual array of furniture, a bureau, a bed, a nightstand, table and chairs. An old and fading seascape hung on the wall over the bed, a lighthouse beckoning to a long lost ship that could not be seen or saved. She felt drawn to the painting, but quickly dismissed it, determined to continue her perusal of the room. There was, of course, the obligatory door connecting Mulder's room to hers. Or was it separating this time? Scully was drawn to the door, walking toward it as if in a daze, her survey of the room forgotten. She stopped just inches from it, placing her hand atop the cool grainy wood. Her ear followed her hand, the side of her face brushing against the door, her eyes falling closed. She could hear him. Scully listened intently as he unzipped his suitcase. She could hear his strong and steady footsteps as he strode across the room. Drawers opened and closed. Footsteps again. Involuntarily, her hand reached for the knob, feeling for the cold metal it knew it would find. She stepped back as her hand moved to twist the knob. It didn't move. She looked down at her hand, as if first realizing what she had attempted to do and not understanding how it had happened. Her gaze traveled up the length of the offending door. It was locked, she realized. Her hand fell away from the knob and she looked down at it, her palm up. She stepped backwards, away from the door, until she felt the bed at the back of her knees. She surrendered, letting herself fall backwards, before turning and moving up to the head of the bed. Her eyes were once again drawn to the lighthouse in the painting, to the beacon, begging for it to lead her home, to the truth. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Several hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 3:12 a.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Benton, New Mexico Scully awoke, startled from a restless sleep, sitting upright in bed, dazed and confused. Her heart was beating heavily in her chest. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the lights she'd left on so many hours ago. She glanced around, finally remembering where she was. She looked down at herself, a disgusted sigh escaping through her grimaced lips. She'd fallen asleep in her clothes. Scully shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her mind. She had been dreaming. She tried to wrap her tired brain around the essence of the dream but all she could remember was feeling panicked, like she was lost, and a light, a moving light far off in the distance. Her chin dropped to her chest as she searched for the elusive memories. "Scuuullllll...leeeeeehhhhhhh!!!!" Her head snapped straight up, eyes immediately landing on the connecting door. She was out of her bed like a shot, nearly tripping over the suitcase she had carelessly left in the middle of the floor. She didn't even notice. Mulder was calling for her. Mulder needed her. She reached out for the door handle, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal. Her wrist twisted and her arm pulled, hard. She froze. It was still locked. Scully looked down at the unyielding knob expectantly, as if it could explain its present state. She stood there, hand frozen against the knob, battling with her own indecision, weighing each possible action in her mind. She could hear him, whimpering in his sleep beyond the door. The fear from his nightmare was almost palpable, even through the piece of wood separating them. Scully raised a tenuous fist to the door, rapping, lightly at first. Moving closer to the door, she listened for any sound signaling that he was awake. Scully could see him in her mind's eye as she listened to his labored breathing. His lean legs hopelessly entangled in the sheets. Sweat glistening off of his brow. Eyes tightly closed, tears clinging to his long lashes. She had witnessed that same scene countless times, on so many nights just like this, almost like this. On those nights, he hadn't locked her out. "Shhhh, Mulder. I'm right here," she whispered to the door. "Noooooooo!!!! Noooooo!!!" he screamed, startling her. She heard the springs of his bed creak, followed closely by the groans of the floor. Scully moved closer to the door, pressing the side of her face against the wood, resting both palms flat against its surface. She heard his steps and felt the heat of his presence as he moved closer to the door. A gleam of metal caught her eye as he moved the knob, imperceptibly, from the other side. Her breathing stopped as she waited, watching the knob. It didn't move again, not all night long. ~ Chapter Three - So You Can Get On With Your Life ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 29 hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 8:43 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 "Just tell me!" Mulder barked into the phone, a menacing look in his eyes. A nearby flight attendant eyed him wearily and scurried away quickly. "Agent Mulder, you're going to have to calm yourself down. Working yourself into a manic state is not going to help Agent Scully," Skinner firmly replied. Mulder took a rough breath through his nostrils, his facial muscles tensing as he tried to control the anger in his voice. "I'm not really doing her a hell of a lot of good now, anyway, am I, Sir?" he replied, his voice dripping with angry sarcasm. "Agent, I'm not going to get into that with you again," said Skinner, leaving no room for discussion. He let out a long sigh before continuing, "Look Mulder, I know what's going through your head right now and I'm here to tell you that you've got to keep it together. Scully needs you to keep it together right now." Mulder closed his eyes in resignation. Skinner was right. His voice was softer, calmer, when he responded, "Finish what you were saying, Sir." "I have my team checking into the twelve names your friends supplied, but I sincerely doubt that we'll get anywhere on that." Mulder huffed in agreement. "But I have called in a few favors at the Department of Defense, a couple of old buddies of mine have promised to get back to me with what they can," Skinner continued, not sounding hopeful. He paused then, an alarming and uncomfortable silence ensuing. Mulder knew what was going on. Skinner was choosing his words, trying not to upset him, not wanting to set off a loose cannon aboard an aircraft full of innocent civilians. "There's something else Mulder. Word just came down from the F.A.A., they're shutting down D.C. to air traffic as of 9:30 a.m., all flights are being rerouted to Baltimore- Washington." Mulder took in a ragged breath. Skinner spoke first, before Mulder could unleash the verbal assault that was on the tip of his tongue. "I've already arranged for a helicopter to meet you at the airport and I've spoken to the F.A.A., they're willing to clear you to land at Dulles." Skinner waited for Mulder's response, when he got none, he added, "And, Agent Mulder, we'll keep her safe until you arrive. You have my word on that." "Thank you, Sir," was all Mulder could manage to say before disconnecting the call. He slunk back to his seat, pain and weariness weighing him down. His neighbor had disappeared and that suited Mulder just fine. He no longer had the energy to fidget, but had no doubt that he would get his second wind before they began their final descent. He laid his head back against the seat and stared out the window, trying to imagine where they were at the moment. He needed to keep his mind away from Scully, away from the pain that continued to radiate outward from his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the Earth below the beautiful white clouds. He could see fields of long yellow grass, glistening in the morning sun. He could see mountains, their peaks sprinkled with a dusting of snow. He could see trees, their branches swaying in the breeze as they stood proud in a beautiful forest. An image flashed before him. He tightened his eyes against it, hoping to shut it out as it blinded him. Another flashed. Then he was there, bound to his hell once again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 30 hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 2:58 a.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico He felt his feet pound against uneven terrain, her laughter floating all around him. When he looked up, he could see her--running ahead of him in the forest, jumping over fallen tree trunks with the grace of a gazelle. She was laughing, smiling at him. Her eyes, they were so damn bright, the brightest blue he'd ever seen in all of his life, blinding him only to her. He was running after her. He could hear his own laughter, but it sounded so faint, so far away. Everything was her, her laughter and those bright blue eyes. He blinked and she turned, running sideways for a moment, beckoning to him with her hands, urging him forward, to her. He ran faster, his heart racing. He knew it wasn't from the exercise, it was her, she was everything. His breath. His love. His life. His soul. And then she was in his arms, in the middle of the forest. There were birds, but he couldn't hear them, couldn't see them. She was in his arms, smiling, laughing with those bright blue eyes. She was happy. She was everything. He felt her arms snake around his back, pulling him closer, closer to her everything. And she quieted, her look softening, but her eyes, her eyes were still that incredible bright blue that he would never forget now that he had seen it. She held everything in her eyes and he held everything in his arms. He leaned forward then, hands moving up to capture her face in his palms. His thumbs making soft circles on her skin as he searched her bright blue depths. He could feel his own hands shaking in anticipation, he wanted to kiss her, he had wanted to for so long, he had wanted everything for so long. He inched his face closer, never breaking contact with her bright blue eyes. His lips almost grazed hers, almost, he almost had everything. He thought he screamed her name in terror as the ground opened up beneath her, pulling her down. But he heard her, heard her scream his name, wrenching his soul. He fell to his knees in front of the bottomless chasm before him. She was there, his everything, holding tightly to a thin ledge. He reached out for her then, to pull her back, but he couldn't reach. She was too far away. He couldn't reach her. He dropped to his stomach, extending his arm. He looked to her again then, pleading, begging to a God that he didn't believe in. "Take my hand, Scully," he had said then, but he didn't hear it. He could only hear her, only her, she was everything. "I can't," she had cried. He could almost reach her, so close, so close to everything. "Please," he had begged, "just let go and grab my hand, quickly." She had met his eyes again. And in one moment, just one moment, he lost everything. She had let go with one hand and reached, reached out to him. He had lunged for her desperately. Her other hand slipped from the ledge and she was falling, falling and he couldn't reach her. He had watched in horror, screaming "no", as his bright blue everything faded into nothing. Mulder had woken up then, bathed in sweat and tears, panic gripping him tightly still. His body still shaking, he moved to sit up in the bed as a sob broke free from his chest. He had climbed out of bed then, his only thoughts of her. He moved quickly to the connecting door, hesitating for only a moment before reaching out and grasping the handle, ready to open the door to his everything. He froze, only turning the knob a fraction of an inch. He pressed his forehead against the door, resting his weight there, taking deep even breaths in hopes of regaining control, of resisting his pull toward her. In the end his grief won out, tears falling silently to the carpet. He stood there like that for a long time, watching as the tears fell from his face, losing himself in his own pain and dying inside because of the pain that he had caused her. Because of the pain that he was destined to cause her. Because he was going to lose her. He sank to the floor, defeated. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 29 hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 9:10 a.m. The Lone Gunmen's Lair Undisclosed Location "There has to be a way around it," insisted Byers, pacing behind a seated Langly. "Look man, I'm sure there is. But we're not going to find it in the next few hours. I will guarantee you that," responded Langly, never looking up from the computer. "He's right, Byers. We've come at this one from every possible angle. There's just no easy way in," agreed Frohike, his voice full of resignation. He turned in his seat to face the younger man. "We need to concentrate on the other information Mulder gave us, that's our best bet." Byers stopped his pacing and looked at Frohike as he spoke. "But it's the key, I know it, I can feel it." "Calm down, Byers. You're starting to sound like Mulder," Langly interjected flatly. Byers opened his mouth to speak, but Frohike interrupted. "Look Byers, I know what's going on inside your head," he said, rising and walking toward his friend, "and I feel the same way. But this is not your fault. It's not Mulder's fault either. None of us knew this would happen." He took a deep breath before continuing. "We're all hurting over what happened to Agent Scully, but we didn't know. Okay?" Byers nodded his head. Although he was still convinced of his duplicity, he didn't wish to argue the point any longer. He just wanted to find a way to help Scully. "Why don't you two get started on the information supplied by Agent Mulder, and I'll take a stab at cracking those encrypted files?" The other two gunmen nodded their heads in agreement, relieved to no longer be banging their heads against the proverbial wall. They worked together quietly for a few minutes, thirty fingers tapping quickly against three keyboards. Langly and Frohike both looked up when they heard Byers sigh. "It's useless. All of this is useless," he whispered, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I handed them over. I should have known. I shouldn't have let them go," he continued, his voice rising as his conviction increased. Frohike started to speak but quickly reconsidered, realizing his friend needed to speak his mind. "I knew what was going on with him, I should have stopped..." "Whoa man," interrupted Langly, "Go back a step there. What are you talking about? Knew what was going on with who?" Byers looked up as he realized his slip, eyes bouncing between his two friends. "Mulder. He means Mulder," began Frohike, eyes narrowing slightly. "He knows why Mulder was playing Special Agent Asshole with the lovely Agent Scully." Langly inched closer to Byers, moving his chair with his feet. "Spill," he said looking directly into Byers' eyes. Byers didn't know what to say. He just kept looking back and forth at the two men with a stricken expression on his face. "Byers," said Frohike with a menacing tone, "I think that we have a right to know, especially since we were the ones left holding the bag when she wanted an explanation." "Guys, I can't. I promised..." "No, you don't. Don't even go there. This is big. It's time for you to share. Mulder hasn't acted this way since..." started Langly. "Fowley," finished Frohike, jaw clenching as he said her name. "It isn't like that," defended Byers. "Well then, you better start talkin'," warned Frohike. "You've got some 'splainin' to do," quipped Langly, not at all light heartedly. Day Three 9:43 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 They sat there, bodies huddled closely together, as she watched. Scully had noticed the couple's clasped hands first, how when she stared for just a moment too long that she was no longer able to determine where one hand ended and the other began. In the end she had been captured by the looks the pair had exchanged. They were saying goodbye, she thought, telling each other with their eyes all that they could not leave unsaid. Scully watched them shamelessly with fear, longing, and envy. She had known that once, almost. Then she had lost it, certainly, not almost. Scully couldn't even begin to recall all the silent conversations she had shared with Mulder. His eyes had told her so much over the past six years and she knew in her heart that they had been so close, almost. Her dread was increasing in strength with each passing moment, the unforeseeable unknown growing closer with each passing second. She wanted to stop the clock, rewind, undo the damage that had been done. She wanted never to have boarded the airplane, never to have walked away from Mulder, even if that had been what he had wanted. She wanted the life that she had almost had with Mulder back again. She closed her eyes and lost herself again in the events of the past few days. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 22 hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 11:48 a.m. Office of Dr. William Gellett Scully pulled off her gloves with an exasperated sigh, leaning forward and resting her weight on the makeshift autopsy table. She blew a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes and resisted a sneeze. She was really beginning to loathe basements, especially the kind filled with mold and mildew. And Mulder, her mind supplied. She shook her head no, heart negating mind. No, truth be told, she loved basements, usually. Just not today, and definitely not this one, which was almost creepy. She felt herself grin slightly at the irony of her words. To anyone else but her and Mulder, their basement was the definition of creepy, well not creepy exactly, more like spooky. She managed to avoid the corpse, barely, in front of her as a sneeze erupted from her body, reminding her of the task at hand. She looked up then, at the sound of heavy feet descending the creaky old stairs. The form of Dr. Gellett materialized on the stairs before her, and she visibly relaxed, but was obviously disappointed. She had expected it to be Mulder, had expected him to show up there, sooner or later. Pretty soon, later would be too late, and she'd end up having to track him down. "Well, Dr. Scully, I hope you were able to find everything you needed," said the kindly old doctor. "I know that our accommodations are not exactly high tech, but they get the job done around here," he finished, spreading his arms in reference to the town's morgue. "I was able to do a partial autopsy on each victim and as you and I suspected, both victims were in the end stages of terminal cancer," she began, pushing herself up to her full height. "But I was not able to do all of the tests that I would have liked to." "My nurse sent off the blood samples to Santa Fe, they'll get back to us in a few days," he offered. "Thanks," she replied, "But I'd still like to be able to do a more thorough autopsy. What are my options?" "Well," he considered, rubbing his whisker covered chin, "I suppose we could ship the bodies off to Santa Fe, too. That's been done a few times, when I have been out of town and such. I don't see any reason why we couldn't do that in this case. Don't know how the families will feel about that though." Scully nodded her head, considering his words before responding. "I just want to make sure that I explore every possible avenue." "All right then," he said, satisfied, "I'll have my nurse look into it and I guess I'll give you call when we know more." Scully watched as he ascended the stairs, going back up to his clinic. Although she was eager to leave the moldy basement, she lingered, some part of her hoping Mulder would come bounding down the stairs, a grin on his face, wanting to hear the results of her autopsies. She knew that he wouldn't, knew that he was elsewhere, neck deep in the case, "his case" as he had so aptly put it only yesterday. Scully was starting to agree with him. She felt as if she were only along for the ride to shove her arms, elbow deep, in guts. She had half-expected him to share more detailed contents of the case files with her that morning, but when she had awoken at six a.m., cold and stiff on the floor, he had already left for the day. Either that, she reasoned, or he had simply ignored her knocks. It didn't matter which were true. It was just semantics after all. Either way Mulder had ditched her, whether it was emotionally or physically or both was irrelevant at the moment. When she had emerged from her motel room at 7:30, bleary eyed and sleep deprived, she discovered that he had at least ditched her physically. Their rental car was gone. She pushed her anger to the side. She would deal with that, along with Mulder, later. She started to walk to the motel office, planning on inquiring about a cab, knowing full well that the small town would not have one. Instead she asked for directions to Dr. Gellett's office, where the local morgue was located. She had set off then, mourning her lost breakfast plans. With a resigned sigh, she moved to small curtained area in the corner and stripped away her scrubs quickly and automatically, not looking forward to the long walk back to the motel but not wanting to spend another moment in a basement. Day Two 1:23 p.m. Motel Office Fenton, New Mexico During her long trek back to the motel, Dana Scully had made some decisions. The first of which was, regardless of his state of mind, the next time she saw Fox Mulder she was going to strangle him. Scully had been given plenty of time to plot his impending death. Her walk had been slowed considerably when she had slipped along the roadside and broken off the heel of one of her favorite pairs of shoes. She was certain that she must have been an interesting sight to those who passed her by, and didn't stop and offer a ride, as she trudged along, heels in her hands, shredding her hose, covered from head to toe in muck courtesy of a large mud puddle and a Chevy truck. Her second decision paled in comparison to the delight she would take from the first. She didn't care who she had to bribe, or shoot, she thought with a smile, she was going to get into Mulder's room, and she'd be damned if she let anyone stop her from reading his case files. He was going to keep her in the dark no longer, at least not where the case was concerned. She went to the motel office first, not wishing to reconsider decision number two. The middle-aged woman at the desk looked her up and down, barely suppressing her laughter at the agent's appearance. Scully didn't care anymore, all she wanted to do was get a look at those files, regardless of how Mulder would feel about it. She was his partner after all, she told herself, entitled to know what was going on with a case that she, in terms of her job description, was supposed to be investigating. "Hi," she said, trying to look as pleasant and nonchalant as possible. "I just wanted to pick up the key to room 18." She, Darlene, according to her nametag, eyed Scully warily for a second. "Aren't you in number 19?" she asked. "Yes," Scully answered. "My partner is in 18. I need the key to his room." "I don't know about that, I could get fired..." "Darlene," Scully said, the friendliest face she could muster, when covered in mud, plastered to her face, "He asked me to look over some papers that are in his room, and of course being the scatter brain that he is, he forgot to unlock the connecting door." "Well, I suppose...okay," she said as she handed Scully the key. Scully tried to maintain an indifferent and pleasant look as she thanked the clerk and stepped back outside. She smiled to herself as she reached his door, key glistening in the afternoon sunlight. "Okay Mulder," she whispered to herself, "you wanted to play dirty, then let's play dirty." She shoved her trophy of deception in the keyhole, guilt only hitting her for a split second, quickly replaced by her anger toward his campaign of no information. "Bring it on." Day Two 1:12 p.m. Fox Mulder's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Scully stood in the middle of Mulder's room, surveying the situation. The case files were not in plain sight, as she had hoped they would be. "Okay, if I were Mulder," she said to herself, "where would I hide my files?" As carefully as she could, she began to slowly search his room, taking care to avoid his personal possessions, even though she knew his paranoia soaked brain would realize that someone had been in his room. After fifteen minutes she gave up, finding only a worn legal pad that had been shoved under the bed. "He probably taped them to his body," she mused. Scully bent to return the pad to its original spot when something caught her eye. She smiled. "Gotcha." He had written something on the pad, the first blank page that was exposed bore deep impressions. Scully hastily ripped out the page and hurried back to her own room to track down a pencil. ~ Chapter Four - I've Got Somewhere Else To Be ~ Day Two 2:55 p.m. The Tendertrap Tavern Fenton, New Mexico A refreshed and mud-free Dana Scully pushed open the heavy door slowly, peering into the dark bar. She stepped inside quickly, not wanting to make a noticeable impression. She stood by the door for a few moments, her eyes taking a minute to adjust to the dark interior. She looked around, repressing a sneeze as the smoky air tickled the inside of her nose. A quick survey told her that Mulder was not present, yet. She moved slowly toward the bar, talking time to gauge her surroundings as she walked. The tavern could very aptly be called a hole in the wall, and a dirty one at that. She spotted at least a dozen health and fire code violations in less than thirty seconds. The dark paint on the walls was peeling terribly and the floor didn't look like it had either been mopped or swept since the Nixon administration. However, she could very safely say that the patrons matched their surroundings. A dozen men and a couple of women were scattered throughout the small tavern. A lone man sat at the bar. She could feel the curious looks being thrown her way as she stepped up to the bar, trying and failing miserably at looking inconspicuous. She looked down at herself, grimacing slightly. Apparently this wasn't the kind of establishment where most people wore business suits and trench coats. Dismissing the other customers' perusal of her, Scully took a seat two down from the leather clad, middle-aged man at the bar. "What can I get for you, Miss?" asked the burly bartender, who certainly looked as though he could, and probably did, double as the bouncer. "A diet soda," she answered, "whatever you have is fine." Scully accepted the cold soda with a smile of thanks a few moments later. She looked around casually as she took a sip of her drink. The patrons had all apparently resumed their activities prior to her arrival. In fact, a couple of men were arguing over a pool game in the corner. The bartender moved around quickly to investigate the dispute. Scully glanced down at her watch. Four after three, it read. Mulder was late. Scully sipped at her soda slowly, determined to wait him out. The paper she had pilfered out of his room and ever so carefully rubbed with a pencil had held only one piece of information. He was going to meet someone, Phil Jenkins, here at 3:00 today. Surely he would be along at any moment, she thought. Mulder would never miss a secret meeting with an informant. She could count on him for that. He was probably just being fashionably late, she mused. Maybe wanting to make the guy sweat a little. So Scully took to people watching to pass the time, idly trying to determine which man was Mulder's mysterious informant, certain her partner would walk through the squeaky old door at any moment. Apparently he's waiting for someone too, she thought, as she watched her bar mate look over to the door for the tenth time in as many minutes. He looked eager, she noted, eyebrow arching as she wondered if the man sitting at the bar was also waiting for her tardy partner. Her suspicions were confirmed when the bartender returned from breaking up the squabble in the corner. "Phil, ready for another?" "Yeah. Sure," he replied as he looked to the door again. Scully watched as the barkeep filled a glass three-quarters with beer and then dropped a shot of Jack Daniels in the glass. She glanced down at her watch, again, still wondering what was keeping Mulder. She certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her afternoon in this rat trap getting cancer from all of the second hand smoke. After another soda and an hour had passed, Scully began to seriously debate whether or not to approach Mulder's informant on her own. She had decided fifteen minutes ago that her partner was going to be a no-show. She eyed the man sitting next to her at the bar, weighing her options carefully. "Could I buy you a real drink?" "Hm," she replied, startled away from her internal debate, uncertain of who was speaking to her. He waved his hand, signaling to her. "Hi," said the man sitting two stools down from her, Phil Jenkins. She smiled slightly, politely, "No. Thanks anyway. I'm fine." The man looked back down at his beer, "You're waiting for him too, aren't you," he said softly, his nervous edge disappearing. "What?" "I said, your waiting for him, too. Mulder," he replied quietly, evenly, before taking a slow sip of his drink. Scully's mind whirled, searching for the best answer. "Why would you say that?" she asked, her voice cool and professional. "Because you're his partner," he said coolly. "You know, I've been thinking about just leaving ever since you got here, this was not part of the deal you know," he said gesturing between himself and petite redhead who obviously did not belong there. "Part of what deal?" Scully asked, her mouth moving faster than her brain. The man chuckled softly, holding up his hands in surrender. "Okay, you want to play it that way. Fine." Scully fully expected him to get up and leave then. When he didn't, she hazarded a glance in his direction. He was looking right at her, a smile on his chapped lips. "Scoot over here and let me buy you a drink." At her hesitation he continued, "We'll talk. About the information I have for your partner." Scully looked at him, carefully considering his offer. She couldn't help but think of Mulder's past relations with his informants, and even of hers. The memory of Michael Kritschgau did not give her confidence in establishing a relationship with this informant--that encounter had certainly soured her. "Look. I'm not going to wait around here all day for your partner to show," he whispered, leaning in close to span the space between them, "So you can either come talk to me or we can sit and wait for the man who we both know isn't going to show." Against her better judgment, Scully rose from her seat and moved to sit next to the mystery man. "Just a sec," he said as she lowered herself to the stool. "Hey Johnny," he said, motioning to the bartender, "can you give us a few minutes?" "Sure thing, Phil," he answered before moving down to the other end of the bar and flipping on the ancient television set. Satisfied that they had been given ample privacy, the informant leaned his elbows against the bar and began to speak. "You know, the fishing has been pretty poor around here lately," he finally said. Scully arched an eyebrow in question, not understanding if he was making idle conversation or if the local fishing had some significance in the case at hand. Mulder hadn't mentioned anything about fish, she recalled from the sketchy case synopsis he had given her on their way to see the Gunmen. He looked at her then, a bemused grin on his face. "Know much about fishing, Miss?" he asked through a smirk. Further confused, Scully decided to play along with his little game, at least for the present time. "A little," she replied guardedly, "I went a few times with my father when I was young." "Well, I suppose it's safe to assume that you would probably know that it's pretty hard to catch many fish when they're all dead," he said evenly, taking another sip of his beer. Scully waited for him to continue, not wishing to reveal how little she actually knew about the case. The informant lifted a hand from his rapidly emptying glass and ran tan fingers through his graying dark hair. He exhaled loudly before continuing, "There's a twenty acre lake, 'bout twenty miles or so out of town, real popular fishing spot, especially during the winter. Lake Alamos." He reached for his drink again, draining it. "Don't imagine we'll be getting many tourists this year though," he finished, motioning to the bartender for another. They both waited for the bartender to deliver the drink and walk back to the other end of the bar before continuing their conversation. He chuckled softly. "Not like it's a big secret or anything around here. Everyone's scared to go out to the lake now, after what's happened," he said, his expression turning serious. "The deaths," Scully said softly, beginning to make the connection. "Yeah," he replied, taking another sip of his drink, before looking down at the bar. "That's the connection then," she reasoned, "all of the victims had been at the lake recently." "Yeah," he answered, "but it's more specific than that. All of them had been *in* the lake recently." He turned his face fully toward her then, meeting her eyes with a serious expression. "A lot of weird things go on around here, Miss. I could fill a book with all of the strange things that I've personally seen, although I'm sure that I would end up dead then." Scully met his eyes with her own, waiting for him to elaborate. His serious expression turned to a half-smirk as he shook his head. "What kinds of 'strange' events have you witnessed, Mr. Jenkins?" she prompted when it became clear that he wasn't going to continue on his own. He looked away then, shrugging his shoulders. "Strange lights," he replied after a long pause. "U.F.O.'s," he continued. She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with his eyes. "I'm not crazy you know and sure as shit, I'm not the only one who's seen those things. The whole damn town knows about it," he said, motioning toward the rest of the bar with his hands, his voice growing louder with anger. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "It's not exactly a secret. This area is kind of known as a U.F.O. hot spot," he finished, matter-of-factly. Scully considered what he said for a few minutes before responding. "So, would I be correct in the assumption that you feel there is a connection between the recent deaths and the town's history regarding...paranormal activity?" she finished warily. "Well, yes," he responded after pondering her question. Scully closed her eyes for a second, relieved to finally understand Mulder's insatiable interest in the case. She opened her eyes and cleared her throat. "And you have proof of these allegations, Mr. Jenkins? I assume that's why my partner had arranged to meet with you." He looked at her again, barely suppressing a laugh. "You mean physical proof?" She nodded her head evenly in the affirmative. "Don't you think the bodies are enough...*proof*?" he asked, seemingly amused by her question. "Mr. Jenkins, I have no doubt that something *caused* the deaths of those five people. I was asking if you had any proof as to how the victims had come to contract such a virulent form of cancer, one that I have never seen before," she said, her expression stern. "Ah. I see. You're asking whether or not I have proof of the existence of extraterrestrials," he laughed at her statement. "Miss, the only people that have the *proof* that you're looking for are about twenty miles out of town and one mile down," he said flatly as he returned his attention to his drink. "And don't give me that standard government answer that you don't know what I'm talking about. We may live in a small town, but we're not hicks, we know exactly what is going on out in that desert...just like you do, whether you're allowed to admit it or not. You know." "Mr. Jenkins, let me assure you--" she started. "How about we just cut the crap," he interrupted, looking her square in the face, patience gone. "I was contacted by a friend. This friend asked me to meet with your partner, who happens to be a friend of theirs. I was asked to meet with him and take him over to the lake, maybe share a little of my personal experiences with him, get him up to date on the history of the area. I was led to believe that he was interested in helping us, in getting to the bottom of what is going on around here." "That's exactly why we are here," she assured him. "Well, if you can't believe what I have to say...I just don't see what you're going to be able to accomplish here," he said, rising from his bar stool and throwing some money on the counter. He turned to her before leaving and opened his mouth to speak, but quickly decided against it. He shook his head and walked across the tavern toward the door. "Tell your partner that if he still wants to go to the lake to contact me. He knows how," the informant said over his shoulder as he walked out into the fading sunlight. Scully turned on her stool, to face the bar, and leaned her elbows on the ledge, resting her head against her closed fists. In her mind she began to turn around the new pieces of the puzzle she had just acquired, trying to make them fit with the few pieces Mulder had thrown her way in the car the day before. She mentally replayed every word Mulder had said during their car ride. He had told her of the five deaths, including detailed information concerning the three autopsies that had already been performed. He had explained that the deaths warranted investigation because no certain source could be found explaining the sudden onset and rapid destruction of the cancer. Mulder had said that he had learned of the case from the Gunmen, who had begun to research the subject from the confines of their lair in hopes of publishing the information in their next issue. However, they had felt that more was going on then they had originally suspected and offered the case to Mulder. Scully realized that she was not going to be able to solve all of the mysteries of this case, or for that matter, those of her partner, sitting around avoiding the inevitable. Regardless of what was going on between the two of them, she resigned herself anew to tracking down Mulder and getting some information out of him, even if she had to pull it out with a pair of pliers. Scully pushed herself up straight and began digging in her pocket for money to pay her tab. When her new 'friend' had left, the sun had begun to set and she wanted to make it back to the motel before it got dark. The idea of walking around an unfamiliar town at night did not seem appealing. Day Two 6:06 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully sat on the edge of her neatly made bed and checked her watch for what must have been the hundredth time since she had returned to the motel. Mulder hadn't been there when she'd came back. She had knocked on his door, just in case, but their rental car had not been in the parking lot. The reluctant desk clerk, Darlene, had told her that Agent Mulder had stopped in the office around five, inquiring about his messages while he'd been out. To Scully's chagrin, the clerk had refused to reveal the content of the messages that she begrudgingly admitted giving to Mulder. Scully let out a long sigh and turned, her eyes drawn once again to the seascape hanging above the head of her bed. If she stared at it long enough, she was able to make out the lost ship amongst the thick fog. She could sense its movement on the turbulent waves, feel its distress. Her lips parted in confusion as she continued to stare at the painting, at the faint image of the ship. It was moving away from the light, away from its port, its home. It was lost and wouldn't be found, ever. When she blinked back against the sudden and unexpected tears that were beginning to form, the ship disappeared back into the fog. Scully shook herself mentally, pulling herself out of her confused state, back to reality, back to the lonely silence of her room. She suddenly felt uncomfortable and uneasy as she sat stiffly on the edge of her bed. She shuddered a bit and quickly closed off her heart, pushing away its foolish notions. She rose and walked over to her lone window, parting the curtains and looking out into the night. Scully couldn't help but wonder if Mulder had caught up with his informant. She briefly considered driving out to the lake in question but opted against it. Instead she decided to walk across the street to the diner she had seen earlier. Her stomach was growling at her in rebellion, unhappy with the fact that she had not eaten anything since breakfast the day before. Eager to leave her room, Scully grabbed her coat from the chair she had draped it over and stepped out into the rapidly cooling evening air. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sixteen hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 9:52 a.m. Lair of the Lone Gunmen Undisclosed Location "Mulder is insane!" exclaimed Frohike. Langly stood next to him, arms crossed over his chest, nodding his head in staunch agreement. Byers scrubbed his face with both hands, disgusted with himself for reveling Mulder's secret, even to his two closest friends. "I don't understand," said a calmer Frohike, eyes dark with concern. "I mean," he paused, as if searching for the right words, "he has lost his mind, that's what I mean," he finished, mumbling. Byers took a deep breath, not wishing to rehash the entire situation again. "He's doing what he thinks is best for Scully," he said, knowing that his friends would understand, that they were aware of the lengths Mulder would go to when he thought he was protecting his partner. There was no changing his mind; Byers had found that out the hard way. They didn't have to agree. They just had to be there for him. His conversation with Mulder was still so fresh in his mind. He dreamed it, seemed to be reliving it constantly since it had first taken place. "Don't you understand, Byers?" Mulder had asked, his words slow and slurred through the alcohol he had consumed. "I can't look at her for the rest of my life, knowing what I know, feeling what I feel. She's not safe, I have to face that. It's over." Byers had tried to argue, to explain to Mulder that he was being hasty, that he had been spooked by his own heart, that it was just nonsense, all of it. "No," he had insisted. "It's not. I can feel it. I know that it's true. I see it every night in my dreams. I'm destined to cost her her life, I can't live with that, I won't live with that, even if it means living without her." "Well, he's wrong," argued Frohike, pulling Byers out of his silent reverie, the older Gunman obviously agitated with his friend's behavior. "Is he aware of how this will affect Agent Scully?" he asked quietly a few seconds later. Byers looked at his friend, a grimace forming on his lips. "He said that she will get over it," he replied, shaking his head, "and that someday she will thank him for it." "He's lost his mind," Frohike repeated, shaking his head. ~ Chapter Five - I've Got To Be Cruel To Be Kind ~ Day Three 9:59 a.m. Delta Airlines Flight 176 "I've lost my mind," Fox Mulder whispered to himself as he watched the world pass hundreds of miles below him. Doubt surrounded him, permeating every part of his being. Had he made the wrong decision? He wondered for the thousandth time that day. His mind, the same one that had supplied the nightmares, the warnings, said no. Firmly. His heart, the same one that belonged to her, begged for him to reconsider. He felt set adrift, disconnected, alone and isolated while his heart and his mind silently waged a battle within him. Each fought for control over his conscious behavior, pulling him in two separate directions. One led away from Scully. The other deposited him safely in her arms. Physically he was moving toward her at hundreds of miles per hour, rushing across the country, through the bright skies in hopes of delivering her from imminent danger. But then? After he pulled her into his arms, needing to feel her against his skin, needing to be certain that she was alive and whole. What then? Mulder rose from his seat and moved toward the phone, needing to reconnect himself with her situation, wanting for the moment to only worry about helping her, saving her. The rest would come later, after. Skinner answered his cell phone after only one ring. "Do you have anything new?" Mulder asked, skipping over the preliminaries. Skinner paused for a moment before answering. "They're still in the air. From the radar, we're projecting them to land at Dulles at 10:37. I'm in my car, heading over there now to make sure we have everyone in place." "No word from your friends or mine?" he asked quietly as he rested his head against the wall in front of him. "No," Skinner said reluctantly, "not yet. There's still time, Mulder." "I hope so," he whispered in response, ending the call. He glanced down at his watch as he made his way back to his seat. Only twenty-nine minutes until her plane touched down, if it indeed landed at Dulles he reminded himself. At this point it seemed unlikely for the plane to deviate, but it was still a possibility. He wished that he could fast forward the next few hours and get his plane on the ground, now. At the same time, he wished desperately that he could rewind and take back the last twelve hours, stop her from ever getting on that plane. Mulder could feel his heart beating in his chest, heavily and evenly. Pounding out the same rhythm, the same mantra, "You are a fool," it said with every beat, over and over, aching. His heart knew what his mind wouldn't believe was true. He had tried to walk away from her and had stumbled, tripped over his own heart. The one lying at his feet, bare and exposed, sacrificed for her. When she had walked away, it had returned to his chest, bruised and throbbing, aching for his loss, for what he had so callously thrown away. But not without just cause, his mind interjected, fighting to regain control of the situation, of him. Ultimately his fears won out--fear that he would never see her again, fear that she would be lost, believing that he had betrayed her, betrayed her heart. He let the fear take hold, let it lead him back... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fourteen hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 8:30 p.m. Rental Car of Fox Mulder County Road X34 Outside Fenton, New Mexico Mulder's rendezvous with Phil Jenkins had been very telling. The excitement he felt was running away with him, almost. It very easily would have, save the nagging feeling that kept pecking at his heart. Something wasn't right. Something was missing. In a moment of weakness, as he turned a sharp corner on his way back into town, his heart had broken through, screaming in his chest, ferociously beating in rhythm to her name. Scul-ly. Scul- ly. Over and over, pounding in his ears so loudly that he couldn't ignore it, couldn't push it down. He stepped down on the accelerator, his mind whirling, searching frantically for a way to override his emotions, all the while his heart declaring him a liar, a traitor. Mulder knew that he had to get control and steady himself. Before he reached town. Before he had to face her. He briefly considered not returning to the motel at all, all the while knowing that not to be an option. Things were getting out of control. He hadn't expected the course of action she had taken earlier today, at least not so soon. He almost smiled picturing Scully coercing the kindly desk clerk to let her in his room and then her searching in vain for the case files. She never ceased to surprise him, just when he thought he had her number she went and did something like this. He slowed, closing his eyes for a split second, sadness washing over him at the realization of how far he had pushed her, the pain and anger that she most certainly would have had to felt to take such extreme action. He ached for her, ached for the pain he was causing her. Mulder pulled into the parking lot then, switching off the headlights as he turned off the engine. He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath in a final attempt to calm himself. He had to be strong. He had to do this, for her sake, always for her. Someday she would understand this, he assured himself, someday. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Fourteen hours later... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Three 10:10 a.m. Washington Dulles International Airport Chantilly, Virginia "What's the word?" Skinner barked in the direction of Agent Vincent as he trotted toward the makeshift headquarters that had been constructed outside of the main terminal. "The control tower just received a radio message from the plane, Sir," she said raising her thick voice over the din surrounding her. "I take it that all of this activity is a good sign?" he asked, lowering his voice as he reached the tent. "Well, as good as it can be at this stage," she replied through a grim smile. "The pilot contacted air traffic control just a few moments ago and asked for clearance to land at Dulles," she continued. "They have been cleared to land on runway seven, as we discussed earlier," she finished. "No mention of demands?" he asked, concerned about the lack of information supplied by the hijackers. Skinner had been involved in numerous terrorist situations during his long career with the Bureau. He had never witnessed one as strange or as monumental as this one. "No, Sir. The pilot terminated radio contact immediately after he was given permission to land," she supplied. "Okay then, we continue as planed," he said. "A.D. Waters has everyone in position, I assume?" he asked over his shoulder as he walked into the hastily constructed command center. "Yes, Sir. We're as ready as we can be." Day Three 10:15 a.m. American Airlines Flight 247 Scully held the smooth gold metal of her cross loosely between two fingers, wishing it could bring her the comfort it had only months before. She knew that it couldn't, that she would not be able pray to a God that she was no longer sure existed. The incapacitation of her faith hurt her, seared her to her very core. She felt like an outcast, a lost vessel, slowly drifting away from the shore, from everything that she had once held sacred and dear. She tried to steady herself, ready herself for the impending landing, for what would happen after that. She knew that she had to stay strong and focused, had to be ready to assist in her own survival and that of the men, women, and children who shared this voyage with her. She was certain that regardless of where they landed it would be soon. She tried to imagine what the authorities would be doing to prepare for their landing. Certainly they were aware of the hijacking, the plane had missed its layover in Dallas after all. Scully was certain that the F.B.I. would be involved. The hijacking would immediately fall under the jurisdiction of the Domestic Terrorism Division. She knew a few agents in that division, knew they would do everything in their power to have this ordeal end well. She wondered if they were aware of her presence on the plane. Surely they would be, she thought, her name was included on the passenger list, someone would surely make the connection. She cringed inwardly at the thought. She didn't want to think about him right now, didn't want to remember anymore, didn't want to remember that night, last night. And then she was there again. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Thirteen hours earlier... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Day Two 8:47 p.m. Dana Scully's Motel Room Fenton, New Mexico Dana Scully stepped out of the shower, steam escaping around her as she reached for a thin towel and began to dry herself, mechanically. She slipped on her thick white robe, its soft warmth giving her no comfort. She cinched its belt tightly before roughly toweling her hair dry. She moved out of the bathroom, hastily pulling a brush through her hair as she glanced at the bedside clock. She was so very tired, yet at the same time wired into a state of almost mania. Her minded reeled, turning and twisting around the events of the past two days, sorting, categorizing, defining, debating...but always rationally, with a degree of separation. Her heart sat sluggish and heavy in her chest, wanting only to shut out, shut down. Scully couldn't shake the feeling of uneasiness that had settled around her. She couldn't seem to pull herself out of it, away from it. It was a never-ending path, a tightly knit circle that revolved slowly and steadily around Mulder. She paced around it, her image of him laboriously and deliberately looking for detail and diagnosis. She examined his posture, his stance, his distanced actions, the dull glint in his soft eyes. Her mind was not able to make the connections that she sought, nor was it capable of piecing the evidence together in any quantifiable manner. She reached deeper within herself. Her heavy heart stretching, reaching for the conclusions that had eluded her mind, the connections that it had been either unwilling or unable to make. She could feel him, feel his torment and his pain as he struggled against indecision. She had read those feelings through his eyes at the Lone Gunmen's and had sought and found them again on the plane. Her mind pushed against her heart, belittling her intuitions, claiming them to be unprovable, deniable. Scully closed her eyes as the turmoil raged within her. She wasn't sure what to believe, what to think or do. All she wanted was for the moment to pass, the pain to ease...the truth to be known. She let out a long and mournful sigh as she lowered herself to the bed, her eyes falling closed. She took long even breaths. In and out. In and out. She could feel the tension ebbing, her pain softening as she focused on the gentle rhythm of her own heart. She had been forced to make a decision during the long hours she had spent waiting for her partner. They were going to have to talk, really talk, if nothing else to discuss the case and his need to distance her from it. They hadn't ever really done that, talked about their true feelings, the motivations behind their actions. She and Mulder had always had a knack for dancing around the issues and their emotions, too. They had danced slowly, holding each other tightly. They had danced at arm's length, angry, but unwilling to let go. But they had danced, nonetheless. Scully rose from the bed, intending to return her hairbrush to the bathroom. Her chore was interrupted by a steady rapping on the door to her room. She stopped, mid-stride, glancing again at her bedside clock and then curiously at the door. It certainly couldn't be Mulder, she reasoned. Assuming that he was meeting with his informant, Phil Jenkins, Scully didn't expect him to be back for hours. She cinched the robe tighter around her naked form and padded across the soft carpet to the door. "No peephole," she whispered to herself. She reached for the knob tentatively. "Who is it?" she called out. "Open the door, Scully." Her hand stopped on the cool metal of the doorknob, her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly with anticipation. It was him. Mulder was on the other side of the thick wood. She took a deep breath and turned the knob, trying to push aside the nagging doubts and concerns that plagued her. "We need to talk," he said gruffly as he stepped through the door and moved across the room, never looking in her direction. He stopped when he reached the foot of the bed and tossed a thick stack of files onto the bedspread. "Exactly what was it, Scully, that compelled you to search my room for these?" he asked a second later, his gaze focused intently on the files, his hands placed sternly on his hips. She took a step away from the door. "Exactly what was it that compelled you, Mulder, to withhold information from me concerning this case?" she asked, matching the even monotone of his voice. He shot his gaze in her direction, halting her movements. His eyes narrowed into what Scully could only interpret to be anger. She stood there, waiting expectantly for him to answer her question. Apparently he was doing the same because he remained silent. "I didn't want this, Scully," he said quietly after a few long moments of tense silence. "What do you mean?" she asked when he didn't elaborate. "I didn't want to do this now, not here, not like this." "Do what, Mulder?" she asked, her heart racing in her chest as she tried to maintain a neutral expression. "This, Scully," he said, his voice rising as he gestured wildly between them. "I didn't want to have this conversation now, but you haven't given me much of a choice." "You're talking in riddles, Mulder." He released a long breath, blowing it out slowly. He seemed to be on the verge of speaking, like the words were tickling his lips, but he remained silent. "Mulder?" she prompted. "I can't do this anymore, Scully," he said, the stark honesty of his words resonating throughout the room. "What can't you do, Mulder?" she asked, unable to mask the concern permeating her voice. Mulder lifted his head slowly, turning to meet her eyes. The pain that she saw there cut her to her core. "This Scully," he said a second later, gesturing between the two of them with his hands, "This isn't working. *We* don't work any more." "You don't mean that, Mulder," she said with conviction, knowing in her heart that his words were not the truth. "Yes," he said, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I do, Scully. I do," he whispered. With a strength that defied the turmoil she felt within, Scully addressed him, her gaze fixed steadily on the crown of his head. "Mulder," she began calmly, "you owe me the truth. After all we've been through, after everything we've been to one another...you owe me that." "What don't you understand, Scully?" he asked, his head snapping up and his voice growing cold as it increased in volume. "I said that I can't do this, what more do you want?" "I want the truth, Mulder. I'm not going to stand here and let you deny me that." He flinched then, almost imperceptibly. Scully could read the uncertainty in his eyes, the indecision that lay within. She took a tentative step in his direction, never taking her eyes away from his. "That's all I've ever asked of you, Mulder. Just the truth," she said, her voice thick with emotion. He swallowed visibly and moved to take a step toward her then, stopping himself at the last moment, his eyes dropping once again to the pale green carpet at his feet. Her eyes fell closed, but only for a moment. She pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she tried to slow the pace of her racing heart and focus her mind on the matter that lay before her. "Why, Mulder?" she asked quietly. "That's the way that it has to be." "No, Mulder, it doesn't," she said before taking another step in his direction. He continued to stare at his feet. His posture spoke clearly of defeat. "Yes," he said. "Don't do this, Mulder. Don't do this to me. Don't do this to us," she finished, her voice cracking slightly on the last few words. When he didn't respond, she moved slowly across the room, stopping with only scant inches left between their bodies. "Mulder," she whispered. He lifted his head then, hazel eyes meeting blue, head on, nothing held back. "Mulder," she whispered again as she reached out to him, her eyes still locked with his. She rested her palms gently on his cheeks as she had done only a week ago. She felt his body relax against her touch, saw his eyes soften. She was lost and found all at once. Scully leaned up on tiptoe, stretching as she slowly inched her face toward his, the intent in her bright blue eyes surely unmistakable. She was giving him an out, just in case. He didn't move, didn't resist, didn't assist. She took this as a sign of acceptance, a sign of willingness and she continued her slow trek. She tugged lightly at his face when she could raise her own body no more, pulling him down to her, to meet her lips. Ever so softly she brushed her lips against his. A moan escaped from his throat as she pulled him down to her again, urgently this time. All that she could feel was the moment, reveling in the feel of his lips against hers, savoring his salty sweetness. She drank him in. She breathed him in. She had never felt more alive, had never wanted anything more. His hands moved to her back, pulling her closer, pressing her soft form against his hard frame. She moaned his name against his lips. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. His hands grasped her upper arms, tightly, pushing her back, away from his warmth. She cried out reflexively in protest when he held her firmly at arms length. Scully frantically searched his eyes, searching for an answer. For a moment, only for a moment, she thought she saw pain there. It was gone too fast, though, replaced only by anger. "No," he said, "no," shaking his head as he released her arms and moved to step around her. She turned quickly, finding only his back as he reached out for the doorknob. "Mulder!" she yelled out after him. He paused, hand poised on the metal knob. Without turning to face her, he delivered his final blow. In a soft voice he ripped out what was left of her heart. "It's over Scully. Get over it, get past it. Whatever you thought was between us isn't there. It never was." And then he left. He didn't look back.