Title: NEW "Meetings" 1/1 SRA,MSR Author: drambo@azstarnet.com (Dawson Rambo) Date: Fri, 29 Aug 1997 11:23:00 -0700~ "Meetings" By Dawson E. Rambo Author's Note : Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain his property and the property of 1013 Productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox, Inc. All rights are reserved and these characters are used without permission. Any characters created by the author remain his property. Original Posting : August 29, 1997 Archive Entry : "Meetings" Classification : MSR, SRA Rating : R Spoilers : Tempis Fugit Feedback : drambo@azstarnet.com Missing Chapters, etc. : http://www.azstarnet.com/~drambo/index.html Mailing List : Email to drambo@azstarnet.com w/ SUBSCRIBE Los Angeles, California June 19, 2002 Dana Scully parked the rental car in front of the bank and glanced in the rearview mirror. Her eyes flicked to the digital clock mounted in the dashboard. 11:31. She'd wait six minutes. Her eyes swept back and forth between the car's three mirrors, checking for a tail. Occassionally, her eyes would glance forward through the windshield, because she knew that it was just as easy to follow someone from the front as from behind. She had learned that the hard way. In Mexico. Memories of that case..."the" case, as she'd come to think of it, the very last case she and Mulder had been on, filled her thoughts constantly. It was the case that had caused the end of the X-Files, the dissolution of the partnership, Skinner's death, and so much more. She said a silent, sad prayer for her fallen boss, wondering if he was looking over her from whatever was beyond this life. Part of her liked to think that he was. The rest of her knew otherwise, knew that death was...it. There was nothing after it. No bright lights, no beloved relatives, nothing. Death was cold and dark and lonely. Forever. Her eyes tracked back to the digital clock. 11:37. Time. Getting out of the car, she crossed the street just as the bus pulled up. She had the exact change ready and paid the fare, moving rapidly down the isle towards the rear door, quickly taking off her jacket and reversing it, turning from navy blue to bright, stark white. The baseball cap she fitted over her head hit most of her hair, and she stepped out the back door looking quite unlike the woman that had stepped on. She walked away, not glancing at the rental car or the bus, not hesitating in the least. I'm invisible, she thought. I don't exist. And it was true, she didn't. In a Annapolis cemetary there stood a grave marker for Dana Katherine Scully, beloved daughter and sister. The ground beneath the marker was empty, and Dana was determined to make sure that it stayed that way for at least another fifty or sixty years. After all, she thought wryly, the longer they thought she was dead, the longer she had to live. The driver's license in her wallet identified her as Christene Mower. It was the name of a baby girl that had died as an infant in Chicago. A quick trip to the Hall of Records, an embarassed discussion with the clerk, a lie about losing a wallet and having no form of valid identification and a fresh, clean, recently-minted $20 bill had secured her a birth certificate for a child who hadn't seen her first birthday, let alone Dana's almost thirty-seven. Scully glanced up at the street signs, took a right and casually sauntered towards the next bus stop. This was a crosstown bus, taking her in another direction from the first. She repeated the process once aboard, reversing her jacket and turning the cap around. It wasn't much of a disguise, but she didn't want to carry around six complete changes of clothing and makeup, and if fooled whomever might be following her for the few precious seconds she needed to escape, then it was good enough. Exiting the bus four stops later, she hailed a cab and gave the driver explicit directions, sounding very much like Holly Hunter in "Broadcast News." Scully didn't mind the incredulous look the driver gave her. He followed her directions, muttering under his breath the entire time. Half an hour later she arrived in front of the same bank and quickly checked herself for tails. All appeared clean. Glancing at her watch, Scully saw that she had fifteen minutes to get to the safety deposit box, and another hour to catch her plane to New York. She felt a tingle of anticipation crawling up her spine at the thought of what awaited her on the other end of her flight. Entering the bank, she made her way to the safety deposit boxes, identified herself as Christene Mower and produced ID and the key. An assistant junior manager trainee escorted her back to the boxes, and together they freed it from a wall of identical boxes. Taking it into the private little cubby, Scully opened the box and withdrew the tools of her trade: A small Walther PPK in .380 and a matching small-of-the-back Bianchi holster, two magazines full of Black Talon man-killing hollowpoints, four thousand dollars in mixed hundreds and twenties (non-sequential serial numbers and no new bills...of course,) and four complete sets of ID papers, including social security cards, driver's licenses and credit cards. She glanced at the names on the cards again, trying to get her mind used to the names again. Sally Johnson. A nice, generic WASP name, she thought. Meghan O'Mally. Another generic name, well-suited to her obvious Irish heritage. Audrey Rose. Sounds like a stripper, Scully thought and smiled. And lastly, the one she cherished above all others. She looked at the name and grinned wider, thinking ahead to when she would use it. "Miss?" the manager called. "We're closing!" Scully shut the box, stuffing the bills and papers into her pockets. Quickly, she exited the cubby and helped the manager replace the box in the wall, thanked him and made her way out of the bank. Crossing the street, she checked for tails once again. She hadn't spotted any, not since she'd left her Malibu beach house, but... as she'd learned in Mexico, it paid to be careful. Cautious. Paranoid. And she'd learned from the best. Satisfied that she was not being followed, Scully quickly recrossed the street, got into the rental, keyed the iginition and headed for LAX. *** Jacksonville, Florida Fox Mulder got off the bus, pretending to be lost. He stood on the corner, glancing up at the street signs and then down at a piece of paper in his hand, as if trying to orient himself to directions given to him by someone not good at such things. He took the time to check for tails, just as his ex-partner was a continent away. He'd been at it for close to three hours, using a combination of rental cars (four, rented under four different names,) buses, cabs and in one case, an actual trolly car. Satisfied that he wasn't being followed, Mulder entered a similar bank and performed a similar ritual. He removed a Colt Officer's .45 pistol from his deposit box, along with a concealed carry permit for New York City under the name Jake Tyler. The picture on the permit was his, taken in the 49th Precient House by a detective that had owed Mulder two huge favors. The permit had been the first favor, and Mulder had yet to collect on the second, and dearly hoped that he would never have to. Grabbing the extra ID and cash, Mulder completed his transaction, returned outside and got into a prepositioned rental car that he'd called ahead to arrange. Starting the car, he pulled into traffic and headed for JAX. *** New York City Later That Night Scully glanced at all the faces she could as she walked down the concourse at LaGuardia airport. No one seemed to be paying undue attention to her, but then again, if they were good, they'd be invisible. But there were ways to catch them, ways to make them force their hands, and she knew all of them. The first trick she'd mastered was to make sure that her clothing wasn't bugged. She'd flown to Seattle four days ago, under yet another assumed name, driven straight to Nordstroms, (picked at random from the phone book,) bought a week's worth of clothing, underwear, shoes and toiletries, and then taken all of that directly to the airport, having it shipped under another name to LaGuardia. It was waiting for her at the American package claim counter. Retreiving it, she went to the ladies room and quickly changed, discarding all the clothing on her back, down to the berettes in her hair. Changing into the new clothing, she repacked it all in a brand new suitcase that she'd already taken apart stitch by stitch and then reassembled by hand. The old clothing was left in the trash can. Clean from bugs, she exited the bathroom and began attempting to shake any tail that might have made her. As she knew, the advantage was always with the person being followed, not the follwers. She was free to stop, start, turn around, enter stores through one door and leave through another, doubling back, using the reflection on the storefront glass to check her tail. All clear, she finally decided, moving towards the taxi stands. Time to go. To him. *** John F. Kennedy International Airport Mulder deplaned quickly, moving as if he were going to the International terminal. After all, the name he'd used on this flight did have a ticket for London on a flight departing in under two hours. He knew that his clothing was clean because he'd purchased it in Jacksonville, performing the same exact process that Scully would, only at the beginning of his trip instead of the end. He was eager to get to the hotel. Very eager. He considered cutting corners, taking the chance that he hadn't been followed, but dismissed the thought almost before it had completely formed in his head. If they were watching, if they had somehow managed to track him, he'd be leading them right to her. And above all else, no matter what else happened this week, he would not do that. If he had to wait another year to see her again, he'd rather abort the mission than put Sully in danger. He'd done enough of that already. That was the reason they were living 3,200 miles apart under assumed names with assumed lives. She worked in a vet's office, her medical training being used to help spay kittens and neuter puppies. Mulder was working as a crisis counselor for the Jacksonville County Social Services Department, calling on almost-forgotten psychological training to help those in need. It wasn't the FBI. It wasn't the X-Files. But it was a life, at least. He wasn't exactly happy. But he was alive. And that was all that mattered. Mexico had taught him that, and so much more. His thoughts turned to Skinner, buried in an unmarked patch of desert inside the borders of another country. He'd hated to leave the man there, hated to deny him the proper burial in Arlington he'd deserved. But there'd been no choice. No time to think. No options. It was either do that... Or die. Deciding that he was clean and that hanging around would only draw attention to himself, Mulder headed towards the taxi stand. Headed towards her. *** Ritz-Carlton Hotel Manhattan Dana Scully entered the lobby, briskly marching up to the check in desk. "Mrs. George Hale," she said softly. This was the biggest risk, she knew, using a known alias of Mulder's. They wouldn't suspect it, they both hoped. Neither of them wanted to admit that using the known identity was risky, and part of the attraction of what they were doing was the inherent risk. No risk, no reward, she thought grimly, and the reward <was> worth the risk. "Ah, yes, Mrs. Hale," the clerk said, pulling a card from a stack of matching cards. "We have your room all prepared." Scully bit her lip. "Has my husband arrived?" The clerk consulted his computers with much tapping of the keys and much drumming of the fingers. Scully wondered if the entire hotel system was running on a 286/12 hidden in a broom closet somewhere. Then she remembered that the hotel was part of the ITT Sheraton chain, recently purchased, and that computer was probably on a WAN, accessing a remote server in Conneticut or somewhere. And that thought gave her pause. It was one thing to scan a credit card computer for transactions under certain names; a credit card receipt, under normal circumstances (and when the user knew how to use the damn thing,) could only tell someone looking where the cardholder had been, not where they were going. Reservations that were held in a computer across a wide area network were subject to interception and examination. She'd mention it to Mulder. "No," the clerk replied, "Dr. Hale has not arrived yet." Doctor? Scully thought. "Very well," she said. "I'll just go upstairs and surprise him." The clerk's eyebrows rose slightly as he read something on the screen, and Scully felt her stomach drop. "What?" she asked. "Oh...nothing," he said softly. Scully felt like drawing her Walther and jamming it in the clerk's nose. She didn't get a danger vibe off of him, so it wasn't like he was in on anything dangerous. Still, it was prudent to be cautious. "What?" she asked again, a little more forcefully. "Oh, your husband has a surprise planned for you, I'd think. There are some items scheduled to be delivered to your room shortly after you check in." He frowned. "I'm sorry if I spoiled the surprise." Champagne, Scully thought. Champagne, strawberries, whipped cream, caviar. Mmmmm. "I won't mention your...indescretion," Scully said. The clerk's eyes widened at her words, and he silently nodded. He whapped the bell on top of the marble counter and a moment later a uniformed bellboy appeared to take Scully's single bag. "1205," the clerk said crisply. "If there's anything the Carlton can do for you, Mrs. Hale, please let us know immediately." She nodded absently at the little peon and followed the bellboy to the elevator. The ride up was spent in silence as the bellboy studiously examined the elevator doors, correctly guessing that Scully wasn't in the mood for conversation. The doors digned! open on the twelfth floor and the bellboy turned left with Scully following closely behind. 1205 was a suite, two bedrooms, a sitting room, a living room and a small kitchenette. There was a basket of fresh fruit on a low-slung table in the sitting room. Scully moved to the refigerator and checked; there was white wine and iced tea. Perfect. Tipping the bellboy, she waited until the door closed behind him for locking and chaining it. Moving to a picture that hung in the foyer, she slid it aside to reveal the room safe. Quickly working the combination she'd memorized from an anonymous email routed to her through Japan and Finland, Scully cracked the safe to reveal a Colt Gold Cup II .45 semi auto. Much larger, and much more powerful than the small Walther she still wore under her jacket, Scully was comforted by the site of the big-bore manstopper. It meant that the room was clean. They'd been here. The guys. She smiled at the thought of Mulder's three friends sweeping the room for bugs and other devices and then leaving the cannon for her. She felt more comfortable with the Gold Cup, but it was too big, too bulky for her to carry on the street. Exchanging the Walther for the Gold Cup and then re-locking the safe, Scully moved to the first bedroom and quickly began to unpacl. She wanted to be ready for Mulder when he got there. Scully debated whether or not to shower, but she didn't want to get under the water's spray until she'd had a chance to speak with "Dr. Hale." Visions of getting cornered in the shower by those seeking the both of them held little allure for her. She decided to have a glass of wine while she waited. *** 22 minutes later Scully heard the key in the lock. The door bounced open against the chain. The Gold Cup was in her hand before the echo of the tumbler turning had died. "It's me," a quiet voice said, and Scully relaxed. She'd know that voice anywhere. She saftied the huge pistol and dropped it on the sitting room couch as she crossed the room to let him in. Her fingers fumbled on the chain once, twice, and she almost tore it from its mount in frustration. "Easy," she heard from the other side of the door. Easy for him to say, Scully thought. Finally, she managed to negotiate the widget down the track and out. She stepped back and the door swung open to reveal "Dr. George F. Hale," aka Fox William 'Spooky' Mulder. They stared at each other, neither of them speaking. He looked good, she thought. The year had been kind to him, apparently. Almost forty now, he didn't look it. The tiny laugh lines around his eyes had deepened a little, and there was the the slightest hint of gray hair at his temples. She looked great, he thought. Hard to believe she's almost 37. She still looks like... Scully. Always Scully. Only Scully. "Hi," she said shyly. "Hi yourself," he replied. "Gonna keep me standing out here in the hall all night?" Laughing softly, Scully stepped back to let her ex-partner in. In more ways than one, she thought, grinning. Mulder carried his bag inside and dumped it near the kitchenette as listned to the sound of Scully closing, locking and chaining the door behind him. He turned back to face her and noticed that the "Do Not Disturb" sign was not hanging on the inside doorknob. This was so strange, he thought. He hadn't seen, heard from or talked to Scully in exactly one year. Dictated by circumstance, the forced seperation was close to unbearable. Only these stolen moments in cities across the country, soon to be countries across the world, saved them. One week a year was all they could risk, and even that was tempting fate. There was no other way, Mulder knew. No other way to keep her in his life...and keep her alive. "How was your flight?" he asked politely. "Fine," Scully said, moving towards him. She moved slowly, not wanting to rush him, knowing from experience that he need a few moments to acclimate himself to her again, that he needed some time to get used to fact that she was here, that she was real, that he wasn't dreaming, that he wasn't lost in some hypervivid fantasy. "How have you been?" he asked, taking a small step backwards. Damn, she thought. "Fine, Mulder. I'm fine." She remembered all the times she's said that when she was anything but fine and grimaced. It was a code word to him, a red flag. "No, really," she assured him. "I'm great." He turned and walked into the sitting room, shedding his jacket. "Seeing anyone?" he asked casually. One date, Scully fumed. One date, three years ago, and it was a bust. I was lonely, I wanted some damn companionship, someone to talk to for God's sake! And he never let her forget it. "No," she said curtly, folding her arms across her chest. If he wanted to waste precious time reopening old wounds, that was fine by her. "You?" He stopped and turned, hurt and fear in his eyes. Seeing her stance, he realized what he'd done and sighed. "Sorry," he whispered. "This is always so...difficult...for me." She nodded, arching an eyebrow. "I know. I wish I knew why." He shrugged. "Hard to get used to, seeing you after not seeing you for a year." She lowered her head. Emotional turmoil and Mulder were old friends, old lovers. He knew her cold, heartless grip like he knew the hug of his own mother. Probably the same cold bitch, Scully thought unkindly. "How's your mother?" she asked, glancing up. Immediately, she knew. His face was a drawn mask of barely repressed hurt and anger. "When?" she asked. "Christmas," he replied. "Two days after. Heart attack. She... went in her sleep." "How did you-?" "Frohickie sent me the obituary in the mail, to a drop I keep in Los Angeles for emergencies." Scully felt her anger flare. A secret mail drop that she didn't know about? How dare he-! And then she calmed down. It was just for emergencies, as he'd said, and his mother dying definately qualified. She walked to him, placing a hand on his arm. "Mulder, I'm so sorry." "She never knew," he whispered. "She never knew that I wasn't dead. That I'm still alive. She grieved for me until the day she died, and now...she's up there...waiting for me. I know the next time I see her, she's going to chew my ass." Scully laughed. "That's what mothers are for, Mulder!" He smiled. "How's your mom?" Scully frowned. "Not good, from what I understand. Details are sketchy, but she's not handling my death very well." Mulder shook his head. "I wouldn't expect her to." "It didn't help that...they never found my body." It seemed so strange to be talking about herself as if she were really dead. "Mom hated having to bury an empty casket." "Bill? Charlie?" "Charlie is doing fine; I'm an aunt again. Bill just got promoted. I saw that in _Navel Proceedings_. He's going to make Captain before Ahab did." Mulder nodded, tiring of the small talk. "So...really, Scully...how are you?" She glanced at her shoes and then back up at his face. "I miss you," she said quietly. "A lot." He nodded. "I miss you, too." "I miss your touch," she said softly, turning to show him her back. "Right here. Every time I go through a doorway without you... I miss your hand on my back. I miss you opening the door for me. I miss your jokes. I miss your face. I miss your eyes. God help me, Mulder, but I even miss your ties." He laughed, an open, genuine sound. "I retired them. Remember, I'm undercover." Scully fluttered her eyelashes at him in a playful attempt at being coy. "That's where I'd like to get you..." He grinned wider. "Scully, we have a whole week!" "That has to last us an entire year," she reminded him. He sobered quickly. "Remember the first time?" He was referring to the first time they'd had contact after Mexico. Eighteen months after the case that had ended everything. And the first time they'd become lovers. And then, the promise. Once a year, for a week, in a city to be named. Communications through double and triple cutouts, reservations always in the name of Mr and Mrs George Hale. A week to last a year. Vacation from the reality they'd been forced to create for themselves. "I thought about greeting you with nothing but a smile on, or wearing something flimsy and slinky...in bed, a rose in my teeth...but...right now, Mulder...can you just hold me?" He held his arms open and she stepped into them, taking a deep breath as she approached him, drinking in the scent of him. A rush of memories flooded back, the thousands of mornings she had smelled that same Mulder scent the moment she entered their office. She felt his arms surrounding her, enveloping her, holding her. Tipping her head against his chest, she listened to the sound of his heartbeat. Strong, dependable. Like a Swiss watch. "C'mon," he whispered. "Let's go lie down on the bed." Eagerly she followed him to the first bedroom. Lying down together, they snuggled and just enjoyed the companionable silence. Slowly, they began to talk, bringing each other up to date on a years worth of each other's lives. Funny stories were told, both bad and good days recounted, holidays spent with strangers they called friends. Movies they seen on seperate days a country apart, books they'd read and shared without knowing. And then the harder stuff; discussions about the people they'd met, the desires they'd felt for others. Scully told him of a man she'd met at the vet's, a man who had made it more than clear he'd like to ask her out to dinner, a movie, maybe something more. And the sadness she'd felt at turning him down, sad not because she wanted to go out with <him>, but sadness at the fact that she'd wanted to be honest with him when she turned him down. She'd wanted to tell him that she was in love with another man, another man who loved her back just as deeply and desperately. She'd wanted to share Mulder with her friends, the new friends she was slowly making. And she could do none of that; Mulder was a secret, one of a thousand she kept, part of a dozen lies she had to tell everyone she met ten minutes after meeting them. "I'm so sick of the lies, Mulder," she said softly. "So sick of not being...myself." He nodded, understanding. He'd met someone too, he told her, a woman who made it clear that she was attracted to him. "Who wouldn't be?" Scully teased, trying to mask the hurt she felt. Mulder told her more about the woman, and how he'd been tempted to go out for dinner, a movie, something light and airy. But nothing more, nothing ever more. His heart, his mind, his soul and his body belonged here, with her, in this hotel room. They kissed then. For the first time in a year, Mulder leaned down and kissed the woman that he loved more than life itself. And Scully let him kiss her, his lips soft and gentle...testing. She welcomed the kiss, wanting to deepen it, but knowing that if she moved too quickly he'd retreat, scared at the depth and power of his own emotions. The kiss broke and they snuggled closer, each content in the other's warmth and closeness. Scully closed her eyes, wanting to record every single moment for posterity, wanting to remember every single facet of this night and the week to come, knowing that it was going to have to sustain her for a long time. "Tell me about your life, Scully," he whispered. "Tell me everything." Scully sighed softly. Part of her wanted to believe that he sincerely wanted to know, that he was trying to experience being with her through <her> eyes, but another, deeper part of her knew what was really going on. Mulder's contsant need to feed the guilt monster that lived inside his soul. If she told him the truth about the lonliness, the constant fear, the knowledge that both of their lives were in danger every single moment of every single day, he would take that information and dwell on it, sinking ever-deeper into the vortex of self-pity and recrimination that he so seemed to thrive on. "It's hard," she admitted. "I miss you so much, I miss the FBI and the X-Files. I miss my family. I miss Skinner. For reasons I can't even begin to understand, I miss the guys, even Frohickie." Mulder chuckled. "He misses you, too." She lifted her head from his chest. "What?" "We communicate sporadically through encrypted channels. Every time he ends the message with the letters TCOMBAS." "Tacombas?" Scully said, trying to pronounce the acronym. "Take Care Of My Beautiful Angel Scully," Mulder explained. "Took me forever to figure it out, because he wouldn't explain it." Scully frowned. "How on Earth does he expect you to take care of me when we live in cities on opposite sides of the country?" Mulder shifted on the bed, his eyes glancing away, focusing on a spot somewhere in the middle distance between the bed and the far wall. Scully knew that look well. He was hiding something. From her. "Give," she said softly, her tone brooking no arguments. "Uh...we're not as alone as I've led you to believe." She arched an eyebrow. "Mulder, you've been trying to convince me that we aren't alone since the day I met you over ten years ago!" He shrugged. "Not that kind of 'alone,' Scully." She spoke carefully, enunciating each word. "Exactly what kind of not alone are you referring to, Fox William Mulder?" He paused. "The guys," he said. "They've sort of taken us on as... a cause, I guess." "In what way?" "They're acting as guardian angels. They keep an eye on certain things, and we have emergency communication channels in place so that if you were ever in danger, I'd be notified immediately." Scully pushed away from him, feeling the anger flickering inside her. "And what about me, Mulder? What about if something happens to you?" "Same deal. You'd be notified." She pursed her lips, considering what he'd said. "Why didn't you tell me about these...communications channels?" He looked directly at her and she saw and heard the honesty in his words. "Because you'd be tempted to use them." She opened her mouth to object, and then closed it with a soft snap! Mulder was right. He was always right, dammit. She thought back to Thanksgiving, a quiet, almost unbearably lonely time for her. If she'd had a way to contact him, she would have. "Ok...point granted." She paused. "But, if you and the guys can communicate securely, why can't you and I? Why can't we send and recieve encrypted email or something?" She continued, warming up to the topic. "Why can't we <be> together, Mulder? We've both learned how to live the lie, how to become someone else so completely that we have to remember what our real names are, who we <really> are!" He was shaking his head as he spoke. "Someday...I hope that some day we can be together, Scully. But now now. It's just too dangerous." He hesitated and then finished. "For the both of us. I know that you think I'm doing this just to protect you, out of some outdated code of manhood or something...but the truth is, if we're together, I'm in just as much danger as you are. They are looking for two people, a man and a woman, together. They think that we are living together, under an assumed name, as man and wife or brother and sister or something. They are sure that we wouldn't be strong enough to live apart after what happened in Mexico." Mexico. Just the name coming from his lips was enough to send a shudder through Scully's body. So much lost...and for what? She knew he was right, but it didn't make it any easier. "What about encrypted email?" "Those bastards can trace it, Scully. If they saw a sudden increase in the amount of encrypted email going to a new address, an address that belongs to a woman without a past, they'd send someone to investigate. And once they got a look at you...at that face, those eyes...those lips of yours..." His mouth quirked into a smile and Scully felt herself smiling back. "You like my lips, huh?" "Oh, very much so, Scully. Very much." "Really?" she asked, leaning closer. "How much?" "Very much," he repeated, capturing her mouth. The kiss was warm and soft and loving, and the dissolved into it, molding their bodies together. Her warmth and softness slid against his strength and heat and they gasped into each other's mouth with the force of the contact. They broke. "When?" Scully asked. "When do you think we can be together?" Mulder didn't answer for a long time. "When they stop looking for us, Scully." "I was hoping they'd assume we had died. That they believed the lie." Mulder fell silent again. "Somehow, Scully," he finally muttered, "knowing what we know, I doubt they'll ever stop looking for us. Even if we gave them two perfect bodies, they'd keep looking. It's just the way they are." *** The Ford Econoline van was as nondescript as possible. Light blue, with no windows aft of the cockpit, the van was packed with electronic gear of all shapes and descriptions. A passive laser-focused microphone was zeroed in on the window of the suite currently occupied by Dr. and Mrs. "George F. Hale." The three men in the van were tired of sharing the cramped quarters. They'd been on station for close to a week now. Their orders were clear: Observe and report. To not interfere under any circumstances without checking with a higher authority. Inside the van, a secure, scrambled cellular phone rang. The team leader answered it. "Go," he said. "How are our friends?" a familar voice asked. "Comfortable. They're in the room now, commiserating over the fact that they only get a week every year together." A short laugh was the team leader's only answer. "Are there any further orders?" "No, not at this time. As long as they limit themselves to this single week, I think that we can leave them alone. Mulder has stopped his incessent meddling into affairs that are none of his concern. Likewise, Scully has settled into her new life with little problem, aside from her contsant whining about being apart from him." The team leader said nothing, because he knew it was not his place to do so. "However, if they decide to join forces again, we would have little choice but to step in and take the appropriate actions." Again, the leader said nothing, mostly because he didn't want to think about what 'appropriate mesaures' might be. He had a very good idea, and the thought of sanctioning these two people that obviously only wanted to be left alone to live out the remainders of their lives was not appealing. The leader asked the question that he'd been dreading. "Do you want copies of the tapes?" Or just the good parts, he thought but didn't say. "No, I've entertained myself enough listening to their...antics," the voice said. "Unless you hear something that might be of interest to me, I'd just file the tapes and wait until next year if I were you." "Understood." "Goodbye." *** "Tell me about your year," Scully prodded. "What's been happening?" "I made supervisor," Mulder said, puffing up with false pride. "Holidays are always toughest. Christmas, Thanksgiving...Valentine's Day and Mother's Day. We get a lot of depressed people calling the support lines. But, we've streamlined the processes, and I've established a good working relationship with the police and sherriff's office, as well as the rescue squad, so if we get someone on the edge, we can get a response moving while we still have them on the line. All in all, all things considered, I'm basically happy." She nodded; he sounded satisfied with the life he'd managed to carve out. "Samantha?" His soft smile dissolved into a sad frown. "It's hard. I can't do much research aside from what's in the newspapers and on television. I can't risk drawing attention to myself by doing any kind of active investigation." Scully knew that he hadn'd given up. He never would. "So...?" she prodded. "Anything new?" "No," he answered sadly. "I just dont have the access, the resources that we used to." She smiled at the use of 'we.' "Oooh!" she squealed. "I almost forgot!" She stood from the bed and walked to the dresser, sliding open the top drawer and reaching inside. Returning with a gift-wrapped package, she waved it in his face. "Christmas!" "Scully!" he smiled. "Open it! Open it!" The package was roughly 8x11, and very thin. Mulder turned it over in his hands, trying to figure out what it was. He slit open the paper with a thumbnail and drew out a single sheet of paper. On it, in a finely detailed pencil sketch, was the face of his sister Samantha. "Scully!" he said, his face lighting up. "I know that...well, we left in a hurry. We both left everything behind. You had to leave your pictures of her. So..." Scully shrugged. "I didn't know you could draw!" he exclaimed. She smiled. "I didn't, you dope. Remember, I live in Los Angeles. I went down to the beach, found one of those artists that can draw anything from a photograph and had him draw it." Mulder nodded, understanding. "But where did you get a picture of Sam?" "Newspaper archives. From the article about her disappearence." Mulder nodded. It was a risk she had taken, a great risk. "Thank you," he said softly, drawing her into another kiss. "Now it's your turn!" He got up and almost ran to the kitchenette, returning with a gift-wrapped package for her. She opened it quickly, withdrawing a slim paperback volume. "Letters To A Young Poet," she read from the cover. "Rainer Maria Rilke." "Have you ever read it?" he asked. She shook her head. "Read the page I marked," he suggested softly. Scully saw that there was a tiny bookmark peeking out of the middle, and she carefully opened the book. She noticed immediately that it was not a new copy, that Mulder must have had it for a long time; passages were underlines and comments scrawled in pencil filled the margins. Next to the passage he'd indicated were three letters, written over many times and underlined twice. "DKS" it said. Dana Katherine Scully. Clearing her throat, and taking a deep breath, Scully began to read: "Physical pleasure is a sensual experience no different from pure seeing or the pure sensation with which a fine fruit fills the tongue; it is a great unending experience, which is given us, a knowing of the world, the fullness and the glory of all knowing. And not our acceptance of it is bad; the bad thing is that most people misuse and squander this experience and apply it as a stimulant at the tired spots of their lives and as distraction instead of a rallying toward exalted moments." Scully let out a sigh. "That's so beautiful," she whispered. "Thank you. Thank you for giving me such a piece of yourself." Mulder kissed her. "Read the second part. Towars the back. The page number is circled. Scully found the page he'd circled and read the sonnet there, slowly and carefully: "Through my life there trembles without plaint, without a sigh a deep dark melancholy. the pure and snowy blossoming of my dreams is the consecration of my stillest days. But oftentimes the great question crosses my path. I become small and go coldly past as though along some lake whose flood I have not hardihood to measure. And then a sorrow sinks upon me, dusky as the gray of lusterless summer nights through which a star glimmers - now and then - : My hands then gropingly reach out for love, because I want so much to pray sounds that my hot mouth cannot find." Scully let out a deep breath, her eyes brimming. "Just one more," Mulder said, "and then we can put the book away for a while." Scully wasn't sure she ever wanted to let the book slip from her fingers. It was so...him, so totally Mulder. "Where?" she breathed, wondering what part of his soul he wanted to share next. "Towards the front. Look for a green check mark in the left margin." She flipped the pages, searching for his mark. She found it, cleared her throat again and began to read aloud. As Scully spoke the words, Mulder moved closer to her, his arms coming around to envelop her. "People have (with the help of conventions) oriented all their solutions toward the easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must hold to what is difficult; everything alive holds to it, everything in Nature grows and defends itself in its own way and is characteristically and spontaneously itself, seeks at all costs to be so and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must hold to what is difficult is a certainty that will not forsake us; it is good to be solitary, for solitude is difficult; that something is difficult must be a reason the more for us to do it." She closed the book and pressed it against her chin, closing her eyes, drinking in the poet's words. "This is the most incredible gift you've ever given me," she whispered. "Better than the keychain?" he teased. "Much," she laughed. "When I read these words, I hear your voice in my head speaking them, Mulder." She put the book on the nightstand next to the bed and turned to face the man she loved. They began touching then, softly at first, reacquainting themselves with the feel and the taste of each other, exploring old ground as if it were new again, asking questions without words or sounds, capturing parts of each other between swollen lips, gently caressing them with soft, wet tongues, reaching for each other against the silence of their lives. She was soft and he was hard, she swollen and wanting, him throbbing and needing, and they joined together on the bed, becoming as one again for that short little time, time that would have to last another year, time that would be replayed over and over again in their shared memories. Scully tried not to think about the fact that the week would end, that they would seperate once more to go back to their homes, their lives, the seperate existences they were forced by circumstance to endure. And in the middle of the giving, the taking, the sharing of the pleasure, she came home to herself and to him, rejoicing with a silent, passionate scream in the pleasure that she gave to this man and the pleasure that he gave her. It was not much of a life, she realised later, drifting off to a fitiful sleep in his arm, but it was all they had. THE END And now, a word from the author. There is another passage in the book that I quoted, a passage that I think bears very strongly on much of what "The X-Files" stands for. I would like to quote it here: You are so young, so before all beginning, and I want to beg you, as much as I can, dear sir, to be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer. Perhaps you do carry within yourself the possibility of shaping and forming as a particularly happy and pure way of living: train yourself to it - but take whatever comes with great trust, and if only it comes out of your own will, out of some need of your inmost being, take it upon yourself and hate nothing. Here, where an immense country lies about me, over which the winds pass coming from the seas, here I feel that no human being anywhere can answer for you those questions and feelings that deep within them have a life of their own; for even the best err in words when they mare meant to mean most delicate and almost inexpressible things. But I believe nevertheless that you will not have to remain without a solution if you will hold to objects that are similar to those from which my eyes now draw refreshment. If you will cling to Nature, to the simple in Nature, to the little things that hardly anyone sees, and that can so unexpectedly become big and beyond measuring; if you have this love of inconsiderable things and seek quite simply, as one who serves, to win the confidence of that seems poor: then everything will become easier, more coherent and somehow more conciliatory for you, not in your intellect, perhaps, which lags marveling behind, but in your inmost consciousness, waking and cognizance. --- Dawson E. Rambo | drambo@azstarnet.com | Author & Programmer "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup." -- bumper sticker